Set My Girl Freeeeeeeee!!!!

Everything that I write is for autistic!reader Empty blogs will be blocked 18+

[autistictrinitysantos]

Deciding to do a little intro post here, so my fans can get to know the woman behind the writing.

Hi, my name is Mel, I’m 22 and from Wisconsin. Some of my hobbies include sewing, cross stitch, watching f1, and playing video games. I currently write for: the f1 grid (minus Stroll and Gasly simply because I don’t like their aura), Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, and Jack Abbot, Robby Robinavitch, and Dennis Whitaker. My hard no’s for writing are scat, blood play (period sex is okay though) and piss drinking/water sports with the reader receiving.

My requests are currently open!

I am really deliberate about my reader inserts not having any defined white features, but if I do miss something that implies reader has light skin or something, let me know and I’ll try editing the fic to fix the issue. I want my fics to be inclusive of all races, even if they’re written by a white woman.

Masterlist

Since I haven’t made it abundantly clear on here because this is my silly little fandom blog: Fuck ICE, Fuck Isreal, Fuck Trump and all of his administration, love is love, trans rights are human rights, free healthcare for all, women deserve equal rights, black lives matter, stop Asian hate, abortion is healthcare, immigrants literally built America, free Palestine. If you don’t agree with any of what I said, do us both a favor and block me. I was not raised being told “All men are created equal” to have any of your bullshit.

[annsfics]

♡ breakers roar ♡

♡ pairing: rabbot x fem!reader

♡ synopsis: with the country now ruled by an authoritarian despot, a second civil war is in full-swing, with one side fighting—which includes jack—to see him overthrown, while the other battles against to keep him in power. with ptmc eventually closing its doors, you & robby make your way to virginia to meet up with your fellow journalists—one last stop before dc to see the self-installed dictator put down once & for all.

♡ content: angst, a bit of pining, mention of a deceased child, cockwarming, jealous!robby

♡ a/n: crossover with the a24 film civil war, which i don't feel is necessary viewing to understand the events of this one-shot

"Well," Robby starts with a chuckle that's laced with a hint of exasperation—you watch as he nervously digs his thumbnail into a trimmed brow. "You're getting here a little too late. Half the staff has already gone—including Abbot—and we're due to shut our doors in three days' time. Word just came down from the powers that be."

Way too much to digest at once, which is truly saying something given current, horrific events. "Ok, uh, why is Abbot—"

"Went to fight for the Western Front," Robby explains before you can finish asking. "Soldier in him, I guess."

He sighs. "It's not that I blame him, but we were already stretched thin as it was. And now..." he shakes his head tiredly.

No point in bitching about present circumstances. He's... Wherever the fuck, while those who chose to stick around are up shit creek without a paddle.

"Why are they—"

Interrupted again. "Can't handle the workload anymore, for one. And with power grids going down left and right, it's only a matter of time before we're next. It's right outside our doors; all you have to do is step outside to hear the artillery fire. People would rather—" He shrugs—a gesture that's accompanied by another sigh. "I'm doing as much as I can, and plan to continue doing so until the last second. As for what comes after?"

Robby runs a trembling hand through unkempt hair. The bags beneath his eyes appear as heavy as the invisible weight bearing down upon his broad shoulders—a sight which causes your heart to squeeze painfully.

He hasn't been this bad since Covid.

You were taught to never get attached to your subjects, but he and Jack were different. That, or you made them as much when you started spending ample amounts of time with them outside of working hours. When you left PTMC in the rearview after your assignment was through, your heart ached for them in their absence.

So when the president remained in office for an unconstitutional third term and war began, there was only one place you wanted to be.

"I have no idea what the fuck I'm gonna do," Robby spits. "It's not like there's any safe place left to go. If another hospital will take me... God knows every medical establishment can use all the help they can get right now."

You chew your lip thoughtfully for a moment and watch as personnel clad in dark-colored scrubs run back and forth while body after bleeding body gets rolled in.

"I know some people," you state. "Last we talked, their plan was Washington." Returning your attention to Robby again, you take a small step forward. Reaching for one of his hands, you twine your fingers between his. "Come with me."

Cupping his cheek, you search soft pools of brown pleadingly. "Maybe we can meet them on the road."

"Hey, kiddo." Joel gives you a pat on the knee, then seats himself beside you on a faded metal bleacher. When he extends a plastic water bottle, you take it with a quiet thanks. "You doing alright?"

Unscrewing the cap, you drain a third of the lukewarm liquid before answering. "Are any of us?"

Resting his forearms atop his thighs, Joel huffs a quiet laugh. "Stupid question." Silently watching people mill about, he tilts his head to the side; toward you. "So, war journalism now, huh? What happened to hospital galas and rich philanthropists walking red carpets?"

Hanging your head between your shoulders, you sarcastically swing it in his direction. "Think those days are over, don't you? For awhile, anyway." You lean back. "When Lee called and told me your all's plan, I just made a choice. Well, my first one was to go to PTMC to try and... Document—I guess—what frontline workers were dealing with, same as I did during Covid. But by the time I got there, they had three days left on the clock until the lights were to be shut off. And it's not like this is my first rodeo, y'know?"

Joel nods. "Fair enough." He squints against the beaming overhead sun. "Saw one myself that..." Exhaling slowly, he tries again. "It had a whole wing blown off by C-4," he says with a grimace.

Your mind paints a picture you're more than okay with you not having actually been there to see.

"So," he chirps. "You and the doctor. What's the story there?"

Thankful for the change of subject, you snort. "There isn't one. Not really. Like I said: Covid. And like you said: galas." You gesture to Jack, who's presently leaned back against a tank with crossed arms while he converses with Robby. "They've known each other for years and years. Jack, the soldier, that is, is a doctor too. Not long after the fighting started, he left to do what he could; to help. Robby didn't know what else to do with himself with the hospital being closed, so I offered for him to come along for the ride."

You force a smile and meet Joel's eyes. "To Old Dominion."

"Next stop, D.C.," he quips.

"You really think he's there?" you question doubtfully. "I mean, yeah, maybe he technically is, but it's not like any one soldier will be able to just waltz into the Oval Office to perform an execution. They've probably got him sequestered away in a bunker somewhere."

Joel takes a sip of his water. "Might be the case. And if it is," he stands, "somebody'll know where. City's only defended by radical splinter cells at this point. And with what they've got coming, the Loyalists won't last much longer."

"She seems bizarrely at home here," Robby remarks while observing you acutely from afar.

Jack watches you tightly hug the middle-aged blonde journalist he's yet to become acquainted with. After you brush stray tears from your cheeks, you smile at the younger one and shake her hand.

He'd heard something about one of their riding companions getting caught in the line-of-fire, and wonders then if you knew him well. From the tears, he assumes so.

Studying Robby from beneath his lashes, Jack attempts to gauge whether he's doing as well as he claims to be. "Makes two of us. You?"

Clamping a hand over the back of his neck, Robby rolls his eyes. "Told you I'm fine. I know how to compartmentalize." He eyes Joel warily. "Maybe too well."

Jack purses his lips. "This and Covid are two wildly different things, Mike."

Scrubbing his hands down his face, Robby sighs exhaustively. "What do you wanna know, Jack? Do you want to hear about the bodies we saw swinging from an overhead pass? Or, I dunno, how about the smoking heap of a car with a booster seat in the back that was still fucking occupied by a burnt corpse? That make you happy to know about? Is that what you wanted?!" he shouts irritatedly—a sound which draws unsuspecting stares from nearby spectators.

He doesn't mention how you photographed the former, and that the action horrified him because he failed to understand your lack of tact. But he supposes it's your self-imposed job now: documenting the atrocities this war has wrought so the world can never forget.

As if it seems to give much of a shit as it is.

Jack's brows draw together—bowing slightly at the graying ends in concern. "Yeah, it is. Bottling this shit up isn't good for anybody."

He barks a laugh. "The two of you are!"

"Because we're familiar with war, Robby. She and I—"

"She isn't," he interjects. "So I don't know where the hell you're getting that from."

"Y/N was in Iraq a few years ago, documenting the work Doctors Without Borders was doing there," Jack supplies. "We talked about it one day, after my shift ended."

Robby flinches. "Why wouldn't she have told me that?"

Jack rests steady a palm atop Robby's shoulder. "She just wanted someone to confide in; somebody who'd understand the shit she saw, the nightmares that came from it, and how she was struggling. So I listened, and she did the same for me."

Robby shakes his head and glances back to Jack's olive green tent. "I'm beat." He takes a step back and Jack's hand slips away. "Think I'll just lie down for awhile."

Now he feels on the outs, Jack assumes. Between you and him, you're each familiar with the cost of war, whereas Robby is utterly unfamiliar, apart from whatever he's seen on screen or read in books and articles. "Still daylight out," he mutters disappointedly.

He's only just got here, so Jack had hoped for a bit more time to talk...

"Just for a couple hours." Taking a step in that direction, he half turns back to Jack on his heel. "Lucky you thought to bring it."

"You know me," he calls after him. "Gotta have my go bag. I'm prepared, if nothing else."

At least Robby stocked up on medical supplies—most of which he stole from PTMC when he made the decision at the last minute to tag along like you offered.

It's come in handy more times than he cares to admit.

"Where'd he venture off to?" you ask curiously.

Offering you a granola bar from his MRE, Jack nods in the direction of his tent. "I would say it was to actually grab some rest like he claimed, but I think the real reason is because he feels out of place here."

Peeling the crinkled plastic wrapper open, you regard him with a raised brow.

"You know him," he says while digging into a packet of cold ravioli with a plastic spoon. "Always Mr. Reliable at work. But now that he's out of his depth, and surrounded by strangers who're used to the circumstances..."

You'd taken inventory of it on the way here: how he grew increasingly quiet as the miles passed, and the scenery became all the more gruesome. You hadn't been sure of what to say to coax him back out of his shell, so you didn't say much of anything at all.

Now, you think you perhaps should've. But he's also never been much of a talker. Not when it comes to trauma, that is. You learned as much during Covid when you repeatedly attempted to interview him and only got brief "not nows" in response.

"Should we go talk to him?" you question before taking a bite of the snack you've been given.

What you wouldn't give for a cheeseburger right now with all the fixings—including the toppings you dislike—coupled with a large fry loaded with salt and a cold milkshake to top it all off.

Jack shakes his head. "No. Just give him some space for right now. If Robby feels crowded, he'll snap." After downing a spoonful of ravioli, he chews, swallows, then speaks again. "Told him about your time in Iraq. Think it hurt him—that he was unaware of it."

One more reason for him to feel the odd one out...

"I mean, it's not like I saw any actual fighting. I just documented the healing side of things."

He shrugs a shoulder, then swipes away a bead of sweat from his saturated hairline. "Still. It's how you know them, right?"

"Just Lee," you explain while eying his combat boots. "The younger woman apparently tagged along with them back in New York, whereas Joel and I met a couple times during Covid. There were these journalistic functions we both attended and had drinks afterward." You take another bite. "He works for Reuters."

"And the gentleman who died?" Jack questions gently.

"Sammy. He worked for The New York Times. Lee was closest to him." Glancing away from Jack, you blink back building tears. "He was her and Joel's mentor."

Jack's lips tug into a frown. "I'm sorry."

You take a drink of your rapidly emptying water bottle. "Me too."

Unexpectedly, he wraps his arms around you and pulls you against the wealth of his sturdy chest. "Glad you're here, though. Both of you." He gives you a peck on top of the head. "I think you and I knowing large swathes of people got to him. Sure, he knows us, but we know others."

Inhaling the musky scent of sweat and pungent gunpowder which cling to him, your eyes flutter closed.

You feel so very weary.

"We're all together now; safe. At least for the time being. If he gets up in a bit, maybe we can both try to talk to him like I said. Or... Get him to talk to us."

Jack nods in agreement. "Maybe."

"$300 for a cheese sandwich?" you hiss in disbelief. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Lee rests a knee over an ankle. "They were a lot more interested when I told them I meant Canadian."

Jack lets out a low whistle. "Guess we're partly to blame for it: collapse of the US dollar."

Joel shakes his head and waves a hand in his direction. "Would've happened either way. Military spending was to be expected."

"Might just finally be paying off," Jack replies. "Pun not intended," he finishes with upturned palms meant to signal innocence.

Lee directs her attention behind you. "Looks like we're going to need another seat."

Glancing over your shoulder, you watch as Robby silently approaches with hands tucked into the pockets of his zip-up hoody. You promptly stand and gesture to the plastic chair you've just vacated. "Evening, sleepy head. You can take mine if you want."

He forces a small smile and shakes his head. "It's alright. I can stand."

Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, when he sees Joel considering the overturned bucket he's fashioned into a makeshift chair, he knocks his head to the side. "On second thought..." Robby quickly sits, then tugs you into his lap by your hips, which he circles with his arms.

Throwing one of your own around his shoulders, you submerge your fingers in the overgrown hair at the nape of his neck and gently massage. "You get some sleep?"

He nods. "A bit."

Robby bows his head sheepishly, then trails his eyes along each of your fellow reporters. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Can I ask," you begin while turning to Lee. "What happened... With Sammy?"

"Fucking fascists," grumbles Joel. "They... You never met 'em, but they shot two of our other friends too: Tony and Bohai. Was a paramilitary group," he says, finally launching into explanation. "They had this... Mass grave. Asked all of us one-by-one where we were from, and if you gave any answer other than a US state..."

You brows furrow. "But Sammy was from here."

"He ran them over," Lee interrupts quietly. "Came in full speed ahead in our SUV. They opened fire. He got hit."

You tighten your fingers in the hood of Robby's jacket. "I'm so sorry."

"You wanna tell 'em about Christmas Town?" Joel asks with a chuckle—the change of subject an obvious attempt to lighten the mood.

Robby runs a hand up your back, then rests his cheek against your breast.

"There was a sniper," Lee sighs. "Held up in some brick mansion. Guess they were just trying to keep people away. There was already a couple men there trying to fight back, and they won."

The group grows quiet, so Lee folds her arms. "Sorry. I'm better behind the camera. It's why someone else writes the articles."

"You would've liked the small town we passed through," Joel remarks.

Jessie speaks up then. "It was, like, completely untouched."

"Like driving into a time capsule before all of this started," Joel expounds. "If you had no access to the world outside the city limits—no TV, radio, internet—you'd never know that there was a war on."

"How the hell'd they manage that?" Jack prods curiously.

"Chose not to fight," Jessie explains. "If you don't go looking for trouble, then I guess—"

"Yeah, but how long before looters decide to take them for all they're worth?" you utter cautiously. "Places like that... It won't last. I mean, I hope it does, but..."

Silence again.

"Sorry, man, here we are going back and forth while you haven't gotten a word in edgewise," Joel remarks while looking at Robby.

He shifts beneath you, then pulls you impossibly closer. "Suppose I feel out of my depth here. Like I'm sitting with the big leagues while I'm part of the—not even minor—but little league, I guess."

"No, man, you're a doctor. You're out there saving lives while the rest of us—"

"Are either taking them," Jack mumbles. "Or documenting as much happening."

You turn slightly from atop Robby's thigh and press a tender kiss to his forehead. "There is just as much of a need for healers as there is for soldiers," you quietly assure him.

Lying his head in the crook between your breast and bicep, Robby studies your fellow journalists. "So, how do you all know each other? Anything to do with your time in Iraq?" Robby asks with a squeeze of your waist.

"I told him," Jack whispers while leaning over.

Maybe you should've yourself, but at the time, during Covid, he was already dealing with enough of his own grief. He didn't need yours too.

"That's how we do," Lee confirms—gesturing between the two of you with a pointed finger. "But you and Joel met during Covid, right?"

You nod. "Was this whole Spotlight on Frontline Workers thing."

"We ran into each other at a couple expos," Joel concurs with a smile.

"That all it was?" Robby questions suspiciously. "Work thing?"

Lips tugging into a playful smirk, Joel hunches forward. "You don't have to worry." His eyes flit to you. "We never got around to dinner."

Not that it hasn't gotten to him, but a civil war isn't what finally sends Robby into a huff. No, it's another man's light flirting, who he's only just met.

The three of you now sequestered away inside Jack's tent, you find that there's not much breathing room—Robby's sour mood causing the air to feel all the more charged.

At least there's privacy with the flaps being mostly closed. Jack decided to leave them each pinned slightly back, so as to allow a bit of fresh air inside, though, thankfully.

You'd give your left arm for a shower. Or a bath—including one that someone else has already dirtied before you.

Creature comforts becoming habit, etcetera.

"You should take the cot," Jack says with a jerk of his head to the right where it stands on small metal legs.

Tugging your shirt up and over your head, you toss it in the corner, opting to sleep in a sports bra tonight as an attempted reprieve from the heat. "No, Jack, you're the soldier here. You need your rest far more than someone who's working from behind a camera lens."

"Honey—"

"Why don't we all just sleep on the floor together?" Robby suggests.

When you and Jack turn to look in his direction, he shrinks into himself. "Sorry." He shrugs off his hoody and folds it into a ball. "I'm just..."

Robby sniffles, his chin wobbles, and then he yanks you against his soft chest like a security blanket. "I'm so fuckin' scared," he sobs into your shoulder.

And finally the dam breaks.

"We all are, Robby," Jack reassures him while you quietly shoosh his ragged cries of exhaustion. "But we're together now, so that has to count for something."

Pressing himself against Robby's back, he wraps his arms around both of you. "By tomorrow night, with any luck, he'll be fucking dead. And this will all be over."

You all three opted for the floor in the end. Jack is pressed against Robby's back with fingers twined between his own while you otherwise have a leg hooked over his hip. His face is shoved between your breasts, and his cock buried inside of you while his pudgy belly rests heavily between your thighs.

You wanted to give him this so he could feel safely surrounded tonight.

You all didn't have sex—you and Jack both offered it; something you know has been a long time coming—but Robby was too frazzled, and all of you too exhausted to bother giving something so intimate your all, like it properly deserves.

So here you nakedly lie instead, drifting off to the soothing sound of crickets and cicadas, praying that what Jack said earlier soon comes to fruition.

But even if it does, the country will have a long road to climb when it comes to fully repairing what's been broken... Including that which was already fractured long before this coup began.

[thatfanficstuff]

Just Out of Reach - Rabbot x Reader

Alpha Rabbot x Omega Reader

synopsis: Jack and Robby meet the new neighbor

warning/notes: omegaverse dynamics. this is less of a ficlet and more of a sneak peek for a series that will be coming fall-ish. The last ficlet for my 9k celebration. Thank you all.

wc: 600 or so

Jack Abbot and Michael Robinavitch had been mated and married for nearly fifteen years. Though they were both Alphas, their scents called to each other. It wasn’t unheard of for Alphas to mate, but there was normally an Omega in the mix. They’d managed to resist being anything but friends until Jack’s rut six weeks after they met. His pheromones threw Robby into his and by the time the two of them emerged a week later, they wore matching marks. And that, as they say, was that.

They’d been open to finding an Omega but as the years passed and they failed to find anyone compatible, they accepted it might be just the two of them. Truth be told, they were fine with that. They loved each other, they knew each other’s quirks and the demons that haunted them. They would be two grumpy old Alphas taking care of each other for the rest of their lives.

Then came a warm Tuesday spring morning and a car in the driveway of the house next door. The house had been empty for several months but no ‘for sale’ sign had ever appeared in the yard. A service had kept things cleaned up so Jack hadn’t given it much thought. His gaze fell on a woman with her arms so full of clothes he couldn’t see her face. Ordinarily he’d offer to help but he’d just finished hour fourteen of a twelve hour shift. His leg hurt and he needed to wash the stench of hospital off.

“Hey,” he called as he entered the house, shutting the door behind him.

“Kitchen,” Robby yelled back.

Jack popped his head in to greet his husband. “Looks like we have a new neighbor,” he said after he’d kissed him hello.

“Do we?” Robby turned to look out the kitchen window that faced the other house.

“Just one car but they were carrying clothes inside. I’ve got to clean up.”

Robby kissed him again. “Yeah, you go ahead. I’ll make you some food.”

Jack took his time in the shower decompressing and washing off the hospital along with the remnants of the suppressant gel he had to wear at work. Robby had food ready by the time he emerged and they sat at the table in the kitchen to eat.

They’d been eating and chatting for about five minutes when there was a knock at the door. Robby frowned but stood. “Stay put. I’ll be back.” He kissed the top of Jack’s head on the way by.

The longer Robby was gone the deeper the furrow in Jack’s brow became. How long did it take to grab a package?

“Hey, Jack,” Robby called from the door. “You should come meet the new neighbor.”

Jack sighed and dropped his bacon back on his plate. He wiped his hands then wheeled his chair into the front hall. Robby stood in the open doorframe, blocking Jack’s view of whoever was on the porch. “Hey,” he said.

Robby turned with a smile and stepped aside. “Meet the neighbor, honey.”

Jack’s gaze shifted from him to the woman standing outside. You turned with a smile of your own and introduced yourself. You were beautiful. He wheeled closer, ready to say something by way of greeting when a breeze blew past you and into the house. Jack was suddenly enveloped in the scent of honeysuckle and vanilla mixed with something that was all you. It smelled like home.

His eyes snapped from you to Robby who gave a small nod in confirmation.

Oh.

Oh shit.

You were their Omega.

Rabbot Masterlist

[mal1bugaga]

what baking can do smau <3

rabbot x samira’s roommate!fem!reader

part six | part eight

cw: teasing, fluff, discussions of food

summary: you are samira’s roommate and a baker! what happens when you start to fall for her married bosses jack abbot and michael robinavitch?

a/n: you’re being spoiled with an extra long chapter

part seven: peach cobbler

your pov:

samira’s pov:

your pov:

samira’s pov:

— — tag list:

@sofianotvergara @silovicbaird @thesunxwentblack @rainaris-ac @biatizsilva @elizamoe133 @allenajade-ite @kneelforloki @3phry4 @malindacath @kamarimartell @misskeyher @clementinebutnottheorange @prettylittleone05 @straykids1011 @gf4lwt @pabbot @xpeachyesx @nath2cool @of-converse-books-and-chocolate @laughsandlivia

@laaundromat @noyaisasimp @strangegirl26sff

@wylewhims @rufles2 @cosmicneptune @draculovey @mayax2o07 @sharkers00 @shak1ra124 @itzpixiebabe @xh444 @barcelonaaababe @soapyspurnell @roryheartz

@bleb3 @bsttwice @escapingrealityalways @inthemindofmyown @honeycombsmilk @1dhoe93 @thoroughlymimi @stylesonlyangel4

@zroberts13 @mysatnin @olivia21blunt @desperatecatgiirl @angel-kisses15 @hazydespair

[inkdippedquills]

paper planes: chapter four

[Prev. Part | Masterlist ]

Pairing: Rabbot x fem!reader

Chapter Summary: Jumping in, not giving into the fear.

Series Summary: So what the fuck are you meant to do if you hate one of your soulmates after falling in love with the other? Hate-fucking him was probably not the best call. (Soulmate AU)

Word Count: 7.4k

Tags: Smut, happy ending, angst, phone sex, Robby being a little shit, paper planes as a motif

Being back at your apartment was nice, but as you wandered around your space it didn’t feel as homey as you remembered it. The fridge hum sounded familiar, the creak of your couch didn’t sound too-plastic-y and the art on the wall didn’t feel like a bargain hunter find at TJ Maxx. Despite the space being catered exactly for you, it didn’t feel right. Something was missing.

(You didn’t want to admit what was missing and no one could make you).

The first night back in your bed, you couldn’t help but feel the echoes of Jack and Robby’s lips against your skin. Even in your memory the touch felt so real. If you closed your eyes and focused, it almost felt like they were in the room with you, holding you between them.

Their touch was haunting; you’d never experienced anything like it. Did it feel so intense because of soulmate connections or because it had been years and years of emotional build up? You were hard pressed to say, all you knew is that laying in your bed hours away from them the only thing you were sure of was how intensely you craved their touch.

You glanced at your alarm clock next your bed. Should you call them? Is that crazy?

Toggling to your text chain on your phone, you found the photo Jack sent of their schedule; he started sending it not long after you reconnected, all but insisting you schedule yourself in whenever they were both free. Neither Jack nor Robby were at work tonight…your finger toggled over the call button for Robby’s phone (he was slightly more reliable in answering a phone call).

You all were something, more than friends, but nothing was defined. The only real conversation you all had about everything was a not-long talk with Jack about how he felt about everything. There was still so much unsaid between all of you.

Before you could second guess yourself, you hit call.

After the third ring you contemplated hanging up, but then a warm, raspy voiced answered:

“Hey, how was your drive?”

It was Jack.

“Bland,” you said curling up in under your covers. “What do you do on nights you and Robby aren’t working?”

“He sleeps and I don’t,” Jack said simply. You could hear him puttering around in the kitchen based on the sound a closing drawer. “My sleep schedule never went back to normal after I lost my leg.”

“Why not, do you think?”

“Phatom limb pain for the first few years, but now it’s mainly age and stress.”

You hummed and tried to readjust your pillow.

“You good over there?” He asked, amusement in his voice.

“I can’t get comfortable. I’ve missed my bed so much, but no matter which way I lay, nothing feels right.”

“What do you normally do when you get restless?”

The automatic answer, the one you defaulted to, was masturbating but you couldn’t say that could you?

“Read,” you said.

Jack laughed and said, “Bullshit. You’re such a bad liar for a lawyer.”

“I don’t lie as a lawyer,” you grumbled. “I don’t need to, I’m too clever.”

“Yeah?” Jack goaded, a smile in his voice. You heard him sit down in one of their leather chairs.

“Yeah, that’s why they pay me more money than I know what to do with.”

“And why you work 70 hour weeks,” he added.

“Only sometimes.”

“And when you’re not working, what do you do to relax?”

“You know what I do,” you told him quietly.

“Tell me.”

“Jack,” you whined.

“C’mon baby, tell me how you touch yourself.”

His voice, already raspy and soft, was deeper with want. It wasn’t hard to imagine him on his leather chair, leaning back watching you hungrily.

“Only if you do the same,” you replied.

“Ladies first,” he said.

“Most of the time, it’s just a vibrator and whatever smut I’m reading at the moment.”

“Do you not turn yourself on?” He asked, it didn’t sound judgmental but curious.

“It’s an ends to a mean most of the time,” you nearly whispered. “Sorry, I know that’s not sexy.”

Jack cleared his throat. “I think you underestimate what I find sexy. The last time I saw you, I felt you up and you were wearing business professional.”

You laughed softly. “I guess that’s true.”

“Tell me a fantasy then,” he replied. “What do you think about when you want to get off.”

“Right now? How you and Robby pinned me between you both. I swear I can feel you still,” you told him.

“I thought about that too after you left. You were so warm and soft against me,” he murmured.

“How do you touch yourself, Jack?”

“With my hand.”

You snorted. “Sexy.”

“I like really firm pressure, that rotates,” he told you, voice breathy and a little nervous.

“Do you like someone playing with your balls?” You tried to sound sexy but were positive you missed the mark; it wasn’t something that came naturally to you.

“Y-yeah,” he hissed.

“Are you touching yourself?”

“How could I not?”

“What do you think about to get off?” You asked him, quietly.

There was the soft pant of Jack’s breath against the phone as he stroked himself.

“You and Robby on your knees for me. Sometimes us on our knees for you,” he managed tightly.

“Not for Robby?”

“He’s surprisingly submissive,” Jack halfway laughed.

“Do you want me to tell you what I would want to do if I was on my knees for you?”

“I’m not sure I could take it,” he said breathlessly. “But yes, please.”

“I would start gently, rubbing at you over the fabric of your boxers, as needy as you want me to be—”

“Mmm, would you beg?” He asked. It didn’t sound mean or even as dominant as he might have intended. It sounded desperate.

“I would beg and beg until you let me take off your underwear, then I would worship you with my mouth. Starting at your thighs, I’ve always wanted to leave a hickey there.”

“Fuuuuck,” he groaned.

“Then I would suck on your balls before moving to your dick,” you said. “The whole time staring at you, showing you how much I’m enjoying myself.”

“Are you wet, baby?”

You didn’t think he was asking about the hypothetical you in the fantasy.

“Want me to check?”

“Please,” he whined.

Slowly, you slid your hands under the waistband of your shorts. Unsurprisingly you were soaked.

“Thinking about sucking your dick made me soaked,” you said, lightly toying with your clit.

“Will you touch yourself?”

“Sure,” you said rolling over to your side table sifting for your vibrator. Jack groaned over the phone when he heard it turn on. You turned it on the lowest setting, but it still was intense once in contact with your clit. “Shit.”

“What…what else would you do?” He panted.

“I’d beg you to use my throat,” you managed, though you were squeakier than intended. “Use me however you want to feel good. I’ll suck and suck until you’re finishing down my throat.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he moaned.

“Then when you’re finally done, I’ll beg you to use my vibrator on me. Beg you to let me cum for you.”

“I’ll bet you sound so pretty when you cum,” he said, a soft grunt suggesting he was getting close.

“I want to hear you, Jack,” you told him. “Are you close?”

“So close,” he huffed.

“Think of me on my knees in front of you, where do you want to cum? My face? My tits?”

“Tits,” he managed.

“Show me what you sound like, baby. Paint my tits,” you hissed, arching into the vibrator.

There was a long, low groan from Jack that ended with his heavy breathing.

“Fuck, baby. That was crazy. How close are you?”

“Very,” you sighed.

“Would you do this on display for us? Pleasure yourself for our enjoyment? We’re older now, can’t always get it up.”

“Where do you want me to be?” You asked, closing your eyes letting him paint you a picture.

“We’d put you on the bed, legs out. Your cute little vibrator between your legs.”

“Would you both touch me?”

“Would you want us to?”

“Desperately,” you breathed.

“Then sure, baby. There wouldn’t be a piece of your skin we wouldn’t memorize the feeling of. Maybe if you asked nicely, Robby would shove his thick fingers in your cunt,” Jack told you.

“Fuck, I’m close,” you hissed.

“Just like that, baby. Think about how it would feel for us to watch you come apart.”

It wasn’t hard. Just like it wasn’t hard to imagine Jack using your mouth, it wasn’t hard to imagine their hands on you as you inched closer and closer to your orgasm.

“Jack,” you said between gritted teeth. “Tell me I cum. Count me down.”

“I can do that,” he sounded pleased and a little surprised. “5… 4… 3… 2… 1… Cum for me, baby.”

A sharp keening sound left your mouth as your body finally let go for Jack. The orgasm tore through you more intense than you’d felt in years. For a minute you sat their twitching, the remnants of the orgasm slowly abating.

“I was right,” Jack said.

“About what?”

“You sound very pretty when you cum.”

You laughed and felt yourself warm at his compliment. “You do too, you know. This is the new fantasy, now.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm, that was very hot, Dr. Abbot.”

“You cannot ‘Dr. Abbot’ me,” he groaned.

“Why not?”

“I’ll get a boner the next time a patient says my name!” He protested with a laugh.

“Devastating for me,” you replied with a smile.

“You feel any better?”

“A little, still feel like something is missing,” you said without thinking.

“And what do you think is missing?”

You blinked and quieter than you expected said, “You and Robby.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

When the stickiness between your thighs began to irritate you, you briefly hung up promising to call back when you were settled again. After cleaning yourself up, you slid back into bed and called Jack back on his phone this time.

“Hey,” he said, you could feel his smile from 200 miles away.

“Hey,” you replied.

For awhile you both talked about nothing and everything. The conversation ranged from opinions on The Matrix to a brief but thorough cultural critique on people’s fear of sharks. When you felt yourself drifting, Jack cleared his throat and said,

“Can I ask you something?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“When you fantasize…” he trailed off and the beginning had your marginally more awake. “Do you ever think about you and Robby?”

“Do you really want to talk about this?” You asked. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I think I want to know.”

Jack knew that Robby had once or twice but the guilt had been too overwhelming to continually revisit.

“I did once, but not in a…sexual way, I guess. It’s kind of a boner killer,” you said sardonically. “I wonder what the difference would be—what it would be like to know that I care for the other person and they care for me. Maybe hate-fucking was theoretically hot, but in practice…it was empty. We didn’t bond. Or at least I didn’t.”

Soulmate bonding was well-studied but not understood. Most scientists believed that soul bonds were generated from intercourse combined with an intense endorphin rush. Most of the time that occurred during intense and passionate sex between soulmates.

“Do you regret it?”

“Everyday,” you said simply. “Why did you forgive us?”

It was a question that had been on your mind ever since the men had come back into your life.

“Actually, why did you forgive me? With Robby there was so much history and love, but we weren’t…” you trailed off. You weren’t sure how to finish the thought. Thankfully, Jack knew what you meant.

“Because, I knew that if I had been in that storage room with you, I would have done the same thing,” he said. “I’m not being gregarious when I say that, either. I was halfway in love with you before I found out about the marks. It made sense when I realized, of course, but I was dreaming of you in our bed long before you and Robby fucked.”

“Huh.”

“Was that too much?”

“No of course not,” you said. “I guess I hadn’t realized. I thought it was one sided, my feelings for you.”

“It was not,” he laughed, a little acerbically. “Can you forgive me?”

“For what?” You asked, astounded.

“For flirting with you when I was already in a relationship. For constantly seeking you out when I knew—well, at the time I thought I knew—we couldn’t be anything.”

You were silent for a minute trying to figure out how to handle him apologizing for something that felt so small in comparison.

Eventually, you said, “Yes, I forgive you.”

“I forgive you, too.”

— —

Robby found himself taking one of his few breaks outside. The fall chill had settled on the city and there was a short seasonal lull before the winter freeze finally hit in a few weeks. Leaning against the pillar, one knee uncomfortably drawn up towards his chest (he was not as young as he used to be), he was scrolling through his phone looking at the thread of texts between you both.

It was silly, he knew. But staring at your dry, slightly too-lawerly text messages made him miss you slightly less.

Ever since the kiss, there hadn’t been any conversation about what was going to happen moving forward. Robby wanted desperately to beg you to move back to Pittsburgh, to ditch even looking for an apartment and move in with him and Jack. But Jack was right, you had been more hesitant and closed off as you both reconnected.

Months ago he wondered what it was like to be loved by you and he wasn’t sure he knew yet, but he did know what it was like to eat Chinese food on your squeaky work couch. He knew what it was like to kiss you with Jack’s taste still lingering on your lips; he knew what it felt like to be cared about—if that paper plan had anything to say about it.

So looking through your last text messages was not a replacement for your presence, but it would be tolerable until you returned.

——

You crossed city lines back into Pittsburgh a little after eight pm on Friday evening. The familiar shape of downtown rose against the deep indigo sky, windows glowing like scattered embers as the city settled into another cold October night. Instead of taking the turn to your awful temporary apartment, you made your way to Jack and Robby’s.

Pulling up to their small bungalow, the knot that had lived beneath your ribs all week eased, if only by a little.

It was Robby who opened the door and for a split second he took your breath away.

He wasn’t even dressed up, in fact he looked a little grumpy in a rumpled t-shirt and ratty pajama pants. His feet were covered in thick wool socks to combat the growing chill at night. His necklace shimmered in the porch light, the familiar Star of David catching the warm glow of the porch light. His dark greying hair was mussed and messy, and the tiredness beneath his eyes did nothing to lessen how impossibly handsome he looked.

“Jack stepped out to the store,” Robby said softly.

You stepped through the door and lightly brushed Robby on the arm as you entered. He cleared his throat and said,

“Are you…are you spending the night?”

The night before they asked you to come over and stay for the weekend. There was no obligation for sex. They just wanted to be around you. That simple request had made you smile. It felt precious in a way you hadn’t expected. Before leaving your apartment in Harrisburg, you had grabbed your favorite blankets and pillows, desperate for some comfort of home regardless of whether you were at the impersonal penthouse or your soulmates’ slightly more personal house. Neither place was truly yours yet, but this one was beginning to feel less borrowed every time you walked through the door.

“I am,” you confirmed. “I am just too lazy to grab my bag.”

“Let me grab it,” he said, holding his hand out for your keys.

You handed them over, Robby’s slightly rough skin brushing against your own. The touch lasted barely a second, but it was enough to make your heartbeat stumble.

You watched from the entryway as Robby slipped on shoes and walked to your trunk. Cold air drifted in through the open doorway, carrying the sharp scent of winter and distant chimney smoke. He grabbed the duffle bag easily and then peeked over at you before asking,

“Do you want the bedding?”

“Just the green blanket!” you called.

He picked up the fuzzy blanket, bunching it beneath one arm, and walked back inside. After shutting the door, he herded you back to the guest room. The very one he had slept in the night he fucked you. Instead of dwelling on the pit that grew in his stomach when thinking about his bad decisions, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Beating himself up didn’t help anything. It never changed the past, and it certainly didn’t make the future easier.

“This is soft,” Robby said, gesturing to the blanket as he placed your duffle on the mostly empty dresser. The room itself remained simple—fresh sheets tucked tightly onto the bed, a single lamp casting pools of amber light across the hardwood floor, the faint scent of cedar lingering from last time their cleaning lady mopped.

“Thank you, a friend got it for my birthday.”

“You seem to have really good friends,” he replied.

“I really do,” you said softly. Thinking of them made your chest ache with gratitude. They had held you together through impossible years and impossible clusterfucks of your own making .

“What do they think about all this?”

“I don’t think they know what to think. They’re holding out judgment for now,” you said, digging through your bag. Your fingers searched between folded sweaters until they brushed the small wrapped package tucked safely inside. “Do you know when Jack will be back?”

“Thirty minutes probably.”

“Okay, I have something for you both. It’s super small.”

“Do I get a hint?” Robby asked, approaching you.

He reached out and toyed with your fingers, absentmindedly tracing the spaces between them before pulling you flush with his body.

He smelled good. He smelled like a classic cologne. It reminded you of the ocean and leather and wood, clean without being too overpowering. Burying yourself against his body, arms wrapped around his waist, you couldn’t resist a deep inhale. Your nose bumped the side of his neck as you luxuriated in his scent. It settled something restless inside you that you hadn’t even realized had been fraying all week.

“Nope,” you replied, muffled against his body. “You smell really good.”

“You smell like car,” he replied, a smile evident in his voice.

You rolled your eyes.

“I drove three hours.”

“We really did miss you,” he said softly, his hands landing on your hips. His thumbs rubbed absent circles through your sweater without him seeming to notice. With a few slow steps he backed you against the doorjamb of the bedroom.

Tilting your head up, you gazed at his weather-worn skin and surprisingly soft beard. The lines around his eyes had deepened over the past week, evidence of long shifts and too little sleep, yet there was something lighter in them now that you were here. Mischief danced behind his eyes as he gazed down at you. He seemed happy, at least happier.

The first brush of his lips was not shocking. But strength in his grip on your hips brought you back to the heady way he’d man handled you in the storage closet all those years ago. Against your will and better judgement, you body reacted: melting against his whims desperate to feel his lips on every part of your skin.

“We had a plan,” Robby mumbled between harsh kisses and knee-wobbling bites.

“This feels like a good plan,” you croaked.

“We were going to wine and dine you,” he said moving down your face to suck at your jaw. “We were going to make sweet and gentle love to you. To finally bond with you after all this fucking time.”

You couldn’t manage to form words under his welcomed assault. The only thing keeping you standing was his grip on your hips and sheer will power. Your brain was unable to communicate with non-relevant systems. It didn’t give a flying fuck about your knees’ stability while Robby’s skilled mouth was rendering you dumb.

“But you are just so fucking kissable. Grabable.”

“I like the grabbing,” you managed between gasps. He bit down at the juncture of your shoulder and neck making you keen, scrambling to get a hold of him in case you legs really did give out.

“But I promised Jack,” Robby sighed pulling away.

Your chest was heaving and it took your brain multiple seconds to process how worked up Robby had gotten you only to pull away. Whining, you leaned back heavily against the door jam. He looked far too pleased with himself and you couldn’t help but glare at him.

“You’re a bastard,” you hissed.

Robby grinned at you, his forefinger tracing a line from the edge of your shoulder, up your neck, so he could tilt your chin upwards. He placed a soft peck on your lips.

“I know. Want to shower?”

“Fucking need it,” you grumbled to yourself.

Annoyed and still remarkably turned on you gathered your change of clothes and petulantly stomped to the bathroom. You could hear Robby’s chuckles behind you. You weren’t sure when or where, but you knew that you would be getting your revenge on the man and it would be sweet.

By the time you showered, dried off and got dressed, Jack returned. You walked out to their living room hearing his muffled laughter. It had been a long day. In a different world you might have tried to wear something sexy, but you couldn’t be fucked. An old law school tshirt and pajama shorts were all you could stomach putting on your body.

Turns out you didn’t need to worry, because when you walked in both men stared at you with such rapt attention they would have missed the rapture. Robby swallowed hard while Jack’s eyes never stayed stationary—taking in your bare legs and relaxed appearance.

“I think this is the first time I’ve seen you not in a suit,” Jack said.

He was sitting next to Robby on the couch. A few inches of space separating them. When you stepped close enough, Jack yanked you towards them, situating you between the two men. Jack’s hands were immediately on your body: one on your thigh lightly squeezing and the other wrapped around your waist. Robby’s hand was not far behind, rubbing up and down your bare thigh with excruciatingly slow speed.

“If I’d known this is what would happen wearing ratty pajamas,” you mumbled feeling excited and terrified for what was coming next.

“Can we…?”

“Yeah, yes. Please,” you croaked out to Jack’s question.

“I want to savor you, baby,” Jack said.

He pulled you against his body, slotting his lips against yours. You remembered what Robby had said only a few minutes before—that the plan was nice and slow. That was fine, great even. But you spent the last week craving these men and finally the itch you’d couldn’t quite scratch was being soothed.

You didn’t want slow and gentle.

Summoning the ferocity of the woman you were underneath the fear and trepidation, you swung your leg over Jack, straddling his lap. Pulling away just enough to glance at Robby, you said,

“You get to watch for now, you dick.”

Ignoring Jack’s confused look, you wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him almost angrily. Distantly, you heard Robby’s amused huff and the ghost of his hand touching you and Jack. This is what he got for working you up before Jack got home.

Jack’s face was rough with the early vestiges of a five o’clock shadow but you didn’t care. The scratch of his skin was more than tolerable when you were finally the kissing the man you fell in love with. Forcefully, you kissed and mouthed down his jaw, lightly sucking before focusing your attention on his neck.

“Holy shit,” Jack moaned, throwing his head back.

Even through your thundering heart beat, you could feel the frantic pulse of Jack’s underneath your lips. For a moment you paused, pressed lips against his jugular. Magical was the only way you could describe the understanding of how alive Jack was beneath you. Each pump of his heart kept him alive. He was alive and he cared about you.

Despite the everything, he cared about you.

Everyone you’d spoken to describe bonding with a soulmate differently. Some felt a jolt, some had a wave of emotions, but for you everything went silent. It echoed in your ears until the only thing you could see was Jack. The world zeroed in on him and even Robby’s soft caress wasn’t felt.

The first time the men told you about their sensory association you had thought it sounded like bullshit. You never said that, of course. But even though neither of them had bonded to you, they had these synesthestetic associations with you.

But as the world faded, and only you and Jack remained, you felt it:

On a dark, foggy coast he was the lighthouse guiding you home.

“Jesus Christ,” you gasped.

“Oh my god,” croaked Jack.

Both of you were breathing heavy as you felt the bond settle into your body. The bond securing felt like someone had cracked a warm egg over your head and it was seeping down all the way to your toes. You shivered and looked at Jack.

“Did you…?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “You?”

“Mm-hmm,” he replied, before pulling your harshly against him any pretense of softness forgotten.

Robby hadn’t said anything and you wondered if his bond would also solidify tonight.

“What do I feel like?” Jack asked in between frantic kisses. He held you tightly against his body, as though terrified you might float away.

“A lighthouse on a dark and foggy night,” you told him.

Jack made a noise in the back of his throat.

“Did you bond?” Robby asked softly.

Jack didn’t respond—his lips too busy on yours, but he pulled Robby in closer. Awkwardly, Robby began to suck on Jack’s neck in the way you had been doing before the bond snapped to life.

Jack’s touch felt more intense and lingered longer. Goosebumps followed his fingers in a way they didn’t with Robby. You knew the bond felt intense the first few days, but you felt like teetering on a knife’s edge. It was overwhelming but you couldn’t pull away.

Still, bonded or not, you needed air. It wasn’t until your lungs were burning did you finally break away.

Panting, you let Jack and Robby continue without you. Watching Robby shift, so his arm was still around you even while focused on Jack. The dichotomy of Robby was his terrifying wrath and equally powerful compassion. He raged and fought and lashed out, but he also ensured that you felt him bracing you no matter what.

Without a doubt, you knew if you began to tip over on Jack’s lap it would be Robby who would catch you.

The man annoyed the shit out of you. He egged you on. He cared so tenderly for you that even after he blew up his life, bid you goodbye with a small paper airplane. That paper airplane had followed you for years, and as you stared at the man in front you fully and sloppily making out with Jack, the world became fuzzy.

It was different than it was with Jack. Bonding with Jack felt like one in a million—nothing else mattered. With Robby, the bond felt inevitable. You felt a string wrap around your chest tightly, tethering you to the grumpy, caustic and warm hearted man.

He froze against Jack’s lips but his grip on you tightened almost painfully.

Robby was an explosive gust of wind before a storm. He battered against you and pushed you forward, he cleansed and healed. The string that tethered you together snapped taut and you could feel it weave through your body. If Jack seeped, Robby burrowed. There was no way you could rid yourself of either man. They became integrated with the very nature of who you were.

When the world righted again, Robby’s arm felt like a brand against your skin and you couldn’t help but squirm.

“Did you bond too?” Jack asked, a grin on his face.

“Yeah,” Robby muttered pulling back to stare at you.

“A gust of stormwind,” you told him.

“A powerful trumpet solo,” he said back you.

“The strength of an evergreen forest,” Jack added.

“I feel a little insane,” you admitted. “It’s a head rush.”

Not only was it a head rush, but you felt absolutely soaked. There was no amount of foreplay that could have created the watershed in your pants.

“Fuck me, one of you, please,” you said.

Both men zeroed in on you. Their gazes felt predatory and Robby pulled you with him as he stood.

“Bedroom,” he growled and you felt it in your core. He pushed you towards their room.

Robby pulled you onto the bed after him. He sat up against the headboard, thoughtlessly pushing off the pillows and blankets. Who cares where they landed? All you needed was their touch on your desperate skin. Robby pulled at your tshirt and you let it go willingly, pulling off your shorts as well.

In your haste, you lost your balance and nearly tipped over the bed. Robby caught you, just like you knew he would.

As though it were a sixth sense, you could feel Jack’s eyes on your bare body. (Robby was taking his time undressing which was not fair). The overwhelm felt astronomical and Jack’s slow gait felt positively glacial.

“Jack,” you said, turning to look at him. His darkened eyes drank in your nude form. “Please.”

Robby looked up at him and said, “You first.”

The whine that came from you surprised yourself and Robby. It didn’t sound like anything you thought you could make. Hastily, Robby grabbed some of the pillows from the floor and created a small pile.

“Lay down, sweetheart. Prop yourself up for Jack,” he said.

You recalled Jack saying that Robby was more submissive and you wondered if your relationship with him—bickering and bothering—brought out his oft under-used bedroom dominance. Ultimately, you didn’t care.

So you draped yourself over the pillows, face down. They propped up your hips for better access. For deeper access. Robby’s long legs were splayed out and you in between them. The bed dipped when Jack sat on the edge. Turning slightly, you saw him naked (you mourned missing him undress) and taking off his prosthetic.

Once unburdened, he slowly crawled up behind you, settling himself between your open legs. You positively ached.

Robby’s forefinger and thumb grabbed your chin and titled your face up towards his.

“Do you need warming up?”

You shook your head. “I’m pretty certain I’m wet enough to take you both at once.”

Jack’s hands, that had been caressing your hips so softly, gripped tightly at your words.

“We should consider that for later,” he bit out.

“We really should,” Robby agreed, taking your lips. You were bending at and awkward angle to reach him, but the comfort didn’t matter so much as how Jack felt lining himself against you.

“She’s so wet Robby,” he said. “Like a fucking fountain.”

“That for us, sweetheart? You finally getting what you want.”

The tip of Jack’s dick ran the length of your core, never quite pushing inside. You groaned trying to push back against him but a sharp slap against your ass made you still. The contact echoed through your body, making you tingle and shiver. You were pretty certain it made you wetter.

Before you could complain again, Jack slid inside forcefully. The movement knocked you forward and you collapsed onto Robby’s lap, burying your head in his hip. On a different night, when you weren’t completely overwhelmed, you would have tried to suck his dick. But tonight, the simple movement of Jack inside you ground all coherent thoughts to a halt.

Jack folded his body over yours, burying himself deeply inside you. Yoh knew that you were whining, groaning, and making all kinds of incoherent noises. Clutching onto Robby help ground you, but the simple act of contact still made your fingers tingle.

Having Jack fuck you with a force that knocked the headboard against the wall, felt like fireworks exploding in your chest. Each drag of his cock through your walls made you clench. With one hand dug into Robby’s thigh, you reached behind to hold onto Jack. Cocooned between the men should have felt suffocating. Instead, each breath lit your nerves on fire.

“Kiss me,” Jack said. At first you thought he was talking to you, but when you felt Robby lean forward, you whined. You wanted to see.

When you tried to pull away, Robby’s hand kept your head and body exactly where it was buried against his skin.

“It’s so nice when she doesn’t fight us all the time,” Robby mumbled in between kisses.

You might be fuck drunk, but you still were you. In response to his comment you bit him hard.

“Fucking hell,” he exclaimed jumping.

Instead of letting go, you held on and to your surprise he moaned.

“He likes some pain,” Jack laughed. Leaning over you, no longer kissing Robby—who was making indecent noises as you bit him—he continued to whisper, “Does it feel good to have me so deep inside. I knew you’d feel like coming home baby.”

It was too hard to find words to respond, so you let go of Robby and whined for Jack. His thrusts were rhythmic and deep. He wasn’t going fast, but his speed made stars dance behind your eyes.

“So good for me,” Jack muttered. You clenched at his words. “Fuck Robby, she might be tighter than you.”

Still panting against Robby’s side, it was insane to feel so singularly worshipped and degraded by Jack. Robby held your face against him, muffling your cries or maybe just keeping them for himself. You could hear the two men kissing again which meant that Jack was no longer draped along your back. Your skin itched without his touch.

“Please,” you said not quite sure what you were asking for.

Jack’s hand slid under your hips and fingers circled your clit. It was impossible to control the way you jolted under his finger tips. So singularly focused on how it felt to be pounded by Jack, you almost missed the way Robby stroked his cock next to your face. You managed to move over just enough to reach the base of his cock with your tongue.

Instead of letting you. Robby stuck his two fingers in your mouth and said. “Suck.”

Later he would tell you it was because any touch from you made him want to blow his load.

You sucked on his fingers as though auditioning to be able to touch his cock.

“Oh sweetheart,” Robby hissed. “Your tongue.”

“She feels so good, Mike,” Jack moaned.

“Feels like she was made for us,” he replied. “Does it feel like that sweetheart? Like Jack’s cock was made to touch every little spot inside of you?”

Jack’s heavy thrusts were becoming frantic, as were his circles on your clit. Your orgasm was building, starting in your core and radiating outwards until you trembled and twitched between the men crying out. You could hear Jack’s grunts as you tight clenching finally wore down his self control.

When Jack collapsed onto you, every inch of his skin pressed upon yours, you purred. This is what your body craved. It wanted to feel the men so intricately woven into you life. If given the chance, you would burrow yourself into their chests.

Jack’s softly brushed back your hair.

“You’re so gorgeous, baby. You did so well for me,” he mumbled pressing soft kisses on your bare shoulder. You were jello in their grasp.

You whined when Jack pulled back, unsticking himself from you. In fact, he pulled away entirely, settling himself on the opposite end of the bed.

“Cmon sweetheart,” cooed Robby.

You felt your body being moved by the men until you were laying on Jack’s chest, his thighs keeping yours open, hands toying with your nipples. In your haze, you barely understood the changes until you felt Robby kneeling over both of you, his cock pressing into your abused cunt.

“Fuck,” you hissed. “I don’t think I can.”

You were so sensitive.

“You can take him, baby,” whispered Jack in your ear. “Look at his pretty cock all red and angry for you. Don’t you want to know what you do to him?”

Robby pushed into your pussy at a glacial pace, making you feel every stretch and touch and caress. His long groan when fully sheathed inside sent a wave of arousal through you. Having both men focus on you was dizzying.

“So much,” you mumbled.

Robby draped himself over you, pressing himself invariably deeper. You swore you could feel him in your throat. He didn’t pound into you like Jack had, instead he rolled his hips sending motes of pleasure through your body that had you shaking.

“So warm and wet. Feels like coming home,” he growled.

He leaned past you and kissed Jack. Their sloppy noises ratcheting your senses higher and higher. Jack hadn’t stopped his attention on your nipples. Each tweak was timed with a roll of Robby’s hips. For a a few minutes there were just the sounds of Robby’s slick cock stroking you, the smack of their lips together, and your own quiet keening as the men used you for their pleasure.

It was the hottest thing that’s ever happened to you.

“Isn’t her pussy so nice?” Jack asked licking the shell of your ear; you shuddered.

“Made for us,” Robby agreed. “Made for our pleasure and made for us to pleasure.”

Your whine sounded pathetic even to your own ears.

“Aww, she’s fucked out,” Robby cooed.

He leaned down again, this time slotting his lips with you. The caress of his lips and tongue, combined with his languid strokes, emptied your brain of anything other than the two men. Your two soulmates. Being pressed between them while the bond solidified had you hazy and utterly incapable of higher thought.

“Taking us so well baby,” Jack murmured. “Cmon, cum on Robby’s dick, too. Don’t want him to feel left out.”

One of Jack’s hands slipped between your body and Robby’s to circle your clit again. It was too much. You were already too sensitive from your first orgasm, now with Robby filling you so deeply and Jack not giving your overwrought nerves a moment, you felt yourself writhing against them.

“Fuck baby,” Jack hissed.

“Clenching so hard on me,” Robby panted. “Who does this pussy belong to?”

“You both,” you managed. It felt like an unassailable truth. There was no one in the world who would be able to make you feel like this.

“Are you close?” Robby asked. You nodded.

“Cum for us. Show the neighbors what a good girl we have,” Jack told you.

His command finally gave your body permission to lose control. White, hot pleasure coursed through you. It was almost too intense to enjoy. You definitely screamed and maybe raked your nails across Robby’s back while Jack’s lips tickled the side of your neck. Distantly you were aware Robby himself also came, but it was lost in the sensations of your body.

When you finally came back to awareness, you managed to croak:

“Please tell me it’s not always like that.”

Robby was still braced over you and Jack. You could feel him, but he wasn’t putting any weight on your body. The entirety of your weight was pressing on Jack, but you couldn’t even think about moving yet.

“No,” Jack said, brushing your hair slightly. He seemed to enjoy the contact. “It’s always intense for awhile after you bond, but since you bonded twice…”

You groaned.

“Really hot, though,” Robby added. “Jack slid into you and it’s like I watched your brain shut down.”

“Ugh,” you groaned. “I can’t move.”

Between Robby and Jack, they managed to roll you off and onto the bed. While Jack held you—you still craved contact even if you wanted them to stay far away from your cunt—Robby went to grab something to clean everyone up.

He came back in with a rag and your pajamas.

He was so gentle as wiped you down, softly apologizing when you twitched under his care. He tossed the rag at Jack and it landed on his chest with a wet “plop”. Robby had slid on a pair of short and a tshirt.

“Take the shirt off,” you said as you slid your underwear back on. You were foregoing the shirt for now.

“Yes ma’am,” Robby laughed. He slid into bed next to you and you ditched Jack’s body for Robby.

His long arms wrapped around you and he nuzzled the side of your face. His bare skin against yours soothes the prickling sensation of your soulmate bond.

“I love you,” he murmured.

Your heart clenched painfully. All the history and memories and yet you still were laying in their bed. They still were telling you they loved you. You felt yourself tear up a bit. Before you could respond, Jack was against your back. Being held by the two men finally allowed you to relax, melting into their embrace.

“I love you,” Jack said. “I love you both.”

Jack preened when he felt you relax into them. Over the last six month of knowing you and spending time with you, all he wanted was to make your life easier. He wanted to make you feel seen and cared for in ways, he was pretty certain no one had ever done for you.

Recognizing that his mere presence allowed you to calm down so much, your already noddle-like body became pliable between him and Robby was exhilarating. He bonded with you. He felt the world completely stop except for you. All he wanted for the rest of his life is to feel you relax when he held you.

“I love you both, too,” you said softly.

Robby kissed your forehead, letting his lips linger against your skin. He reached for Jack’s body on your other side desperate to hold you both. His heart felt so full and content for the first time in a long time. There wasn’t this feeling of missingness—of knowing you were out in the world and not in bed with him and Jack. He was almost asleep when you quietly said,

“I’m moving back to Pittsburgh.”

Robby was suddenly wide awake.

“Really?” Jack asked.

“Transfer was approved today,” you said softly.

“Move in with us,” Robby said suddenly. Technically he and Jack hadn’t talked about it but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that’s what Jack wanted too.

“Please,” Jack echoed. “I want to see you more than just dinner in your sad office.”

You laughed and wiggled on your back in between the men.

“I’ll draw up a contract,” you said.

Robby snorted, “Is that obnoxious lawyer for yes?”

“Mm-hmm,” you replied grinning.

“You’ll move in?” Jack asked.

“I will.”

Jack made a happy noise and began to pepper your face in kisses, making you giggle and push him away.

Robby threaded his fingers through Jack’s and rested them on your bare stomach.

“I love you both, so much.”

——

Robby was halfway to work when he realized his keys had a new small keychain on them. At a crosswalk, he paused and saw a tiny silver paper airplane, not quite the size of his thumbnail, dangling from a short chain. On one side were Jack’s initials and on the other side were yours.

Hanging on Jack’s keys was an identical paper airplane, because no matter how far away you traveled, they would be waiting for you at home.

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[drhobby]

ex!husband robby masterlist

in chronological order. f!reader. No y/n, no descriptions of the reader. Requests are open (add a "please" if you don't mind!!) main masterlist

the chasing (3.2k) - where you introduced yourself to one of your peers, having heard all the rumors about him. he is obsessed with asking you out. (fluff, pre-marriage)

power move (1.6k) - where you see your ex husband flirting and decide to pull a power move to stop it (fluff)

the reminder (1.2k) - where one of your kids ends up in the er and robby reminds you why you divorced (angst + comfort)

the vacancy (1k) - where robby finds out you haven't been dating since your divorce (fluff)

nightcall (1.2k) - where after an incident next door, you call robby and ask him to come home (fluff + angst)

the smirk (1.3 k) - where robby finds out you like someone else (angst)

the warning (1k) - where you warn your ex husband to stop flirting around (fluff)

the realization (3.6k) - where robby realizes you are dating someone new (angst)

myths (500) - where robby hears all the myths about your boyfriend

the plan (1.5k) - where you realize both your kids are playing matchmaking (fluff)

the anesthesia (2k) - where you end up in the er and confess a thing or two under anesthesia (fluff + angst)

the sabbatical (3.8k) - self explanatory really (fluff + angst)

out of office (500) - where you call robby on day 2 of his sabbatical to ask about a case (fluff)

the "emergency" (1.8k) - where you receive a call from the er saying your kids are there (fluff)

dental evidence (500) - where robby left his dental evidence on your neck (fluff)

playing nice (500) - where you pretend to be great at co-parenting at your daughter's birthday party (fluff)

the old habits (1k) - where you go out with your friends (fluff + smuttish)

the test (1.3k) - where you and robby have a pregnancy scare (angst + comfort)

big ideas (700) - where robby asks abbot and langdon dating advice (fluff)

the interrogation (700) - where your kids find you asleep in the morning and interrogate you about your family (fluff)

the gala (800) - where you and robby are forced to attend a gala together (fluff)

[opulentpeony]

A Simple Arrangement

Pairing: Andrew “Pope” Cody x Reader x Jack Abbot (quite the ménage à trois!) 

Summary: You have a simple arrangement with Dr. Jack Abbot. You live in his house. You work from home. You are available to him whenever he is home. In exchange, you live rent-free and have great sex. You like that there's no strings attached. The two of you are simply roommates who fuck every now and then. 

But your arrangement is about to get complicated…because his identical twin brother has just been released from prison early. You know very little about Andrew Cody, other than the fact that Jack calls him Pope for some reason. 

So, when Pope ends up having to live with you two at Jack's house for an undetermined amount of time, it shakes up your whole world. Because he wants you for himself. And he's not going to let his brother get in the way this time… 

Word Count: 18.4k

A/N: Since people liked the last crossover idea I cooked up, here's another one! This is set in like an alternate season one of Animal Kingdom, though you, again, don't really need to have watched the show to read this fic. Same thing goes for The Pitt. It's just background setting stuff, nothing too nitty gritty from either show. I just throw in some references here and there for those who have seen it! 

I will say, I don't necessarily consider you pursuing Pope as “cheating on Jack” because you and Jack aren't in a committed relationship (you are literally in a situationship lol sorry…). But because some people might be a little squeamish about infidelity, I figured it would be important to mention that you will end up with both of them in a consensual, polyamorous arrangement. So, a happy ending, guaranteed! How you get there is…well, you'll just have to see for yourself.

You can see a full list of warnings on the fic on my AO3, or you can go in blind! That's up to you! 

Again, this is mostly porn, some feelings but very little plot. The whole scenario is a bit nonsensical but hey, this is fanfic so who cares! Hope it's a fun read ♡

You have no idea how Jack convinced you to come with him to pick up his estranged twin brother from prison. Maybe it was because it was so out of the blue. The two of you have always kept each other at arm's length when it came to any personal stuff. 

So, when he asked you if you would come with him, you didn't know how to say no. 

Because you wanted to say yes.

You have been curious about Andrew Cody since the moment Jack mentioned he had a twin brother. They don't share a last name. 

And technically, they're triplets. 

But his mother had decided to only keep Andrew and his sister Julia. Jack never knew his deranged mother, who his brother calls Smurf for some reason. She had dropped Jack off at an orphanage and he was adopted by a family who lived on the east coast. His adopted parents, the Abbots, were lovely people. He was raised in a happy household. 

The same cannot be said for his brother Pope. 

“Why do you call him Pope?” You ask Jack on the drive to the prison. 

“That's what he told me to call him.” Jack shrugs. “I didn't pry. It's not my place.” 

You're unsure if you agree with that. If you found out randomly one day that you not only had a nearly identical twin, but that twin is in prison for an armed bank robbery gone wrong and goes by a strange nickname, you would definitely be asking a lot of questions. 

But Jack doesn't seem to have the same sense of curiosity that you do. He doesn't even know why he asked you to come with him. The two of you never go out together, unless it's convenient like for grocery shopping. He keeps a distance because his work is too hectic for him to be in a committed relationship. At least, that's the excuse he will keep telling himself because his feelings for you would grow out of control otherwise. Then he'll start imagining a life with you, one where you're his. 

A life he cannot have. Or won't allow himself to…

He has no idea that you feel the same way about him. 

And you aren't going to tell him. 

Because you don't want to ruin a simple arrangement. You are perfectly comfortable warming his bed whenever he's home. Even if it kills you sometimes to think that this could all end the moment he finds someone else. You try not to think about that. 

You focus back on Pope. “Will he be living with us?” 

“Until he gets on his feet. He'll stay at the guest house.” Jack has a small guest house in the backyard, the size of a studio apartment. It has its own bathroom so Pope would only have to come into the house for the kitchen. 

“How long do you think that'll be?” You can't imagine how rough the transition back into regular life is after being in prison for years… 

“Who knows. Shouldn't change things.” Jack had already set aside a fund for Pope. Sort of like a weekly allowance, at least until he finds work. That's why he has been picking up SWAT shifts. All that money was being put aside for this. 

“I'm sorry about your sister.” Pope had told Jack that their sister, Julia, had died of an overdose recently.

That's why Pope doesn't want to go back to Oceanside. He didn't even tell any of the Codys that he's being released. Though, they never went to visit him anyways, not even to tell him Julia died. He had to find out over the phone when he called Baz and Baz told him that her son J is staying with Smurf now. Pope meant to tell Baz at the very least but he ended up keeping his release to himself. None of them ever called him so he knows they won't find out either way. They probably figured he'd find a way to get himself stuck in prison forever…

“I never knew her so there's nothing to be sorry about.” Jack wonders how different his life would've been if his mother hadn't given him up for adoption. 

Him and Pope could not be more different. They may look alike but their life trajectories have skewed dramatically in opposite directions. Jack is a veteran and an attending physician for a very successful Emergency Department. Pope is a felon who is lucky that overcrowding had him booted out early on parole. 

“Still, it sucks you never got to meet her. Do you think you'd ever want to meet your half-brothers?” 

Jack shakes his head. “If what Pope has told me about them is true, I think it's best if they don't know I exist.”

The only reason Jack knows about Pope is because he had treated a patient that was obsessed with robberies. One of those online sleuth types. They thought Jack was Pope in disguise. That's how he found out he had an identical twin. 

They've been exchanging letters ever since. Jack has even gone to visit him a few times prior to his release. It was strange. Like looking into a mirror that's crooked. 

“It's kind of you to house him while he's readjusting.” It's a bit reminiscent of how you and Jack met. 

You were like a stray cat. He always saw you shopping late at night at the same twenty-four hour market he goes to, buying small handfuls of things here and there. One day, he asked you about why you only shopped at night. You asked him the same question. He told you that he works the night shift so he keeps that sleeping schedule even on his off days. You told him it's because you like the dark. 

You slept with him for the first time that night. In his truck, in the empty parking lot. That's when he knew you were just like him. You both had the same tastes in bed. He hasn't slept with anyone else since. Neither have you. 

You both are comfortable with each other. Not comfortable enough to admit the layer of feelings that neither of you want to address, but comfortable enough to fuck for hours at a time. 

Everything is about to change, though.

You and Jack stand outside the gate, waiting for Pope to come out. You notice the way Pope walks. There's a cadence to it that is…unique. The closer he gets to the two of you, the more your gut seems to churn. 

A weird sense of foreboding. 

You shake it off when Pope is in front of you. He looks at Jack then asks, “who's she?” 

Jack introduces you to Pope. “She lives with us.” 

“Why?” Pope furrows his brow at you. 

You do not have an easy answer to that. Neither does Jack. 

“Cheap rent.” You say with a shrug. Technically, you aren't lying. Free rent is cheap rent. 

He keeps his eyes on you, his gaze a bit more intense than any look you've ever seen on Jack's face. It's uncanny how similar they look. If it weren't for Pope's shorter hair, you might not be able to tell them apart… 

Pope stares at you the entire ride back out of the corner of his eye, since you have to sit between him and Jack in the truck. He can't tell if the two of you are in a relationship and just don't want to tell him. But there's no affectionate touching that couples would usually do. Jack keeps his hands on the wheel. You even lean more towards Pope than Jack. 

Maybe the two of you are just roommates. Pope doesn't believe it though. Because you're stunning. And small. Perfect to toss around in bed. 

You feel your ears heat up. You don't want to turn your head to check but you're sure Pope is staring at you. He keeps his hands at his sides and on occasion, his fingers brush against yours. You can't tell if it's on purpose or not. It has the butterflies in your stomach fluttering up a storm. 

“First meal out of prison, what do you want?” Jack and Pope had talked about this at length in their letter exchange. “Still want that burger I was telling you about?”

“Can I shower first?” Pope hasn't showered alone in years. He needs it. To feel somewhat normal again. 

“Sure. I'll drive home. I stocked your bathroom already.” 

Jack's words give you pause. When did he do that? Was that the reason he had a bunch of random packages these last few weeks? It was all stuff for Pope? 

“Thanks.” Pope is uncertain still if he trusts Jack's hospitality. He knows Jack is a doctor, which means he is well versed in treating a patient. 

But is Pope his patient or his brother? 

Pope doesn't know which he'd prefer. He doesn't have a great relationship with his brothers, even though he would do anything for them. Including taking the fall for a robbery gone wrong. 

They could've, at the very least, visited him… 

He was lucky the prison he was sent to was on the east coast near Jack so he had one visitor. It made him feel less alone. But very uneasy too. 

Because Jack has everything he would ever want. 

Except for you, for some reason. 

Pope watches the way the two of you interact when you all get to Jack's house. Jack doesn't hold the door open for you, going into the house first. Pope grabs it and holds it for you, letting you step in before him.

“Thanks, Andrew.” You tell him reflexively then catch yourself. “Shit, sorry, Jack told me you go by Pope.” 

“You can call me Andrew.” He likes how his name sounds coming from your lips. 

Jack shifts his attention back at Pope when the door closes then gestures, “let me show you where you'll be staying." 

That seems to be your cue to leave. You disappear into the nearby hallway. That must be where your room is. 

Jack catches how Pope still has his eyes on you as you walk away. That unsettles him. But he has no real claim on you. 

That's what disturbs him even more. The fact that Pope could pursue you if Jack doesn't step in to stop him… 

“She's pretty.” Pope says when he sees Jack looking at him with the same eyes Baz does when Pope would look at Catherine. Strange to see that look on his face. 

Is that how Pope would look if another man was eyeing his lover? 

So, the two of you definitely aren't just roommates. 

Jack doesn't comment on that. He just goes, “come on. You should wash up and then I'll take you out to eat.”

“She's not coming with us?” Pope's question drives Jack insane. 

Because he doesn't invite you out to eat. That's too intimate in his mind. He buys you take out if he picks something up on the way home from the hospital. Coffee on occasion. Usually after he texts you and asks if you want it. Because it's convenient. Not because he likes how you smile when he comes home with a treat. Definitely not… 

“You can ask her if you want.” Jack leaves that up to Pope. 

“Okay.” Pope sees a challenge when it presents itself. Jack probably figures he won't do it. 

He's in for quite a surprise. 

The guest house is like a tiny cottage in the backyard. It has enough space for a king sized bed surprisingly. Pope hasn't slept on such a large bed in years. It'll probably take a while for him to adjust to. Maybe he won't be sleeping at all… 

“There's clothes in the closet for you. I figured we're about the same size but let me know if anything doesn't fit right.” Jack sorted through his wardrobe for clothes that were a bit less fitted, in case Pope was more filled in than him. 

Pope nods then says quite bluntly, “do I get a key to the house?” 

“Your key is right here.” Jack points to the rack on the wall. “It opens the door that leads to the backyard and this guest house. The sliding door that leads to the kitchen is never locked so you can enter from there.” 

Pope tries not to be bothered by that. It's a bit too much like back at Smurf's. They never used the front door. Always entering the house from the pool into the kitchen.

Thankfully Jack doesn't have a pool. Pope would probably go crazy if he did. He's already pretty crazy to begin with. His brother doesn't need to know that just yet, though. 

“I'll be in the living room. Meet me when you're done.” Jack tells him before leaving. 

Pope takes a moment to look around the room. He straightens out the sheets on the bed. He grabs the chair that was at the small desk Jack keeps in here and faces it towards the door. He sits down, checking if this is a comfortable angle. He needs to be able to see any entrances. For his paranoia that a prison guard will come in at any moment and assault him. 

Once he has done that, he goes to shower. He spends a long time in the shower, doing everything he hasn't been able to do. Including jerking off. Thinking about you and your lovely voice saying his name. How soft your hand was when he'd brush his fingers against it at any bump on the road. Wondering what it would feel like wrapped around his cock. 

Would you be gentle with him? Would you want him to be gentle with you? 

In the living room, Jack can't shake off what Pope had asked him earlier so he gets up and goes to your room, knocking like he always does. You open the door and say, “Jack?”  

“Pope is going to ask you to come with us for dinner.” He just states it outright. 

“Okay?” You raise an eyebrow at him. “Thanks for the warning?”

“Are you going to say yes?” Jack doesn't know why he's even asking. He has asked you a lot of strange things today… 

“I haven't eaten.” That's the truth. You are hungry. “A burger sounds nice.” 

Jack can't really tell you to decline now. “Then I'll tell him you want to tag along. I'll come get you when he's ready.” 

You nod then shut your door. Jack stands there, biting back a sigh. What the hell is he doing? 

You're asking yourself the same question. Does he not want you interacting with Pope? You want to convince yourself that this is some kind of jealousy but you don't think Jack values you enough to be possessive over. That's what you think. That isn't the truth, however.

Jack is growing more possessive now that he realizes he might have competition for your attention. His own brother. He has to figure out a way to dissuade Pope. But that would require admitting that he wants you to be more than just a fuck buddy and he is not prepared for that yet. 

For the potential of losing you entirely if he screws everything up…

When Jack sees Pope open the sliding door, he says, “meet me outside.” 

“I still have to ask our roommate if she wants to tag along.” Pope purposefully emphasizes that fact. 

“I already asked. She is.” 

“Then I'll go tell her we're heading out.” Pope walks past Jack. He already memorized where your room is in the house. Jack can't stop him from knocking on your door. 

You open it and see Pope. “Oh, hello.” 

“Are you ready to eat?” Pope notices you've changed clothes. Did you shower too? You're dressed much more relaxed now. 

“Yeah.” You close your bedroom door behind you. When you turn back around, you nearly jump because Pope is still standing right there. Very close to you… 

“Do you need your wallet?” He sees you're bringing a bag with you. “I'll pay for your meal.” 

“That's sweet of you, Andrew.” You say kindly because it is a nice gesture. “But it's alright. You should save your money. At least until you get a steady income.” 

“I'll buy you a meal when I do then.” He gestures for you to walk ahead. He wants to be able to look at you for a bit longer. 

You feel flush because it's been a while since someone's been that forward with you. His gaze is right on you as you two step outside. Jack is already in his truck, waiting. Pope opens the passenger side door for you and you hop in, sitting between the two of them again. 

You clutch your bag in your lap, feeling a bit shy at how it feels to be sandwiched between them. You shake your head of thoughts you definitely should not be having. 

Maybe you should've said no to going out to eat…

It's a local fast casual restaurant, done up to look like a diner in the 70s. Jack has picked up food from this place for you before. They do have great burgers. 

The host sits the three of you at a booth and Jack gestures for you to sit down first before he chooses to sit next to you, making Pope sit on his own across from you. 

Pope doesn't mind this. It just means he gets to look at you the whole time. 

Your heart is hammering in your chest at how intense his gaze is. That's probably why you stumble on your order when the server comes by asking if you all want something to drink. You end up ordering a mixed drink and the two brothers get beers. The alcohol will help ease your nerves, hopefully. 

“Do you two go out to drink often?” Pope asks and Jack knows he's probing on purpose. He has to hide his annoyance at that. 

“No.” Jack says to Pope directly, hoping that's the end of his questioning. 

Pope turns to you. “Do you like to drink?”

You shrug. “Sometimes.” 

“So, how did you two become roommates?” He asks the question Jack has been trying to avoid the most. 

You answer. “He told me he had a free room and needed someone to watch his house when he was at work.”

“How nice of Jack.” Pope says, his eyes drifting to your lips for just a second. 

“Why do people call you Pope?” If Pope is going to push Jack, he's going to do the same thing back. 

“Because I robbed a church when I was a teenager and beat up a priest.” Pope answers right as the server comes with the drinks. They give him a concerned look as they set his beer in front of him. He holds a very cold expression until they walk away. 

Once Jack knows you all aren't in earshot of anyone, he tells Pope, “don't think about doing that shit while you're living with me. Move out first.” 

“Don't worry. I'm not doing anything that will land me back in prison.” Pope smiles right at you as he says, “I'd hate to jeopardize such a nice living situation." 

It's fun to lie through his teeth. Because he knows everything he wants to do will upset the delicate balance between you and Jack. Doesn't mean he won't do it though. 

Like brush his foot up against your ankle under the table. 

The first time, you figure it's an accident. The second time, you know he's doing it on purpose…because he takes a swig of his beer right when you feel his foot trail up your calf. 

Again, it makes you nervous enough to mess up your order when the server comes back for the food order. Pope likes how you look when you're nervous. 

“Can I get another beer?” He tells the server, who nods immediately before quickly walking away. 

“Don't overdo it while we're out.” Jack doesn't want to drag a drunk Pope home. “I have beers at home.” 

“Are you saying I can get drunk at your house?” His words hold a strange weight to them. It's that unease… 

“I'm saying you don't have to drink here.” Jack has to keep Pope in check. That'll prove to be more difficult than he imagined. 

It never crossed Jack's mind that Pope might be tough to deal with. When he had visited Pope in prison, Jack met a very different version of his twin. More timid. A bit hardened. Probably from whatever he was experiencing in there.

Freedom is making Pope act differently than Jack expected. More bold…

You are experiencing that boldness right now. You aren't going to pretend you aren't attracted to Pope. You're very attracted to Jack so…it only makes sense that your body reacts to Pope as well. But you have to nudge his foot away from you. He doesn't bother you again after that. He keeps his gaze on you, though. Because he wants to enjoy looking at you with that shy expression on your face. He finds it so cute. 

Once you're all done eating, Jack pays and then drives you all to a nearby grocery store, since he wants Pope to be able to buy his own groceries. 

You notice how precise everything he buys is. Square bologna. Cheddar cheese slices that are exactly the same size as the bologna. A loaf of sliced bread that is just big enough that the cheese and bologna will be perfectly sandwiched. He buys cereal and milk too. Simple things. He pays with them with the card Jack gave him. 

Pope points to the candy and gum that is always available near the register. “Want anything?” 

“Oh.” You're caught off guard. Maybe that's why you pick a pack of gum and place it on the belt with the rest of Pope's things. “Thank you, Andrew.” 

“You're welcome.” The smile he gives you makes your stomach churn. You can't tell if you like the feeling or not. 

Once he pays, Pope hands you your pack of gum. He intentionally brushes his hand over yours when you take it, making your heart skip a beat. 

“Do you want a piece?” You open it, since you like to chew gum after you've eaten a meal. 

“Sure.” He takes one from the pack.

You turn to Jack, who has been keeping quiet this whole time when the two of you have been interacting casually. “Do you want one?” 

Jack takes a piece. “Thanks.” 

You all chew gum as Jack drives home. It's like a different kind of quiet. Just the sound of gum chewing. Yours is very delicate. Pope is blowing bubbles. Jack chews it with the back of his teeth. 

“Have a good night.” You tell them both before you head down your hallway, which is close to the front door. 

Pope watches you leave and waits until he hears your door close to say to Jack, “are you sleeping with her?” 

“What?” Jack looks his brother in the eye when he answers. “Why are you asking me that?” 

“Do you think she'd sleep with me?” Pope has to be baiting Jack. There's no other reason he would be asking Jack this otherwise. 

“Why would she sleep with you?” Jack hides his irritation. 

“Because we look alike.” Pope meets Jack's eyes. The same hazel eyes that he has. “I bet we fuck the same.” 

“I don't care what you do or who you do it with.” Jack hates that he's lying but he can't say otherwise. “Just don't do anything that will land you back in prison.” 

Pope knows what Jack is implying with his words. “You think I'm going to rape her?” 

“No.” Jack doesn't think so. But he has to ask for his own peace of mind. “Would you?” 

“Nope.” He would only take you willingly. He doesn't want you to look at him with fear in your eyes. Just pleasure. “I told you, I'm not going back to prison for any reason.” 

“I'll hold you to it.” Jack wishes he felt less tense but he can't shake the feeling. 

“Why don't you date her?” Pope keeps pressing Jack to his very limits. 

“I don't want to.” 

“I've always wondered what I look like when I'm lying.” Pope points at Jack's expression. “Must look a lot like that.” 

“Why does it matter to you?” Jack can't hide his frustration anymore. 

“Because if I pursue her, I don't want you getting in my way.” Pope smiles in a way that sends chills down Jack's spine. 

“I won't.” 

“Liar.” Pope pats him on the back. “Have a good night, Jack.” 

Jack watches Pope walk away and when the guest house door shuts, Jack curses under his breath, “motherfucker.” 

Against his best judgment, Jack locks the sliding door. Meaning Pope won't be able to come in until the morning. Then, he goes to rinse off the anger he feels in the shower. But not even a cold shower can settle his mind. 

He knows this is bothering him bad because he feels the phantom ache in his leg. That only happens when he's hung up on something. His mind will always wander to the missing feeling. 

He has to do something about this. 

So, when he's dressed again, Jack heads to your room. He knocks, like he always does, and you open it. 

“Jack?” You weren't expecting to see him again today. “What's—”

Jack grabs a hold of your face, kissing you all of a sudden. He kicks the door shut behind him and then locks it before he starts pulling off your shirt. You don't resist. Because you want him too. 

You just aren't prepared for him to shove you back on the bed with your legs hanging off the edge. He kneels down between your legs, tugging off your pajama pants, leaving you completely naked while he's still fully dressed. Your hand barely has time to grip onto his hair. His mouth is on your clit in an instant, sucking the life out of you. He hasn't been this impatient in a while. 

You cum quicker than usual from it, the sudden aggression turning you on more than you'd like to admit. You can't stop the moan that leaves your lips when his tongue dips inside of you, trying to find that spot that he can flick with the tip of his tongue that makes you scream. 

Once he finds it, you're squirming, the pleasure building too fast. You try to slow him down, “Jack, it's too much, please—”

He doesn't listen. Instead his hand slides up the length of your stomach until he squeezes your breast, rolling his thumb over your nipple. You can't stop yourself from cumming right then. 

Jack won't let you breathe. He stays like that until you're grinding your hips against his face, no longer trying to pretend like you aren't loving this. You usually don't let him spoil you like this. It makes you crave it too much. 

You'll start craving the way he demands, “cum on my face.” 

You do. It's hard not to. He's lapping it up like he hasn't taken a sip of water in ages. There's an intense hunger in his movements. Like he can't get enough of you. 

“Jack, I need a break, please—” You cry out when three of his fingers slide inside of you, curling right up against the spot his tongue was just abusing. “I'm going to—”

“Just cum.” He commands. “Don't think. Don't resist.” 

You listen too easily. Your orgasm is so intense that you squirt on his fingers, drenching his hand. He presses his palm and kneads your clit in response, forcing more out of you. 

“Please, I need—” You can't finish your sentence because you're cumming again.

“What do you need? Say it.” Jack won't stop until you do. 

“Your cock.” You tell him desperately as your pussy squeezes around his fingers. “I need your cock.”

“What do you need my cock for?” He's not letting you off that easily. 

“I need you inside of me.” You plead. “I want you to fuck me.” 

“Beg for it.” He starts moving his fingers violently side to side, making you see stars as you cum harder than you have all night. 

“Please fuck me.” You pant out in your orgasmic haze that's still going on because he simply will not stop fingering you. You don't care how needy you sound as you beg, “please, I need your cock inside of me, I want to cum on your cock, please make me cum on your cock.” 

“Flip over.” He snaps at you to hurry as he pulls his fingers out of you, making your legs shake. “Spread your pussy for me.” 

It's humiliating to be on your knees in bed, with your hand between your legs, spreading yourself wide for him. But you're instantly rewarded with the entire length of his cock ramming deep inside of you. 

“Rub your clit.” He doesn't want you to move your hand away just yet. “I want to feel you cum like a little whore.” 

You muffle your moans into your pillow as you rub your clit while he pounds into you from behind. You're cumming with every thrust, your hand soaked with your own release. You'll have to change your sheets. You see how dark the fabric is where your knees are.

“You're making such a mess.” Jack smacks your ass as punishment, which makes you cum harder. “Do you squirt on every cock that fucks you like this?” 

You shake your head. He sees it. That satisfies a nasty desire of Jack's. The one that wants you all for himself. 

“So just my cock then?” He angles himself more so he can rub up against a deeper spot inside of you. The one that has you gasping for air every time the tip of his cock pounds against it. 

“Yes.” You repeat that word over and over again until you cum. “Oh fuck, Jack, I can't—”

You can't cum anymore. You feel like you'll go dumb if he keeps this up. You're drowning in pleasure. And it won't stop. 

“Please…” You don't know what you're begging for anymore. 

Do you want him to stop or do you want this to last forever? 

You're scared that it's the latter when he tells you, “be my good little whore and keep cumming for me.” 

There's something intoxicating about the way he degrades you and praises you at the same time. You tighten up so much when he talks to you like that. 

You cry out his name when you finally feel him cumming inside of you, filling you up so much that you can feel his cum leaking out of you. You hear his heavy breaths behind you, the sound flooding your mind with desires you shouldn't have. 

Jack pulls out of you and you collapse onto the bed, unable to hold yourself up anymore. You expect him to leave. He usually does once he cums. 

But he doesn't. 

Instead, you feel him pull your back against his chest, his arms wrapping around you. He cradles you like this. You don't know how to feel about it. It's so intimate. 

Especially when he whispers in your ear, “spread your legs.” 

Your legs are so weak but your body listens without a second thought, your legs parting for him. His hand slides down from your stomach before slipping between your open legs. You gasp when his fingers thrust inside of you again. 

“Jack…” You turn your head back to look at him and before you can say anything else, his lips are on yours. 

And now, you don't care about how your actions will look. 

Your arm hooks back, so you can keep his head steady as he kisses you and fingers you at the same time. You moan against his lips when he starts kneading your clit with his palm. You arch your back against him when you're getting close. His other hand grips your breast, playing with your nipple between his fingers. This position makes your mind go hazy from the pleasure. 

You cum while his lips are still on yours. You swear, this is a first. You've never cum while he's kissing you. He doesn't kiss you often. You assumed it was because it was too intimate for your relationship with him. 

But tonight, he wants to kiss you. He wants your tongue to tangle with his as his fingers torture you. He wants you fully focused on him in this moment. 

You feel how hard he's grown again, his cock rubbing against your ass. You want him inside of you again already…

Jack does too. But he needs to hear you say it so he breathes out against your lips, “do you want me to fuck you again?” 

“Yes.” You stare into his eyes, your voice all light and airy. “I always want you.” 

Jack pulls his fingers out of you. His eyes are locked on yours as he licks them clean, making you shiver all over. Then, he lays you down on your back and gets on top of you, much to your surprise. You and Jack rarely do missionary. Again, too intimate…

But you cling onto him when his cock slides back inside of you. This time, he's so slow with his strokes that it's almost agonizing. Like the look on his face. 

Jack is staring down at you like he's afraid to lose you. You reach up, cupping his face in your hands. He leans into your touch. This is the most vulnerable you've ever seen him. 

“Kiss me, Jack.” You can't think of anything else to say that would reassure him that you want him. You can't say the words you want to say, so you hope that's enough.

Jack hooks his arms under you, rolling his hips against yours, fucking you nice and slow as his lips return to yours. The orgasms he pulls out of you now are so gentle but overwhelming at the same time. Because there's a layer of something unspoken. 

Something that doesn't remain unspoken for long. When Jack feels like he's getting close, he pulls away from your lips, looking into your eyes when he says, “if you want me to cum inside of you, promise me something.” 

“Okay.” You nod, waiting for him to tell you what.

It takes all your remaining willpower to keep your expression calm when he tells you, “promise me you won't leave me alone.”

“Oh, Jack.” You trail your fingers along his jaw and he closes his eyes, showing you how much he likes your touch. “I won't leave you alone. I promise.” 

He seals that promise with a kiss and with a few more gentle thrusts, you feel his release inside of you again. You hold onto him because you don't want to let him go. Not after he said that. 

“I don't care what happens.” Jack breathes out, every word warm against your lips. “As long as I get to hold you like this again.” 

It isn't a love confession. It's something else entirely. Something deeper than love. 

The fear of complete loss. 

“You will.” You promise him. “I won't go anywhere. I want to be here.” 

Some might say that Jack should ask for more of you. To ask you for your whole heart. But he doesn't feel worthy of that. So he'll settle for a constant place in your life. A guaranteed place, no matter what.

Jack kisses your forehead. It's so sweet and tender. Then he helps you into your bathroom. He draws you a bath and gently sets you into the tub. 

“Good night.” That's all he says before he leaves you in the tub. 

You don't know how to feel. You want to be happy with this development. He said it in his own way that he wants you. That should make you feel good. 

You sink into the bath, dipping your hand between your legs. You trail along your folds, feeling how sensitive you are after what just happened. You close your eyes, remembering the way Jack's lips felt on yours with his fingers buried inside of you. You can't stop yourself from touching yourself to the memory of it. You cum for the last time tonight, the pleasure making your mind almost as fuzzy as Jack's words did. 

Jack leaves your room but stands there for a while. He doesn't know what that was. What compelled him to do that, to say those words, to want to hear your response to them. His chest aches in an unfamiliar way. 

Then his stomach churns when he sees that the sliding door is unlocked…

Jack definitely locked it before he went to your room. So, how is it unlocked? 

Unless…

Jack glances out to the guest house. He sees that the lights are on through the window in the front. Pope must be in there. 

He is, sitting in his chair, staring out at Jack through the sheer curtains that cover the window. Pope squeezes his fists open and close, over and over, thinking. 

Thinking about how loud you were moaning while Jack was fucking you. How distracted the two of you were that neither of you heard him picking the lock to the sliding door and opening it. How neither of you felt his presence at your door, listening to everything with his hand wrapped around his cock. 

That's the second time he has cum today because of you. 

A trend he is certain will continue.

Life with Pope is interesting. That's the best word you have for it. It's been a week since he started living with you and Jack. The house is spotless. Pope spends most of his day deep cleaning. You haven't seen the wood floors this polished ever. 

It is a bit distracting, however. You usually work on your laptop in the living room but with Pope fussing around, it's hard to focus. But you don't like working in your room because you want to keep work separate from where you sleep.

Pope notices that you can't sit still and tells you, “there's a desk in the guest house. You can use it.” 

That is a good idea. You need to get this edit finished. 

“Thanks.” You follow him out there. 

When he lets you into the guest house, you notice that the chair is nowhere near the desk. The desk is in front of the house but the chair is all the way in the back. He grabs it for you and sets it at the desk. You don't question it and set up your laptop. 

“What do you do for work?” Pope has his hand on the back of the chair, his knuckles brushing along your back. 

You try not to stutter but his hand is distracting, “I-I edit novels.”

“So you read all day?” He lowers his body until his head is hovering over your shoulder, looking at what's on your computer screen. “That looks like a lot of reading.”

“It can be a lot. That's why I work from home.” You can't imagine having to go into the office and drown in text. 

“What kind of novel is this?” He brings the hand that was on your chair forward, draping over your other shoulder, pointing at the screen. 

Pope smiles out of your view at the way your breath catches in your throat in reaction. He has you trapped. Your heart is racing in your chest. You can feel your heartbeat in your ears. 

“It's…um…it's a science fiction novel.” You scroll up to show him the synopsis you wrote. 

With how close his head is to your shoulder, you can actually feel his chin move as he mouths the words while he reads. “Interesting. So, what happens? How does it end?”

“Happy ending, of course.” The publishing company you work for specializes in novels that have happy endings. 

Pope turns to look at you. When you turn your head to see what he's doing, you're ill prepared for how close his face is to yours. He smiles before leaning in. You half expect him to kiss you but he brushes his nose against yours instead. A little tease. 

“You should get back to work.” You feel every word of his against your lips. “I'll come back when I'm done cleaning.” 

Pope pulls away, leaving you with your heart pounding in your chest. When the door shuts, you try to shake off what just happened. This isn't the first time Pope has come in close contact with you. 

You've noticed how casually he'll touch you. A hand on your back to move you aside as he walks by. Brushing an eyelash off your face with his thumb. He likes touching you.

And you're worried you like it too…

Ever since that night with Jack, he hasn't visited your room. Is it because the two of you came to an agreement that you won't suddenly leave him? You hate how needy you feel. Especially after having experienced such an intense night. Your body is craving intimacy more than ever. 

Maybe that's why you don't push Pope away when he gets close to you. It's horrible to say but…you like the attention. You like that he has his eyes on you whenever you're in the same room as him. It makes you feel wanted. Something you thought Jack was going to make you feel after that night. 

But he has been so busy working. He has been at the hospital every day this week due to a staffing shortage. So you can't really blame him. He can't give you the attention you crave, even if he'd want to. He's exhausted by the time he comes home. 

It's why Jack can't commit to a relationship. Because if he knew someone was waiting at home for him, it would kill him inside. He doesn't know that you are always waiting for him. Or, he just chooses not to believe it.

You finish editing the novel when it's well into the evening. Jack has probably left for work already after sleeping all day. Pope still hasn't come to check on you. Not that you're waiting for him to come back…

You finally close your laptop, leaning back in the chair, sighing. That was the last big project you had to do for work. The next few days should be a lot lighter, mainly fixing small mistakes that the proofreaders caught. You'll get a bit of a break until they've sent in the errors they find. 

You walk out of the guest house to…Pope and Jack having a pretty heated discussion. Neither of them notice that you're watching. They're standing in the kitchen. The sliding door is open just a tad, which is why you can hear everything they're saying.

And you are in utter shock.

“You work too much.” Pope tells Jack. “She's getting lonely.”

“What does this have to do with you?” Jack has been hearing the same shit from Pope all week. 

Pope just shrugs in response. “Maybe I don't like seeing her all mopey.” 

“She is not…” Jack bites back a curse word. This is exactly what he was afraid of and someone is finally confronting him about it. He does not like it one bit. “I can't control how she feels.”

“You can control how you act.” 

Jack is tired of Pope's bullshit. 

“Is that what you're doing? When you stand outside her bedroom at night?” His words finally crack the nonchalant facade Pope has been trying to maintain. He pushes further. “I know you unlock the sliding door at night. I know what you do, Pope.” 

“What do I do?” Pope snaps back, walking up to Jack to confront him face to face, his aura threatening. “Tell me.” 

Jack doesn't want to say it. But he has seen Pope outside of your room, just staring at your door. It's why Jack hasn't been coming to your room. He doesn't want to give Pope material to jerk off to. He doesn't want your private moments with him to be heard. Because he cannot keep Pope out. 

There's not a lock on Earth that would be able to keep Pope from you. 

Jack glances down at his watch. “I'm late for work.” 

And that's all he says before he leaves. 

Jack doesn't notice that you're standing there, in disbelief. But Pope notices. His eyes shift to you and your heart stops. Then, it starts to pound loudly in your chest when he makes his way over to you. 

“Did you hear everything?” Pope knows you did. You wouldn't have such a surprised expression if you hadn't. 

“I-I…” You can't find the words to say. You just swallow the lump in your throat.

“How does it make you feel?” He steps closer to you and you don't back away. You're frozen in place as he says, “knowing that I've heard you touch yourself so desperately these last few nights?” 

A wave of shame and embarrassment floods over you. There's a reason you picked that specific room in the house. It's the furthest room from Jack's. Meaning, you can touch yourself while calling out Jack's name and he would never know. You checked the soundproofing. He would have to be pressed up against the door to hear you and Jack would never do that. 

But Pope would. 

“What does he do to you that makes you scream his name when you make yourself cum?” Pope closes the space between the two of you and you choke on your own breath when he asks you, “how do I get you to do that for me?” 

“Please don't tell him.” You can't have Jack knowing this. It's not something you're proud of… 

“He doesn't know how lucky he is.” Pope reaches forward, cupping your cheek with his cold hand. You don't even flinch. Because his touch is like an alternative version of Jack's. A bit more jagged, but so similar. 

“Lucky?” You don't get what Pope is saying. 

So he explains, “it would be a privilege to have you scream my name like that while you're feeling good. How did Jack get so lucky to have a beautiful woman do that for him?” 

You place your hands on his chest, using your laptop as a makeshift barrier. You don't push him away but you don't pull him closer. You're building a wall between you and Pope. Because you're scared what will happen if one of you leans in. 

You don't think you'd be able to resist. 

So you keep your hands on his chest, giving you just the space of your elbows. If he gets any closer, you'd feel his body heat too much. It makes you dizzy…

“Are you scared of me?” Pope asks and his question confuses you. 

“No.” You shake your head. “That's not…” 

“You are afraid of me.” He tells you, his words piercing you in unspeakable ways. “You're afraid of me making you feel good.” 

Now that the truth is in the air, you're more overwhelmed than you were a few moments ago. It's like he caught you red-handed. He did catch you red-handed…

“Why were you outside my door?” You look him in the eyes when you ask, “did you want to come in?” 

“I could've.” You don't lock your door. Not like that would've deterred him if you wanted him to be there. He'd pick that lock in a heartbeat. 

“You didn't.” You don't know what you would've done if Pope opened your door while you had a toy buried inside of you, fucking yourself with it. 

“Would you have wanted me to?” He doesn't move closer. He wants you to do it. He wants to see you give in to your desire. 

You take your hands off of him then, taking a step back. 

Because you were about to say yes. 

You try to ground yourself, clenching onto your laptop tighter. 

You're getting swept up in Pope. 

That's why you need to say, “you're only interested in me because of Jack. Whatever you feel for me, it'll pass.” 

It always does. You have been in enough shitty relationships to know that no one has ever stayed interested in you. Especially not when you start to let yourself crave more of them. They always back away then. Calling you needy, unbearable, tiring. 

At least with Jack, you know where you stand. He's not stringing you along. You feel secure in your relationship with Jack. 

You don't feel secure in your relationship with Pope. You feel like you would drown in his affection. Something you are more than desperate for. But you can't take that risk. 

It'll only hurt you more later.

His response makes you ache all over, “I'm interested in why Jack is willing to risk losing you to someone else. I wouldn't take that risk. I would've made you mine ages ago.” 

You shake your head. “You wouldn't. Trust me, I…”

You wrap your arms around your middle, clutching your laptop like a shield, pain sweeping over you. It's a familiar feeling. Heartache. 

“I'm just a good fuck.” You tell him, choking back the sob that threatens to leave your lips. “I'm not anything more than that.” 

But you saying that does not dissuade him at all. 

Instead, Pope steps closer. He has decided that you won't be able to make the first move. You won't allow yourself to. 

“You never answered my question.” He grabs a hold of your chin, making you look him in the eyes as he repeats himself, “would you have wanted me to come into your bedroom while you were touching yourself and give you what you really want?” 

You can't hide from the intensity of his stare. You can't run away. Your body has gone completely rigid. 

Because you can't say no. 

Why can't you just say no? 

Tell him no! 

Pope licks his lips as his thumb brushes across your lower lip. Your whole body quivers in response. Just from a small touch…meaning you won't survive more than this. He'll corrupt you completely.

“If you say no, I won't bother you ever again.” He gently caresses your cheek before trailing his hand down to rest at the nape of your neck. His thumb glides along the column of your throat, making it hard for you to breathe. Though maybe it's his words that make you breathless. “If that's what you really want. I promise, you will never have to interact with me again.” 

That same heartache from before stabs into you like a dull blade. You've never experienced this before. Someone willing to give up their affection because you said so. Usually, you're the one doing that. The one who has to let go even when you don't want to because they don't feel anything for you anymore. 

Pope feels something for you. Enough for him to suppress it at your command. 

So, tell him. Tell him that you don't want him. Tell him so that he can leave you like everyone else has. 

Tell him the truth. 

“I don't want that.” You can't take back the words once they leave your lips. “I don't want you to leave me alone.” 

All of a sudden, you understand exactly what Jack felt the other day…

“What do you want?” Pope leans in closer, now that he knows you're willing. “I'll do whatever you want.” 

“I don't know.” That's the truth. You really don't know. 

“Do you want to know what I want?” He pulls you closer to him by your neck. It's gentle and forceful at the same time. 

You can't speak. You can only nod. 

“I want…” Pope leans in, his lips resting on the shell of your ear as he whispers, “you, underneath me, screaming my name instead of his. Would you like that?” 

Again, you can't speak. 

And again, you can only nod…

“Good girl.” He gives you a kiss on the forehead. “I'm glad you can be honest.” 

You feel a mixture of fear and excitement. Fear that you'll enjoy this too much. Excited for it to happen regardless. 

Pope smiles at you, at the bashful face you're making. He basks in the desire in your eyes. “Where do you want me?” 

You can't answer because you're unsure if you could take him to your bedroom. It would be impossible not to think about him if the two of you slept together on your bed. You'd relive the memory every time you lay down. That's what happened with Jack. 

“I don't know.” You're so nervous right now. 

“Let's go to the guest house then.” Pope decides for the two of you. That way, he can reminisce about you every time he lays down in bed. It might actually make him want to sleep in bed. 

He puts his hand out for you to hold. You take it and follow behind him as he walks you back to the guest house. You set your laptop back down on the desk.

Then, when your hands are finally free, Pope comes up to you, his eyes taking you in completely. You're so beautiful to him. He knows you'll be even more stunning without any clothes on. 

But you press your hands against his chest when he tries to come closer. He looks at you, puzzled. You swallow your nerves to tell him, “can I use your shower?” 

You've been sitting at a desk all day, mulling over words on a screen. You're sweaty and you don't want him to touch you for the first time when you're not clean. 

“Can we use it together?” Pope wouldn't mind a nice shower. 

“Okay.” You and Jack have never done that before. Only baths, since he can't stand in the shower. He probably could with his prosthetic but he prefers not to get it wet if he doesn't need to. 

“Can I take off your clothes?” Pope wants to be the one that undresses you.

You nod, letting him come close again. His hands hold onto the hem of your shirt and you lift your arms so he can pull it off of you. He does the same, pulling off his shirt, so you don't feel alone. 

It's actually crazy how similar him and Jack look. Even their bodies are only slightly different. The main difference being how much more intimidating Pope carries himself. 

Pope rests his hands on your hips before he pulls your pants off of you. You step out of them, leaving yourself in just your bra and underwear. He takes off his pants, leaving him in only his boxer briefs. You try not to notice that he's hard. 

“Turn around.” Pope instructs and you listen. He unhook your bra and then gently pulls down the straps one at a time, making you shiver all over from the soft touches. 

He steps closer to you, close enough that you can feel his hard cock against your back. His hands slide down from your stomach to the waistband of your underwear. 

Then, he whispers in your ear, “you don't have to wear these anymore. It would be easier to fuck you whenever I want if you went without.” 

He pulls them off of you at that moment, letting you stand there, stunned by his words. You know he has pulled his off because the heat of his bare cock is back on your back. He feels big. Jack's is pretty big. 

Could they really be that similar? 

“We should head into the shower.” He says to you, pressing a kiss against your bare shoulder. “Before I can't control myself any longer.” 

Pope takes your hand and guides you into the shower. He turns it on, shielding you from the cold water that sprays out first. You take that instance to look down at his cock. 

He catches you. “Are you comparing us in your mind?” 

You definitely are. They're about the same size but different in one very distinct way. Pope is uncut. You can't remember the last time you fucked someone with foreskin. You're a bit surprised by that. 

“You might as well touch it if you're going to keep staring that hard." Pope takes your hand and wraps it around his cock. “Go ahead, touch me.” 

You stroke up the length of his cock until you reach the tip. You like how hot it feels in your hand. You also like the look on Pope's face when you start to move your hand. He grabs your wrist, stopping you. 

“If you keep doing that, I'll fuck you right here.” He isn't going to cum until he's buried inside of you. 

You pull your hands away from him. He hands you a bar of soap. You wash your body while he does the same. You don't get your hair wet, thanks to him shielding you from the shower until you're ready to rinse your body. 

“Thank you.” You appreciate his consideration. 

“Can you say my name when you thank me?” He wants to hear his name from your lips more often. 

“Thank you, Andrew.” You tell him as he helps you dry off with a towel. 

Then, he takes your hand again and walks you over towards the bed. It doesn't look like it has been touched at all. 

Where has he been sleeping? The floor? 

You can't think straight anymore when he pushes your back up against the wall and closes the space between the two of you. There's so much warmth radiating off of him after the shower. It's making every breath you take heavy.

You try to ignore the way his cock rests against your lower stomach, throbbing. You can't ignore the way Pope cups your face with his hands before he kisses you for the first time. You're taken back by how gentle his kisses are. Perhaps you judged him prematurely. You expected him to be more aggressive. 

You haven't been touched like this in a long time. Like you're precious to him. Like he's afraid that one wrong move will turn you off. 

“Your lips are so soft.” He says, nipping at your bottom lip lightly with his teeth. “I could kiss you all day.” 

“Would you?” You look at his lips, reaching up to touch them. 

“Are you saying you'd let me?” He leans in again, kissing you once more. The butterflies are dancing around in your stomach. 

“I wouldn't stop you.” You wouldn't stop Jack either. But he never has. Will Pope? 

“I understand now.” He starts to kiss down the side of your neck, feeling the way his words make you shiver, “you like being used whenever, wherever.” 

His hands slide down to your waist, holding you against the wall as his lips make their way down to your collarbone. He kisses along the length of it and the gentleness of it is driving you wild. 

Especially when his words don't match his actions. “Have you always been a ready and available hole for Jack?” 

“Yes.” You don't hide it. You like when he would just fuck you wherever you were in the house. 

“Will you be that for me?” His lips trail lower, hovering over your breasts. He just stares at them, refusing to touch them. He's purposefully avoiding the areas that make you feel good. 

Pope likes the build up. You're squirming from it, and his question. 

You only nod in response, giving into your desire. If he wants to use your body, you're ready and willing. You hope he actually does it. But he keeps his hands away from anywhere sensitive. It's killing you…

“Please touch me, Andrew.” You can't stand waiting any longer. 

“I am touching you.” He smiles, resting his hands on your shoulders. “See?” 

“That's not…” You gasp when his hands slide to meet in the middle, closing around your neck. 

“Do you not like these touches?” His thumbs press down on the center of your throat. Any air you breathe in is trapped right there. Your body is trembling. 

Pope gently spreads your legs apart with his thigh, pushing it right up against your pussy. You're embarrassed by how wet you are from this. Surely he can feel it on his thigh now.

“Let me see you cum like this.” He tells you, gesturing to his thigh between your legs. “Grind those hips like the whore you are.” 

He heard. He must've heard you and Jack. He knows how much you like being degraded and humiliated…

You nearly cum just from that. You don't hide anything anymore. You show him how needy you are, grinding against his thigh, desperate to cum. The friction against your clit is incredible. The way Pope is staring at you is electric.

You lift your hands up to wrap around his wrists and for a moment, he expects you to tug his hands off your neck. But instead, you pull him closer, wanting him to choke you. He's never wanted someone so badly before, his cock throbbing like crazy. 

Pope applies more pressure, forcing your eyes to roll back in your head. You can't breathe. You're still grinding against his thigh, getting closer and closer to your release. 

Then, he whispers in your ear, “cum right now or I'll snap your neck.” 

His hands squeeze your throat harder, his threat apparent. You cum all over his thigh in an instant, choking on your own moans. You ride his thigh through your orgasm, wanting it to last longer. 

All the while, Pope has the loveliest smile on his face. When you've come down from your high, he lets your neck go and returns to holding your face tenderly, kissing you with so much sweetness. The contrast sends such shock waves through you. You can't tell which side of him you like more…

“You did very well.” He praises you, your heart skipping a beat in response. “Now lay down for your reward.” 

Pope likes how obedient you are. You lay down right away on the bed, hands clasped over your stomach, patiently waiting. He can see now why Jack keeps you here. 

Why would anyone let you go? 

“Are you comfortable?” He climbs on top of you. “Do you need another pillow?”

You shake your head. There's tension coiling in your stomach because you have no idea what's going to happen next. You don't know what a reward looks like from Pope. 

It starts with him finally cupping your breasts with both of his hands, grasping them firmly. You bite back a whimper when he rolls his thumbs over your nipples. A few more swipes and they're nice and hard for him, so he leans in and takes one in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it. 

Then, he trails lower, kissing a line down your stomach until he's between your legs. His eyes are locked on yours when his tongue drags up along your folds until he reaches your clit. He flicks it with the tip of his tongue and you can't hold in your voice anymore. 

“Andrew.” His name comes out all raspy from your lips as your orgasm builds from him playing with your clit in his mouth. 

The expression on his face is pure delight. He loves how you say his name when you're about to cum. He needs to hear it more. So he takes his time, learning what makes you rasp out his name, not letting you cum. 

You wouldn't consider this a reward. This is more like torture. He keeps edging you, bringing you so close to cumming only to pull away at the last second. 

“Please, Andrew.” You can't take it anymore. “I want to cum.” 

He knows that. He can tell from how much slick has built up. He can probably slide right into you right now. But he won't.

“What's the rush?” He says, placing a kiss on your inner thigh. “We have all night.” 

This is different from the sex you've had with Jack. Usually, it's hot and intense. There's no stalling anything. If he wants to fuck you, he does. 

With Pope, he just spent years in prison. He's not looking to do anything quickly. He has to savor everything now that he's free. 

“Just let me cum once.” You barter because you can't handle getting so close and then not going over the edge. 

“You already came once. Don't tell me you forgot.” He smirks. 

You're so frustrated right now. The denial is making you insatiable. You want to cum. You want to cum a lot. But he won't let you. 

“I thought I was supposed to get a reward.” You whine because you have no other options. 

“You're right.” He says, his gaze shifting down to your core. “I did say you'd get a reward.” 

You scream the moment two of his fingers thrust inside of you without warning. You're not ready at all for the sudden burst of stimulation, his fingers curling inside of you until your body is shaking.

“Wait, wait, wait—” You try to move away, to try to stop yourself from bursting at the seams.

But then he locks his lips around your clit and starts to suck, pressing his fingers upwards inside of you right below it, and you cum hard. So hard that you squirt and it won't stop. His fingers are relentless. He slips another one in, stretching you out, watching as your back arches in response. Your body wants him deeper. 

But your mind is completely blank. The pleasure fogging all your senses. You haven't stopped cumming. 

“Andrew!” You plead for him to give you a break. “Please, I can't keep—”

Pope watches your body convulse from the consecutive orgasms. He just stares at you, at how utterly helpless you are. Your pussy is squeezing his fingers so tightly, he can't possibly let go. 

Unless… “It's either my fingers or my cock. Which would you prefer?” 

You answer almost too fast, “your cock, please.” 

“Are you on birth control?” Either way, he's going in raw. 

You nod, craving him inside of you. He pulls his fingers free then presses down on your lower stomach. He licks his lips when you cum again from the pressure, drenching the sheets beneath you. He can't help himself. He leans in, having a taste. 

You grab a hold of his head and hold him there, angling yourself so he can give you another orgasm before he fucks you. Because you wanted a reward for enduring that. 

You rest your hands on his shoulders when he climbs back up over you, lining his cock up at your entrance. You spread your legs wider, so it's easier for him. 

“Jack is the stupidest man alive.” Pope says to you bluntly. “Because why would he ever let someone else fuck you when you're this perfect?” 

You dig your nails into his skin when his cock pushes inside of you. You're so wet that he hilts with ease, your hips meeting his. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer to you. 

Pope closes his eyes. He wants to etch this feeling to memory. The very first time your pussy squeezes around his cock. 

“Andrew?” You reach up to caress his face, running your fingers along his jaw. “Are you okay?” 

He opens his eyes, staring down at you. You've never seen this look before. Not even on Jack's face. It's darker, more intense. 

Because the only thought in his mind right now is that he wants to own you. You're his to use as he pleases. 

His. 

“How do you like it?” He asks, rolling his hips. “Nice and slow or do you want me to fuck your brains out?” 

You bite your lip, not wanting to rush your answer. How do you like it? 

“Use me.” You tell him. “For your pleasure.” 

And just like that, you show him again how perfect you are. 

You hold in a whine when he pulls out of you. Pope snaps at you, “where's your vibrator?” 

You feel a surge of heat run through you. “It's in my room.” 

“Go get it for me.” He likes how you stare back up at him, all desperate and confused. Because you were expecting him to fuck you. “The faster you get it, the quicker I'll be back inside of you.” 

“Can I borrow a shirt?” You look over the closet in the room. “Please?” 

You've never been fully naked other than in your bedroom and now here. Usually if Jack fucks you out in the open, you're still semi-dressed. 

“Only because you said please.” He gestures for you to grab whatever you need. 

You quickly throw on a shirt and then head back to your room. You're tensing up from the thrill of walking through Jack's house, dripping between your legs from how hard Pope made you cum. Your heart is beating so loud in your ears by the time you're back at the guest house with your vibrator.

Pope puts his hand out and you set it in his grasp. He examines it, imagining what it must've looked like when you were fucking yourself with it when you thought no one could hear you. It's a pretty simple design. Slightly curved, thicker head, smooth. 

“Lay back down.” Pope pats the bed next to him.

You do as he says and he climbs back on top of you. You don't hold back the sigh of relief when he buries his cock back inside of you. You can't hold in your voice when he turns on the vibrator and presses it against your clit. Your whole body shivers in response at the sudden stimulation. 

Pope isn't moving at all. He's just waiting to see how you'll react, holding the vibrator steady with one hand and pinning you down to the bed by your lower stomach with the other. 

You're gripping the sheets beneath you, trying to hold yourself still. But your body is shaking like crazy. Tears are building in the corner of your eyes. The intensity of the vibration on your clit, the pressure of his hand pressing down over his cock inside of you, the way he's stretching you out, buried deep, everything altogether is too much. 

The moment you cum, it's impossible to stop. Pope stares at you with that intense gaze of his as you cum over and over again, your body writhing beneath him like you've been possessed. And he hasn't even fucked you yet. 

“I need a—” You need a break, your clit is so overstimulated. “I need—”

Pope turns the vibration up and you explode. You're cumming so hard that your vision goes blurry. 

That's when he starts pounding into you. You're screaming his name, shoving at him, trying to get him off of you. Because if he keeps fucking you like this, you're going to go crazy. You won't be able to resist wanting this again. 

“Andrew, you have to stop, I'm going to—” You pinch your eyes shut, tears dripping down your face as the next orgasm is drilled into you with how hard he's thrusting. 

“I'll stop if you tell me “we can't do this, Andrew. He's your brother. I can't betray your brother.”” Pope's twisted desires flood out when he feels how tight your pussy gets when he tells you that. “Say it.”

“Oh god.” You're clawing at his chest, squirting on his cock when you scream, “please, Andrew! We can't do this. He's your brother. I can't—”

Pope slams into you harder, your toes curling in response to him driving so deep into you, “you can't what? You can't believe you're cumming this hard on my cock instead of his?” 

“Yes.” You drag your nails down his chest the moment he turns the vibration to the highest setting. You're an absolute mess after that. You try to get him to stop but he keeps ramming his cock into you over and over again, kneading your stomach, forcing you to be all too aware of how deep he is inside of you.

Pope wants to make sure you never forget how he can make you feel. That you memorize the shape of his cock pounding into you. That you remember every time you use your vibrator how he used it on you.

He wants to make sure the name that crosses your mind you cum is his, not Jack's. 

“Beg for it.” He's getting close but wants to hear you want him. “Like you're my whore, not his.” 

“Please cum inside of me, Andrew.” You're going to unravel completely when he does. You know it. “I need you to. I can't cum unless you do. I don't deserve to cum unless you do.” 

Your pussy squeezes him to death. You're holding it in. You won't cum unless he does. 

You really are perfect. 

Pope hasn't cum that hard in ages. He's surprised at how much spills out of him. You are too, because the more he releases inside of you, the harder you cum. It doesn't help that he's still abusing your clit with the vibrator. You're never going to cum from normal sex again. He's ruined you…

He pulls out of you, but then slides the vibrator down. You gasp when he thrusts it inside of you. You're not prepared to feel the intense vibration in your thoroughly fucked pussy. You can't breathe when you feel the vibration push up against your womb where he just came. It makes you all too aware of how warm it is, trapped inside of you by your toy. 

“Andrew, take it out.” You push at his arm as your orgasm builds too quickly and you're scared of what might happen if you let yourself cum from this. “Please, take it out!”

“No.” He shakes his head at you and starts fucking you with the vibrator instead. “You told me to use you for my pleasure. That's what I'm doing.” 

Because Pope will feel incredible the moment you completely give in. The moment you shed that shame and embarrassment and just show him the most depraved side of yourself. 

He's showing you his right now. The sadistic need of his to torture you. 

And you're showing him how much you love being just a plaything. How it satisfies something unspeakable inside of you. 

“Hold this for me.” Pope moves your hand to the vibrator. “I need to get my phone.” 

Jack had given him a phone and he hasn't used it yet. He needs to right now. Because he wants to be able to watch back this moment whenever he wants. 

You keep the vibrator inside of you. You should pull it out. You should…but Pope told you to hold it. And you're a good listener. 

He hits the record button, taking a video of you writhing against his bed with the vibrator held inside your pussy. He takes it from you then, keeping his camera hand steady as he drives the vibrator into you over and over again until you're squirting all over the bed with every thrust. You're screaming his name now and he has it all on video. 

You can't think straight anymore. Your body has a mind of its own, obsessed with the pleasure of it all that you don't have a care in the world anymore.

You're just his to use. That's all. 

Pope pulls the vibrator out of you, turning it off and tossing it aside, then sinks his now hard cock back inside of you. He smiles when he sees how you've stopped resisting. “Look at you, grinding your hips on me like a whore.” 

You can't help yourself. You don't want to stop cumming, especially now that his cock is back inside of you. 

You grab his hand, wrapping it around your neck. “Punish me for being such a whore.” 

Pope grips harder, moving his phone closer so he can record how tight his grip is around your throat. Then, he shows the camera the face you're making in response. Pure bliss. 

You have your hands around his wrist, holding him to you, not wanting him to pull away as he pounds into you exactly the way you like it. Without any air coming in or out, your moans are getting caught in your throat. The thrill of being completely at his control makes every orgasm he drags out of you a million times more intense. 

And it only picks up when he demands, “tell me that you don't want to betray Jack.” 

He loosens his grip on your throat and slows his thrusts, giving you ample space to breathe out, “please, Andrew. We shouldn't be doing this. I-I don't want to betray Jack.” 

You feel Pope's cock twitching like crazy inside of you. He's more aroused than he has ever been. He feels like he could burst at any moment. 

He nearly does when you say, “please get off of me. You're scaring me, Andrew.”

Pope growls back, choking you again all of a sudden, “good. Be scared of how hard you're going to cum on my cock. Don't forget to scream my name when you do.” 

The moment he's fucking you again, you're clutching the sheets, your back arched, your orgasm causing your body to spasm uncontrollably. His name leaves your lips in strangled gasps. He can feel every attempt you make to scream it on his palm clasped around your throat. It drives him wild. 

“Give me your hand.” He demands for you to let go of the sheets and hands you back the vibrator. “You know what to do, my little whore.” 

You turn it on and press it against your clit as he pounds into you until you feel his hot release spill deep inside. Then, when he pulls out of you, you slide the vibrator down, slipping it inside of you, trapping his cum right where he wants it. 

You're not ready for him to hover over you, throwing his phone away so he can press both of his hands over your throat, strangling you. His lower body holds the vibrator steady inside of you as he squeezes. 

You start clawing at his arms, digging your nails in hard, scraping down his flesh. He revels in the pain, in knowing you're the one doing it to him. 

“I want you to cum so hard that you'll never forget this night for the rest of your life.” Pope demands to be one of the memories you touch yourself to. 

You do exactly as he wishes. Your eyes roll back, your toes curl, your stomach twists and you cum so hard the vibrator pops out of you from the sheer force of it, landing in the space between you and Pope. He frees you from his grip and you swallow in air, shivering all over. Then, you're clinging onto him, the shockwaves still surging through you from how intense that was. He turns off the vibrator and sets it aside, so he can memorize the sound of your heavy breaths. 

Pope cradles you, laying you down against his chest, and you crumble in his hold, feeling incredibly vulnerable. He gently rubs your back, soothing you slowly. He waits until your breathing has returned to normal and your heart isn't beating out of your chest to lift your chin up to look at him. 

He brushes his thumb across your lower lip, admiring how beautiful you look all dazed like this. Then he leans in, kissing you. You melt into his kiss completely. 

“Good job.” He praises you, giving your forehead a light peck. “You did really well for me. That was incredible.” 

It gives you a different kind of pleasure to hear that. You never thought knowing you did a good job in bed would make the butterflies in your stomach dance so happily. 

“Was that okay?” He moves your head side to side, checking your neck. “I hope I didn't hurt you.” 

“I'm good.” You feel bad for being surprised that Pope is caring. You shouldn't judge a book by its cover. “Thank you for checking up on me, Andrew.”

“I know I have…strange tastes.” He wasn't expecting you to fulfill his fantasies so readily. 

Pope will never let you go now. Jack will have to kill him to keep him from you. 

“Then I guess I have strange tastes too.” You say back shyly, admitting out loud that you thoroughly enjoyed all of that. 

“I can delete the video, if you want me to.” He would prefer not to. He'll keep it in an encrypted folder on his phone, so no one has access to it but him. 

“You don't have to. Just don't show anyone…” You shouldn't say this next part but…you do anyways, “except Jack.”

Pope doesn't hide his devilish smirk. “You want him to see it?” 

“Is that…bad?” You don't know where the boldness comes from.

Maybe it's because you want Jack to feel a bit threatened. You promised to never leave him alone, but you never promised you'd make staying easy for him. 

“You're asking me to test my brother.” Pope draws a line down your side, the casual touching so intimate as he tells you, “you realize I want you for myself, right?” 

“I guess you'll have to fight him for me.” You present a challenge because you suddenly have a surge of confidence. 

You know exactly where you stand with both of them. 

And you want them to push it to the limit. 

Jack has never been this angry before. Not even after the incident that made him lose half his leg. He is genuinely more pissed right now than he has ever been.

Because he comes home from a long shift and when his eyes glance out to the guest house, he sees your silhouette behind that sheer curtain getting railed by Pope. 

You're pressed up against the window with only the fabric of the curtain covering you up, as Pope fucks you from behind. You and Pope went straight to sleep once you were all washed up again after the night you two had and then the moment you woke up, he was between your legs. You haven't had a second to breathe since your eyes opened. And now your body is pushed up against cold glass and you can see Jack through the curtain staring right at you. 

“Let him watch.” Pope says all low in your ear. “He'll fuck you better later if he sees us.” 

He doesn't pretend not to notice how tight you get when he says that. You cum way too easily at the thrill of what Jack might do to you once you see him after this. 

Jack storms off to his bedroom, the rage boiling inside of him. He got a text from Pope he has yet to open. Because it had an encrypted link to a video. And from what Pope texted him, it wasn't a video he could view at work. 

Pope: I promise I didn't rape her. She told me to send this to you. Enjoy, brother. 

Against his best judgment, Jack opens the video. He told himself he should just delete it without watching it. But when he sees the preview picture on his screen, he clicks the video too quickly. 

Then, he tosses his phone aside and storms out to the guest house. The door isn't locked so he swings it open. Pope has you pressed down against the bed, still fucking you from behind. Neither of you are facing the door, but both of you definitely heard Jack come in. 

“Get off of her right now, Pope.” Jack practically prowls up to you two, glaring. “Move.” 

Pope doesn't listen because you're squeezing his cock so hard now that you know Jack's watching. So, he does the exact opposite. He pounds into you faster, until you're screaming his name and the freshly washed sheets are now stained once again. Then, Pope pulls out of you and cums all over your back, marking you. You shiver all over when you feel the warmth hit your back. 

“She's all yours.” Pope steps aside, sitting down on the bed. “I even left her pussy clear for you. Aren't I a good brother?” 

“I should fucking kill you.” Jack can't contain the anger. 

“You've got a gun. Go ahead.” Pope invites him to. “But I think our roommate would miss me if you shot me. Isn't that right?”

Pope reaches over, smacking your ass. You bite back a moan in response, which is enough of an answer. 

Jack flips you over onto your back so you can see the death glare on his face as he spits out, “is this what you want?” 

“No.” You sit up and then reach forward, immediately unbuckling his belt. “This is what I want.”

You're through pretending you aren't obsessed with him. You want him to know exactly how much you want him. 

Jack is so stunned that he doesn't stop you from pulling his hard cock out of his pants. You lean forward, taking him into your mouth with ease, despite how big he is. You swallow him whole, your lips humming at the base of his cock. You've missed his taste. 

You feel him throb in your mouth when Pope asks Jack, “so were you hard from watching me fuck her or did you open that video I sent you?” 

“Shut the fuck up and get me that vibrator.” Jack snaps at Pope and then grabs the back of your head, forcing more of himself down your throat. Your eyes are watering now as he fucks your face. “Get on your fucking knees and take it.” 

You kneel on the bed without hesitation and Pope knows exactly what Jack wants from him. He grabs the vibrator, turning it on before thrusting it into your pussy. You moan around Jack's cock, allowing him to stuff even more of himself down your throat. You gag but your tongue keeps swirling around him and your mouth keeps sucking. 

“Your mouth is like a pussy.” He degrades you exactly how you like it, sending such a thrill through you. “What a fucking whore. Spreading your legs for my brother of all people.” 

That's enough for you to cum hard enough to squirt and launch the vibrator out of your pussy. His cock muffles your scream from the sudden loss and the wet feeling dripping down your thighs. Pope chuckles at your humiliation. 

“You've got to keep it in you.” He pushes the vibrator back inside, making your toes curl when he increases the vibration and starts thrusting it at the same rhythm as Jack is fucking your mouth. 

Jack can't last much longer. He hasn't fucked you in a week. He needs to cum. 

But not without establishing your punishment first. “I'm going to cum in your mouth and you are going to keep it there. No swallowing. No spitting. Got it?” 

You nod, and the moment he coats the back of your throat with his release, you squirt all over Pope's hand while he fucks you with the vibrator through your orgasm. You don't swallow as Jack pulls himself out of your mouth and tucks his cock back into his pants. He grabs you by the chin, lifting you up to look at him. 

“Show me.” Jack demands. 

You open your mouth, letting him see that it's filled with his cum. He spits in your mouth then closes it for you. Your body convulses in response and you nearly cum from that action alone. 

“Turn it off.” Jack tells Pope, who listens, turning off the vibrator. “But keep it there.” 

Pope is enjoying this a lot. He likes seeing the look on Jack's face. Because that's the look on his face when he's in that exact mood. 

Jack turns his attention back to you. “Listen to me carefully. We're going to watch you cum hard enough to push that vibrator out. Only then do you get to swallow. Got it?” 

You nod, the taste of Jack in your mouth numbing your mind. You lay back, letting both men watch you as you turn back on the vibrator and start fucking yourself with it. You're grinding your hips to the rhythm, already getting close from how heated their gazes are. 

Because their eyes are on you, you give them a show, grabbing a hold of your breast and pinching your nipple between your fingers. You moan with a full mouth, wishing it wasn't full of cum but with a cock instead. 

“God, she's perfect.” Pope says, staring at you, his cock already getting hard again. “You really let me fuck her?” 

“You're lucky I'm letting you.” Jack knows it's either this or you having to pick between one of them. And Jack won't take the risk that you'll pick Pope, so sharing you is the best case scenario. 

“Don't let anyone else, okay?” 

“Fuck no.” Jack will not give you to anyone else. “She's ours and that's it.” 

When you hear that, your whole body tenses then explodes.

The vibrator launches out of you as you soak the bed again with how hard you squirt and you swallow right after so you can tell them, “please fuck me. I want to be all yours, both of yours.” 

“Then get that pretty mouth over here.” Pope sits up against the headboard, his cock ready for your mouth to sink down on. “I've already enjoyed her pussy today. You should have a taste, Jack.” 

Jack watches you crawl over to Pope on the bed. You lean down, dragging your tongue up along the base of his shaft. He grabs a hold of you by your hair as you close your lips around the tip of his cock, groaning when you start to suck. 

The temperature in the room rises to the point where Jack needs to strip off his clothes before climbing onto the bed. He grips your hips and then buries his face into your pussy, dipping his tongue right in. You moan on Pope's cock and he pushes more of himself down your throat in response. 

“Pay attention to the cock you're sucking or I'll start fucking your face.” Pope's meaner tone heats your skin up and you focus more on making him feel good. “Good girl.” 

Jack doesn't make it easy for you, though. He's tormenting your clit with the way he slides into you then pulls out to drag the tip of his tongue along your clit before slipping back in. It's so inconsistent that your legs are shaking from the denial. 

“You aren't allowed to cum.” Jack smacks your ass when he says that and you gag on Pope's cock, making him laugh darkly at you. “Not until he shoots his load down your throat. Hold it until then.” 

That proves to be a challenge because Jack thrusts three fingers into you and starts moving them in that side to side motion that has you tearing up. You want to cum so bad but Pope is nowhere close to his release. 

Not until you move your mouth off his cock and look him in the eyes as you say, “don't let me cum from Jack's fingers. Make me cum from your cock fucking my mouth, Andrew.” 

It's like a switch flipped in Pope. He slams you back down onto his cock, burying himself deep down your throat before he starts rolling his hips, fucking you just like you asked. You're gagging and crying but you're in heaven from how full you feel on both ends and how close you are to what you know will be one of the best orgasms of your life. 

“Keep my cum in your mouth like you did for Jack.” Pope instructs and you nod. “Fuck, your mouth is like a pussy. What a perfect whore you are.” 

You clench around Jack's fingers when you taste Pope spilling his cum down your throat. Jack pulls his fingers out of you with a pop and before you can have a moment to react, his cock rams inside of you. Your orgasm hits right then and there and you nearly drool out Pope's cum from your mouth but he grips your chin tight, stopping you from losing any. 

“It must feel good to cum while tasting our cum. Open up.” Pope taps your cheek and you open your mouth, letting him spit into your mouth like Jack had earlier. “Now we're even. Swallow for me.” 

You swallow at the same time Jack spits on your ass. You aren't prepared for that at all, the feeling completely foreign to you. He rubs along the tight ring with his thumb, the motion causing your body to tingle all over. 

“Relax.” He tells you. He keeps the strokes of his cock steady as he teases your sensitive ass. “It'll feel good. You said you wanted us both. We have to train you to take us both.” 

“Come here.” Pope gestures for you to grab a hold of his shoulders. You do just that and he pulls your face towards him. “Focus on me.” 

He leans in and kisses you in that soft way of his. It coaxes you into calming down, your mind focused on his lips on yours. Jack slips his other hand down to rub your clit as his thumb presses into your ass slowly. All the sensations you're experiencing are warring inside of you. But Pope's reassuring hold on your face and Jack's slow, methodical circles over your clit coupled with his gentle rhythm of his cock pounding into you make it easier to accept his thumb slipping completely inside your ass. You moan against Pope's lips when you feel him start to move his thumb, getting you used to the feeling of being touched there. 

“It's just another place for us to make you feel good.” He breathes out against your lips. “We'll take it slow.” 

You nod, laying your head against his shoulder, letting yourself feel everything without distraction. You muffle a scream into Pope's skin when you cum around Jack's cock and he pulls out of your pussy, cumming all over your ass right as he pulls his thumb out. He rubs his cum with his fingers along the tight ring before slipping his forefinger in. Now, it's the only sensation you're feeling. 

“Isn't it dirty?” You've never had to prep your ass before. 

“We aren't fucking your ass today.” Jack quells your worry there. “We already came twice. If I'm going to fuck your ass, you're getting my first, full load of the day buried deep inside of you.” 

“Is he always like this?” Pope asks you, chuckling under his breath. 

You shake your head. “I think you're a bad influence.”

“Or a very good one.” He pecks your lips sweetly before saying, “now, be a good girl, and learn to enjoy the feeling.” 

Jack manages to slip another finger past your tight ring and he's careful in how he moves, not wanting to overstimulate you and make this more painful than it has to be. You take deep breaths, allowing it to happen, wanting to feel good from this. Imagining it's his cock not his fingers. Though, his cock would split your ass open, so you do appreciate that they're going to slowly prepare you for this instead of rushing in. 

When three fingers fit without too much difficulty, Jack knows it's time for the next part. He grabs your vibrator and you brace yourself, tightening around his fingers when he slips the vibrator back inside your pussy, gathering up as much of your slick as he can before he pulls it and his fingers out. 

“Trade with me.” Jack tells Pope. “I need to wash my hands. I don't want to risk any infections.”

“Ah, the doctor is in.” Pope smirks and gives you another kiss before he slips away and subs in for Jack, taking the vibrator from him. “I'm glad I get to have a bit of the fun.” 

Jack leaves to clean up as Pope turns on the vibrator for a second, teasing around the sensitive flesh before shutting it off again. You put your arms under your pillow, gripping it up towards your mouth to smother your moans. 

“Inhale.” Pope says and you listen, letting him slip the tip of the toy past that tight ring. “Exhale. Good job.” 

You feel flushed at how much you like hearing him praise you. Though, that might be also because he's pushing more of the vibrator inside of you. You've never felt this full in that area before. 

When he hilts the vibrator, Pope applauds you, “well done. I'll let you get used to it. You can lay down if that's more comfortable.” 

You lay on your side, tired of holding your body up. You take in deep breaths, trying to adjust to the feeling. Pope lays down next to you, caressing your sides, looking at you with so much care. 

“There's no rush.” He doesn't want you to think this has to happen right away. “It should feel good. Tell me if it doesn't.” 

“It's…different.” That's the best way you can put it. “But not bad.” 

“We can work with that.” Pope says, looking up as Jack returns from the bathroom. He plops down behind you, the mattress weight shifting. “Thankfully this is a king sized bed.” 

“Still a bit cramped.” Jack scoops you into his arms, spooning you from behind. It makes you reminisce about the other day, when he held you like this. 

“Are we planning to sleep together like a big, happy family?” Pope has you lay on his chest. 

“I'd like that.” You say quietly, not sure if you should've admitted it. You did like sleeping with Pope last night. Jack usually doesn't sleep with you after the two of you have sex, to keep that distance, so you're unsure how he'll react to your words.

He surprises you. “Then we'll sleep together. I don't mind but you'll have to adjust to my sleeping schedule.” 

You turn back to look at him. “Really?” 

He nods, leaning in to kiss you before saying against your lips, “I'm tired of pretending that I don't want to spend every moment of every day with you.” 

“Thankfully, I never had to pretend.” Pope turns your head back so he can kiss you. “I knew you were perfect for me the moment I saw you.” 

“It's okay if you both change your minds later.” You don't want them to feel trapped in this arrangement. “I'll enjoy this for as long as it lasts.” 

Pope and Jack share a look. And for the first time, it's like they have that twin telepathy. They both have the exact same thought. 

That they're never letting you go. 

Because this will last forever. 

As long as you want them both. 

“We should be saying that to you.” Jack tells you, holding you a bit tighter as he does. “If you ever want this to end…” 

Pope can see the panic in your face as you reply, “I don't. I mean…I would understand if you two wanted to end things but…I don't think I would ever. But maybe that's selfish of me…” 

“What's wrong with being a little selfish?” Pope looks at you with that intense stare of his. “I wouldn't be here if I was trying to be considerate. So be selfish and want what you want. Don't hold back.” 

You place your hand on Jack's and then you put your hand out for Pope to give his for you to hold. You squeeze them both and your heart melts when they squeeze back, the feeling so comforting. 

“If I get to be selfish…” You take Jack's hand, sliding it back to the handle of the vibrator. Then, you take Pope's hand, sliding it between your legs. “I want you both to make me cum.” 

“Greedy little whore.” Jack whispers in your ear, making you shiver all over. Those shivers intensify when he turns on the vibrator. You're squirming at the feeling of it. 

Pope takes that as the perfect opportunity to thrust three of his fingers inside of you, curling them right up against where the vibrations are pounding into you. You gasp, clinging onto him, your hips absentmindedly shaking already. He steals your breath away again by kissing you.

Then, you feel Jack grab your chin, pulling you away from Pope's lips so he can kiss you. He breathes out on your lips, his breath so warm and lovely, “you're so unfair. You better cling onto me next time.” 

“I will.” You reach up, trailing your fingers along his jaw before leaning up to kiss him. “I'll treat you both equally, I promise.” 

“I don't mind if you ignore Jack.” Pope pulls you back towards him, kissing you with a smirk on his face. 

Jack is definitely glaring at Pope so he gets his payback by grabbing the handle of the vibrator. He starts slow thrusts and you moan against Pope's lips, the feeling becoming more pleasurable than you thought it could be. It helps that his fingers are buried in your pussy, making you very aware of where you're feeling each sensation. 

“Oh god, I'm going to cum so hard.” You're practically shaking already, the tension coiling exponentially inside of you. “You guys are going to make me cum so—”

Pope wraps his other hand around your throat, cutting you off from saying anything else as your eyes roll back and you release all the tension in your body all at once. Pope pulls his fingers out of you, wanting you to cum just from your ass. Jack immediately pounds into you faster with the vibrator, increasing the vibration, and now you're screaming their names as you squirt uncontrollably. Pope holds your legs apart, not letting you hide it. 

“Let it all out.” He wants to see you completely unravel. 

“I heard anal orgasms make women squirt but I never thought it would be this intense.” Jack whispers right into your ear, “keep going until you can't anymore. You can do it.”  

It doesn't end. There's tears dripping down your face as you spasm with every orgasm. Jack doesn't stop pounding your ass with the vibrator, each thrust making you feel faint. You didn't even know you could cum like this. 

When you're thoroughly spent, Jack carefully pulls the vibrator out of you and gets up to go wash it, prepping a bath for you too. Pope picks you up into his arms and takes you to the bathtub, setting you down there. 

“I'm going to shower in my room.” Jack tells you both and heads to the door. But then, before he leaves, he goes, “meet me there when you're done here.” 

Jack walks back to you, not holding back his desires anymore. So, he leans down, kissing you once on the lips and then another time on the cheek. 

“Have a nice bath.” He says so sweetly before he leaves. 

You sink into the water, not believing that just happened. You must be so flushed because Pope goes, “are you really smiling because of another man in front of me?” 

Pope gestures for you to move and you shift so he can get into the tub with you, wrapping his arms around your waist. 

He nuzzles his face against the nape of your neck and then says, “I'll let it slide because he's my brother. But don't you dare smile at any other man or I'll do something that'll send me back to prison.” 

You giggle, leaning back into him. “I promise, I only have eyes for you two.” 

“And we only have eyes for you.” Pope says “we” because he knows even though it took Jack this long to admit it, he feels exactly the same way Pope does. 

“We've only known each other a week though.” You turn around, wanting to straddle his lap to look at him. “Are you sure this is okay? I feel like maybe I'm taking advantage of you…”

“No one has ever wanted me before.” He cups your cheek with his hand and you lean into his warm touch. “I wouldn't care if you took advantage of me. At least you want me.” 

You have no idea about the horrors Pope has gone through when it came to intimacy. It wouldn't be the first time he was taken advantage of. He's just happy to be chosen.

Your heart breaks a little hearing that. You meet his gaze, then rest your forehead against his, telling him softly, “I will never let you feel unwanted.” 

You kiss him then and Pope holds you closer to him, believing that someone truly does want him for the first time. So he will do the same for you, “and I'll make sure you know how much I want you everyday.” 

“I'd like that.” You give him a little squeeze before getting out of the tub. You stop him from leaving, though. “Will you give me a few minutes with Jack? I should talk to him alone too.”

“Fine.” Pope will be fair. For now. “Don't keep me waiting for too long.”

“Never.” You lean down to give him a parting kiss and he deepens it before you can pull away. You sigh against his lips, “Andrew…” 

“Can't help myself.” He nudges your nose with his before letting you go. 

You steal a shirt from Pope's closet and then scurry back to your room to change into comfortable pajamas before heading over to Jack's room. You knock on the door and he opens it.

“Where's Pope?” Jack wasn't expecting to see you alone. 

“I told him to give us a few minutes alone. We haven't really talked since…” 

“Come in.” Jack shuts the door behind you, locking it. It won't stop Pope from coming in if he really wants to but it'll stall for time so you and Jack can have this conversation.

You sit down on his bed and he joins you, the weight shifting over to him. You turn to look at him then say, “if this is ever too much for you, just know that I won't hold it against you if you want to reel it back. I'm happy, truly, just being with you in any capacity.”

“You shouldn't be happy with that.” He tells you, sighing. “Pope is right. I'm an idiot. You're a wonderful woman and I…just was so wrapped up in my own bullshit that I convinced myself I wasn't worthy of anything but the occasional fuck.” 

Jack is finally letting his insecurities peek through. He has plenty to worry about. He's not getting any younger. He has a prosthetic leg. He works too much. He's bad at communicating. 

But he wants to change so he tells you, "you will never be too much for me. I can't get enough of you.” 

His words make the butterflies in your stomach flutter around so happily. “I like you, Jack. I always have. I always would've, too. So, I'm really happy we get to finally be close. Even if it's a little scary…” 

“Are you sure you want me?” He knows he can be a handful. He doesn't want you to feel obligated to commit to him.

“I have been waiting for the day that you'd kiss me just to kiss me.” You refer to earlier in the tub. “I can't not want you after that.”

Jack grabs a hold of your face, pulling you towards him. “I've always wanted to kiss you just to kiss you. There were so many moments where I wanted to but I…”

“That's in the past.” You lean in, kissing him. He kisses you back without hesitation. Then, he pulls you onto his lap, making you straddle him like you had done with Pope.

They really are brothers. 

“I'm going to spoil you from now on.” Jack makes this vow. “And Pope will hold me to it.”

“Is it…okay that I like Pope too?” You know it's asking a lot of Jack to share. It is a complicated situation. 

“I think it's good.” He answers honestly. “He fills in the gaps I physically can't. It is like having another version of myself take care of you.” 

“You both took very good care of me earlier.” You giggle, going in for a big hug. “I liked how demanding you were.” 

“Did you really tell Pope to send me that video?” Jack just has to ask. 

“Did you not enjoy it?” You smile mischievously. 

“I'd enjoy it more if I got to do that too.” He wants his own video of you screaming his name like that while you cum over and over again. 

“I can make that happen.” You wouldn't mind it. You haven't watched the video yet but you're sure it would send you into a frenzy in the good kind of way. “Maybe we can have Pope film us.” 

“Or we could just get a camera set up.” 

“Do you like watching me get fucked?” You can feel him getting hard underneath you. “I'll take that as a yes.” 

“You're killing me. I was exhausted from work and yet somehow, I still want to fuck you again.” Jack has no idea where the stamina came from. Must've been adrenaline.

“Maybe after a nap.” You pat the bed. “I wouldn't mind one. Pope kept me up all night.” 

“I do not need to know that.” He glares at you and you love that look on his face. 

“You get comfy. I'll go get Pope.” You hop off the bed and go to the door. You open it and say, “speak of the devil.”

“I was wondering when you two would finish talking.” He says with a yawn. “I'm ready to sleep.” 

You notice he brought two pillows with him to add to Jack's bed, so now there's three sets on it. You plop down in the middle and Jack immediately pulls you in to spoon you and Pope has you rest against his chest. 

You don't usually sleep during the day but…maybe this is something worth getting used to. 

You really like being sandwiched between them like this. 

You hope it'll never end. 

A/N: I hope you enjoyed what my brain cooked up! ♡

Update (as of 05/28/26): This fic has a sequel now! It's called "A Little Secret", so if you liked this, definitely check that out! ♡

[opulentpeony]

mr. and mrs. abbot - assassin!pope x assassin!reader 

word count: 5.2k warnings: dead dove: do not eat, femme fatale!reader, extremely dubious consent (bc would either of you consented if you had known the other was also an assassin? oop-), “jack abbot” doesn't exist bc he's actually pope's fake identity!, he calls you “honey” and you call him “sir”, gun violence, murder, blood and gore, established relationship, deception, mutual pining, angst (with a happy ending!), domestic fluff, praise kink, mild brat taming, dom/sub dynamics, unprotected sex, breeding kink, squirting, spit kink, edging, fingerfucking, bondage, gun play (but tamer than usual lol!), choking, pope makes a lot of bad jokes (he's silly and in love!), it's actually lowkey mushy cutesy bc I just am in that kind of mood lately!  summary: you are an assassin but your husband thinks you're just a corporate executive. your husband is an assassin but you think he's just a doctor.  so what happens when you find out your husband's real identity and he finds out yours because your companies want you to kill each other? 

a/n: i came up with this after seeing mr. and mrs. smith while browsing tv and i just had to write it! 

hope it's a sick(ly sweet) read ♡ 

“Mrs. Abbot?” The pharmacist waves their hand in front of your face. “Are you feeling alright?”

You're staring down at your phone right now. At the bounty your company just set out on your burner. 

For a man named Andrew Cody. 

Better known by his call sign “Pope”. 

Who looks exactly like your husband Jack…

“Hmm?” You glance up from your phone, remembering for a moment where you are. “Oh, right. Sorry, just got a business text. A little distracted.” 

A clever excuse, like always, given your formal attire and the fact that you do actually work for a Fortune 500 company. You look like any corporate executive would if they were in line for a prescription at a pharmacy. Definitely not like an assassin for hire staring at a kill order…

“Do you need me to explain the medication to you before I sign off on it?” They show you the bottle of sleeping pills you always take on the nights Jack isn't home. 

Because it's always hard for you to sleep when he's not there next to you… 

“No, I'm alright.” You tell them and they nod, handing you the medication once they've signed off on it. 

You take it out of the paper bag when you get to your car and stuff the pill bottle into your glove box. 

You can't possibly take those now.

Not when you have no idea who your husband is…

So, you call your handler. “Who is this guy?”

“Competition.” The robotic voice on the other end answers. 

“Last known?” 

“Oceanside, CA.” 

You and Jack are a long way from there. On the complete opposite coast…

“Time frame?” 

“ASAP.” So, that's why it was sent to you…

You have the highest record of kills done in the shortest amount of time. Always so efficient. You knew it would bite you in the ass one day… 

“I'm retired, though.” 

“You're the only one capable of doing this within the desired time frame.” 

“Why?” You know they're not going to answer but you ask anyway, clarifying, “what's the rush?” 

“We have intel he is planning to kill one of our own.”

You wonder who it can be. 

Because you would've never guessed that it would be you.

Pope stares down, much like you had earlier, in disbelief at the photo on his screen. 

That's you, his wife, on his burner beneath the bounty just sent to him. 

But that isn't the name you gave him. 

Call sign “Pearl”. 

Because you excel under pressure. 

A top assassin. Clean kills. Perfect record. 

Just like Pope… 

“Jack?” Robby tries to glance over Pope's shoulder but he shoves his phone in his locker and shuts it before Robby can see anything. “Alright, keep your secrets.”

“My wife just sent something I shouldn't open at work.” Pope lies through his teeth but Robby always believes it. 

Since Pope talks about you all the time at work. He loves you, after all. 

He loves being a doctor, too. 

He hates being an assassin. He had quit when the two of you got married. 

So, why is he getting sent a bounty now? 

“She's a high priority target.” Pope's handler tells him when he calls after his night shift. Call sign “Smurf”. “We need her dealt with, so we need our best.” 

“Why the urgency?” Pope wants to know. 

Smurf replies, “we have intel she's after one of our own.”

He wonders who it could be. 

Because he'll never guess that you, his pretty wife waiting for him at home, are supposed to be going after him. 

You've been sitting at the dining table, nursing a glass of wine, since you got home from the pharmacy. 

You haven't eaten. 

You couldn't sleep. 

You can't even stomach the wine that's sitting untouched on the table. 

You keep thinking about your husband Jack. 

But you know that's not his real name. 

Andrew is his real name. Though, everyone in the world of hitmen calls him Pope. 

The ever elusive Pope. An elite assassin who has been out of commission for years now. 

Around the same time the two of you got married…the same time you retired too…

You blink back more tears because you're trying to convince yourself that the foolish thoughts in your head can't possibly be true. 

That maybe he quit killing people because he's actually in love with you. 

Like you're in love with him. 

Fuck. You know that can't be true. 

Pope is known to be heartless. Ruthless. A born killer. The best of the best at torturing his targets for information.

Nothing like the man you married, Jack Abbot.

Decorated veteran. Emergency medicine doctor. Caring, kind, loving husband of yours… 

How much of that was real? 

And how much of it was a cover?

Does he know…who you are? 

There's no way. And if he did, what's the goal of playing the long game? 

If he wanted you dead, why would he go through all the extra hoops of taking you out on dates? Marrying you? Making love to you? 

Because he loves you. Your mind tries to feed you delusions.

You are delusional…because you can't find it in you to kill him. 

Even though you have to, before it gets reassigned and someone else does. 

And they won't be so merciful…

“Honey?” You hear your husband's voice call out to you. 

Is it really morning already?

“What's wrong?” Pope sees the untouched wine glass and your puffy eyes. 

So, you make something up quickly. “The pharmacy didn't have any pills left in stock to fill my prescription. Couldn't sleep without them.”

Couldn't sleep without him. You hate that you love sleeping next to Jack—Pope. 

His name is Pope. Jack doesn't exist. 

The man you love was just a cover…

For what? You might never find out. 

“Come on, let's go to bed. I'll go get your pills for you after a nap.” He puts his hand out for you to take. 

And you take it without hesitation. Force of habit. 

Pope doesn't notice anything off about you, which is good. He is used to you not sleeping well without your pills. You get bad nightmares if you sleep unmedicated. 

That's why you like sleeping next to him. You never get nightmares for some reason. Probably because his warmth comforts you. 

The thought of feeling his skin cold because you had to kill him makes you want to throw up… 

You actually do throw up, right into the toilet in the bathroom. Pope gently holds back your hair, helping you with a light shoulder rub. 

“Are you alright, honey?” Now Pope is worried. 

Because the two of you were trying for a baby. And if you're pregnant right now…with his child…how is he possibly supposed to kill you? 

“No, I'm not alright.” You wipe the tears that are dripping down your face uncontrollably. “I'm scared.” 

“About what?” He kneels down next to you. “Talk to me.” 

You look him in the eyes, in those beautiful hazel eyes you fell in love with, and you want to tell him the truth. 

That you're supposed to kill him. 

Before he kills you. 

But instead, you tell him, “that you won't want to kiss me now, after I just threw up.” 

The concern on Pope's face washes away, replaced by a chuckle. “I'd kiss you no matter what.” 

“Yeah?” You look at his lips. “Are you sure?” 

He leans in to prove it, kissing you. And you kiss him back. 

You do more than just that. You pull him against you, wanting his body flush with yours. 

“Let's get ready for bed first.” He smiles at your eagerness. “Then I'll help you fall asleep like always.” 

Your skin heats up from his words and he nuzzles your nose while holding back an amused chuckle, liking how flustered you look.

It's hard for him to believe his adorable wife is an assassin. One of the best in the business too. 

And yet here you are, your hand holding onto his so nervously as he walks the two of you to bed after you both washed up and brushed your teeth. 

Who is the real you? 

The one who is looking up at him all bashful the moment he climbs on top of you in bed? 

Or the stone cold killer Pearl that he has heard echoes about slashing her way through target after target without a shred of fear? 

Does it matter right now when you pull him down to kiss you, lacing your fingers in his soft curls and grinding your hips up against his? 

“Someone's being impatient.” Pope nips at your bottom lip, drawing out a whimper from your lips. 

“Please, sir.” You beg of him because you need to feel your husband's body against yours right now. “Please touch me.” 

“How do you want me to touch you?” His hands slide under your shirt, lifting it up over your chest so he can see your lovely breasts. 

“Make me cum, sir.” You want to remember this feeling, in case you never get to experience it again. 

“Lift your arms up.” Pope instructs and you listen, letting him tug your shirt up over your head. 

But he doesn't pull it off. He instead ties your wrists to the headboard, securing them in place there. 

“What's your safe word, honey?” 

“Your name.” 

“That's right. Do you remember why?” He asks as he kisses down the length of your body starting from the arms he just bound. 

You swallow back gulps of air before his lips hover over yours and you breathe, “because I only get to call you “sir” in bed.” 

“Good girl.” He leans down, sealing his lips around yours, trapping the moan that wants to escape when you feel his hand slipping between your legs. “Do you still want me to make you cum?”

“Yes, sir.” You tug at your restraints when you feel his fingers graze your clit. So lightly, so purposefully weak to get you wriggling for more. “Please.” 

“My wife is so needy tonight. I love it.” He really does love you so much. 

That's why in bed, he doesn't want you calling out some fake name he made up. When you call Pope “sir”, he knows you're talking to him and not the fictional persona of Jack Abbot he created to be free from the world of assassination. 

It's hard for him to think that you've been hiding the same secret as he has been all this time. 

Is that why you told him you like being called “honey”? So you could enjoy his attention without the constant reminder of your fake identity? 

What would you do if he called out your real name right now? 

You're restrained. You wouldn't be able to do anything to him. Though, if you are Pearl, then he's sure you could get out of the loose knot he made with your shirt. 

Why does that thought make his cock twitch? The sight of you showing him how skilled you truly are at your work. You have to be skilled to hide this well. 

It would be betraying your trust, though, to use this vulnerable moment of yours for more than just sex and pleasure. 

You trust Pope, maybe not fully but definitely in bed. You've given this part to him. He knows that well. 

You wouldn't show this side of you to just anyone, the side so desperate to cum on his fingers that your hips are grinding against his hand now that he's stripped you completely naked.

Would you be this eager if you knew that he's supposed to kill you? 

Maybe you wouldn't care. 

You just want to cum. 

His spoiled wife, who he takes great care of. 

“Beg for it, honey.” He pins you down to the bed by your lower belly, stopping you from squirming so much. 

“Please make me cum, sir.” You plead with him and nearly cum when he spits so harshly on your clit. 

“Be specific.” Pope wants to see what you ask for today. 

“Please make me cum on your fingers, sir.” You feel so empty inside. 

Your heart aches and you want to have him inside of you any way you can.

“Are you going to be a good girl and cum hard for me?” He asks as he slips a finger inside of you for just a second before popping it back out, pulling a whine from your lips. 

“Yes, sir.” You definitely will. 

“Let's see it.” Pope dips two fingers inside of you then and curls them, grinding them right up against that spot that has your body trembling all over. He keeps thrusting them right there, reveling in how tight you're squeezing his fingers as he fucks you with them. 

He knows you're about to cum because you're looking at him with those pleading eyes of yours. You don't want him to stop. 

He always stops though. Because he likes seeing you on the edge of an orgasm, panting, reeling from getting so close before his fingers slow completely. 

“Please, sir.” You don't know how much more you can beg for him to make you cum. 

Pope likes torturing you. It's what he's good at. Always has been and he takes a lot of pleasure from it. From seeing you so helpless and in need of his assistance.

“Tell me you love me.” He doesn't know why that's what he asks in this moment. Usually he asks you to tell him something filthy, to leak out a dark desire of yours he'd be happy to fulfill. 

But right now, all he wants to hear is your beautiful voice telling him, “I love you.” 

“I love you too, honey.” He says, then drives his fingers back inside of you without warning. 

You cum instantly, the sheer force of his sudden movements causing you to squirt uncontrollably. You're gasping for air and crying out because he won't slow down. He just keeps fucking you with his fingers until you're squirting like a fountain for him, drenching the sheets with your orgasms.

“Oh god, sir, I can't—” You dig your nails into the fabric of the shirt binding your wrists when Pope leans down to seal his lips on your aching clit. “Wait, stop, I'm going to cum again if you—”

You cum so hard that your eyes roll back and you can't seem to pull enough air into your lungs with every heavy breath. Pope slides his fingers out of you, licking them clean while he stares down at the sight of you so thoroughly dazed. 

He strips off his clothes then, and that's when you ask him, “will you please untie me, sir?” 

And he's tempted to tell you to do it yourself. 

You can, of course, but in this scene, you've relinquished control to him. You've let him restrain you, so you aren't going to undo them yourself unless you absolutely have to. 

Should he give you a reason to? 

Should he wrap his hands around your neck and squeeze just to see if you're afraid of him enough to show your true self?

His body moves before he can think his actions through. 

Pope sinks his cock into you, filling you up completely before his hands wrap around your neck. Your eyes widen when you feel him tighten his grip around your neck. 

Tighter than he's ever choked you before.

Pounding into you with his cock rougher than he ever has before too. 

“Say my name.” He keeps squeezing more and more, ramming his cock into you harder and harder, trying to scare you. “Do it.” 

The wires are crossed in your head. You don't know what to think or what to do. 

So much pleasure is flooding your system but there's a backnote of genuine fear. 

That maybe Pope is trying to kill you. 

Would he? 

Should you let him? 

If you did, then you wouldn't have to kill him. 

Then your last memory could be him fucking you like this. 

That's not a bad way to go. 

Especially not when you're cumming your brains out on his cock, feeling so lightheaded from the lack of air, your mind spinning from cumming so much over and over again. 

“Say it!” He shouts at you, shaking you by your neck. “Make me stop. Don't let me…”

You lock eyes with him and it's only when you see the tears building in corners of his eyes that you have to put a stop to this. 

Not for your sake, but for his. 

So, you slip out of the fabric tied around your wrists with ease then you reach up, cupping Pope's face before meeting his shocked gaze with your eyes as you call out his name, “Andrew.”

He blinks at you, the grip around your neck stilling completely, no longer actively squeezing. Tears drip down his face and you can feel them hitting your own face. Though, maybe some of those are your tears. 

“You were going to let me kill you.” He lets go of your neck entirely, holding himself up at either side of your head now. “Why?” 

“Because they want me to kill you.” You don't need to explain much else. “And I can't do that to you. I love you, Andrew. Even if you don't—”

“I love you too.” He says, followed by your real name. 

And despite all the orgasms you've had, nothing could compare to the pleasure of hearing your real name come out of his lips after being told that he loves you. 

“I wouldn't have killed you.” He swears to you. “I would've let you kill me if you had to.” 

“Till death do us part.” You pull him in for a kiss then, like you're making that vow again. 

Only this time, as your real self. 

“Death will have to wait.” His words are so warm on your lips that your heart skips a beat. “Because I finally get to hear my wife call out my name while I'm fucking her. I'm not dying today.” 

You chuckle, smacking him on the chest, “Andrew!”

He smiles back at you, nuzzling your nose so affectionately before kissing you. 

You meet his hips halfway as he starts to roll them against yours, fucking you nice and slow. Making love to you, like always. 

Making you laugh like always. “Are you really Pearl?”

“Are we seriously talking about this while you're fucking me?” You gasp when he buries his cock as deep as he can and then lays all of his weight on you, trapping you beneath him. “Andrew!” 

“Fuck, you sound so good screaming my name.” He gives you a kiss on the cheek and you glare at him when he pulls away. “Answer the question.” 

“Yes.” You answer then yelp when he thrusts his cock inside of you all of a sudden.

“Yes what?” He smirks at how annoyed you look. 

So there is a side of you he hasn't gotten to enjoy fully yet. The little brat hidden beneath the usual submissive. 

“We are not doing this!” You shove at him so he pins your arms down with his hands. “Stop it!” 

“You're good at pretending, honey.” Because if the stories are true, you definitely can get out of his grip right now.

Pope wants to see it. See you in action. 

You huff through gritted teeth. “I am not doing this with you, Pope.”

Oh, now you've pissed him off. 

Pope slips out of you completely and before you can stop him, he opens the secret compartment he built into his bedside table and pulls out his revolver. 

Then, he shoots you. 

You narrowly avoid it, your reflexes kicking in immediately so you can dodge it, rolling off the bed and to your feet in an instant. 

He laughs so hard that you want to punch his teeth out. “So you are as good as they say.”

“Fuck you, you just shot at me, you motherfucker!” You press your hand against the nearby wall, activating the biometric lock that opens up the hidden compartment you made and pull out your glock. 

Then, you shoot him. 

And Pope narrowly avoids it, before firing another shot at you that you dodge with ease so you fire back at him quickly.

Clipping his arm. 

You suddenly feel a weight sink in your stomach at the sight of the thin line of blood that darts across his bicep. But that uneasy feeling washes away when you hear Pope chuckle so happily.

“Nice shot, honey!” He tells you before he fires another round and you almost get clipped in the ear. “Hey, stand still. I need to even the score.”

“What are we doing right now?!” This has to be the strangest foreplay ever! 

“Having fun. And getting some practice in.” He says before shooting at you again, this time by your feet, hoping to nick your ankle but you're too slippery. “Looks like my wife doesn't need the exercise though. Good reflexes.”

“I will shoot your fucking cock off if you don't stop whatever the hell this is!” You shout at him before he aims another bullet at you. “Andrew!” 

“You wouldn't dare shoot my cock. You'd miss it if it was gone.” He smiles so mischievously at you that you are actually tempted to shoot him there. 

“I don't miss your leg.” You say then instantly regret it because you feel like that might've been too harsh, given the prosthetic he has.

Until Pope starts laughing again and goes, “that's why you won't take out the one hanging between my legs, right?” 

“Oh my god!” You groan at the horrid joke. “Who the fuck did I marry? Have you always been this irritating!”

“Pretty much.” He nods with a shrug. 

So you shoot his gun out of his hand. 

Pope is actually startled by that, his revolver dropping to the ground. 

Right before you pin him down to the ground in his distraction.

You point the gun to his head then tell him, “I always knew I'd be better than you.”

“Oh yeah?” Pope suddenly grabs you and pushes you down onto your back, then shoves his cock into you in a single smooth stroke. “I always knew you had it bad for my cock.” 

“I will fucking shoot you!” You point your gun at him as he rolls his hips, grinding the tip of his cock deep where you like it. “Stop it!”

“You'll have to shoot me if you want me to stop fucking you.” He digs his fingers into your hips for leverage before he starts pounding his cock into you at a pace that has your back arching and your orgasm building too quickly. “That's it honey, cum for me.” 

“Andrew, you can't—” You literally have a gun trained on him and he's fucking you right now?!

“I can't what? Fuck my wife? Watch me.” He slips his hand between your legs and rubs your clit while he finds the right angle to drill his cock into you until you're cumming all over him. 

You toss your gun aside, not wanting to accidentally shoot him, as your orgasm shoots through you in intense waves of pleasure that has you pulling him in for needy kisses. He smiles so beautifully against your lips as he kisses you back.

“Tell me you want my cum, honey.” He massages your lower belly with his palm while his fingers play with your clit and his cock pounds you into the ground. “Tell me you want to have my baby.” 

And it's like you snap right back into that submissive space in your head because you nod and tell him, “please, I want to have your baby. I want your cum, sir.” 

“Good girl.” He gives you the sweetest kiss on the forehead before saying your name and telling you, “I love you so much.” 

“I love you too, Andrew.” You pull him back for a kiss, pleasure surging through you as you cum again. 

That's enough for Pope to cum, when he feels you tightening up from your orgasm, milking his cock dry. You lay your forehead against his, breathing heavy as he fills you with so much of his release.

“What do you usually say after you've gotten my cum deep inside of you?” Pope nudges your nose, waiting for your response. 

“Thank you, sir.” You tell him, grinning when he grins back at you. “You are so lucky I love you.” 

“I am lucky, because you definitely would've been able to kill me before I could kill you.” Pope can tell your reflexes are much better than his. 

“We should get that cleaned up.” You point to the slight cut from the bullet. 

“I'll be fine.” He waves off your concern, since it's not even bleeding anymore. “In case you forgot, I am actually a doctor.” 

“How does an assassin have time for medical school?” You raise an eyebrow at that.

For you, it was easy to forge an impressive resume to land you an incredibly easy corporate executive job where all you do is answer emails all day. 

Pope actually went to medical school and served in the military. 

All under his fake identity, Jack Abbot. 

“How do you think I paid for medical school?” He laughs at his own joke and then laughs some more when he sees you glaring at him. “You are so cute, honey.” 

Before you can say something back in retaliation, Pope kisses you with so much affection that you melt in his arms. 

The two of you lay there on the ground, kissing until he's soft. Then, you both take a nice shower together, which really ends up with you riding him in his shower chair until the two of you cum again together, and then get redressed for bed after swapping out the sheets.

“There's bullet holes in our walls.” You gesture at all the work that will need to be redone. “How are we supposed to explain that to a contractor?”

“We have lots of fun in the bedroom?” Pope chuckles when he sees how annoyed you are with his antics. “What? It's true—”

The doorbell rings, cutting him off mid-sentence. 

Pope rolls over to his bedside table, grabbing his security tablet so he can check who's at the door. 

It's the police…

“A neighbor probably called when they heard the gunshots.” You hold back a groan. “What are we going to say?”

“Misfire?” Pope says with a shrug. “I'll just say my silly wife wanted me to show her how to shoot and you accidentally pulled the trigger.” 

“I can accidentally shoot off your balls. Don't test me.” You shove at him. “You go answer them. I'm staying here where it's cozy.”

Pope hands you the security tablet and then gets up to go to the door. He tells the officers the explanation but they want to step inside to look around, which Pope allows. 

Though, his eyes drift to the two cops that walk into the house once their backs are turned to him. He doesn't recognize either of them from the local police force and since he does SWAT work every now and then, he should have at least seen them once or twice. 

They wouldn't send newbies out to check on gunfire. 

And those guns they have holstered aren't police-issued…

Fuck. Pope can't tell if they've figured out that he knows yet. 

So, he slowly walks over to the bookshelf by the living room television, where he has a gun. 

But before he can fire a shot, a bullet flies through the air. 

And one of the cops drops dead. 

Then, Pope shoots the other one down before that one has a chance to react to you killing their partner. 

He walks over to meet you as you both stare down at the dead bodies. Then, you each take a body to check for a burner. 

“How'd you know they weren't real cops?” Pope finds the burner phone on his dead cop’s body, seeing the bounty for you and him on the screen with your current house address listed for last known.

You pull out your dead cop's burner along with some keys then say, “no cop car outside. But a very nice getaway vehicle.”

“Want to take a ride, honey?” Pope puts his hand out for you to give him the keys. “You got a go bag?” 

“Of course I have a fucking go bag.” You want to beat him up for even asking. You know he's just messing with you, though. “I have one made for the two of us too.” 

“Really?” Pope finds that oddly sweet. 

“In case my life ever caught up to yours.” You wanted to make sure that wherever you had to hide, he could come with. 

“What are our new identities then?” 

You go to unseal one of the floorboards in the living room and pull out the go bags. They're filled with untraceable cash and other necessities like weapons and new identities. 

You pull out Pope's new driver's license and hand it to him. He looks at it and goes, “seriously? You couldn't pick a better name than “Titus”?”

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes at him, throwing the heavier go bag at him. “Go pack the car, Mr. Danforth.” 

“Maybe I should have you call me “mister” instead of “sir” from now on, Mrs. Danforth.” He says with a smirk on his face, swinging the bag over his shoulder with ease before putting his hand out for you to take. “Ready to run away together?” 

You let out a light chuckle then nod. “Yes, sir.”

“So we're keeping the “sir”. I'll allow it.” Pope leans over, giving you a loving kiss on the temple. 

The two of you start packing the car but then you remember the pills so you quickly go and grab them from your car. Pope furrows his brows at you. 

“You got them already? Why didn't you take them last night?”

“You know why.” You shove them in your go bag. 

“Tell me.” He makes you stop your fussing.

“Andrew, we have people after us, who wants us dead. Can we talk about this in the car?” He really has such poor timing sometimes!

“I promise I wouldn't have killed you. Even if they tried to make me, I wouldn't. I love you, truly.” He says your name too, just to confirm it, giving you the reassurance you didn't know you needed to hear. “Come here.” 

Pope pulls you into his arms, giving you a warm hug that you gladly accept. 

“Till death do us part.” He tells you before lifting your chin up to look at him. “And I promise you won't need those pills for a while. I'll make sure you sleep real good from now on.” 

You glare at him, knowing what he's insinuating and when he laughs, you giggle with him before leaning in for a kiss. 

“Now let's go make sure the world knows not to fuck with Mr. and Mrs. Danforth.” Pope says against your lips before giving you another loving kiss. 

You're certain they won't once they realize the two of you are a pair.

Because why would any assassin risk going head to head with you and Pope? 

It'll surely be a death sentence for them, and a lot of fun for you two. 

a/n: aw, this one turned out so much more fun than I originally planned! I will say that I hope this version of pope sort of makes sense as like a blend between him and jack, since technically he is jack too! I thought it would be fun to explore the idea that pope created the persona of jack abbot as a cover and then grew to love being jack! and now he's titus hehe ~

I decided to keep this one short and sweet. I was originally going to write the whole backstory of how they met, etc, but sometimes I like leaving things up to the imagination, I find that more fun and it allows for a little more wiggle room for any future installments! 

hope you enjoyed the read ♡

[violatedvibrators]

🎂Birthday Surprise — Rabbot!Blurb

Rabbot x gn!reader (Focus on Robby)

(˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

gn!reader & no physical description other than saying reader can grow body hair

Summary: You and Jack have a special treat for the birthday boy.

Technically a pt. 2 for Betrayal so I’d recommend reading that first (it’s short)

Wc: 495

Warnings: None :3 just fluff/crack — a bit suggestive too

Masterlist

No smut but mdni pls. Minors and ageless blogs will be blocked.

I do not consent to any reuploading, translating, or feeding my writing into ai. If you do I will make sure no one comes to your birthday :)

Not long thereafter the incident, your bush was back and better than ever and all was well in Robby’s world; just in time for his birthday weekend. Both he and Jack had managed to get the weekend off and the three of you were planning on spending it doing whatever Robby wanted.

His only request was dinner together at his favorite restaurant with the fancy bread and a nice bottle of red. Easy enough.

What he didn’t know was that you and Jack had a trick up your sleeve—or rather—down your pants.

After one too many glasses of Cabernet, the three of you made your way back home, ready to spend some quality time together. Robby had already opened his gifts this morning over breakfast in bed, so he was pleasantly surprised when you and Jack sat him down telling him you had one more gift for him.

He was even more pleasantly surprised when you started taking off your clothes, both of you stopping at your underwear. Robby lifted an eyebrow in suspicion, not quite sure what was to follow.

You’re the first to break the silence. “So… remember a bit ago when I went to the beach and I shaved and you cried?”

Robby scoffs, “I didn’t cry.”

“There were some tears,” Jack counters.

“Whatever,” Robby rolls his eyes. He isn’t interested in arguing on his birthday, especially knowing he will lose that argument—there were indeed tears.

“Wellll,” you cut in, trying to get the conversation back on track. “We thought it’d be funny if—since you have a very… strong love of the bush…”

Robby shakes his head in amusement, trying to cover his blooming embarrassment that has heat rushing to his face and betraying him.

“Just— just close your eyes,” you instruct, somewhat impatient to show him what you and Jack have in store.

Robby reluctantly obliges. Some ruffling noises and hushed giggles cut through the silence and force Robby to fight back a smile thinking up all the possible shenanigans his partners could be getting into.

“Okay you can look now,” you try to keep your voice calm even though you are simmering with excitement.

Robby slowly cracks one eye open, anxious to see the sight before him. His nerves are quickly dissipated when he comes face to face with your bush. It’s been carefully trimmed into the shape of a heart. There’s no fighting back the shocked laugh that bubbles up from his chest. “Oh my god.”

“Happy birthday,” you practically beam.

“I— I don’t even know what to say. I’m not sure if I should laugh or thank you?”

“Both,” you shrug lightheartedly. “It’s supposed to be silly.”

“It’s…” he looks between the two of you, “yeah.” He has to do a double take when catching a glimpse of Jack's pubic hair. “What’s that supposed to be?”

“A candle,” he answers like it’s obvious.

“A… candle?”

“Yeah. Y’know… you’re supposed to blow the candle,” Jack says with a wink.

a/n: Thank you guys so much for all the love on pt 1 of this! Wasn’t planning on making a second part but I was talking to my friend ab ideas and she came up w the blowing out the candle joke and I couldn’t help myself. Anyways I hope this makes u guys giggle :) I’m working on a pt 2 for Cowboy as well so keep an eye out for that soon… 😏

Taglist: @slutforwoo @hwasstxr

MDNI divider by @cafekitsune | lace divider by @diviniyae

Header photo made by me on Canva w pics from Pinterest - pls don't reuse this!

[inkdippedquills]

slow dancing and slow heartbreak

Pairing: public defender!fem!reader x Michael “Robby” Robinavitch

Rating: M (Mature)

Word Count: 23.3k

Summary: You hadn’t seen Robby in almost three years. Three years since he’d ripped your heart out of your chest and ground it down with a self-righteous indignation he had no real claim to. And now, in what felt like a cruel act of God—one that only reinforced the idea that if God existed, he had a personal vendetta against you—you were thrown back together, jointly responsible for keeping a young man alive and keeping the carceral system that tried to kill him from finishing the job

Tags: ex!reader, flashbacks, angst, no comfort (but not like in an evil way, there’s closure), heartbreak, yearning, what it means to love someone even after they break your heart, insanely anti-cop/anti-carceral system, in this fic we are prison abolitionists, a lot of liberty was taken with legal/court things in this fic,

You can read on AO3 if you prefer.

(Author’s Note at the end)

Not based on "Rubber Band Man" by Mumford and Sons ft. Hozier, but damn does it fit this fic, lemme tell ya.

-- -- --

“The trouble with fighting for human freedom is that one spends most of one's time defending scoundrels. For it is against scoundrels that oppressive laws are first aimed, and oppression must be stopped at the beginning if it is to be stopped at all.”

H. L. Mencken.

-- -- --

May 2026 - Present Day

You never thought you would step foot into this ER again, barring any insane emergency. And yet, you shifted from foot to foot, anxiously staring at the entrance to the hospital where your ex-boyfriend was surely working. The break up had been messy and painful, calamitous even. You’d cried so much you’d given yourself such a bad case of dry eyes you’d needed prescription eye drops.

But you had a client and that client needed you. And you would never ignore someone who needed your help.

Squaring your shoulders, as much as your far too heavy brief case allowed, you walked into the emergency room and was met with a long line to talk to the check-in nurse. She seemed to have a kind smile, more patience in her pinky finger than you had in a year and the watchful eye of a hawk.

It didn’t take long before you were standing up at the front.

“Hi, I’m from the Public Defender’s Office. I’m here for Anthony Williams. He was brought in from county a couple hours ago?”

“Can I see your ID?” She asked.

“Of course.”

You were fishing your wallet and ID out of your giant bag when you heard your name from behind the check in nurse. Looking up you saw Dana. She looked as no nonsense as ever, her platinum hair pulled back from her face and a pair of readers perched on the end of her nose.

“What brings you here? You okay?”

“Work, I’m afraid. I’ve been appointed to oversee the treatment and catalogue of care for Anthony Williams.”

“Lupe, buzz her through. I know her.”

-- -- --

May 2022

You had met Robby through Dana. Well, kind of. A friend of yours had invited you to her neighbor’s summer barbecue and you had been unceremoniously shoved on a cornhole team with a weary looking man. It was the adult version of making friends by diving into the deep end.

“Are you any good?” He asked.

“Not even a little bit. I can trash talk though, which won’t help but might be fun. You?”

“Also terrible,” he laughed. “Can’t trash talk either.”

“I’m good enough for both of us,” you replied, nudging him.

He had a soft smile that wrinkled the skin of his eyes. Over the years you had become very good at reading people. This man held a lot of grief, but he also held a lot of joy.

You heard the joy in his first chortle when, unbeknownst to you, you had called out to his best friend,

“You look like your favorite song is the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald!”

The light hearted jab had shocked the lithe, silver haired man enough his bean bag toss was just shy of the hole. Robby high fived you with a grin on his face.

“I think I’m looking forward to being on your team.”

You and Robby lost every game you played, but it was a blast to trade barbs with the others in the backyard. You’d gotten to know other neighbors, people from the hospital that Dana and Robby worked at, along with whatever stragglers had been picked up along the way.

Dana truly believed in “the more the merrier.”

You had gone home with Robby that night.

-- -- --

Present Day

“How have you been?” Dana asked. She did a remarkable job of not sounding deeply uncomfortable or awkward.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly, reflecting off the polished linoleum and the scuffed rubber wheels of passing gurneys. The hallway smelled like antiseptic, over-brewed coffee, and something metallic underneath it all that you tried not to name (blood, it smelled like blood, unfortunately you named it). She kept her tablet tucked against her chest with one arm and used the other to swipe open automatic doors with efficiency of someone who knew every inch of this place.

“Busy, stressed, planted an herb garden and then killed said herb garden,” you told her as she led you through the sterile hallways of the ED. Your briefcase strap dug into your shoulder with every step, and you shifted it higher, trying to keep up with her brisk pace. “You? How are the kids?”

You tried to sound casual, like this was any other morning walkthrough with a colleague and not a slow march toward your ex-boyfriend’s orbit.

“Applying to college and learning how to drive,” Dana said with a shudder.

“Linear time is a bitch,” you replied.

“Ain’t that the truth, sweetheart,” Dana laughed. She pulled you to a stop outside a back room.

There was a prison guard posted outside and you began to shuffle through your bag again looking for your paperwork, grateful for something to do with your hands. The guard’s stance was rigid, shoulders squared, boots planted like he was waiting for someone to attack him. The glass door had a curtain pulled over it, but it looked like there was a doctor or medical provider moving inside, a shadow crossing back and forth in the faint light. Your pulse jumped at the thought that it might already be him.

“Do relevant parties know I’m coming?” You asked.

“Not a clue,” Dana replied, with a tense look. Her mouth was set in a grim line now, the easy humor of the hallway conversation fading.

“Alright. Who is the physician on record?”

“Michael Robinavitch,” she told you.

Your stomach twisted so sharply it felt like you’d swallowed glass. Heat crept up the back of your neck, under the collar of your blazer. “Fuck. Okay, well, time’s wasting.”

“Sweetheart,” Dana said, grabbing your arm. “It’s been a number of years. He’s…he’s not the same.”

“You’re a good friend to him.”

“You were good for him too, ya know.”

“Dana, that’s not even remotely true.”

You huffed out a humorless breath, but your chest ached. You remembered late-night takeout at his kitchen table, him falling asleep on your couch mid-rant about hospital policy, the way he’d once called you from a stairwell just to hear your voice after a bad shift. None of that had mattered in the end.

“I’m not meddling, just saying,” she said, with her hands up. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“That was exclusively meddlesome.”

“Alright, alright,” Dana agreed. “I’ll tell you this though, that guard is a right fucking pill. He almost made Perlah cry and she’s the second toughest person in this ER.”

“After you?”

“Damn right.”

“Well, today is going to be a fun day, huh?”

“Best of luck. Better you than me.”

You couldn’t help but snort as Dana left and went back to her post, her footsteps fading quickly into the surrounding noise. The moment she turned the corner, the air seemed to thicken. With the judge’s orders in one hand, you approached the prison guard.

He was burly and tall. Probably somewhere in his forties. Up close, you could see the long sideburns that made him vaguely resemble a civil war era soldier, the kind who’d have been immortalized in a sepia photograph with a musket and a permanent scowl. His uniform pulled tight across his chest; his hand rested just a little too comfortably near his belt.

In your experience, there were two kinds of prison guards. People who were doing a job and recognized they were interacting with other human beings, and then there were people like this guard who seemed to enjoy having power and exerting violence. You’d spent enough hours in interview rooms and holding cells to recognize the difference in the first interactions.

“No one but medical professionals are allowed inside, ma’am,” he said sharply as you approached.

“I have an order from a judge. I’m his appointed attorney and I am to oversee his care and supervise evidence collection.”

“Figures, sending a public pretender to oversee something that isn’t even a problem. Kid just got sick. It happens,” he groused.

“And I’ll let the person with the medical degree inform me of that, thank you,” you replied, already exhausted. “Here’s the court order.”

You held the document out between two fingers, resisting the urge to jab it into his chest.

“I don’t care, lady. Just go in and see your pet criminal.”

You barely controlled your eye twitch, feeling it pull at the corner of your left eyelid. You stepped beside the man, close enough to smell stale coffee and something acrid on his breath, and lightly knocked on the door before opening it. The positive of dealing with the dickhead posted outside is that you briefly forgot that there was a good chance Robby was in the room you were about to walk into. For a fleeting second, Anthony Williams was just a client and this was just another hospital room.

Robby looked up and a number of emotions crossed his face. The first one you noticed was shock, like you were a ghost walking in. Then sadness. Then it landed on a mask of professionalism, the familiar flattening of his expression you’d watched him put on before walking into difficult conversations. There were two nurses in the room, one strictly medical and the other forensic, both moving around the bed.

Anthony Williams was unconscious. The harsh overhead lights bleached his skin, making the bruises stand out in ugly, mottled purples and greens. The monitors hummed and beeped steadily, a constant reminder that for now, at least, he was still here.

“Hello, I’m the public defender appointed to represent Mr. Williams during this investigation, I have a court order authorizing the hospital to inform me of his pertinent medical conditions and treatments. I do not have medical power of attorney but am allowed to make recommendations,” you rattled off softly.

The words had been said in countless rooms, but this time your tongue felt thick around them.

“Uh hi,” Robby said.

“Hi Robby,” you replied.

His name tasted strange in your mouth after so long—familiar, but edged with old hurt. You kept your gaze on the space between his eyebrows instead of his eyes, unwilling to risk drowning in whatever you might find there.

Perlah looked up and grimaced. You had only met her a couple times, but she had long been Robby’s second favorite coworker after Dana. She was tough, reliable, and a damn good teacher for nurses and residents alike.

“Oh, this is fun,” she muttered under her breath. You couldn’t help but snort, tension easing a fraction from your shoulders.

“It is certainly a unique set of circumstances,” you said, setting your bag in the chair in the corner. The vinyl cushion squeaked faintly under the weight. You flipped open your notebook, pen poised. “Can someone tell me what we know so far?”

Robby cleared his throat and gestured to the monitors, shifting his weight closer to the head of the bed. “Mr. Williams was brought in from the county jail about three hours ago. We alerted the authorities about two hours ago. He was unstable. According to his chart, he was being treated for a tooth absence. But he’s dehydrated and septic.”

His voice settled into that clinical rhythm you recognized, the one he used when he needed to put distance between himself and the harsh reality of what he was describing.

He flipped through the chart on the computer, his movements brisk, efficient. “However…what we have seen appears to be inconsistent with the records from county.”

You blinked. “Meaning?”

Robby exhaled slowly, eyes flicking from the page to the patient. “Meaning whoever filled out the jail medical record either didn’t look at him or didn’t care.”

Perlah let out a low, dry hum. “Or both.”

Robby gestured toward the bed, careful to stay clinical and unbiased. “We’ve documented extensive bruising that indicated internal bleeding along the ribcage–left side mostly, patterned contusions consistent with either a boot tread or baton strike. Older ones too, maybe a week old. His right wrist shows defensive abrasions, some starting to scar over. His dental infection is real, but it’s not the main reason he’s septic. It’s likely from soft tissue trauma along with the delayed care of his tooth.”

You scribbled furiously in your notebook. “Fuck.”

That earned a flicker of a smile, it was small. “And now his blood pressure dropped so low that his organs started to shut down.”

“Jesus,” you muttered, writing faster. The facts lined up in your head like dominos—delayed care, bruising, inconsistent records. You could already picture the motions you’d have to file, the subpoenas, the affidavits.

“Exactly,” Perlah said. “He was feverish, shaking, and had a pulse through the roof by the time transport brought him in. Not with a lot of kindness either.”

Robby lifted the patient’s arm gently, showing you the dark marbling along his inner elbow. The skin looked angry and fragile, stretched over veins that had been abused. “See that discoloration?”

You stepped closer, swallowing against the awkwardness of the room. “Yes.”

“That’s from prolonged IV infiltration. They probably missed a vein or left a line in too long and didn’t monitor it. It’s infected, too. We’ve started him on broad-spectrum antibiotics and fluids, but he’s severely dehydrated.”

You scribbled another note. “So, if I’m understanding you correctly, the delay in care caused—”

“Sepsis,” Robby finished. “Yeah. The bruises are too patterned to be from a fall. We’ve already done imaging—a couple of rib fractures, old and new. No indication of blunt chest trauma in his intake report, which suggests those injuries happened while he was incarcerated. There’s no record of him ever being looked at from them and we can’t tell who committed the acts against him.”

“We suspect the guards, because of the shape of some of the bruises, but proving that is your job,” Perlah added. You nodded and continued writing down notes.

The forensic nurse looked up from her station in the corner. “I’ll get photos of everything.”

“Please,” you said. “If you can email the files to me, I’ll get a preservation order for everything else.”

Robby nodded, but his voice softened when he spoke again. “He’s lucky they brought him in when they did. Another few hours and we’d be talking in the morgue.”

You met his eyes then, and for a brief second, professionalism faltered. The clinical precision in his tone couldn’t quite mask the anger underneath. You had seen Robby angry for a patient before, but not this kind of patient. It was a bit of a surprise if you were honest.

“How’s he doing now?” you asked quietly.

“Stable,” Robby said, “but fragile. Ideally he’d be up in the ICU, but there aren’t any beds. So we’ve got him on fluids, antibiotics, and supplemental oxygen. He’s sedated. We're hoping to avoid intubation, but…” He hesitated, glancing at the monitors. “He’s young. That helps.”

“Does he have any next of kin?” Perlah asked, looking at you.

You shook your head. “Not that we know of. He was waiting on transfer to a state facility.”

Robby set the chart down and rubbed the back of his neck. “You’ll need copies of the intake records and labs, right?”

You nodded, pulling your folder closer. “Yes. I’ll submit a request. If the hospital can send me copies directly under the court order, that would be helpful.”

“Anything else you need?” Perlah asked.

“No, thank you.”

You capped your pen and set it across the open notebook, forcing your fingers to unclench.

Perlah and the other nurse took their leave, the room briefly feeling too large and too quiet in their absence, which meant you and Robby remained in the room. You didn’t look at him, but you weren’t sure where to direct your eyes—Anthony’s bruises, the monitor, the scuffed toe of your shoe.

“We can get you set up in the break room if you want,” Robby said quietly. His voice came from just to your left, closer than you’d realized he was standing.

“Better stay here. I don’t like the guard outside,” you replied.

“He’s certainly an asshole,” Robby said.

“Yeah, I’ve gotten that impression.”

Robby lingered and you tried not to pay attention to the way the silence stretched, to the small sounds he made—the rustle of his scrubs, the soft click of his pen, the almost inaudible sigh as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting when you saw him again. It had been years. Seeing him still hurt, but the wound was no longer raw, like you’d feared. The pain did not take your breath away, instead it clenched onto your heart. It was tolerable. Manageable, the way an old injury aches in bad weather.

You had taken months to heal from the calamitous break up. The precipitating fight had been a knock down drag out battle and neither of you took prisoners. One moment, you had been falling in love with one Michael Robinavitch and the second you had been walking out of his house, trying not to cry.

“How…how have you been?” He asked hesitantly.

“We don’t have to do this, Robby,” you said, quietly.

“Do what?” He almost sounded convincing.

“Pretend we left things…well. Pretend we didn’t go for the jugular.”

“I’m not…” he trailed off seemingly unsure of what to say next.

“I don’t plan on relitigating the fight,” you promised.

“I didn’t think you were,” he replied. You gave him a look.

“Really, I just…I know we left things badly, but I only wanted to know if you’re okay?”

There was something in his tone. It was earnest and forlorn all wrapped up in his doe eye look, even if you were doing your best not to meet it head on. The part of you that had once adored that softness in him gave a small, involuntary stir.

“Most days, I’m fine,” you replied. You didn’t mention the therapy or the medication or the way your friends forced you to go to yoga now. You didn’t mention the nights you lay awake replaying that last argument, wondering if you’d missed a chance to say something different. “You?”

“I wasn’t—good, that is—for a while. Everything at the hospital compounded how terrible COVID had been for me, and then Jake was at Pittfest a few months ago,” Robby said.

Your stomach dropped. “Oh, Robby, I'm so sorry.”

“Jake is fine, his girlfriend,” Robby cleared his throat and flicked his eyes back towards Anthony’s vitals, “didn’t make it.”

“That must have been tremendously hard.”

“The police tried to arrest one of my residents that night,” he added.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, she—sorry, I don’t know what I’m telling you this,” he said.

“We’re water under the bridge, Robby. Too much time has passed to hold on to anger.”

It was partly true. The sharp edges had dulled. But there were still sediments settled at the bottom, stirred now and then by moments like this.

“Of course,” he replied, clearing his throat. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He stepped back toward the door, and you listened to the soft squeak of his shoes on the floor, the quiet click as he opened it. For a moment, you were left with the steady hum of the monitor and the sound of your own heartbeat in your ears, wondering when exactly the version of him you’d known had turned into the man you’d just spoken to.

-- -- --

Late July 2022

At first the thing with Robby was a hookup. Almost-friends with benefits. It started easy and low maintenance—late texts after bad days, meeting at his place or yours when it made sense, leaving before dawn if one of you had an early start. And it was nice, far nicer than trolling for someone on an app or at a bar, trying to decode whether a stranger understood basic hygiene or boundaries. 

Robby was fastidiously hygienic, understood the importance of condoms, and was more than happy to cuddle or say goodbye depending on the mood. He would ask, every time, if you wanted him to stay or if you’d rather have the bed to yourself, and he seemed genuinely fine with either answer.

Even actual romantic partners paled in comparison to the attentiveness of a non-romantic Robby in the bedroom. Along with frankly asking about your likes and dislikes, he paid close attention to your reactions. You could feel him adjust when your breath hitched, when your hips tilted, when your fingers tightened in his hair or on his shoulders. 

It was overwhelming and exhilarating all at once, like being under a microscope and somehow not minding. The first few times you almost laughed at how focused he looked, brow furrowed as if he were solving a particularly satisfying puzzle. You weren’t used to that kind of care from “just” a hookup, and the contrast with past experiences made it stand out even more.

You did the same, of course. Ever the lawyer, you kept a shorthand note in your phone about what went well and what didn’t—disguised under a boring name in case anyone ever scrolled too far. Not only that, you kept a long list of what you wanted to try and what you thought Robby would like, mentally cross-referencing his responses with your half-serious theories about his control issues, his stress levels, and his need to be taken care of for once. It was an organized little ritual that helped you feel like you had some control over a connection that otherwise felt entirely unplanned.

Sex with him was fun. When he was present, you felt like you were in the center of the galaxy, everything else dropping away until it was just you, him, and the sound of your shared breathing in a dark room. He could be goofy and self-deprecating one minute and devastatingly earnest the next, and that mix made you feel disarmed in a way you weren’t used to. 

However, sometimes there would be days or weeks where you never heard from him—text bubbles left unanswered, shifts that ran long, vague comments about “a bad week.” When he popped back into your life he always looked more haggard, shadows under his eyes, shoulders tense, and assured you that work was busy and nothing more. 

Then one evening, you were curled up behind him on his bed, enjoying being the big spoon despite the fact Robby was far longer than you, your front pressed along the length of his back. One of his old, soft T-shirts was twisted in your fingers, your knee slotted between his. 

You were warm, sated, and hovering in that pleasant, drifting state where you weren’t quite ready to move. The apartment smelled like laundry detergent and the lingering scent of dinner. You could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest under your arm.

He shifted, then awkwardly turned around to face you, half rolling onto his back and propping himself on an elbow so he could see you better. The movement broke the comfortable tangle of limbs, leaving a sliver of cool air between your bodies.

“You know I enjoy this, right?” He asked. 

“Based on the sounds you make and telling me how much you love me touching you—yes, I put it together,” you laughed

Robby’s face remained serious, eyes darting away for a second before coming back. You assumed he was about to end your little dalliance and it surprised you how sad that made you feel, how quickly your stomach dropped at the thought. You’d told yourself you were fine if this stayed casual, that you liked him but didn’t need him. In that moment, it became uncomfortably clear that might not be entirely true.

“Yes, well, I’m glad that’s clear,” he stopped talking and avoided making eye contact. He fiddled with the edge of the blanket instead, thumb worrying at a loose thread.

“And?” You prompted. 

“That’s it,” he replied. 

“Michael,” you sighed. “You shouldn’t play poker; your face is a picture book.”

You shifted to face him more fully, tucking one hand under your cheek and studying him. His eyebrows were drawn together, lips pressed in a thin line, the way they did when he’d had a rough shift and didn’t know how to start talking about it, not that he ever talked about it with you. 

“And what does it say?”

“That there’s something bigger on your mind than making sure I know you like fucking,” you said plainly. 

“We can talk about it tomorrow,” he replied, still not making eye contact. 

“If you want to call this off, I’d rather know sooner than later,” you stated. 

“Wait, what?” 

“Aren’t you going to call this quits?”

“No! No,” he said quickly. He pushed himself up a little straighter, finally looking at you with wide, startled eyes. “The opposite actually, but I chickened out.”

“The opposite?”

“I wanted to ask you on a real date. I like you and I want to go to dinner with you and call you my girlfriend or whatever romantic shit people say nowadays.”

You blinked at him. Your brain stuttered over the words, caught somewhere between relief and disbelief. “A date?” 

“Yes?”

“With me?”

“Well, there’s only one woman half naked in my bed right now and I think it’d be weird if I was talking about someone else. You don’t have to say yes. I’ll be okay—”

“Yes, I do want to go on a date with you,” you said quickly. The answer came out before you had a chance to filter it, which told you everything you needed to know about how far past “casual” you’d already drifted.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whispered against his lips as you leaned in, closing the small gap between you. “You are already better than half my other boyfriends.”

“God that’s such a low bar,” he mumbled as he kissed you, deepening the kiss while pulling you closer against his body. The last of the distance vanished as his arms wrapped around you, and you let yourself sink into the familiar warmth, feeling something in your chest unclench.

“You’re raising it,” you told him. 

He gave you such a sweet and genuine smile that you felt warmed from the inside out, a slow, steady heat rather than a sudden flare. Lying there with him, your leg hooked over his hip, wrapped in his arms, it was the first time you let yourself think that maybe this was more than something convenient. Maybe, if you let it, it could be something that lasted.

-- -- --

Present Day

The Robby of today felt like a different Robby. In some ways more nervous, but in others even more steady. From your perch in Anthony William’s room, you had a perfect view for most of the ER. You couldn’t hear much—the soft hum in your noise-canceling headphones swallowed most of the clatter—but you could see everything. And watching helped settle the knot in your stomach more than rereading your notes for the tenth time.

Dana stood at the threshold of the ED: one hand on her hip the other holding a tablet simultaneously directing a baby med student somewhere. Perlah sat beside her charting and chatting with another nurse with beautiful dark shiny hair. They leaned their heads close together, almost conspiratorially. 

Robby was talking to a blonde haired doctor, she had on dark rimmed glasses and a serious look of concentration and Robby pointed out something on the tablet. He was always a wonderful teacher. When you both were together he loved explaining complex medical concepts in ways that someone who didn’t even take college biology could understand—it almost seemed like nothing had changed. 

Yet it wasn’t nostalgia that kept your eyes on him—it was the tension in his jaw. He didn’t like the guard. That was obvious. The Robby you knew wouldn’t have been pleased about a prison guard shadowing his patient’s room, but he might have been relieved that someone was handling security. This Robby cast sharp, deliberate glances toward the guard whenever the man drifted too close to one of the residents, his shoulders stiffening in a protective way that seemed new. Or maybe you just hadn’t noticed it back then. Maybe this was always inside him.

A few moments later, Robby and the blonde resident walked toward the room. You watched as he subtly shifted, angling his body to place himself between her and the guard.

Interesting. 

When they walked in Robby introduced you and said, “This is Mel King. She’s a third year resident.”

“Very nice to meet you,” Mel said. 

“You as well, Dr. King.”

“Mel, please.”

“Okay, Mel. Now that we have the blood tests back, what are the next steps?” Robby asked. 

You settled further back into your seat, one leg crossed over the other, notebook balanced on your knee. Your pen hovered, ready. Despite eighteen months of dating him, you had never seen this version of Robby—working, focused, unfiltered by the version he curated for dates and dinners. He’d tried to keep work separate from you. You had tried not to notice how poor his attempts had been.

He and Mel were physically examining one of the wounds on his torso when she paused, leaning in a little closer to trace the edge of a bruise with her gloved fingertip. The mottling had spread since the last set of photos, blooming in darker shades beneath the skin. Robby steadied the patient’s shoulder so Mel could see the full extent of the injury, his voice low as he pointed out areas of swelling that hadn’t been present on intake. You watched the two of them work.

You found yourself staring—at the way he moved, at the ease he had with teaching, at the calm precision in his motions. It reminded you of moments in his apartment when he had patiently explained medical metaphors or drawn diagrams on the back of restaurant napkins because you had asked one question too many. You weren’t sure whether remembering felt good or horrible.

Something in Anthony’s vitals shifted, and a quiet beeping alarmed. Mel flinched only slightly before both she and Robby sprang into action—adjusting his IV, checking the fluids, muttering quick updates to one another. Mel lifted his eyelid and ran her penlight across his pupil, her expression tightening.

And then the door exploded open.

The hinges rattled as the guard slammed it with the force of someone convinced danger lurked behind every corner. He barreled into the room, filling it with his bulk and the smell of stale coffee and cheap body spray. His hand hovered near the equipment on his belt, eyes sweeping with frantic suspicion as though he expected Anthony to leap out of bed swinging.

“Step away from the bed. The patient is dangerous,” he announced. 

“Dr. King and Dr. Robinavitch are treating him. They don’t have to do anything. Not to mention the kid is unconscious," you said from your seat in the corner, not even bothering to stand. Your heart rate spiked, but you kept your face neutral. You’d had worse men try to intimidate you in smaller rooms.

“Forgive me if I don’t take a public pretender’s word for it,” he snapped. 

You rolled your eyes. At least he could try rotating his insults. The repetition was almost insulting in its laziness.

“She’s right. His blood pressure just dropped, we’re only trying to figure out why,” Mel said. 

“Fine. But if he wakes up I’m the first to know. He’s a dangerous criminal.”

“He’s awaiting trial. He’s not a ‘dangerous’ anything,” you grumbled. 

“You’re not in the prison. You don’t know anything,” the man said. He bent over you, invading your space so abruptly you caught the sour scent of his breath. His name tag read Benning. 

“Well, Officer Benning, neither are you since you both came from the county jail not the state prison,” you replied blandly. “I’m not disputing that some real characters come through, but perhaps the 20-year old with his first charge isn’t one of them.”

“And you would know that how?” The guard hissed. 

“I think it’s best if you step outside and let us finish our examination,” Robby said, trying to guide Benning back. 

“Whatever,” the guard hissed. 

You narrowed your eyes and, because you were petty and furious and needed an outlet, you scribbled something utterly nonsensical in the margins of your notes. You knew he’d notice. You hoped he would.

It worked.

“What the fuck did you write down?” He asked. 

“None of your business,” you replied, closing the file with exaggerated calm. You had written “dickhead officer,” which wasn’t legally relevant, but it gave you a flash of satisfaction. “As Mr. Williams’ attorney, I’m not at liberty to share any information with you.”

“And how does it feel knowing you’re defending scum?” Bennings asked. 

“I sleep well at night, if that answers your question,” you replied back coolly. 

“Well, the world is better off if this kid dies, trust me.” 

“Whoa, whoa,” Robby said sharply, stepping fully in front of Benning now, blocking him with his entire body. “I’m going to ask you one more time to step outside and let us do our job. I won’t tolerate that kind of discussion in front of a patient.”

“Patient,” scoffed Bennings, but he went back outside. 

“Still an instigator,” Robby said, but it almost sounded fond. You ignored him. 

“Are you okay?” You asked Mel. She looked rattled. 

“Y-yes…yes, um, I wasn’t expecting such a show,” she stated. 

“Yeah, that’s fair. A lot of prison guards aren’t like that. A lot of them are fine, he’s a real piece of work,” you told her. “Do you want me to make sure he doesn’t come in here when you’re in here?” 

“Can you do that?” Robby asked. 

“You and Perlah seem to think that Mr. Williams was attacked by guards, with that information I can do quite a lot.” 

“It might be a good idea,” Robby mused. “I don’t love the idea of anyone worrying about the patient and the guard.” 

“I’ll file the motion and see if my boss can get it in front of a judge soon,” you told him. 

You began the process of filing a TRO, temporary restraining order, for your client and his medical team. 

“Do you want me to get you a coffee? I…I still know your order,” Robby said softly. 

The words struck something deep and tender in your chest. It didn’t feel sweet—it felt like pressing on an old bruise. Robby had been kind, and caring, and attentive. And at the end of it—cruel. Somehow knowing he remembered your coffee order made everything ache a little deeper.

“No,” you said, desperately hoping your voice wasn’t betraying your emotions. “No, I’m good.”

“Okay, well, let me know.”

Then he and Mel stepped out of the room, leaving you alone with your notes, the beeping monitors, and the confusing tangle of emotions you’d been trying not to pick apart since the moment you saw him again.

-- -- --

January 2023

Robby was surprisingly sentimental at times. On your three month anniversary—a date you had totally forgotten—he showed up at your door with flowers and a surprise night planned. On your birthday he drove you out of the city and took you stargazing because you had offhandedly mentioned you’d always wanted to try it. 

So it stood to reason that when he invited you over on your six month anniversary, you walked into what could have only been a four course Michelin star meal. He was wearing an apron when he answered the door. 

“Now this is a sight,” you said, grinning at him. 

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” you replied, setting down your bag and taking off your shoes. “If you ever want to only wear the apron, call me I’m sure I can make time.”

“The apron really does it for you, huh?” 

“It really does. I’m just as surprised as you are,” you laughed. 

He pulled you against him and leaned down to gently kiss you. Smiling against his lips, you fiddled with the straps of the apron. 

“Never gets old,” he said, satisfied. 

“What?” 

“Kissing you.”

“Pretty cheesy there, Michael,” you smiled. He pressed another kiss to the top of your head. 

“Sure is. Come in, dinner is almost ready.”

The two of you chatted as he finished dinner. You were mid rant about the DA when the timer went off and Robby pulled out an elaborate sheet pan of exceptionally roasted vegetables to go along with his main course. 

“Why do you hate this man?” Robby asked as he began plating the food. 

“I work really well with a lot of the county prosecutors, most of them in fact, but Zicarelli goes out of his way to be an obstinate dickhead. Most of the assistant attorneys aren’t like that at all. And a few of them I think are really trying to make a difference. They think the system can be fixed from the inside and on my optimistic days, I believe them. On less optimistic days…well, I am one step away from burning everything down and starting over,” you grumbled. 

“Mmm, that’s familiar,” Robby said. He handed you the plate and your drink then you followed him out to the balcony on his condo. It was cold, but with the fire pit and heater, th porch was cozy. It overlooked a calm but picturesque street near the university and hospital. 

You sat next to him at a small wooden patio table where he had already set out fake candles and silverware. 

“I can imagine,” you said. “You don’t really talk about it—the hospital I mean.” 

“It feels too bleak for a good date conversation topic,” he shrugged. “I’d much rather talk to you about the tv show we’re watching or the complex philosophical musing on if you can reform a system as big as healthcare or the legal system. My job is just…a lot of the same thing,” he replied. 

“So do you?” You asked, taking a sip of your drink. 

Robby looked out to the street for a few moments. You speared a roasted asparagus and took a bite before he finally said,

“No, but I think people can make it hurt less.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Fixing the healthcare system in this country would require more money and more policy changes than anyone is willing to commit to. The people who have the power don’t seem to give a shit. But if I do my job, if I’m attentive to patients and make sure they are treated fairly and quickly, then maybe it isn’t as shit.”

“I think that’s admirable,” you told him. 

“Glad someone does. Some days it feels Sisyphean," he said simply while taking a bite of dinner. 

“I mean, it is, but only if Sisyphus was rolling up the boulder to make sure the people at the bottom didn’t get crushed,” you said. 

Robby snorted. “Still sucks when you don’t make it to the top.”

“I know that feeling well,” you hummed. 

“It’s frustrating when someone comes to be so sick and it’s a sickness that could have been avoided if they had access to healthcare earlier. I see so many lives taken because of pointless shit like that,” Robby grumbled. “We live in a liberal city in a kind of liberal state, but we can’t do anything for healthcare.”

“It is a surprisingly conservative city for how much we vote for Democrats,” you replied. 

“At least the criminal sentence things make sense. But healthcare? It seems like a no-brainer.”

“What do you mean the ‘criminal sentence things make sense’?” You asked confused. 

“Just that I can at least understand where people are coming from when they vote against changing bail procedure or vote for Zicarelli. But healthcare is just so…important, I guess.”

You hummed, and a weird feeling settled in your stomach but you couldn’t quite pinpoint the reason. Something about what Robby said rubbed you the wrong way, but you’d often been described as confrontational or combative by past partners and tonight was so nice, it wasn’t worth bringing up. Instead, you changed the topic to something easier, 

“So instead of dwelling on the hellish professions we choose—”

“Yours more than mine,” he laughed, adding to the upset feeling in your gut. 

“—we talk about our Severance theories and the fact my book club is reading some of the worst writing known to man kind.”

“I still don’t know where they thought they would run to,” Robby grumbled. “It’s the severed floor, where are they going to hide?” 

“It’s a take on Orpheus and Eurydice,” you laughed at his dramatics. 

“Well, I wouldn’t look back,” Robby declared. 

“I would,” you shrugged. “To love someone so desperately you go to the Underworld, and after successfully freeing them, you wouldn’t want confirmation nothing had happened? Think of how long their journey was. I can’t imagine not looking back. We look back all the time. I still read old texts from friends; I keep letters in my office.”

“Huh,” Robby said. “I hadn’t thought of it like that. I have a whole box of cards and notes from patients I look at after rough shifts.”

“If you think about it, that necklace is looking back. Your grandmother gave it to you—a way to honor your heritage and remind you of the spiritual comforts. Wearing it everyday is looking back for her.”

Robby was silent for a long while. Out of the corner of your eye you saw him fiddling with the necklace. There was a lot of emotion on the balcony as the slow cars ambled through the darkened street. The buzz of the street lights hummed, adding a soft amber glow to the ambiance of the dinner. 

“I have a photo of us, you really,” Robby finally said with a thick note of emotion in his voice. “It’s tiny, but I keep it on the back of my badge. It’s that one of you absolutely cackling after bowling your fifth gutter ball on our third date.”

It was the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to you. So you replied, 

“I think I could fall in love with you, Michael Robinavitch.”

And that weird, uncomfortable feeling was all but forgotten. 

-- -- --

Present Day - 10:00 am

Later that morning, you managed to slip out of the room while the guard’s attention was fixed on whatever game he was playing on his phone. You eased the door shut behind you and exhaled slowly, grateful to put a few feet of distance between you and a man whose mere presence made your shoulders lock tight. 

The hallway outside South 15 was its usual mixture of fluorescent glare, scuffed linoleum, and the low-level hum of activity that never really stopped. The Pitt, for all its faults, was predictable in at least that way—it always felt a little overworked, a little understaffed, a lot too busy.

It hadn’t changed much since the last time you’d walked these hallways years ago. Same faded signage above each bay, same rolling vitals machines half blocking the path, same antiseptic scent clinging to the air. Even the coffee dispenser was in the exact place you remembered—tucked beside a column near the nurses’ station like a sad shrine to caffeine dependence. 

You stepped toward it automatically, muscle memory guiding you more than conscious thought. Your mind was still half in the room with Anthony Williams, half with Robby, half trying not to feel anything at all. The math didn’t add up and neither did the way you were feeling. 

You were on your way back, styrofoam cup warming your hand, when you heard it.

“What do you think he did?” A hushed female voice asked. 

You froze mid-step. The words weren’t loud, but they bounced off the hallway walls. You shifted back toward the corner and leaned your shoulder against it, the cool plaster holding you while you eavesdropped. You didn’t need to see them to know they were talking about your client. The tone alone—morbidly curious, speculative—gave it away.

On one hand, you could walk past them, shut it down with a single look or a pointed reminder of confidentiality. On the other hand…you were curious what the rumor mill had churned out in the last hour.

“I mean that guard is pretty nasty. Surely it was something bad?”

The next couple of minutes unfolded like a deranged episode of Dateline, complete with dramatic pauses and whispered theories pitched somewhere between absurd and insulting. Serial killer. Bank robber. Gang hitman. At one point you were fairly certain someone suggested “domestic spy,” which almost made you snort into your coffee. Anthony Williams’ alleged crimes had apparently become a popular form of entertainment in the lull between patient charts.

You understood the psychology of it—high stress jobs bred gossip like mold. But the casual disrespect, the lack of empathy, the gleeful speculation about a kid who might not live through the night…that part sat poorly in your gut. It reminded you too much of prosecutors who described your clients as monsters without ever reading their files.

“I see a lot of talking and not a lot of working,” you heard Robby’s voice say. 

The volume in the hallway dipped immediately. You remained still behind the corner, listening.

“You gotta tell us what he did, Dr. Robby,” a higher voice said. It sounded young. “Is there a dangerous criminal here?” 

“There is a man accused of a crime in South 15,” Robby confirmed. “But he hasn’t been proven guilty in a court of law. More than that, he’s fighting for his life right now, so I really don’t think speculating about what he’s charged with is appropriate.” 

“Oh, no you’re right,” another voice said sheepishly. 

“It doesn’t matter who the patient is, we treat them the same either way. And it would be good to get rid of that gut instinct to now, it’s a lot harder to get rid of when you’re older, trust me.” 

You heard heavy footsteps headed towards you. 

You straightened instantly, heart thumping, and pivoted on your heel in a practiced motion, heading briskly back toward Anthony’s room. You slipped inside before the footsteps rounded the corner, shutting the door behind you with care. The guard glanced up with mild suspicion, but you ignored him, sinking into the chair beside your notes.

You weren’t sure what to do with what you’d just heard. You weren’t sure what to do with a Robby who thought about carceral bias at all—who chastised staff for judging a “criminal”, who spoke about preconceived notions like it was something he’d spent years wrestling with.

The Robby you knew had a blind spot a mile wide and thought he saw the whole landscape clearly. Hearing him acknowledge otherwise…left a strange, complicated ache simmering behind your ribs.

-- -- --

March 2023

You spotted him before he saw you, slumped in the dim corner booth of your usual bar, the overhead bulbs casting a warm amber glow across the tired line of his shoulders. He looked wrung out—scrub top wrinkled, jacket sleeves shoved up haphazardly, hair messy like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. 

Even from a distance, you could tell it had been a rough shift. Your own day had been long—court delays, an irritable judge, a client meltdown—but the exhaustion in his posture tugged at something soft inside you.

“Hi handsome,” you said softly. 

The smile he gave you still made butterflies erupt in your stomach. 

“Hi,” he said, pushing himself up to greet you.

His arms wrapped around you in that way only Robby could manage: warm, enveloping, making you feel sheltered without crowding you. You were not a small woman, but somehow he always made you feel like he’d been waiting for you to fill his arms. He pressed a brief, gentle kiss to your lips before letting you slide into the booth across from him.

Robby already had a cold beer half-drained in front of him and your drink waiting beside it—your order, exactly right, even after the day he’d each had. His reading glasses were hooked crookedly into the collar of his scrub top, and his badge, keys, and wallet sat in a disorganized pile in the middle of the table, like he’d emptied his pockets the moment he sat down. His phone lay face down.

You silenced your own device and set it on top of his, the ritual familiar now. After three dates in a row being interrupted, you’d adopted the rule: phones down, face-down, for at least the first hour. 

“Have you been here long?” You asked. 

“Ten minutes, maybe.”

“How was work?” 

He just groaned and rolled his eyes dramatically. “Apparently my jokes are unprofessional.”

You smirked into your drink, “Your mean and snarky jokes? Unprofessional? Crazy.” 

“I got written up,” he replied. 

Your mouth fell open. “You’re shitting me. What did you say?”

“A bird flew into the ambulance bay and Gloria made some stupid announcement that we had to make sure vermin didn’t come inside. She did not appreciate my comment asking ‘what if they have good insurance’ apparently.”

You barked out a laugh before you could stop yourself. “God, that isn’t funny that you got written up. But the insurance joke was good.”

“Well, at least you enjoyed it.”

You watched him take another sip of beer, shoulders still slumped like nothing could quite shake the day off. You reached for your drink, you asked, gently,  “Why do you and Gloria butt heads so much anyways?” 

Robby sighed. “When Adamson passed during COVID, it was hard. COVID was just so fucking hard. And for a minute it really felt like Gloria was on our side. She wanted us to get the PPE, wanted us to get the meds and the oxygen. She fought for us and she's good at fights.”

You listened quietly, hands wrapped around your glass. Every time he talked about COVID or Adamson, his face changed—older, worn, a decade of grief settling behind his eyes. There was a day in July that he always disappeared during and it wasn’t until you saw Adamson’s memorial photo on the wall with his date of death that you put two and two together. Robby wasn’t often forthcoming about that era of his life. You knew he had been dating someone and the relationship fell apart but that’s about all he actually told you about COVID. The rest you’ve gleaned from conversations like this. 

“But when COVID became less emergent. When the other floors were cleared out, it’s like she forgot it was still affecting us. COVID lingered in the ER and ICU far longer than anywhere else. And all of the sudden that fight was directed at us. We weren’t fast enough, or seeing enough well paying patients or whatever. We lost eight doctors and ten nurses and four techs to COVID. It just feels…like a bitter pill to swallow. And she refuses to negotiate. She just demands things and expects me to pull resources out of my ass.”

“I can’t imagine being in either of your positions,” you said, shaking your head. “COVID was hard for me, but in a very different way. It can’t be easy.”

“Well it’s not easy for me. Gloria seems to having a good fucking time,” he groused. 

You hummed and sipped on your drink. “I mean, she’s in charge of a huge hospital. I doubt her job is easy.”

“She sits behind a desk all day,” Robby snapped. 

“Except when she’s harassing you about birds,” you joked. 

It fell flat. You knew instantly you’d misjudged the moment. His jaw tightened, shadows settling across his features.

“Did you know that attacks against healthcare workers have skyrocketed since COVID? It’s shitty especially when there was a moment when we were the most respected profession.” 

“I think most people still respect you guys. You’re just a safety net and not always given the resources of one,” you said. 

“Doesn’t feel like anyone gives a shit about us. Most of the time we can’t press charges when someone assaults us or if we can the DAs refuse to prosecute.”

“It’s hard to prosecute those cases,” you said sympathetically. “Proving beyond a reasonable doubt is a high bar even for a simple assault.”

“Nothing about it is ‘simple’,” Robby bit. 

You held up your hands, “It’s a legal term, Michael. I’m not negating your experiences.”

“Get better legal terms,” he grumbled. Despite the tension in the conversation you couldn’t help but snort. 

“Yeah, there’s a lot about the penal code that needs adjusting,” you sighed. 

“Have you ever defended someone like that?”

“No, but if I had I couldn’t tell you. I’m pretty strict about attorney client privilege. But no, most of those cases tend to be misdemeanors and I almost exclusively handle felonies—murders mainly.”

“I didn’t know that,” he said. His tone sounded weird. 

“Most of them plead guilty, so it’s about making sure the state is proving their case and sentencing is fair. When they plead innocent it is a lot more stressful,” you told him. 

“Why’s that?”

You hesitated, then answered with the honesty he’d always claimed to appreciate. “Well, when your client did the crime, or tells you they did, you don’t have to worry about them going to jail for no reason. They’ll serve prison time and my job is to make sure it’s fair and as equitable as the law can get. When they’re innocent, all of the sudden I have someone’s life in my hands. About three quarters of my clients plead guilty, but the other ones? Those are just a little bit harder. Though, they all keep me up at night.”

“Because of their victims? What they did?”

“No,” you replied. “No, there’s only been a handful of clients I’ve had over the last decade and a half that haven’t had only terrible choices and murder was just the terrible choice they chose. What keeps me up is how lucky I am in comparison. My family didn’t abuse me or I wasn’t homeless or poor. I went to law school. I live in a nice apartment and I have access to mental health care. A lot of my clients don’t have that.”

“What about the victims?”

“The prosecutors office typically has resources for them. But, frankly, it isn’t my job to worry about them. My client is my responsibility.”

“I don’t think I could do that,” Robby said looking down at his beer. “I’ve seen too many people lose their loved ones in the ER.”

“I have compassion for them, but I can’t put their emotions over my client’s rights.”

“Sounds like something Gloria would say,” snorted Robby. 

You raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“That’s just a very utilitarian take. It doesn’t feel very compassionate.”

“Sometimes it isn’t compassionate for the victims, but that’s not my job.”

“It should be someone’s job.”

“It is,” you said through lightly gritted teeth. “There are victims' advocates and social workers.”

“But not you.”

“And so what if it isn’t me?” You snapped. 

The conversation was slipping—tilting from debate into something sharper, more personal. His eyes flashed with a frustration you hadn’t seen aimed at you before.

“I just don’t think you understand what it’s like to lose someone in such a horrific way. You don’t know what it’s like to be the victim of these crimes. I’ve seen them. Treated them.”

His voice hadn’t gotten louder, but it was taut with emotion, heavy with something deeper than irritation. You stared at him—your heart dropping—because there it was, the thing that had lodged under your ribs a month ago on his balcony: a blind spot so large he didn’t even see it.

“That’s a lot of assumptions, Michael,” you said finally. You had paused to let your voice calm, despite the anger boiling in the back of your throat. 

“You basically defended Gloria!” He added. 

“And when the fuck did I do that?”

“When you said both of our jobs are hard.”

You held his gaze. “They probably are. Different ways, sure. But you don’t get to sit here and assume that you’re the only person who has the monopoly on how the world should work.”

“Am I wrong, though?”

“In general? No. But you certainly are determining who does and does not deserve compassion and that’s not a call you can make. Not to mention you can’t just assume I’ve never lost someone or been hurt. We haven’t even been dating for a year.”

“And what? You have?”

“Do you really think I’m going to divulge sensitive history to you right now? When it seems like your reaction will be to dismiss it?”

The shock on his face landed like a small, painful punch. He looked away, toward the bar, shoulders deflating.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” he said quieter. 

“And based on our previous conversation, how was I to know?” 

He looked away towards the bar. Silence stretched between you. You hated it. You hated the heat behind your ribs, the way the evening had turned. You sighed, softening your tone.

“Look, you care so deeply about people—especially people you don’t even know. I think that is one of the best things about you. But my job isn’t to do that. My job is to make sure the state proves its case before throwing someone in jail, even if they plead guilty. The government isn’t a good guy, Robby.”

“No, they aren’t,” he sighed. “Sorry, I think I took my frustration out on you.”

“Oh you definitely did,” you snorted. He had the good sense to look embarrassed. “But I understand where you’re coming from. A lot of people feel weird about my job. But if you can’t deal, we should reevaluate where this is going.”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “I can deal. I just…I lost a patient today and then everything with Gloria compounded.”

“And you bottled it inside?” You asked. He nodded. “Maybe you need a healthier way to deal with that anger than taking it out on your girlfriend.”

He sighed heavily, “You’re right. What do you do?”

“Scream in my car,” you said blandly. It startled a laugh out of him. 

“I walk to work,” he said. 

“Think about how few people would talk to you on the street if you started your walk home with a loud scream.”

Robby snorted, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“Well, I would certainly be the talk of the hospital.”

“See? You’d be so popular.”

He finally allowed himself a real laugh. “Sure, with psychiatry.”

You shrugged. “We could drive to the middle of nowhere and just scream for a bit.”

“Like a joint screaming date?” He asked, amused. 

“Why not?”

“Fuck, might as well,” he laughed. 

And just like that, the two of you found your way back to each other across the table.

-- -- --

Present Day -  11:30 am

You were stretching out a tight spot in your back when Mel finally came in with test results. You barely understood what she was telling you, but you knew enough to realize that Anthony Williams was going to have an uphill battle getting out of this hospital bed. It was frustrating and heartbreaking for a myriad of reasons. Not least of which was how minor his charge was. Misdemeanor theft shouldn’t lead to a kid in a hospital—it shouldn’t lead to anyone in a hospital, but something about this felt particularly unfair. 

“I wish there was more I could do,” Mel said. You could hear the frustration in her voice. 

“The deck seems to be stacked against, Mr. Williams,” you sighed, sitting back down. 

“What happens if he doesn’t make it?” Mel asked tentatively, not taking her eyes away from the man. 

“Honestly, not sure,” you replied. “There will be an investigation, but my ability to intervene typically stops after my client dies. Pennsylania has a uniquely corrupt criminal justice system, but i have a friend in the ACLU who is suing them. I might hand her the case.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“A few years ago a bunch of judges were disbarred for taking bribes from a private prison and sentencing juvelines to extreme sentences for their charges. Essentially taking kickbacks to ensure the prisons are full enough to keep their state funding.” 

“I knew that Dr. Robby wasn’t joking when he was lecturing us about it,” Mel said, still sounding unsettled. “I didn’t realize he meant…this.”

You shifted in your chair, studying her. “He talks to you about that?”

“Oh yeah,” she said, finally tearing her gaze away from Anthony to look at you. “If we get an incarcerated patient or someone brought in with police, he makes sure we know that we’re treating the patient, not the cops. He tells us if we don’t interrogate our biases now, we'll kill someone later because of them.”

You blinked at her, your pen hovering over the page. That didn’t sound like the man you’d fought with across a bar table about compassion and who deserved it. Mel kept talking, unaware that every word felt like it was rearranging the way you had viewed this man for the last two years.

“He had us do a whole teaching conference on incarcerated patients and people in behavioral health holds. All of the attendings are good at making sure we view them as people and not…well, problems, I guess.”

You let out a slow breath. “That doesn’t go over well with everyone, I’m guessing.”

Mel gave you a sheepish smile. “No. But he doesn’t care. I’ve always had a harder time in emergency medicine; I can get kind of emotional. But Dr. Robby told me that the emotion is important to care. Sometimes people need emotion in their corner.”

You looked over at Anthony, at the constellation of injuries mapped across his body, and then back at the closed door where Officer Benning was no doubt glowering at anyone who walked by. The Robby you knew had believed in compassion, yes, but he’d also believed in his own read on who deserved it. He’d talked about victims and families and the horror of what they went through, and he hadn’t been wrong, but he’d spoken as if the rest of the system was at least somewhat fair. As if, on balance, it more or less worked the way it was supposed to. 

This Robby—teaching residents to question authority, to assume the system could be cruel, to see a twenty-year-old ‘prisoner’ as someone the world had failed rather than a problem to be managed—felt like you were coming face-to-face with a whole new person.

“He sounds like he has been a good teacher,” you said finally, keeping your tone even.

Mel nodded. “He really has been. I owe a lot to him. He doesn’t talks about his own mentor, Adamson, a lot. But he’s kind of legendary—we’ve all heard about him. Personally, I think in some ways he sees teaching us as an extension of his appreciation for Adamson, but that’s speculation.”

“Of course,” you replied quietly. You wrote down a few more lines in your notes, the words seemed like gibberish—habit more than anything. Something to do with your hands while Mel pulled the rug out from under you. 

You weren’t sure what to do with this version of him, the one who seemed to have finally taken off the blindfold you’d spent an entire relationship trying to point out. All you knew was that sitting in this room, watching him fight quietly for a kid your old Robby might have viewed with wary distance, made the past feel both closer and more foreign than it had in years.

-- -- --

June 2023

You were sick. Sick as a dog, sick. You had a hacking cough, congestion and more sinus pressure than you knew what to do with. Calling in sick to work was more stressful than it was to just be sick at work. You had three court hearings today and it’s not like you could easily reschedule them. 

Donning a mask, you made your way to the office–wearing your most comfortable work pants and blouse. You grabbed your files and made your way across the street to the court house. Taz, the security guard on the north entrance, took one look at you and simply waved you through. 

“You look rough,” he said, as you walked by. 

“What everyone wants to hear, Taz, thank you,” you croaked. 

“Girl, do you think a judge can even understand you like this?” he asked. 

“Don’t be mean to me,” you complained. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to be.” 

“Hmm, all right. Do you want me to grab you a tea or something from our break room? It’s free and I know y’all don’t get paid much more than we do,” he said. 

“Taz, I would literally die for you if you did that,” you said, far more pitifully than intended. 

“Well, don’t do that,” he replied with a frown on his face. “We like having you around here. Wouldn’t want whatever monster cold you’ve come down with to take you out.” 

“You’re the best,” you told him. 

He disappeared behind the check-in desk and came back out with a disposable coffee cup full of steeping green tea. 

“If you ever need anything, I got you,” you said. 

“Well, hopefully I don’t ever need your kind of helpful,” he replied. Quieter he added, “but we’ve both met some of these cops, huh?” 

You snorted and waved as you made your way to your courtroom. 

The hearings were simple, thankfully, and they allowed you to check in with your clients. You kept the mask on when in close contact with people, but when addressing the court—and staying far away from anyone else—you removed it so people could hear you. 

When you finally made it back to your office, you collapsed into your chair and with one look at your inbox knew you weren’t capable of any type of high level thinking. It was a shame, because you had a date with Robby tonight that you were looking forward to. He had been on night shifts for a while and it had been nearly two weeks since you both had seen each other; only communicating via texts and quick phone calls. 

You dialed his number on your way to your car and was surprised when he picked up, 

“Hey,” he said cheerfully. 

“I thought you were working today?” You replied. The horrible croak in your voice couldn’t be disguised even over the phone. 

“You sound terrible.” 

“You’re not the first person to say so,” you sighed. “I think I’m cancelling our date tonight. I can’t even answer emails right now. I want to go and melt into my bed, I think.” 

“Well, I traded shifts with one of our other attendings, so if you want me to, can I come by?” 

“I don’t want to get you sick, though,” you whined. 

“Incredibly enough, I doubt you’ll get me sick. I have a pretty good immune system after all these years,” he rumbled. 

“Come over,” you grumbled. 

“How generous you’re being,” he replied. You could hear the smile on his face. 

“Fuck off.” 

“Want me to bring you anything?” 

“Does it make me a bad person if I ask for a milkshake and fries instead of chicken soup or whatever the fuck you’re meant to eat when sick?” 

“As long as you have some actual protein, I will bring you a milkshake and fries,” he said. The laughter in his voice was evident. 

“Fine, I’ll have protein.” 

“Drink at least one water bottle when you get home please,” he added. 

“Anything else, Doctor?” you asked sarcastically. 

“Take ibuprofen or something, I can tell you’re running a fever from here.” 

“Well, I didn’t know they taught you how to diagnose over the phone in medical school.” 

“I don’t think you’d sound this pitiful on purpose.” 

“I do not sound pitiful!” You exclaimed getting in your car. The exhaustion rested heavy against your bones and you took a few deep breaths before turning your car on. 

“You’re right, ‘pitiful’ is an understatement.” 

“You’re mean. I want a large milkshake now and I’m not paying you back,” you grumbled. 

Robby’s laughter was the last thing you heard before you hung up on him. 

Despite your complaining, you did follow his instructions when you got home. You chugged your water bottle and then refilled it and chugged it again. Then took the medicine that he instructed. By the time Robby let himself in, you were in ratty pajamas curled up on your couch covered in blankets and pillows. 

“Decided to make a blanket fort, too?” he asked, kneeling down in front of your face. 

With the back of his hand, he felt your forehead and then his fingers slid against your neck to feel your pulse. 

“Are you evaluating me right now?” you asked. 

He shushed you. 

“Did you fucking shush me?” 

“You’re a terrible patient.” 

“You’re not my doctor,” you snapped. 

“Do you want your milkshake or not?” 

“Yes please,” you pouted. 

Allowing Robby to pull you up into a seated position, he handed you a to-go container. With a chicken sandwich, fries and a milkshake. 

“Thank you,” you said, when he sat next to you. He was on the opposite end of the couch, held in place by about a half dozen blankets. 

“You’re welcome. Have you gone to the doctor?” 

“It’s just a cold,” you replied. 

“I also would like you to take a COVID test,” he said softly. There was an anxious twinge in his voice you didn’t like hearing, so you shoved your hand out of your blanket cocoon and he popped a box in your palm. 

“Can I finish eating first?” 

“Sure.” 

Once you had eaten, he threw away your trash and kneeled down in front of you again. He gently took the box from your hand and instead of letting you take the COVID test, he did it for you. It felt weird letting your boyfriend shove a q-tip in your nose and you couldn’t help but say, 

“Is this foreplay for you?” 

“You’re annoying when you’re sick.” 

“Take that back. I’m always annoying,” you replied. 

He chuckled to himself as he finished preparing and executing the test. When he stood to throw the trash away he planted a kiss on the top of your head and you felt it sink through your body all the way to your toes. 

“Thank you for coming over,” you said. It was nice to feel bad with company. 

“Anything for you,” he replied, setting a timer on his phone for the test. “I don’t think you have COVID, but your cough is terrible. You should really go to the doctor.” 

“But I’m tired,” you whined. Robby gave you a flat look and you sighed, “Fine. I’ll go to the doctor.” 

“Thank you,” he said. “COVID wasn’t long enough ago for me not to worry.” 

You fell into a companionable silence until Robby’s phone time went off and he got up to check the test. 

“COVID free,” he said with more relief than you were comfortable hearing in his voice. How anxious was he that you had gotten COVID? The height of the disease had been over two years ago, and despite being fully vaccinated, he seemed terrified that you had gotten ill with it. But still he seemed to be able to take a breath and ease down on the couch next to you.  

“It’s because you brought me a milkshake,” you told him. He smiled and rolled his eyes at you. 

-- -- --

Present Day - 12:00 pm

You spent another hour or so alone in the hospital room, desperately trying not to notice if Robby walked by. You worked on parole packets, answered countless emails, wrote a recommendation letter, you even started your taxes—all in an effort to distract you from the man that had lightly haunted you for the past two years. It didn’t work. 

You knew he didn’t wear cologne or even strong smelling deodorant at work, but you could swear every time he walked by you could smell him. Distant calls of his name made you look up suddenly, and each time Anthony Williams’ monitors beeped you waited with baited breath to see who walked in to check on him. 

More often than not it was Perlah. 

She was as witty and dry humored as ever. And yet, she was tender and gentle with Anthony. Despite his unconscious state, she spoke to him like he was awake. There was an odd emotion building in your throat. It felt like a mixture of respect and appreciation. The kindness Perlah doled out was not unappreciated. 

Still, you spoke very little to the staff beyond getting informative updates and logging them for evidence. 

Around lunch time you realized that in your rush to get to the hospital, you hadn’t grabbed your lunchbox from the break room fridge. Your stomach grumbled and you began debating the merits of leaving your post for food versus the risk of missing something. 

The door opened and without looking up you knew it was Robby. 

“We’re taking him to get another CT,” the man said softly. 

“Okay,” you replied, making a note of the time. You knew the hospital records would reflect everything, but being cautious was the name of the game. 

“I…I, uh, grabbed you lunch and a coffee,” Robby said, handing over the small cafeteria salad and coffee. “I remembered you really liked those salad we have here and, uh, if your coffee order is the same—well, there’s some caffeine.”

You took the food and coffee from him. There was a dusting of a blush on his face. He stepped out of the way—much closer to you—in order to allow the techs to roll Mr. Williams out, the guard followed at a distance being unceremoniously blocked by the tiny Perlah. 

“Thank you.”

“It is good to see you,” Robby said. 

You were really sure how to reply to that; mainly because you weren’t sure if it was good to see Robby. Every time he walked by or spoke to you, even in a completely professional manner, it felt like poking a bruise you thought had healed. It technically wasn’t creating more damage but it sure hurt. 

“I’m glad you’re doing well,” you settled on saying. It wasn’t a lie, but it didn’t echo his sentiment. 

He glanced over at the large screens over Dana’s kingdom. Shifting from foot to foot, he surprised you by sitting down in the chair next to your own. His long legs stretched out and almost bumped against yours. It took all of your self control not to move them back. Even without looking down you were hyper aware of his presence. 

“I’m glad Mr. Williams has you,” Robby said. “I’m glad he has someone like you in his corner.”

“Oh, uh…thank you,” you replied, though it sounded more like a question. 

“I just wanted to make sure you don’t need anything else. I know that you get cold, so I could see about grabbing you an extra jacket or maybe one of the blankets…”

Suddenly, though perhaps it really wasn’t, perhaps it had been building all morning, your body washed cold. The anger and grief that you thought you had processed all those years ago welled up and crashed against your ribs begging to burst out and wail on Robby. 

How dare he bring you lunch? How dare he keep remembering you in such gentle ways? How dare he sit there like he didn’t call you the devil last time you spoke? 

You stood suddenly. “I can’t fucking do this.”

Striding from the room, you quickly skirted around milling medical workers and patients until you were outside and slightly beyond the reach of the ambulance bay. Robby’s presence was suffocating and infuriating and heartbreaking. Maybe it hadn’t been poke a bruise, maybe it had been picking at scab that hadn’t healed—maybe it would never heal. 

“Fuck,” you croaked, squatting against the building, hoping beyond hope for a peaceful five minutes to collect yourself so you could go back inside and pretend to be fine and untouchable until tonight when you would go to yoga and probably cry during shavashna. 

Squatting on your heels, the palms of your hand squished against your eyes causing dancing spots to trail across your vision, you heard your name. Robby was still a few paces away, but you could hear his footsteps approaching. 

In your mind's eye, you briefly imagined pushing him in front of an incoming ambulance. It wasn’t practical nor legal, but the thought gave you a modicum of comfort. 

“Not now, please,” you said. You couldn’t even find it in you to be horrified at how tearful you sounded.

“What happened? I thought…well, I didn’t think…” he trailed off. 

“Robby, I can’t do this.”

“I just want to know what I did, so I don’t do it again,” he replied. He sounded as sad as you did and for some reason, that swallowed the grief and sadness, replacing it with the fiery anger and fury that had been neatly tucked away in a small pocket of your heart.

“Fuck off,” you almost laughed, wiping your tears away and standing. “What you did?”

“Look, I know how we ended was—”

“Cruel. You were cruel,” you said. The blood pumping in your ears made it nearly impossible to tell how loud you were being. “Do you remember one of the last things you said to me?”

Robby grew pale and shook his head. 

“You said the devil had no need for an advocate when I was around,” you hissed. “You—you were so mean and nasty and you broke my heart. And then I spend years trying to get over it. I spend years trying to convince myself that someone somewhere might not see me as an awful monster.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but you kept going. 

“I never wavered in my love of this job, you know. It sucks. Every day there is some new horror I’m faced with, but what I do makes a difference. The world is better, or Pittsburgh is better, because I do this job. And someone else would replace me if I left, but I haven’t. Did you know that I was named Assistant Director for the Allegheny Public Defenders while we were dating? I didn’t tell you because I couldn’t stomach the shitty judgment I knew I would get.”

“Sweetheart,” croaked Robby. 

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you nearly spit. “Don’t call me that. You basically said you hated me. So no, you don’t get to be familiar and friendly with me today. You don’t get to remember my favorite salad or remember my coffee order.”

The tears welled up in your eyes again. 

“Fuck you for thinking you could break my heart, break me, and think that you retained the right to remember me. You hated me, Robby. I’ve never been as hated as I was by you, don’t know what that’s like? For one of the people you care about most in the world, someone who should care about you back, to despise you? To think you’re evil? Just…” you took an angry breath, “just leave me alone. Talk to me only about Mr. Williams, and we can go back to pretending the other person doesn’t exist tomorrow. You can stop pretending not to hate me or whatever.”

For the first time since your rage against him started you looked at him. He looked, well, he looked like you imagine you did. Devastated and broken hearted and like one gust of wind could knock you over. Well, that was his problem. You brushed past him and managed to bump into Dana. 

“Where’s the bathroom?”

She looked up at you sharply and simply pointed down a hall. You nodded and rushed off, not before noticing how she began to walk in the direction you came from. 

Good, she can deal with her pet emotionally stunted doctor. Robby’s inability to deal with how he feels was no longer your problem. Your only problem now was to hide how puffy your eyes were from crying and compose yourself for the next inevitable fight with Officer Benning. 

When you finally found yourself back in th hospital room things had drastically changed. You had only been in the bathroom less than ten minutes and yet you somehow found yourself in the middle of a western stand off. Two police officers had spawned in your absence and they seemed to be staring down Mel, Perlah, and to your muted surprise, Robby. 

“You are not taking this man anywhere,” Robby said in a voice you’d never heard from him before. 

“We have orders,” tall cop said. 

He looked too young to radiate the amount of confidence that he spoke with. He was far too confident for someone who held a gun and—as you liked to remind everyone around you—a monopoly on violence. His use of violence was always justified, not true for anyone else. His partner to his left seemed bored. She leaned more than stood. 

“Orders from whom?” You asked, tugging on your blazer. 

“Who are you?” Tall cop asked. 

“I’m Anthony Williams’ attorney,” you said simply. 

Officer Benning, who had been standing towards the back with a gleeful look on his face, spoke up, “She’s a public defender.”

You didn’t react, but out of the corner of your eye saw Perlah scoff. 

“We have orders from our sergeant and the warden of the state prison to transfer him to the in-unit medical facility,” the female cop said. 

“Not without a court order,” you said. “Right now there’s an internal investigation occurring in regard to Mr. Williams’ injuries. IA and the presiding judge need to sign off on moving orders.” 

“Look, we were just told to pick him up and drive him north,” Tall cop said. 

“And how do you plan to do that?” Robby asked. “You arrived in a cop car. The patient is not in a state to be transferred, but certainly won’t be walking out of here to sit in the backseat.”

“Can’t you put him in wheel chair?” The female cop asked. 

Robby’s jaw tightened. “Are you asking me to put a patient who should be in the ICU in a wheel chair so you can toss him in the back of your cop car?” 

“Yes?”

“Do you hear yourself?” 

It sounded like something you would say, but it came from Robby’s lips. 

“That’s a person. A human being. Someone who is our neighbor—and you want to treat him with such blatant disrespect?” 

You weren’t sure if you shocked look was showing on your face or not. But Robby wasn’t looking at you. It seemed like he had forgotten you were even in the room. 

“Mel, what are the possible outcomes of such an egregious transfer on an unstable patient in Mr. Williams’ condition?” Robby asked. 

Mel began to rattle off medical jargon that simply went over your head. The whole time you were staring at Robby. Briefly, you wondered if this was an elaborate ploy to prove to you wrong—to prove he was…better, maybe? But that didn’t sound right. Robby was petty at times, but not like that. No, instead you thought back to what Dana had mentioned so many hours ago. Perhaps he had really changed. Perhaps he was really different. 

Once Mel finished, you jumped in. 

“What are your names?” You asked grabbing your notebook. The power of a lawyer and a notebook could not be understated. It struck fear into many a cop and prison guard alike. 

“Greggs and Frobishire,” the woman said, bored. 

“What precinct?”

“The one-twelve,” Greggs replied in the same bored tone. 

“Oh perfect, I know Rodney,” you said calling their sergeant by his first name. 

The only thing worse than a public defender writing down your names was when she knew your sergeant by his first name. You reveled in the way they recoiled. Grand conspiracies weren’t wildly common (neither were they wildly uncommon), but more often it was people calling in favors and taking advantage of structures that didn’t have built in check points. Favorable situations were spotted by clever people and exploited. 

If you had to guess Benning had called the warden who called Rodney who hadn’t been informed about the reality of the situation. As much as you were anti-cop, Rodney was about as good as they came. Your job would be a lot easier if the police force was filled with more Anthony’s. 

You pulled out your phone and dialed the precinct number. While it rang, you said, “My boss just received an injunction order preventing any further communication with this patient, so let’s leave the room and allow the doctors to complete their work.”

Jan had sent over the injunction order while you had been having a small bathroom breakdown about facing your ex boyfriend. You had seen it come across your phone and then proceeded to blubber for another five minutes. 

“Rodney?” You said as he picked up and you ushered the cops and guard out of the room, “Hi how are you? Tell me, how up to date are you on the situation of Anthony Williams?”

You watched as the faces of the people in front of you spasmed. It never got old, being the stanchion in the way of people who believed they could bulldoze across those less powerful; it certainly wasn’t old now watching Benning’s face grow more and more red. As you continued your conversation with the sergeant of the 112, Greggs and Frobishire began to inch farther and farther away from the unconscious body of Anthony Williams. It wasn’t a long phone call. Nor did it take long for Rodney to call the officers back to the precinct. 

“Don’t you get it?” Benning hissed. “This man is dangerous and you’re putting everyone in the hospital at risk.” 

“This man has rights,” Robby sighed. He looked exhausted and you weren’t sure if it was from the intense stand off you just had with Bennings and the cops, or because of the intense personal stand off the two of you just had not twenty minutes earlier. “And whether you respect them or not is irrelevant. This man is not leaving without my approval, his attorney’s, nor our legal and administrative team. Because guess what?” 

You stood a little mesmerized as Robby stepped forward towards Benning. Robby wasn’t as bulky as the prison guard, but he was taller and just slightly broader. 

“I can call my boss, too. And I can guarantee she is much scarier than yours,” he continued simply. 

In a tiny alcove of your brain–one you hadn’t known even existed until this moment–you realized that might be the hottest thing you’ve ever seen Robby do, and you’d experienced his above average bedroom skills. 

He glanced at you quickly; you were unsure what exactly your face looked like, but he seemed to flush at your gaze. Greggs and Frobishire exited not long after that and Benning returned to his post right outside the door of Anthony Williams tiny ER room. 

“Mel, let Gloria know what’s going on down here. She’ll want to make sure legal is in the building and nearby in case this happens again,” Robby said after Benning finally took his leave. “Even with his lawyer in the ED they still tried to take him; I want eyes on this room at all time.” 

“Got it, Dr. Robby.” 

“Include all of this in your chart, too,” he added. “And see if the CT results are back yet.” 

“I’ll page you when I’ve had a chance to look at them,” she replied as she headed out the door.  

There was a moment, a split second really, when you realized you were alone with Robby again. During your relationship with him, during all of your relationships really, you had prided yourself on being even keeled, emotionless during arguments and fights. You never raised your voice. You didn’t need to. 

But if you weren’t careful, and there were plenty of times you weren’t, your words were sharper and more painful than any raised voice could be. 

It seemed to have shocked Robby, that you had finally reached your threshold. You yelled at him. Raised your voice. And now you both had to go back to being professional like it never happened. Like he hadn’t seen you finally reach a breaking point that he caused. 

“Thank you,” you said quietly. 

“Doing my job,” he said gruffly. 

You snorted. “No, you weren’t.” 

He just hummed and busied himself with Mr. Williams monitors. You knew next to nothing about the medical world–it was hard to tell if he was actually doing something or just trying to look busy. 

“I heard you earlier,” Robby said quietly. “I am going to respect your space, but I just wanted to apologize for not getting it while we were together. I’m sorry I didn’t understand what you were telling me.” 

You weren’t sure what to say to that. But it made your chest ache and you couldn’t find the strength to respond. 

“I just…” he trailed off. “You made me better, even if I didn’t pick up on it until after you left.” 

He left the room and you weren’t sure if you were relieved he didn’t give you time to respond or sad. If he had stayed, you doubted you would have known what to say. 

Whoever this Robby was, he was fundamentally different from the man you knew. 

-- -- --

September 2023

Robby was reading when you walked into his condo. You had just celebrated your one year anniversary and as much as you enjoyed dating Robby, there was this fear in the back of your head that he really wasn’t as “okay” with your job as he pretended to be. He still made odd comments about some of your clients here and there, but most of the time when you brought up the specifics of your job he tended to change the subject. 

“Hey,” he said, setting down his book. You couldn’t tell what it was from where you stood, easing off your heels. “Court day?” 

“Yes, fuck those heels,” you grumbled collapsing against him. “They were sent from hell to kill me.” 

“You must feel important that something was sent from hell to kill you, then.” 

“You’re not funny.” You had a small smile on your face. 

“Sure,” he replied, leaning over to kiss you. 

The kiss was chaste at first, but there was still a fire brewing inside of you after your day and it wasn’t long until you were pulling Robby closer, deepening the kiss. It definitely wasn’t long until you were stripping off your blazer and throwing one of your legs over his laps. 

“Is this okay?” you asked a little breathlessly. 

“More than,” he replied. Beneath you, he looked flushed and a little shocked at the turn of events, but his hands held on tightly as you adjusted your weight over him. It wasn’t long until you felt his arousal against your legs. 

You were a little more aggressive than you would normally be. With one hand fisted in his hair, you tilted his neck so you could kiss and nip at his skin more effectively. Robby's skin was a little dry from the fall air, but even that couldn’t discourage you when the sounds he was making went straight to your core. 

“What brought this on?” he asked, panting when you finally pulled back. 

“I got a little worked up in court today,” you told him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Fucking Zicarelli was being a bitch.” 

“The District Attorney?” Robby asked, confused. 

“Yeah, I had a client who killed her abuser and that motherfucker was going for the death penalty,” you grumbled. “Insane since no one has been executed in this state since before the turn of the century.” 

“Why would he go for the death penalty?”

“Because the victim was a wealthy and ‘upstanding citizen’ and there was 'no real proof’—whatever that means—he was abusing her. As though her medical records and multiple domestic calls weren’t enough,” you said. Sighing a little you finally said, “So I’m a little pissed. And I figured fucking you would be more productive than toliet papering his house.” 

“Do people still do that?” Robby asked, amused. 

“No idea, but I would. Although I think he lives in an apartment and that’s a lot of effort.” 

“And so you ended up in my lap.” 

“No need to worry about cognitive decline with this level of brain power,” you snarked. Robby rolled his eyes. 

“It sounds like you need to talk about it," he stated, brushing some of your hair out of your face. 

“No,” you replied, grinding down on him, “I need to ride you so well neither of us can walk tomorrow.” 

“You won’t feel better,” he added. 

“I think that’s the pot calling the kettle black.” 

“Do as I say and not as I do?” he replied, but it sounded more like a question. 

Taking a deep breath, you eased off his flagging erection and sat back on his legs. He seemed content to let you continue sitting on his lap as you talked through your day. 

“I can’t say much about the case, although I guess it’s all public record now,” you mused. “My client was being abused and her husband threatened to kill their baby. She snapped and shot him with his shotgun. His family is rich. They are also donors to Zicarelli.”

“So you think he’s more motivated to seek harsher penalties?” Robby inquired. He was stroking your thighs through your work slacks. It was grounding as you thought back to your miserable day in court. 

“I don’t know how directly they are truly correlated. More like they exist in the same circles and that tends to breed loyalty. He played every dirty trick in the book. He ‘forgot’ to disclose evidence in discovery, he added a witness last minute—all things I couldn’t prepare for. Not to mention the victim’s family donated to the judge’s campaign too–same circles and shit, so he wasn’t willing to cut me some slack or hear a motion to strike some of the prejudicial statements from the record. It felt like they were ganging up on this woman because she finally stood up for herself.” 

“Maybe, but she also killed someone, babe,” Robby said softly. 

“I’m well aware of that, Michael. I saw the crime scene photos,” you snapped. His lap suddenly didn’t feel near as comforting as it had a few moments ago. 

“Maybe it isn’t a conspiracy, but they’re doing their jobs—seeking justice for the man who was murdered.” 

“It wasn’t murder, though. It was self-defense. He beat her,” you nearly snarled, getting off of his lap and standing. You began to pace. “Her medical records could be used as a textbook example of abuse.” 

“It’s hard to prove abuse just from medical records,” he disagreed. 

“No offense, but I think I’m more familiar with what abuse looks like than you are,” you snapped. “Nearly every single female client, and even some of my male clients, have been abused by a partner. This man alienated her from her family, locked down her access to money and the real world, and then when she upset him, he made sure he hurt her where no one could see.” 

“I’m not saying he didn’t abuse her,” Robby defended. “I’m just saying that it doesn’t excuse murder.” 

“And I’m telling you that if she didn’t kill him, she would have been dead. Likely with their kids,” you exclaimed. “I don’t think she should get away without recompense—although, I wouldn’t necessarily be opposed—but she shouldn’t be facing the fucking death penalty!” 

“Plenty of people are abused everyday and they don’t kill another human,” Robby huffed. 

You stared down at the man on the couch in front of you gobsmacked. This man, who cared so deeply for his patients and the community he served was sitting in front of you completely unable to sympathize with a woman who had been abused by her husband. 

“And a lot of those people are killed, Michael. Surely you know the statistics?” 

“Of course I know the statistics,” Robby said. “But I also know that real life can’t be neatly summarized by numbers.” 

“Okay? What does that have to do with my client and the poor behavior of the district attorney?” 

“Maybe he just didn’t want to see someone escape justice.” 

“Is it justice? Or is it really vengeance because the family has money and friends in government so they can use the state as their personal firing squad?” you shot back. 

“I think that’s a little extreme.” 

You felt your eye twitch. The sour feeling returned to your gut and you couldn’t be in this room any longer. 

“I’ve been doing this job for a long time, Michael. I have seen things that would shake your very dumb belief in our criminal justice system. Sometimes the only answer is to burn it down,” you snapped. You grabbed your blazer from the ground. “I think I need to leave. I’m really pissed and I don’t want to say something I’ll regret.” 

“C’mon, sweetheart—”

“Don’t start with me, Michael. If I stay I’ll say something mean, and neither of us want that.” 

“You’re serious?” 

“Yeah, I fucking am. You just sat there and implied that you think that there is a good reason the district attorney, a man I have repeatedly said is not trustworthy, is above board seeking the death penalty against a battered woman!” 

“I’m just saying that there were other options than murder!” 

“And I’m saying that you can’t make that call when you don’t know what her life was. It was hell, Michael. Absolutely hell. Get the fuck off your high horse and recognize that sometimes violence isn’t always the actions of an evil person. Sometimes violence is the response of someone with very few other bad choices.” 

You didn’t wait for him to reply. Instead of trying to put your shoes back on, you grabbed them along with your bag and walked out his door. You slid your heels back on in the elevator and once you got to your car, you allowed yourself a deep, shuddering breath. 

That sour feeling still sat heavy in your gut. 

-- -- --

Present Day - 7:30 pm

The rest of your day was spent in Anthony Williams hospital room. Dana brought you a sandwich for dinner, but you noticed she didn’t make eye contact with you. It was nice to know that Robby had people in his corner—even if his corner was defined by being a piece of shit. As the day shift slowly transitioned to the night shift, you let our a breath of relief. It meant Robby was going home. His last update had essentially been telling you not to get your hopes up, that it was unlikely Anthony Williams would last through the night. 

Shortly after shift change you saw Jack, Robby’s friend, and he introduced Cassie McKay. Except, you already knew Cassie McKay. 

“Robby filled me in,” Jack said, stepping in the tiny hospital room.

“On which part?” You asked blandly. Snorting, Jack replied, 

“Medical and personal.” 

“Hmm,” you replied. 

“Mind if I bring a resident in on this?” 

“Are they as good as Mel?” You asked, making Jack laugh. 

“Of course they are.” 

A few minutes later, you saw Cassie walk through the door. 

“This is Cassie McKay, she’s a third year,” Jack said. 

The problem with this is due to the fact you knew Cassie. You had been her attorney during her ongoing assault charges. You had been given the case because her ex-husband’s family was rich and you were uncowed by those with money. It also meant that you couldn’t disclose that relationship, so you stood and smiled. 

“Nice to meet you, Dr. McKay,” you replied. 

Cassie laughed. “It’s nice and very ethical of you to pretend we don’t know each other.” 

“Oh?” Jack asked. 

“She got me on probation and an ankle monitor, instead of jail time,” Cassie told Jack. “She also helped keep me out of jail after Pittfest last year.” 

“Fucking ankle monitor bullshit,” your grumbled the same time Jack said, 

“Cops trying to arrest you after the biggest mass shooting our city had seen was beyond unreasonable. Robby and I about lost our shit.” 

Oh. That meant Cassie was the resident Robby had mentioned this morning. What a small, terribly-too connected world. 

“Doing my job,” you said simply. “How up to date are both of you on what’s happening with Mr. Williams? 

“Oh, we’re well aware of the showdown you and Robby had with the state of Pennsylvania,” Cassie replied, laughing. 

“I wouldn’t call it a showdown,” you hedged. 

“Well, it made them stand down for now, whatever it was,” Jack said. “Are you getting tagged out at all?” 

“No, not tonight. I was scheduled for night court anyways, so they switched me to this. So it will be a nice change compared to getting our favorite drunk and disorderlies out on bail,” you replied lightly. 

“That happened one time and I was not drunk,” Jack grumbled. 

“You sure as hell were disorderly, though,” you commented with a small smile on your face. 

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” he said. 

“You’ve been arrested?” Cassie asked, surprised. 

“I have been a lot of things. This hospital doesn’t know everything about me, McKay,” he commented lightly. 

“But she seems to,” grumbled the doctor. You laughed. 

“My clients get the same confidentiality, Cassie,” you replied. 

“Is that what I am to you? Only a client?” Jack asked. Your stomach swooped uncomfortably. 

You couldn’t exactly say, “No actually, you're the best friend of the man that tore me inside out, and then a few months later got into a bar fight where I had to get your ass out of the drunk tank and then get your charges dropped.”

So instead you said, “It’s unethical for you to be anything else.” 

“Whatever you say, counselor,” he replied, winking. Jack had always been a bit of a flirt. It was, perhaps, the most normal thing that occurred today. 

“Do you want to increase the pressors, Abbot?” Cassie asked looking at Anthony Williams’ monitors. 

“Yes, maybe it will help his heart rate as well,” Jack hummed. They began to speak in medical jargon that went so far over your head you could barely remember what they said. 

“I’ll let Dr. Robby know about the changes,” she said, moving to leave. 

“Dr. Robinavitch is still here?” You asked. The tension that had been sitting heavy on your frame all day had returned. You looked over at Jack who was dutifully avoiding eye contact. 

“Oh yeah, he is pretty invested in the case and wants to be here as the chief attending in case anything else goes awry,” Cassie said. It was hard to tell if she picked up on your tension. But she certainly caught the awkwardness that Jack brought—well, more than normal. “What am I missing?” 

“Nothing,” Jack said the same time you said, 

“Nothing relevant to Mr. Williams.” 

“Ooo-kay,” she drawled. “Well, that’s not ominous. I’ll go put in the orders and update Robby.” 

“Thanks, McKay,” Jack said. 

When Cassie had left the room, you stared down the man in front of you. “Still here?” 

“He’s…invested in the case.” 

“Jack.” 

“He won’t come bother you. He’s not the doctor of Mr. Williams right now. He really only wants to be here for backup.” 

“I’ll poke him in the eye if I see him,” you grumbled. 

“Well, it’s not a bad place to poke someone in the eye.” 

Against your will, you huffed out a little laugh. “Level with me, Jack. What are the kid’s chances?” 

Jack sighed and looked down at the tablet with the chart. “Not good. We’re throwing everything we can at him. If he makes it to discharge tomorrow, he’ll get a bed in ICU. Robby called in a few favors.” 

“Robby did?” Your surprise was evident.

“He’s…not different, necessarily, more like he evolved some,” Jack said. 

“All because of me?” You snorted disbelievingly. 

“He say that?” Jack asked. You nodded making Jack snort his own disbelieving sound. “You certainly started it. That breakup knocked him on his ass for a long time. He still hasn’t talked about it.” 

“He doesn’t come off well in the tale,” you grumbled. 

“I have no doubt,” Jack nodded. He eased in the seat next to you and steepled his fingers for a moment, thinking. “After my little…indescretion, we had a guy from the state prison come in with complications from cancer. He had murdered a couple in their car during the ninties or something. Made away with like fifty bucks.” 

“Where is this going?” 

“Robby hated that he was here. Hated that he wasn’t in a state prison run hospital. I wasn’t here, so I couldn’t shake some sense into his dumb skull,” Jack said. He wasn’t looking at you, but kept his eyes on Anthony Williams. “He was so…cautious, I suppose, about the man, he only allowed himself and Perlah to treat him.” 

You snorted. “That sounds about right.” 

“And I have no idea what happened in that room, but they came out a couple days later as friends.” 

“You’re shitting me.” 

“Not even a little bit.” 

“He befriended a convicted murderer?” You asked shocked. 

“Mm-hmm. Continued visiting him after he was sent back to prison once he was stable.” 

“So I spent almost two years begging him to see their humanity and he did it for someone else?” 

“You could see it that way,” Jack agreed. “Or you could see it as a man who heard all the things you were saying and when he finally interacted with it in a more substantial way, it finally clicked. It’s one thing to see the poor and small time criminals that we normally get. We don’t often deal with the people you deal with. It’s hard, I think, to understand we’re just one bad day away from being them until you come face to face with it.” 

You sat there long after Jack left, the room settling back into its familiar rhythm—the soft hiss of oxygen, the steady beeps of the monitors, and the faint murmur of voices drifting in from the hallway. Anthony Williams hadn’t moved. His chest still rose and fell with mechanical assistance. You watched it because it was easier than letting your thoughts fully percolate.

It hurt in a way that felt almost petty to admit, even to yourself. You had loved Robby. You had argued with him carefully, patiently, sometimes angrily, about the things he refused to see. 

You had tried to hand him the language, the framework, the moral through-line, hoping he would meet you there. Instead, he’d dug in. He’d told you you were being too naive and unrealistic. He hadn’t wanted to grow with you. And now—now he was standing his ground for a stranger, for a kid he’d never met before today, for someone whose name he’d only learned because the system had nearly killed him.

You didn’t begrudge his previous patient or Anthony Williams. In some way, you were grateful for it; that it resulted in defense of the broken man in the bed next to you. The timing was fucking shit, though. You hated that Robby’s growth arrived too late for the two of you, that it had required distance and damage and silence before it could take root and sprout into something substantial. It felt unfair—useful and necessary, sure, but still deeply personal in its cost.

And yet.

You couldn’t deny the quiet pride that lingered behind the hurt. You had been right. The things you had tried to teach him weren’t theoretical anymore. They now had consequence he could see and feel. He was using his authority the way you had always believed it should be used: not to sort the deserving from the undeserving, but to slow the banal bulldozing of a person by an uncaring system long enough that hopefully they could survive it. 

You pressed your pen to the margin of your notebook, trying to ground yourself. Maybe this was what it meant to love someone and leave them. Not to stop caring whether they became better, but to accept that you wouldn’t always be the reason. That the seeds you planted might grow a tree whose shade you’d never stand beneath. 

-- -- --

October 2023

It had barely been a month since your last fight about Zicarelli seeking the death penalty. Things were still fragile between you—patched over only because Robby apologized for snapping at you. It wasn’t the full conversation you’d hoped for, but you also weren’t sure you could handle a breakup on top of everything else happening at work.

So you kept things to yourself. You didn’t tell him when the State Association of Public Defenders gave you an award, or when one of your clients was finally found innocent. You didn’t mention your promotion to Assistant Director, either. You knew that if you couldn’t share moments like these with him—moments that were important and celebratory, but about work—you couldn’t keep pretending this relationship was sustainable.

But it was hard to reconcile those doubts with the man who showed up for you so consistently in other parts of your life. The man who took care of you when you were sick without hesitation, who fought bitterly for his patients and residents, who never stopped arguing for resources for his safety-net hospital. He worked with the street team without complaint, showing a level of compassion most people didn’t. And yet something about your job snagged on him, you doubted he was all that conscious of it. 

He was sweet and attentive, carrying more COVID-era trauma than he admitted, but kind despite all of it. Kind—until you reminded him that you defended people accused of murder.

So you shouldn’t have been surprised when you went over for your weekly dinner and he ambushed you about your newest case, the one that had turned into a minor media circus.

The irony was that being a public defender hadn’t even been your plan. You went to law school aiming to be a prosecutor. Then one presentation from a Philadelphia County Public Defender turned your entire sense of purpose on its head, and you never looked back. You loved the work. You believed in it deeply. 

But whenever you talked about your job—specifically that you defended people accused of violent crimes—Robby slipped into a worldview you recognized in so many others: that there were two kinds of defendants, those who deserved a lawyer and those who didn’t.

You couldn’t even fault him for it at first. The world conditioned people to think that way, especially in a culture convinced that anyone touched by the criminal legal system is already guilty of something larger than the charge.

It didn’t help that your newest client, already buried under an intense media frenzy, was exactly the sort of person the public decided wasn’t “worthy” of defense at all. He’d been accused of felony assault of a nurse. Normally your caseload was full of more violent felonies, but because this case was becoming a public relations nightmare, your boss assigned you as attorney of record.

You weren’t surprised Robby didn’t love the case; you were surprised by how fast the argument flared when you mentioned the news report that listed your name. It felt like it came out of nowhere—except it hadn’t. It had been building for months.

“Well I’m not exactly happy about it,” Robby grumbled.

He sat back from the table, arms crossed, the vein in his temple starting to pulse. You could see the tension in his jaw, the faint tremor in his hand as he tried to keep his voice even.

“About what? That I’m doing my job and can’t get your personal approval for each case I take?”

Your voice was sharper than intended. Maybe you shouldn’t have gone from zero to one hundred, but it felt like you all had gone through this conversation before. 

“I would have appreciated a heads up.”

“I can’t give you a heads up,” you grumbled. “Attorney client privilege.”

“Not even when the newspaper quotes you saying that your client deserves a “robust defense in a court of law”?” Challenged Robby.

“He does!” You exclaimed. “Everyone does. Even people you don’t like!”

“It’s not about like!” Robby finally said, with a raised voice. He slammed his hand on the table, silverware rattling. You jumped. “It’s about loyalty! You know how terrible patients are to us. Do you know how it feels to see your girlfriend defend someone who attacked us?”

“You’re accusing me of not being loyal?”

Robby’s eyes were fixed on you, blazing. “If the shoe fits, counselor.”

You leaned forward now. “Do you think I went through our docket trolling for cases that were going to hit a little too close to home? Do you think I sought out ways to hurt you?”

“I just don’t think you care who gets hurt in your defense of these people,” Robby said.

“These people? Elaborate on that one, Michael,” you nearly spit.

“It’s good, important even, to defend poor people from the overreaches of the police, but that’s not what this is. This is someone who was caught on camera punching a nurse. Her nose was broken in three places.”

“And what? Because he may have committed a crime you are particularly sensitive to, the government shouldn’t have to prove their case?”

“He shouldn’t have a chance to get off!” Robby exclaimed. His chair scraped back as he stood, pacing now, hands flexing at his sides. “People cannot treat healthcare workers like punching bags on their bad days!”

“I agree with you! But what if it wasn’t him? What if the camera footage is misleading? What if the cops have some agenda against the guy they arrested and pinned this crime on him?”

“Please, that’s not what’s happening here. I saw the guy’s mug shot and the camera footage,” Robby said. “And the fact that you agree with me but still insist on defending him is insulting.”

“You are not the final arbiter of morality, Robby! Just because you think you know what you saw doesn’t mean my client should forgo a defense.”

“Trying to get him off on a technicality isn’t a defense, it’s…it’s underhanded!”

“Underhanded,” you scoffed. 

“Yeah underhanded. So what if they didn’t fully read his rights or miss a fucking filing date? Criminals shouldn’t get off because of a loophole.” 

“Criminals are human beings. Criminals deserve the same rights that you and I do,” you shot back. 

“Criminals deserve jail! They don’t deserve to hurt my nurses!” 

“That isn’t my problem! My problem is the government not taking advantage of the kind of people you hate. Oppression starts with the people society despises!” 

“C’mon,” scoffed Robby. “That does seem a little dramatic,”

“The trouble with fighting for human freedom is that one spends most of one's time defending scoundrels. For it is against scoundrels that oppressive laws are first aimed, and oppression must be stopped at the beginning if it is to be stopped at all.” You recited. “If that means I represent rapists, murderers, and whoever for the rest of my career, so be it.” 

“And you would feel good about that? Seriously?” Robby asked. 

“Ah, I see now. I always wondered why you were so fucking weird about my job and this is the real reason—you don’t agree with it. You don’t think criminals should have a defense. You think we should lock them up and throw away the key,” you said slowly. “Very ‘do no harm’ of you.”

“Hey, back off. Don’t make this personal.”

You laughed once, bitterly. “And what has this been, then? Not personal? You attacking my character isn’t personal?”

“I think it would make me feel a little better if I knew that you felt somewhat conflicted about it. That it bothered you in some way,” Robby replied. 

“Well, it doesn’t. I don’t think of my clients that way. I think of their cases in terms of what the state, the government—the only institution in our country that has a monopoly on violence, by the fucking way—has to prove in order to take away their freedom.”

“And when they’re guilty and you get them off?” Robby challenged.

“Not my problem, the burden of proof is on the state. If the cops and DA can’t prove their case they don’t get to throw someone in prison.”

“I just don’t understand how you could do it,” scoffed Robby.

He was pacing again, running both hands through his hair now, his movements jerky and restless. The tension in the room was suffocating.

“Then lay it out for me. I must not be as smart as you high and mighty doctor. So explain to me like I’m an idiot. What is wrong with me doing my job?”

There was a silence around the table and you scoffed.

“When you’re my age—” Robby began.

“Oh fuck off,” you laughed. “What? In ten years my moral compass will change? Or do you not think I understand the consequences of my actions?”

“People look at me differently because you’re defending him!” Robby snapped. He pointed at you now, the gesture sharp and trembling.

“Be around better people then,” you replied. “It’s not my problem how people treat you. You knew exactly who I was before we started this. I haven’t hidden anything. I haven’t changed. I’m doing the same job I’ve always done. I’m protecting people from the overreaches of the state. And I’m so sorry you’re understanding of the criminal justice system began and ended with Willie Horton, but read a fucking book and don’t attack someone you claim to care about.”

“You just don’t get it,” Robby said softly, shaking his head. “Every day I worry one of my staff members is going to be injured on the job. We’re harassed, assaulted, yelled at on a daily basis. And as soon as someone finally, finally is willing to take it seriously you jump in trying to make sure justice doesn’t happen.”

“I know. And that is so tremendously unfair. But it’s also not my job to deal with that. My job begins and ends at the court house. I’m trying to ensure justice does happen, Robby. You have to prove someone is guilty. If we don’t then the only thing standing between the two of us and a jail cell is an accusation,” you sighed.

“Wow, how righteous of you,” Robby snapped. 

“Christ, hang up the martyr hat Robby. It’s a bad look,” you snapped.

“Only one of us gets attacked for doing our jobs, and it isn’t you.”

Your jaw tightened. “I’m glad you think so. Next time I get a threatening email, it’ll be nice to know it wasn’t really me they wanted to kill.”

“It’s not a surprise when you defend people who have caused real pain and misery in the world. Why would the devil need an advocate when you’re around.” 

Fucking ouch. 

You blinked at him. “Okay, well, I’m not sure I really want to date someone who thinks so low of me.” 

“I’m not sure I want to date someone I think so low of,” Robby replied back harshly. 

“It would have been really great if you had figured out you hated me before you made me fall in love with you, you absolute bastard.” 

You didn’t wait for a response before walking out the door. As you drove away from his condo, you realized this is what heartbreak felt like. 

Incredible how it really does feel like someone reached inside your chest and squeezed your heart until it burst. Incredible that it was caused by the person you thought cared about you. Incredible that you fell in love with someone who seemed to hate you. 

You were back at your own apartment before you realized you hadn’t told Robby you loved him before that moment. 

But, it didn’t matter because you never heard from him again.

-- -- --

Present Day - 10:00 pm

It happened quickly but not unexpectedly. One minute the room was holding steady in an anxious equilibrium and the next breath found everything tilted. Alarms cut through the air, voices stacking over one another as the bed was flattened. and hands went everywhere at once. Someone called out numbers you didn’t understand. Someone else swore. You pressed yourself back into the corner automatically, spine against the wall, notebook still in your hand like you might take notes on how Anthony Williams died so needlessly. 

The room filled with bodies and motion—determined people who did this everyday and continued to come back for more. You heard Robby’s comment in your head: “Sisyphean.” and you finally understood what he meant. 

Jack was at the foot of the bed, Cassie at Anthony’s side. And then Robby was there—seemingly out of nowhere—sliding into place without hesitation. He took over from Jack, barking out orders trying to keep a young man from dying.

You knew it wouldn’t matter. You knew it with a certainty that settled heavy and cruel in your chest, even as your heart insisted on hoping anyway. The body failing despite everyone’s best efforts. The neglect catching despite the endless efforts of everyone at The Pitt. 

You watched Robby work—his face set, jaw clenched, hands steady and relentless—and the anger flared hot and unproductive. You were angry that Anthony Williams had been twenty years old, scared, and brutalized in a place meant for safety. You were angry that the people fighting hardest for him now were meeting him for the first time at the end. You were angry that Robby finally saw how fucked the system could be, but only when it was too late.

When they finally stopped, the silence was worse than the alarms. Someone called time of death. Robby stood there for a moment longer than necessary, hands still braced on the mattress, chest heaving. You couldn’t look at him. You couldn’t look at Anthony, either. You stared instead at the floor, at the scuffed linoleum, at the spot where your shoe had left a faint mark earlier in the day. 

You felt hollowed out and raw, grief and rage tangled so tightly you couldn’t separate them. You had known this was coming. You had prepared for it professionally, legally, emotionally. And still it felt like a small, brutal theft—another life swallowed by a system that never seemed to pay for what it took.

“What do we do from here?” Cassie asked. She was looking at you. 

Clearing your throat of the anguish that threatened to suffocate you, you said, “I’ll inform the court. Write a report to internal affairs.”

“That’s it?” She asked, her tone was furious. 

“Yeah,” you sighed. “That’s it.”

“And there’s nothing else we can do? Nothing else you can do?”

“Cassie,” Jack said. 

“No! No way! This child was killed but that motherfucker out there and we can’t do anything about it? Fuck that!” She snapped. 

Cassie shucked her gloves off and stormed out of the room. Her exit took your anger with her and all that remained was sadness and the reality of the next steps. 

“Can you send me the death certificate?” You asked no one in particular. “I’ll need to file it with the update.”

“I’ll get it for you,” Jack said. “Don’t take Cassie’s words to heart…she just really cares.”

“It’s not like I’m not feeling the same way,” you huffed. 

Jack squeezed your shoulder as he walked out. The rest of the team began clean up. They covered Anthony Williams body, began unconnecting wires and tubes from him. You continued to stand against the wall, staring at the body of a boy you never really knew. 

“Mel said something earlier,” Robby said, leaning against the wall next to you. 

“Hmm?” Your brain wasn’t full processing his words.

“She mentioned you had a friend at the ACLU, who is suing the state for things like this,” he said softly. You doubted anyone else could hear it. 

“Yeah, I do.”

“Can you tell them about this?”

“I can give them a filing number. They’ll have to file a motion for discovery to get the information I’ll have collected. It will take a second, but yeah, in a roundabout way I can.”

“I’m glad.”

“A really, really small silver lining. Maybe Anthony Williams will get justice in death.”

“Maybe he will. But he also had you to advocate for him—try to keep him alive.”

“I think you did that part.”

“Not very well.”

“Based on what Jack was telling me, I think the only person who could have changed this outcome is God himself.”

“You don’t believe in God.”

“No I do not.” 

The two of you lapsed into silence for a few moments, watching as the bed was rolled out by techs. Eventually facilities would come through and sterilize the room, preparing it for another person. 

“Does it always feel this…bad, when it doesn’t go your way?” 

“Not always,” you replied. “But often.”

“I didn’t know.”

You couldn’t help but snort. “Yeah, I’m aware of that.”

“Let’s get some fresh air while you wait for the paperwork,” Robby said softly. “I don’t think you should be in here any longer.”

Against your better judgement, something you would chalk up to how emotionally strung out you felt in the wake of the day, you followed Robby out of the Pitt, across the street, and to some benches in the park. You both sat on a bench, a stone’s throw away from the place that Robby spent most of his career and you spent one of the worst days of your career. 

The grass beneath your feet was dull and flattened, patches of mud showing through where people had cut corners on the paths. A few lights from the street and the hospital spilled over the trees, casting everything in a tired yellow haze. Robby had sat down beside you, close enough that your knees almost touched, far enough that he wasn’t assuming anything. 

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You stared out at the empty park and tried not to think about how young Anthony had been, how you’d never even spoken to the kid before he died. You really tried not to think about how scared he was. 

“I’m sorry it didn’t work,” Robby said finally. His voice was hoarse and you heard his own grief. 

“For what?”

He snorted humorlessly. “Everything, I guess. But specifically that we couldn’t save him.” 

“Is this how you feel when you lose a patient?” You asked, mirroring Robby’s own question from before. 

“Not always, but often.”

“Suck ass.”

“Yeah, it fucking does.”

He went quiet again, shoulders rounding in on themselves, and you could see the weight of it settling—the familiar, cruel calculus of emergency medicine where effort and outcome never line up the way they should.

“I’m sorry I didn't understand it back then,” you said. “I always tried to understand both sides of your shit and that wasn’t what you needed, huh?”

“No,” he replied quietly. “I wanted someone to be angry with me.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get that. I’m sorry it sounded like I was trying to defend the people who made this harder,” you told him. 

“I’m sorry I did the same.”

“Thank you.”

“Seriously, I’m sorry I was so stubborn and mean about it. I was so focused on the grief I saw in those walls, I couldn’t see the forest for the trees.”

“Why now?”

“What?”

“Why not earlier? Why not when we…why not when we still could have salvaged something?” 

He blew out a breath and leaned back against the bench, tipping his head back. You remained tilted forward, your elbows on knees, resting your head in your hands. 

“Yeah. Jack told me what you said earlier. About…about how it must look. Me changing now. You were right. About a lot of things. Back then. You were responsible for a big shift in me—even if I wouldn’t admit it at the time.”

You let out a humorless breath. “Funny way of showing it.”

“I know.” He didn’t argue. “I thought you just hadn’t experienced what I had. That time would make you more like me, instead of considering that maybe I needed to become more like you.”

You felt his words settle somewhere deep and sore, equal parts vindication and grief. 

“I wasn’t asking you to agree with me about everything,” you said quietly. “I just wanted you to see how fucked things could be. That what I did…wasn’t evil, I guess.”

“I know,” he said again. “And I wish I could say I never thought that. I was so caught up in grief, my own and others, that forgot that the people who created those grief were also humans, also our neighbors.” 

“Neighbors?” 

“I listened to that Mister Roger’s audiobook when I went on a sabbatical roadtrip a while back,” he laughed, sounding almost bashful. 

“No shit,” you chuckled. “I can’t believe you took sabbatical.”

“It was that or Jack was going to admit me,” he told you. “And I had to come to terms with how not okay I was. COVID, Adamson, Pittfest…you. God I was a mess. Still a mess, honestly.”

“Makes two of us.”

“About a year after we broke up, I met Charles. He was in jail for killing an old couple for the fifty bucks in their car console. I’ll spare you the deeply embarrassing details of my early behavior—but I’m sure you could guess. Anyways, he was reading that Mister Roger’s book. And he read me this quote and I have it fucking memorized now: 

“What happens when you’re so convinced about the rightness of your cause that human beings are less important than values or commitments or commandments? 

“We talked and talked about this man who has a radical view of how to treat people—treat our neighbors. And during those conversations, I realized Charles was just like me. He made bad choices, monumental mistakes that have long lasting consequences, and yet I don’t think he is evil.”

“Sucks doesn’t it?”

“I hate it,” Robby laughed. 

“It’s hard to realize the people we vilify, the felons and criminals we hate so much are just human. They aren’t monsters. Their bad choices are choices any of us could make with the right circumstances.” 

“I am so sorry for how hard of a time I gave you. I’m just so sorry,” Robby said quietly. 

“I can’t believe it took Mister Rogers and an honest to god murderer for you to get your head out of your ass,” you laughed, lightly. 

It still hurt, the fact you weren’t enough for him to take the blinders off for. But perhaps the point was they came off. You planted the seeds and Charles nurtured the sapling. 

“I guess, but it wouldn’t have happened without you. Don’t sell yourself short on this. You did more than enough.”

“You still see Charles?”

“Every couple of months. He writes, I write back. It’s an odd friendship, I suppose.”

“No kidding.”

The park’s silence seemed to echo. Each critter that skittered in the dark, each gust of wind that ruffled the leaves in the trees lingered between you both. It was the closest you’d been to Robby in so many years. You simultaneously wanted to push him away and hold him close. 

“Dana said you’d changed,” you said. 

“What?” 

“This morning, she walked me back to the room and said you had changed. She was was right.”

“She’ll love to hear it.”

“I’m just sorry I didn’t get to experience it.”

Robby let out a long breath and you heard him scrub his hand over his face. Your eyes hadn’t strayed from the darkness of the park. It was hard to look at him. 

“I wish I’d been ready sooner. I wish I’d been ready when it might have meant…us.”

Something about his tone made you look over at him. He looked, grief stricken. His face was filled with real regret. You had imagined this conversation a million times. You had imagined what it would be like for him to say those exact words, to tell you he changed. It wasn’t as satisfying as you thought it would be, just sad. 

“Me too.” 

As much as the break up had destroyed it, the relationship hadn’t been all bad. Robby taught you so much about how to show up for people, not just fight for them. He showed you how to be kind and funny in the face of impossible odds. He held you with love and gentleness, despite your rough edges. 

“We were bad for each other sometimes,” you admitted. “We hit each other’s worst pressure points. You were mean; I was meaner. And I think both assumed the other one would eventually bend.” You swallowed.

“But we were also good. I spent my career railing against the machine. Fighting tooth and nail, burning it down again and again. But you taught me it isn’t just about confrontation. I need to show up for people otherwise there’s no one to burn it down for.”

“I didn’t even know I was doing that,” he murmured. 

You gave him a rueful half smile, “I didn’t either. Not until after.” 

“I owe you an apology for that, too,” he nearly whispered. The remorse was clear in his voice. “That last fight. I was so mean to you.”

“I wasn’t much better.”

“Maybe, but you wouldn’t have lashed out if I hadn’t,” he said. You weren’t sure that was true, but he kept talking. “I said unforgivable things. And I’m so sorry for that.”

“I forgive you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Well, too bad. Not your call to make,” you shot back. He laughed. 

“You’re incredible, I hope you know that.”

“That’s kind of you to say.”

Again, the pair of you fell silent. It wasn’t as awkward and uncomfortable as you feared. It almost felt like it used to. There was a quiet comfort radiating from Robby like this. He always felt like the last bastion of protection between you and the world. He was full of terrible jokes, smiles, and warm hugs that could thaw even the coldest of hearts. Sitting here, on this park bench suffocated by grief—grief of the present and past—you found yourself surprisingly content. 

“Do you think we could try again?” Robby asked after a while. 

You sat back against the bench sighed. “That was a really hard breakup. It…I am a different person now.”

“Yeah, I think we both are.” 

“I used to go home every night and replay that last fight until I couldn’t tell what I’d actually said versus what I wished I’d said. I second-guessed every instinct I had. I wondered if I was too much.” You let out a shaky breath. “It took months to sleep through the night. Longer to stop crying everytime I thought about it. The person I loved, it felt like he hated me.”

“I never, ever hated you,” he said in such a serious tone you glanced over at him. Robby’s face had gone pale, guilt written plainly across it. He looked small. 

“It felt like it, Michael. Now, I’m more careful. More closed off. I plan exits in my head even when things are good.” Your mouth twisted. “Everyone tells me that’s natural, not bad, not good. But I don’t know. Some days it just feels like I lost a much more hopeful version of myself.”

You finally looked at him, really looked at him, and the familiar tenderness flared. Sitting next to you, in scrubs he had worn all day trying to keep your client alive, it was hard not to feel that thread of connection between you. It was hard not to reach out and wrap your fingers in between his. 

“I don’t regret us,” you said. “I don’t regret loving you. Love isn’t a waste just because it didn’t last. Even a short love teaches you something. And ours taught me a lot. But it also cost me a lot.” 

“I miss you,” Robby said again, like he couldn’t stop himself. “I miss us. And I still love you. That never really went away.”

“I still love you, too. But I don’t think I could survive another heartbreak from you.” Your voice felt small, smaller than it had ever been.  

You let the quiet settle again, heavier now, weighted by everything you’d already said. The park felt suspended in time, the city noise dulled by distance and cold, like the world had decided to give the two of you a narrow pocket of stillness. Robby shifted beside you, rubbing his hands together, staring out at the same dead patch of grass you’d been studying like it might eventually offer answers.

“I’m a different dickhead than the one who broke your heart—and that’s not something I’ll forgive myself for, even if you have” he said finally. “I thought for a long time that I was the reasonable one. That I’d seen enough to justify my cynicism. Losing you certainly corrected that assumption.”

You stayed quiet, letting him talk.

“I kept hearing your voice in my head,” he went on, a faint, rueful huff of a laugh escaping him. “In meetings. In patient rooms. When I caught myself making snap judgments. I’d think, she’d hate that. Or worse—she’d be disappointed.” 

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees now, posture folding in on itself even more. “I didn’t suddenly become you, but I stopped assuming my way of seeing things was the only reasonable one. That maybe my version of realism was just my own grief clouding my judgement.”

Your chest tightened despite yourself.

“I miss you,” Robby said again, but this time he didn’t rush past it. “I miss the way you challenged me. I miss how infuriatingly principled you were, even when I didn’t agree. I think about you all the time.” 

He hesitated, then gave a self-conscious grimace. “I set up Google alerts for your name.”

You turned, startled. “You did what?”

He winced. 

“Yeah. I know. That sounds…not great. I promise it’s not stalker-y. Mostly professional stuff. Articles. Awards. Panels. Sometimes your name just pops up attached to something impressive and I—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I always knew you were brilliant. I just didn’t realize how much you were doing while we were together. How much you weren’t telling me.”

You looked away from him again, your eyes following a stray ant. 

“I put it together a few months after we broke up,” he continued quietly. “I started seeing your name places. A state association award. That promotion. A couple of cases that made the news. Some of it happened while we were together and you felt you couldn’t tell me”

“It wasn't just you,” you said automatically, but the words tasted hollow.

“I think it was,” Robby replied. “I realized I was dating someone extraordinary and treating her like she was just…there. Like she’d always be there. Like she didn’t need the same kind of attention and care I gave everything else in my life, simply because I didn’t understand her fight.”

The admission caused a complicated mix of validation and grief to bloom in your chest.

“I miss you in the small ways,” he added. “Stupid ways. I still know your coffee order. I still catch myself wanting to text you when something absurd happens at work because you were always the one who thought my dumb jokes were funny.”

Robby cleared his throat and continued, “I’m sorry I changed you in bad ways, when I got to keep the good ones.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that.

He took a deep breath before continuing. “I just wish I’d been brave enough to meet you where you were before it was too late.”

“So do I,” you said. 

“I don’t expect anything. I just needed you to know that loving you changed me in ways that have made me a better person, a better doctor.”

You sat there together, the park quiet around you, both of you holding the same truth: that sometimes love arrives exactly when it’s needed to transform you—and leaves before it blooms.

Robby’s phone buzzed and he said, “Jack has everything ready for you.”

“Thanks.”

You both stood and Robby said, “I know that I made a monumental mistake with you. But if there’s even a chance that I can prove to you I’m different, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

“Because you’re a different dickhead, now?” You asked, a tiny smile playing on your lips. 

“Because I’m a different dickhead, now,” he agreed mirroring your smile. He looked...almost hopeful. It wasn't a bad look on him. 

“It has been surprisingly good to see you, Robby,” you said, standing on your tip toes to press a kiss to his cheek. The contact burned against your skin. “Go home and get some sleep.”

“As long as you do the same.”

“If that’s what the doctor ordered.”

You walked back into the Pitt. Back into the world of the man that had haunted you for the past three years. It didn’t feel as suffocating anymore. You weren’t sure what you were going to do about Robby’s offer, but the anger and devastation that had long hung heavy on your heart had been excised and assuaged tonight. 

You had changed. 

But so had Robby. 

Maybe it was enough to begin again. 

-- -- --

Author’s Note:

I actually know the US legal system decently well. I used to work for a lawyer and a shit ton of my friends have gone on to become lawyers (I even applied to law school before doing the whole PhD thing)—that being said, I took massive liberties with how something like this would work in real life, so take the legal shit with a huge grain of salt.

I have been working on this story in some iteration since the show came out. I thought a public defender was SUCH a a good foil for Robby, especially after the episode where Dana is assaulted. Because I think it’s important to grapple with how we think about people who commit crimes we are particularly sensitive to.

Fun fact about me: I became a prison abolitionist in college. It was the first “leftist” policy position I held and it came about because I had to take a class for my Public Administration minor that required me to, and I shit you not, tour a state prison. It is one of my most formative experiences and radicalized me beyond belief.

Since that’s unlikely anyone else’s experience (and I frequently wrestle the morality of that tour ngl), here are some resources if you’re interested in learning more.

Equal Justice Initiative

The Marshall Project

Instead of Prisons: A Handbook for Abolitionists

Also that story I mentioned about Pennsylvanian judges is completely real. It’s called the “Kids for Cash” scandal. So that’s neat.

Anyways, aren’t you glad you read this long ass fanfiction, long ass authors note for some really bleak information 🤪

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[autistictrinitysantos]

Crazy how The Pitt is known for its diverse cast and only two of the actors of color were nominated for Emmy’s. Hmm…

[glitter-abbot]

rabbot x f!reader

an invitation

your boyfriend Jack suggests that he invites Robby over, and he talks Robby through how to touch you right

content: NSFW/mdni ⊹ pussy inspection ⊹ afab reader, otherwise not described, no y/n ⊹ jack/robby talking over you 

2.4k words

⊹ ⊹

By the time you’re naked, leaning back against Jack in bed with two of his fingers in your mouth while Robby’s got his own fingers reaching into you and chatting with Jack about how good you feel and noting your reactions aloud like you’re not even there, you have to wonder if you have, perhaps, gotten in a little deeper than you expected.

⊹ ⊹

You've been seeing Jack for a while, met at the gym when you got brave enough to ask someone to spot you and he looked nice.

And hot, and you wanted an excuse to talk to him. 

He was so glad because it gave him an excuse to ogle you. Behind you when you're squatting with the barbel racked on your shoulders and your ass pressing it towards him is exactly where he wants to be. The next week, standing over you while you bench press and he's got a direct line of sight to your boobs and no reason not to stare right at them is even better. 

It's no wonder that you ended up in his bed in under a month, two glasses of wine on his kitchen table mostly full because you hadn't wanted to keep your hands to yourself for long after he invited you back after your first dinner date. 

You felt his eyes on you as you slipped back into your panties. 

“See something you like?” You asked, a little self conscious because outside the heat of the moment maybe he would evaluate you a little more critically. The haze of gotta have you will have worn off, and now that you're putting back on your bra and trying to turn your dress right side out, he'll want you less–

“Hey,” he said, snapping you out of your spiral. He’s got just boxers on but he hauls himself up to stand with his crutches and walks over to you. “I am very into looking at you. Don't worry.”

And then he kissed you, more tender than you would have expected from a hookup. 

He never wanted a hookup, though, and you got with the program after the second date, when he invited you to stay the night and you agreed quick as a heartbeat. 

You met Robby a few times, the first at a fundraising gala that Jack had to go to and he asked if you'd come, and you were more than happy to have a reason to put on a nice dress. The blue silk hugged your curves and hung delicately off your shoulders, and Jack looked at you with dark eyes the whole night. 

When you got home, he pulled the dress off slowly, his hands skimming up your side over the soft fabric, and he told you again for the twentieth time how gorgeous you looked, how lucky he was. 

“Robby agrees, says I gotta hold onto this one,” he growled, and his grip on your side tightened a little and you squirmed a little as you laughed nervously.

“You talked about me?” 

“Only good things,” he reassured you. “But he's Robby. We talk about everything.”

Everything had included you from the first date, when he spilled immediately when Robby asked at their next shift change what had Jack smiling. 

Everything had included the time you brought him back to your apartment and he opened your bedside drawer to find your vibrators, and he'd sat between your legs watching you fall apart as you used one on yourself to come twice before he pushed it out if the way and took over. 

Everything had included how you'd told him after your annual gyn appointment that you'd been thinking about him when you had your legs in stirrups and your gynecologist was doing the check up with clinical professionalism.

Everything had included him pulling up your risque photos you sent so that Robby could get the same view that Jack had when you missed him during his long shifts.

And at the gala, everything had included Jack nodding along when Robby said that she really did live up to the pictures, and Jack asking if Robby would be up for a taste sometime. 

You met Robby again at Jack's birthday dinner, a packed table at the back of an Italian place, when he’d hugged you like you were old friends and then leaned in close so you could hear him when he asked about your job. He stayed in your space, too close for strangers, and when he looked at Jack over your head they smiled that you at least liked him well enough to allow that bit of contact as his shoulder was kept right against yours. 

Jack bought a nice bottle of the wine you like for your six month anniversary, and when you're a little tipsy and a little breathless in bed, he finally brought it up.

“What do you think about Robby?”

You looked over at him like he had grown a new head. “You want to talk about him now?” Even when you'd rolled away from Jack you'd reached out to hold his hand in yours, and you don't let go or try to pull it back. 

He just nodded. “I do.” 

You wait for another explanation, but it doesn't sound like one's coming, he was looking at you so directly so you shrug internally and chalk it up to Jack just being Jack. 

“He's nice. You thanked him again for giving my car a jump, yeah?”

“I did,” he confirmed. Robby had been free a week ago when you'd called Jack when you were too flustered about getting stuck outside your office building to think about the fact that it was already eight on a Thursday, of course Jack wouldn't be able to come help you. 

He'd dispatched Robby, though, and Jack had been eternally grateful that you'd had someone there for you, even if it couldn't be him. 

You couldn't help how your jaw dropped when Jack suggested inviting him into bed with you..

“Don't worry,” he assured you. “I'll make sure he knows what you like.”

The first time as he walked in felt awkward for you, but you didn't think that they felt that way at all, chatting as they cooked dinner and brushing against each other in the kitchen maybe a little more than necessary. You sat at the counter nervously sipping your water for long enough that Robby made an excuse to go out to take a call so that Jack could check in. 

“You still up for it?” He asked, rubbing your shoulder. “You don't have to be. I can send him on his way, or we can ask just throw on HBO for the night, no funny business.”

“No, I'm okay,” you answered. Robby is hot, and you've never done this and you might as well try it once, right?

Jack looked you up and down for a moment to check if you were just putting on a brave face, but you do seem alright. “How about this. Me and him do all the work, okay? And he can just watch for a little until you're ready for him to get hands-on.”

“I like that,” you said.

You did not expect it to lead to you on the bed, naked, with Robby sitting in the armchair right at the foot of the bed just staring as Jack wrings your first orgasm out of you with his fingers. 

“Fuck, I can see her pussy still pulsing,” Robby whispers, almost mesmerized. 

Jack hums in agreement. “You would not believe how it feels, brother.” He's still idly touching you, and when his fingers dip back to your clit you instinctively try to press your knees together. 

“Ah, ah,” Robby says from the foot of the bed, and you think it's the first thing he's said to you since you took off your clothes. This has been about Robby and Jack, with Jack occasionally checking in with you, and it's unexpected but you don't think that you mind. “Keep ‘em open, I get to see.”

Jack keeps ghosting his touch over your tender clit but uses his free have to pull one knee closer to him, gently making you follow Robby's order. “Be good, sweetheart,” he chides, but leans down from where he's seated on the bed next to you to give you a little peck on the lips. “I'll get another one out of you like this, alright?”

He's still got his boxers on, but you can see that he's hard and enjoying himself. And even if it's awkward and vulnerable, you trust him and trust Robby, so you take a slow breath and let your legs relax and splay apart again. 

“Okay,” you answer with a nod. 

His fingers slip through your slick folds again, and you sigh and let your eyes shut.

“Robby, get over here so you can see,” Jack says, and you stay with your eyes closed as you hear Robby grunt in answer and then feel the bed dip as he sits on the edge. 

“See, she does so well with a tender touch here–” his fingers ghost along you, right by your entrance– “and a more insistent touch here.” His thumb, probably, rubs up and down on your clit and you tense up, a little oh of surprise and pleasure leaving your lips. “Can you see well enough?”

“Mostly,” Robby answers, closer than you'd guessed he was, and you fight the urge to open your eyes. “Mind if I hold–”

“By all means. She can let us know if it's too much, yeah?” Jack taps your thigh on that last word to let you know that he was, finally, talking right to you. 

You nod, and Jack thinks that you'd look so good with a blindfold, especially if you like keeping your eyes closed so much. Not tonight, but another day with Robby, when you wouldn't know who's touching you or what might be next, would be a fun game. 

You get a little wrinkle in your brow as Robby moves one of your legs so that he can settle into the spot between them, and then reaches in to coax apart your lips and get a good view of what Jack's up to. 

“She's so sensitive now,” Jack says, and returns to what he'd been doing, and rubs up and down your clit in a way that makes your lower stomach muscles ripple. “But I can get a few out of her in a night.”

“Very impressive,” Robby says, and you could swear that you can feel his breath, like he's just peering at you from inches away, but Jack's touch is too good, you don't want to sit up to look at what's going on and break the moment. 

Jack keeps talking, but you tune it out as you squirm against his touch, breath coming fast again. He ignores you, his touch just the same as he pushes you closer and closer and then they're discussing nerve endings and refractory periods and you're rocking your hips back and forth against nothing but his fingers. 

Jack grabs your breast, gently flicking your nipple back and forth in a way that makes you whine, and you hear Robby asking about your sensitivity there. 

“Oh, just watch,” Jack answers, and you know what's coming next so you bring up a hand to cover your mouth before he grasps your nipple and pinches, hard, and the pain of it goes right to your core. His other hand is still on its mission and it's all too much and you make a high sound that your palm can't cover as you come for the second time. 

Jack doesn't let up either hand until you whimper, overstimulated, and then he brings up the hand from your pussy to take a taste, and then presses his fingers to your lips so that you can try, too. 

You pout when he pulls away before he's clean. 

“Open your eyes, love,” he says, and as you do you see him offering his hand to Robby, who's licking a long stripe whole looking right at Jack. 

While you're still catching your breath and feeling loose, Jack gets you to sit up so that he can slide behind you. You grind yourself against him, and he kisses your neck. “Not yet, we'll get there. Robby's getting his turn next.”

You lean back against your boyfriend, who's got his hands running up and down your sides to soothe you. 

“You ready?” Robby asks, and you nod as he takes his spot back between your legs so that he's got a clear view of you, and pushes your knees apart again.

“She really is something,” he says, and you're back to the two of them talking over you, like you're just a patient who doesn't know what her doctors are talking about. 

The thought makes you flutter, and Robby notices it, and drags his finger past your entrance, not yet pushing in. “Missing something?” He asks, and you clench down in response. 

Jack tells him where to touch you– how far to press in, which direction to aim when running against the sides of your walls, how you'd do best if he uses a second hand on your clit at the same time– and Robby frowns and nods as he follows the directions, dragging you right up to the edge before he pulls his hands away entirely. 

“Interesting,” he says, watching you as you groan at the loss of his touch. “Very pretty, you think I should get her to come like this?”

“Please,” you whine. 

You feel Jack's shoulders go up and down behind you and you want to smack him. “I don't know, maybe you ought to try with something else.”

Your vibrators are in the bedside drawer, which Jack well knows, and you know that in Robby's hands you'd probably die on the spot if he brings that same clinical perfectionism to getting you off with the benefit of technology. 

Robby had been inches from your pussy before– you're so sure of it– so maybe he'll go in with his mouth, his tongue, and you'd end up squirting on his face.

He's still got his sweatpants on, so you can't see exactly but you know he's big and the thought of him fucking into you like this, pressed against Jack behind you, makes you give another “ah,” as you lean back against Jack

Yeah, you are definitely in over your head. 

But as Jack kisses your ear and asks that sound good, baby? you know you don't want to be anywhere else. 

[se7entyrell]

music to watch boys to

(rabbot x reader)

a little graduation gift from me to you xx

OR: the one where jack and robby can't seem to get on the same page. until you're in between them

This is from a pre-established universe in my mind that sort of resembles Twin Peaks - essentially, Reader's sister goes missing, and Jack is her ex/the town sheriff, and Robby's the FBI agent sent to work the case. This context doesn't matter for the following fic because it's literally just a threesome lmao, but I think it lets you know where my head was at writing this. Idk if I'll ever share/write the rest of it, but there very much is a fully fledged fic somewhere in my brain?

warnings: 18+, mdni! threesome, ex!jack, dom!jack, switch!robby, switch!reader, jack and reader are a little mean to robby and it makes him horny, oral (f receiving), they all make out, reader and jack have a sex tape, robby's lowkey a voyeur

main masterlist

“He watched our sex tape,” You murmur, leaning into Jack’s touch as his lips attach to your jaw. “Thought it might be some big clue to unlock the case.”

Your eyes flutter closed, a heat pooling low in your stomach under the weight of both of their stares. Jack’s arm snakes round your waist, applying just the slightest bit of pressure as he holds you to him.

“Yeah?” He hums, stare turning on Robby, still sitting across the room. The way he’s fidgeting, adjusting his jeans, tells you he’s just as affected by this as you are. The thought makes you dizzy, your thighs clenching together subconsciously. You’re pretty sure you could get off on anticipation alone.

Jack’s free hand tucks under your chin, tilting your mouth up to his. He tastes like vodka, and your words die on your tongue as he kisses you, deep and slow. For a second he’s everywhere, invading your every sense. But then he’s pulling back, drawing a whine from you at the loss of contact. “Look like that on film, Robinavitch?”

Robby swallows, voice thick. “Somethin’ like that.”

You tilt your head, allowing Jack better access as he mouths at your neck. “Did you watch the whole thing?”

A snort escapes from Jack. “’Course he did. Bet he got off on it, too.” His fingers creep under the hem of your shirt, tugging upwards. As soon as the fabric is discarded his hand returns to your front, kneading at your breast over the lace of your bra. “Does watching do it for you, Michael?”

Seeing Robby’s ever increasing embarrassment, you swat at Jack lightly, whimpering slightly as he pinches your nipple. “You’re being mean.”

“I’m just being truthful.” Hand snaking beneath your bra, you find yourself arching against him, nipples taut as he continues to work you. “Bet he was sitting in that crappy hotel room, jerking off to the thought of another man fucking you. Probably had to turn on the shower so no one would hear.”

Robby stammers a little, a garbled sound that gives away far more than it should. Jack’s right on the money.

“S’okay Robby,” You murmur, almost a purr. You can’t tell if the haze clouding your vision is the alcohol, or the sheer desire coursing through your veins. “I’m not mad. Think it’s cute, actually.”

Everything feels too tight. Your clothes, your chest - you think you might burst. You curl your fingers into Jack’s hair, tugging slightly to keep his head flexed down at your neck. You keep your eyes on Robby, lips parting as Jack sucks a harsh mark on your skin.

Finally, you can’t take it anymore. Letting out a slight huff, you pull back from Jack. “Are you waiting for a formal invitation, or what?”

“Maybe Mr. FBI man doesn’t want to concern himself with smallfolk like us, honey,” Jack replies, voice dripping in sarcasm. “Or maybe he just wants to watch.”

From the tent in his pants, you’re positive that isn’t the case.

“C’mere baby - let me take care of you.”

You untangle yourself from Jack’s grasp, getting to your feet as you beckon Robby over. He gets to his feet, movements slightly unsteady. Giddiness sweeping over you, your breath hitches as Robby closes the distance, pressing his chest to yours, a solid weight keeping you grounded in reality.

Any hesitancy you expected to see from him vanishes as soon as he kisses you. The movements turn hungry, and you’re met with the man who fucked you until you couldn’t speak just a few days ago. You give him a minute or two, before pulling back, wicked smirk tugging at your lips. "You boys going to find a way to work together or what?"

“You know, I think she might be trying to rile us both up,” Robby says, voice low.

“You might be right about that, Robinavitch.”

*****

It's too much. Robby's head between your legs, licking delicate stripes through your folds, while Jack mouths at your tits with a fervour. One hand massages, while he presses sloppy kisses to the other.

Your hips buck up towards Robby, desperately trying to grind against him. He chuckles into your skin, the vibrations sending your head spinning.

Your breath comes out in a choked gasp, hands fisting the sheets pitifully. "F-Fuck, oh my god."

Desperate for something, anything, to keep your mind sharp, you reach forward, hand curling around the base of Jack's cock. He hisses slightly at the contact, pinching at your nipple in response.

"Careful, honey," He warns, and you just shoot him as much of a smile as you can manage.

"What?"

Robby's beard scratches at your clit, and your voice breaks off in another whimper, leading Jack to chuckle again. "My poor girl thinks she's in charge, huh?"

"Shut up," You groan, but you know you're winning when Jack starts to redden, tense from the effort of holding off an orgasm.

"Can't be doing that sweetheart - not if you want tonight to last."

"You don't want to be the weak link, do you Jack?" You taunt, sighing prettily as Robby continues to lap at your cunt. "Careful, or Robby'll be the only one allowed inside."

Taking that as an invitation, Robby's hands are firm, repositioning you just how he wants. Ass in the air, you can feel him pressing into you, cock brushing through your folds. Everything moves so quickly you don't even notice Jack moving too.

Turns out they can work together. Sometimes.

A groan escapes, and your head bobs forward towards him, who's now stretched out on the bed, looking amused at the entire situation.

Like he wasn't moaning your name a few minutes ago when you had his cock in your hands.

*****

“You know, I really feel like I've been carrying this tonight,” You finally breathe, chest heaving. Three orgasms in, and you're exhausted. “You-” You point at Robby, digging your finger into his chest, “-have only finished once. And you-” Jack's turn, “-haven't cum at all.”

“Are you seriously mad at us for focusing on you?” Robby murmurs, fighting back a smile.

“Last I checked, you've spent a good chunk of tonight on your back, while we've been doing the hard work,” Jack replies, eyebrow raised. “Not sure how that constitutes you doing everything. 'Sides - we're not as young as we used to be, honey. I'm one-and-done these days."

“I'm just saying,” You begin, pulling yourself up so you're sitting against the headboard. Robby follows, elbow against the wall as he turns to face you both. “I think your enjoyment could be greatly increased if you… y'know.”

“Gotta use your words, sweetheart," Jack says.

"What's the point of all this if we aren't all going to enjoy each other? You're makin' me feel selfish."

You're not entirely sure how it'll land, given Jack and Robby have spent the last month loathing each other, but when they don't dismiss the idea, you lean forward and press your lips to Robby's.

The kiss is the softest it's been all night, with him leaning over to cup your cheek.

It's the kiss of a husband returning home to his wife after a long day's work - not that of a dirty fuck in the middle of nowhere.

“Such a pretty girl,” He mumbles, breath fanning across your face as he trails his lips along your jaw.

Your hand reaches out, tangling in the curls at the nape of Jack's neck, as you guide him towards you both.

The moustache scratches at your neck, the friction making you sigh. A turn of heads, and you collide with Jack, while Robby turns his attention to your pulse point.

Soon, you can't even tell who is who. An occasional brush of hair from Robby's stubble is the only thing that differentiates either man as you kiss them both.

When you finally pull back, it's like they don't even notice you're gone. You can't help the self-satisfied smirk. This is what you wanted.

[lostalioth]

IM SORRY-

You change to a picture of a rabbit and offer us no Jackrabbit Jack Abbot breeding kink? Not even a smidgen of him being a freak for reader? Not even a crumb of him sandwiching Robby between you so when he thrusts he pushes Michael into you, and doesn’t give him enough room to let him pull out when he whimpers he’s close?

Jail.

you’re right how dare i, so how about freaky jack, robby sandwiched between you and jack + breeding kink but it’s that jack wants ROBBY to get you pregnant???

Micheal is a whining mess atop you, brows furrowed in bliss, spit coated lips parted as he stares down at you. Your legs frame his hips that are barely moving on their own, his heavy aching cock filling you. “Feel s’ big Mikey” you moan out, stroking your nails down his chest, leading down to scratch at his belly and the trail of hair that cascades down to his pelvis.   

All he can do is cry out when his hips drive forward by force pushing his leaking tip up against your walls that convulse and clench more around him. Babbling out a slurry mess of nonsense as Jack is behind him drilling his cock into his best friend, his silver curls sticking to his forehead, tongue poking through the side of his cheek. The motion of Jack's hips is the driving force that pushes Robby’s to move, pushing his cock deeper into your weeping pussy. “Is pathetic man, can’t even fuck our girl right when i’m inside you? Come on brother, give her something” Jack taunts with a deep chuckle, the hand not gripping onto micheal’s hips is reaching down to run along your calf, needing to always be touching the both of you in some form or another.

“Can’t! feels too good, both feel s’ good” Robby groans out, shutting his eyes and dropping his forehead to your bare tits. “It’s okay Mikey” you coo, raking your fingers through his hair, the action however only makes the knot in the pit of his stomach wined tighter. “Gonna cum, fuck- Jack!” he whimpers out, trying to push his hips back against the other mans cock in an attempt to pull out of you. This only forces Jack to snap his hips forward harshly, pushing every inch of the older man back inside you. A mix of strangled moans and cries fill the room. “Jackiee” you whine out as you grab onto Robby’s shoulder for stability. 

“No” Jack states firmly, enticing the word with another hard thrust. “You're gonna cum inside our sweet girl” he pets your legs before grabbing them and using that as leverage to drive his hips at a more brutal pace. His unrelenting thrusts push Robby’s cock now repeatedly at your g-spot, his full balls hitting your ass. Your head is spinning by now, the man above you looking at you pleading eyes and a flushed face as if you can be the one to bargain with the freaky menace that is Jack Abbot. “Ya’ gonna fill her up, maybe getting ‘er pregnant too” Jack rambles on, a determined look on his face. “Wouldn’t leave for sabbatical with our doll here pregnant would ya’ Micheal?” he coaxes. You're too far gone to argue or even really comprehend his words, mumbles and cries of “Want you to fill me up. Please Mikey, please! please cum f’ us”

Until with a simple praise of a “Good boy” from Jack and a whisper of “Please don’t leave” from you against Robby's lips does he paint the walls of your abused puffy cunt in ropes and ropes of cum.  

it’s 1am my brain went filthy manipulative places lmao, not proofread oops

[paging-dr-werewolf]

The Big Prize (Titus Danforth x F!Reader)

Title: The Big Prize

Rating: E / 18+ / MDNI

WC: 8k (complete)

For more of these two please check the masterlist.

Summary: You and Titus have been circling around your shared obsession for nearly a decade. He always thought he would have you, but his timeline and his life are thrown into chaos when you break the rules of the game and dare to get engaged.

A/N: I've been extremely Pitt-pilled recently but holy shit do I love writing about evil pieces of shit. Titus Danforth, the man that you are. Titus is a piece of shit. You are a piece of shit. You are two dirty freaks made for one another. This takes place before the events of RON2.

Warnings: graphic violence, no beta we die like men, age gap, daddy kink, impregnation/breeding kink if you squint, titus loves to spoil his girl, titus is down bad, reader is down bad, control, manipulation, power imbalance, rich psychos doing rich psycho things, mentions of abuse, alcohol use, mentions of drug use, warning very rich cunts ahead, flirting, texting, dirty talk, dirty pictures, dark romance, possessive fucked up love, cheating, p in v sex, vaginal fingering, edging, HEA(?). This one is for the pervs you've been warned.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

Whether or not he genuinely liked them, Titus Danforth played games. The pleasure was beside the point; winning was all that mattered. His twin sister understood this, and so their daily game picked up where they had left it the morning before. Titus watched a sandpiper skip up and down the beach, playing its own game with the waves that foamed and frothed and roared up onto the sand.

Rituals were important. A newspaper was open in front of him, half of a buttered English muffin languishing on a porcelain L’Objet plate; Ursula had picked the painterly botanical motif. He didn’t hate it, which was what passed for harmony in their family.

The goal of the game was to ruin his breakfast.

He suspected Ursula did this because she despised the Hamptons and just being there, just the words Guild Hall and Georgica turned the bitch switch in her head to eleven. This was her way of punishing him for conducting business in a place where, quelle horreur, she might stumble upon a Real Housewife and be forced to have a tautly pleasant interaction or risk being portrayed as the raging cunt she really was on national television.

Anyway. Titus spun the cortado nested in his right hand, letting Ursula’s voice wash over him, ignoring the newspaper to watch the sandpiper duck and weave, playing his endless little game with the waves. Futile. Titus wondered if he could shoot it from the deck, but one of his fussy neighbors would surely report it and dealing with the authorities was somehow more annoying than listening to Ursula rattle off the news.

The Dow took a tumble, hedge funds were dumping software and piling into semis, his friend Martin’s crypto thing had gone belly up, and Martin had gotten busted with a legally significant amount of cocaine in Majorca, which meant he probably wouldn’t be joining them for dinner at Per Se on Saturday, when they would be back (thank Satan, she emphasized) in Manhattan. Titus continued to stare out the window, unmoved, his expression that of a man enduring a slightly clumsy pedicure. His sister’s voice raised, speeding up, more urgent; she was building toward something. She crossed her arms over her navy-blue sundress; the color was washing her out. She was a Light Spring and always looked best in pastels.

Titus sipped his cortado, spun the cup in his hand once more, heaved a sigh and raked his eyes sightlessly down the newspaper. He wished Ursula would take the hint and hurry up; he had scheduled a tennis match for early afternoon, and he didn’t intend to reschedule. The game continued. As usual, Ursula was going to lose.

And then, improbably, she said your name.

“Go back.”

It was the first thing he had said to her all morning. Ursula’s eyes widened, quickly, just a flash, before she paced closer to the breakfast table. Her fingertip ghosted along the blonde wood, skipping toward her brother’s coffee cup.

“Someone was shot outside the White House—”

“No.” Titus shifted forward in his seat, grimacing. “The other thing, about the…” He could hardly bring himself to say the words. Were you out of your fucking mind? Bristling, he bit out: “About the engagement.”

Ursula cleared her throat primly, putting on her most grating baby voice as she bent down to crumple his paper with one hand and study his face, memorize it. The urge to smack the pout from her mouth rose in him with a shudder.

“I’m certain you heard me, brother,” she whispered, batting her lashes with feigned innocence. She hadn’t been innocent for a single day in her life, not even fresh and slick from the womb. “She’s marrying Gander Schmitt.” With deliberate, slow relish, Ursula turned the pages of the paper for him, only stopping when she reached the Wedding section. There it was. Your face. Your perfect fucking face hovering beside what could only be described as an uncooked sausage with eyes and a bowl cut.

He was horrible. An offense to the eyes. And you were…

You.

The rage was immediate. Hot. All-encompassing. It surprised even Titus. His hand trembled, once, as he finished his cortado and put down the cup. “I’m going upstairs now,” he proclaimed in a deadly whisper.

Ursula smiled. He didn’t even care about her smug laugh or the fact she had, in her own mind, scored a point on him. The image of you and Gander Schmitt side by side in the Wedding section of the New York Times was burned into his retinas, ticking up his blood pressure by the second. He needed to be alone. Hit something. Shoot something. Maybe that goofy fucking bird...

He was going to explode.

Titus stood calmly, the chair shrieking across the hardwood as he tugged down his shirt and strode to the staircase. Out of sight, he took the stairs three at a time.

He burst into his room, through it, coming out the other side and onto the balcony. His shirt was strangling him. He tore open the collar, bracing himself against the banister, crushing it under his fingers until he heard the old, vintage wood groan.

You had broken the rules.

Never mind that the rules had never been established, you had broken them. You were his. That didn’t need to be said. You had been edging each other for the better part of a decade, going for months without speaking before one of you started up the game again with a mean or flirty text. You were the only somewhat amusing part of society functions, ribbon cuttings, wedding receptions, derbies. Your tits in a silk dress were life changing. He had watched you grow from pretty enough to be a yacht girl to stunningly polished, achingly unobtainable It Girl. Unobtainable for everyone else, of course. To him, you were pre-obtained. And frankly, torturing you with a quietly simmering look was often the only reason to attend society bullshit. He was going to get around to claiming you as his own one day, but Father kept threatening to burden him with an arranged marriage. It always dissolved at the last second, but the cycle kept Titus off balance.

He ripped the phone out of his pocket, breathing like a maniac. The last time you had exchanged “pleasantries” was at Christmas, almost six months ago. You had sent a photo of a single, steamed baby carrot on your appetizer plate with the caption “Made me think of you 😊”

Titus hadn’t dignified the jab with a response.

He typed furiously, swearing every time he had to back up and make a correction.

For hours, you didn’t respond. You had seen the threat, read it, but left it hanging there. Titus went to his tennis match. He didn’t remember a moment of the game. His friend asked if he had taken something before hitting the courts, molly, maybe? There was no shame in it. Titus went back to the house, stormed through the sitting room--where Ursula had passed out on the couch, a martini glass spilling gin onto the carpet—fetched the Macallan 81-year-old single malt from the liquor cabinet, and drank from the bottle, stalking back and forth on the balcony like a caged panther.

He gave in to his basest impulses, a thing he did often and gleefully but never with this much cock-twisting guilt and Googled your fiancé. His stomach churned at the mere idea of the word. There were more pictures from the engagement. Truly revolting stuff and never to be forgotten, not even if he drank the whole bottle. Gander Schmitt had given you a fat fucking rock, but it was a pebble compared to the multimillion-dollar emerald-cut Wilfredo Rosado Titus had already designed for you in his head, just then, in the thirty seconds it took him to decide Gander Schmitt was going to die.

He spit over the balcony. As the name Gander fucking Schmitt implied, the idiot was old money. Not Danforth old, but respectable at a glance. He had made a fortune recently investing in some AI clownery. Titus hated that shit on principle, it was always talking at him like he was a fucking idiot, like he needed assuaging.

Maybe he did need assuaging, he thought, drinking more, but not assuaging from a robot, from the one woman he was now not supposed to have.

Supposed to was for other people.

Titus took out his phone. It was never a good idea to drink and text, but Titus was full of bad ideas.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

contracts can be broken, he had texted, then: remember that.

The car was beautiful, exactly as you had pictured it. Exactly like your fantasies.

Less than twenty-four hours after your request, the BMW was parked outside of your Brooklyn townhouse. Gander had already left for Paris, thank God, so you wouldn’t have to explain its sudden appearance. Not yet, anyway.

Perhaps not ever.

Oh darling, you texted him. I didn’t know you cared.

Him. Not your fiancé, not the flesh-colored Grimace your parents had insisted you marry, but Titus Danforth, the psychopath of your most lurid dreams. The first time you saw him was at a gallery show. The Bel-Air. Luxembourg. You were trying your best to sound clever about art. You had gone to the bathroom and Googled some of the pieces, memorizing details about the various artists, their mediums, their ideas.

Everyone there was dangerously rich and important, and you yearned to impress. You had grown up around wealth, but this was different. These people had old, old families, entered rooms you could only dream of; if their hands landed on a scale, they could rebalance the future of humanity.

Your mother had sent you husband shopping, picking out the form-fitting Tom Ford dress, the velvet choker necklace, the sky-high stilettos. And when you saw him standing by the window, one hand holding his phone to his ear, the other around a champagne glass stem, you felt the predator within come to life. I’ll have that one, you thought. Your eyes had scanned up and down his body, making an assessment.

You couldn’t have known that little glance would kick off a lifelong entanglement. An obsession.

Titus had made sure a champagne landed in your hand. His eyes kept wandering back to you. The way his gaze scraped up your legs was like a drug. You were young and stupid enough to think it would be simple. You would snare him, marry him, pop out a few kids and drift, find your way to affairs, dance the dance of the bored and indolent, but it would be enough to set up your family and your legacy. There were worse ways to wind up, worse ways to occupy one’s time.

But he had waited you out.

He never did more than brush a kiss against your cheek. That was years ago. If you closed your eyes, you could still feel the steel scratch of his stubble.

For some reason, he never lost your number. You just kept circling each other, waiting to see who would break first, confess, tip their hand.

It was a hot day. The car, detailed, gorgeous, glistened in the light. You sauntered down the stairs to run your hand along the door. Your concierge watched from the open door of the entryway. The keys were waiting for you. No note. He didn’t need to send one; his intentions were crystal clear.

I’ll cut his fucking head off.

You shivered as you sank down into the buttery leather seat. You wondered if Titus meant it, if you had finally pushed the sick old fuck too far. Men like Titus didn’t need to lie. Men like Titus raised a hand and the whole world held its breath to see what came next. You didn’t doubt he was capable of tremendous violence. It was always there in his eyes, an errant promise, the ease of the untouchable, and it made you soaking fucking wet.

You grinned under the dappled light breaking through the leaves, pushed up your skirt, and fingered yourself through your panties. Slowly, the concierge in your lobby turned away. You slid your panties aside, letting the wetness pool on the flawless leather. Giggling to yourself, you made yourself decent, hopped out of the convertible, and took a picture of the mess you had made on the driver’s seat.

The picture flew away to Titus with a satisfying little sound.

You grabbed the keys to your new car and skipped back up into the townhouse, hunting down an iced coffee while you waited for him to respond. Instead, Gander texted. Ugh. You hated him. No, there weren’t words for what you felt. He had bought you like a horse, making sure you understood you would be just one in a crowded stable. That your saddle would have the diamond, the portion of his fortune, was meant to be flattering.

Titus was wrong about Gander being a crier. Girls whispered. You knew exactly what Gander was. A practiced, unabashed, entitled sadist. He had women lined up from New York to Tokyo, all of them carrying scars. The physical ones were bad; the mental ones were worse. But your father’s business had collapsed. He was in debt up to his eyeballs. With Gander’s money, none of you would be homeless, but you also wouldn't have a home. You would have a prison--golden, glittering, but a prison all the same.

Titus was no peach, but you identified in him the same raw, needy possessive streak you saw in yourself. You wanted to disappear into someone else, vanish into their darkness, let them see you for all the horrible things you were, and you didn’t, under any circumstances, want to share.

Gander was going to be delayed on his return trip. Boo hoo. A picture of his cock came through. You recoiled from the screen, gagging. Say something pretty for me, get it hard.

You Googled a nude of someone else, some call girl who vaguely resembled you. Gander was in his sixties, flirting with dementia, he would never know the difference. You cropped out her head and sent it back with a kissy face emoji. You felt sick to your stomach. But Titus had never stopped playing his little games, never proposed or even tried to court you in earnest. It was this or destitution, and you had no idea how to be poor.

Your fiancé sent another picture, you squinted hard enough to make it blurry for yourself and heart reacted to buy time, then picked up your bag, dumped your coffee into a travel mug and went down the block for a croissant. Titus replied when you were seated at a petite table by the window, the city passing you by, and life, too. At least you would be spared Gander’s physical presence for a few more precious days.

good girl. what am I saved as now? Titus asked.

Your breath hitched in your throat at those words. Good girl. You could imagine him saying it, fingers curled around your wrist as he kissed the back of your hand, eyes searing into yours. Fuck it. The game had to escalate.

Daddy, you texted back.

Typing dots appeared and disappeared for five straight minutes while you enjoyed his suffering and ate your croissant. You were sucking the last of the almond paste off of your fingers when he finally responded.

show me. proof.

You screenshotted the message window and sent it.

What am I saved as? you asked, blushing.

i’ll never tell.

Then: i’m shopping for a saw.

Under the table, your pussy clenched. What was wrong with you? Everything, everything.

Promises, promises, you told him.

are you or are you not the owner of a brand new BMW Z3? you’re not going to marry him, sweetheart. i’ll keep proving it until you understand.

And then what? Even if you could get out of marrying Gander, nothing about your circumstances would change. But you were having too much fun. Titus never texted this consistently. Something was different. Maybe this time, he would accept the truth you had allowed in long ago—that you freaks were made for each other, two sides of the same cursed coin.

My engagement party is next week, you texted. Make it memorable, darling.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

Titus’s man on the inside let him know when the toasts were about to begin. He had considered going himself, timing his entrance to fluster you at the perfect moment, but some restraint was in order. Teasing out the game was what made it so delicious. And anyway, he needed plausible deniability for what was to come later. It was better if he kept his distance. For now. But his mole had performed adequately, and even verified that yes, the bride-to-be had her phone on her person at the party.

Titus picked up his binoculars and searched along the windows. Your big event was at the Aman—expensive but not particularly exclusive, in Titus’s opinion—and it had been a snap to book a room across the way, at the Whitby. You looked radiant and fuckable and tasteful in your Oscar de la Renta gown, too radiant and fuckable and tasteful for a walking thumb like Gander Schmitt. He looked like an oaf, but that went without saying. His bowtie was crooked the entire evening, which was driving Titus up the fucking wall.

Show some respect to my wife.

Toast time. Titus let the binoculars hang around his neck and picked up his phone.

He’s going now, the mole texted. That was his cue.

Titus sent the pictures, one after the other, then grabbed the binoculars again, found you there among the glittering guests, and waited for your reaction. He had indulged in the assumption that you would be eager for any excuse not to listen to Gander drone on and on about how much he loved you, how seamlessly you fit into his life, how you were going to make an enviable wife and dutiful mother. None of those things would happen, of course, Titus wouldn’t let them. Gander was already a dead man; he just didn’t know it. He was glad he couldn’t hear the speech, because being forced to hear that dullard lie through his teeth about you might send Titus into a venomous, blackout rage that would end in satisfaction, but satisfaction with too much mess.

There was more on the line now than just pride, more than just the game; he had done some preparatory homework on Gander. You were about to yoke yourself to a man with Titus’s appetites but not his discretion or his solvency. Gander’s big AI gamble was just that, and the Danforth’s personal financial analyst had returned Titus’s “investment inquiries” with grave warnings. This was a table with two legs--any pressure and the whole thing would collapse.

That buffoon was going to ruin your life.

That’s my job.

Titus smiled to himself, the grin spreading as you did exactly as he hoped and glanced at your phone while Gander continued his red-faced bloviating. Your eyes widened, your pulse pushed visibly against the delicate skin of your neck. You looked up, perhaps wondering, perhaps hoping, that Titus would show up in person to bask in your shock.

He was not necessarily a patient man, but for you? For you, he could try.

He was, after all, a man who enjoyed the chase.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

You stared, dumbfounded, at the pictures that had come through in rapid succession. Everyone was staring. Blood turned to molten sludge in your veins. Your heart felt like it might blast out of your chest and knock the wine glass out of Gander’s hand.

The first: A screenshot of your text chain from his perspective. There at the top, you were saved as wife. You couldn’t feel your fingers. The whole room was bending toward you. The lights were too bright. The air was too stuffy, too hot. You swayed on your heels, lips parting as you stupidly, recklessly looked down at the next image.

It was a picture taken from above, by Titus himself, angled down his chest. His shirt was pulled up, revealing the iron ripple of his lower stomach and the tantalizing trail of hair that led from his navel to his groin. No telling where his pants had gone. His cock strained against his black boxer briefs, gripped in one hand, flexed upward to make sure you could see just how thick, fat, and long it was. Just barely, just at the very top of the waistband, you could make out the leaking, swollen head spearing above the fabric. He was so hard his own fucking underwear couldn’t contain him.

You were going to pass out.

Someone put a hand on your shoulder.

Snapping back into your body, into the present, you lowered your phone, hiding it against your thigh. Your mouth was suddenly flooded with saliva, your tongue dull and heavy as Gander pinned you with a strained, confused look and waved the microphone in front of your face.

You locked your phone and handed it to your mother, exchanging it for a chilled glass of pink champagne. This was impossible. This was like dying slowly in public. If you didn’t concentrate, you were going to puke on yourself. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, smiled, put on a show, and gave your speech, unfocusing your eyes so that when you looked at your future husband, it was Titus standing there, steady, handsome, knowing.

When it was over and you had survived it, you hurried onto the veranda to get some air. A man you didn’t recognize sidled up beside you. A party crasher? He bowed stiffly and handed you a wrapped packet.

“From Mr. Danforth, ma’am. He sends felicitations on your grand match.”

Felicitations. What a fucking dickhead.

The man skedaddled away as if afraid you might strike him or throw your drink in his face at the mention of Titus’s name. You went to the stone railing and set down your champagne, fished out your phone, your breath catching in your throat again when you opened the text chain with him. Without a hint of remorse, you saved both images, then texted: I’m changing you back to titties dickforth.

open the package.

You sighed and did so, peeling open the paper to find a now recognizable pair of men’s Saint Laurent boxer briefs, black, the fly crusted with what was unmistakably a large semen stain. You paled and checked to make sure nobody was close by. He was going to be the death of you; maybe you were starting not to care.

You’re a menace, you texted.

yes, but i’m your menace.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

You knew it had gotten out of hand, sincerely out of hand, when your mother called to let you know the fucking wedding had been moved. To the Danforth Lodge.

“All expenses paid for,” she gushed to you, utterly witless. This is a disaster. “A wedding gift from the Danforth family.”

No, from Titus and Titus alone.

Which meant he would be there. For the first time, you wondered if you were outmatched, if Titus was simply too insane to beat at this little game.

“Mom, I wanted it at the Plaza,” you said, not quite whining but trending in that direction. “I’ve always wanted my wedding at the Plaza. Since I was a little girl. We can refuse. The world doesn’t revolve around the Danforths.”

Your mother sighed. “Yes, it does, sweetie.”

You picked out a dress you knew Titus would love, not just because he would be there to see you in it, but because, selfishly, delusionally, you were still hoping he would make good on his grim promise.

And your texting was getting imprudent, to say the least. He seemed to always know when Gander was in town and when he wasn’t. Somehow, Titus had your schedule and found ways to make your life borderline unbearable. If you were getting brunch at ROBERT, he made sure a carafe of your favorite mimosas was waiting before you even reached the table. He sent a picture of himself, swollen and sweat-slicked from the gym, silver curls devilishly careless, his sweatpants low on his hips, his hard cock straining visibly against the fabric. You got him back with an equally scandalous photo taken in the lady’s restroom.

go in the stall and touch yourself

You did, because you wanted to, because everything he did made you feverishly giddy.

take your panties off before you go back to the table. put them in your bag. be a good girl for daddy and you’ll get a reward

The check didn’t even arrive at the table. Gander stared in mute fury at the waiter as you were all informed that it had been paid. Your fiancé was starting to notice Titus Danforth’s little gestures popping up everywhere. When it was time to do the prenup, explaining the BMW was hell. You had to disclose all of your major assets. It felt like sitting in the principal’s office. How to explain the diamond-encrusted collar with the platinum o-ring? The astronomical number of Agent Provocateur lingerie sets. The Hermès Himalaya Birkin. The Manolos and the Jimmy Choos and the Pradas. Your closet was filling up with evidence, and all of it could be traced back to one man if anyone bothered to look.

And Gander was beginning to look.

You were eating dinner with him--a tedious chore on a normal day and excruciating when, like tonight, he was in a foul mood—at the Modern, a week before the wedding. The Abstractions prix fixe menu was $275 a head, so you weren’t just going to push the chilled lobster around your plate and pretend to be full. Gander huffed with irritation whenever you took an actual bite of food. He wanted a skinny bride, that had been made abundantly clear from the all caps emails he sent to your mother on the subject.

OUR WEDDING WILL APPEAR IN THE TIMES. I WILL NOT BE EMBARRASSED.

No, you ugly piece of shit, you’ll be dead.

You crossed your feet at the ankles, ignoring Gander’s eyes burning into your face as you picked at the next dish; it was called eggs on eggs on eggs. You could just imagine Titus rolling his eyes at it.

“These people need to be stopped,” he would say, brooding over his whiskey. “By force, if necessary.”

Gander probably thought your dreamy smile over the eggs was for him. Moron. You were wearing a pair of shoes Titus had sent over the previous day. They fit like a glove. Everything he sent suited your body perfectly. He had studied your taste like he could get a degree in it. Extravagant but playful. Sexy but never crass.

take a photo in these. nothing else.

You obliged, getting very acrobatic with the angle in the mirror to make sure he didn’t glimpse any nipple or puss.

so demure, he said, when the photo arrived.

I’m saving the sweet stuff for our wedding night.

oh sweetheart. there will be nothing sweet about our wedding night.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

Titus was a man of deranged urges, but where traditions prevailed, so must self-discipline.

He was never going to let Gander make it to the wedding night. He was never going to let that bloated windbag lay a finger on you. Far, far too risky. In fact, he had been very clear with you—if your fiancé ever tried to express his dark cravings before the ring was on your finger, you were to drop everything and text Titus. If it meant physically restraining, maiming, or outright killing Gander, then so be it. There was no mess on Earth Titus couldn’t clean up if he really needed to, but he wanted you pristine. He knew you weren’t a virgin, that wasn’t important, what was important to him was the timeline. The game was running, and when the game ended, you would be his. In the intervening time, no man was to even breathe on you.

And it was a simple thing indeed to have his financial analyst draw up a document laying out all the ways in which Schmitt and his business were careening toward ruin. By now, Gander hated his fucking guts, but the information was persuasive enough to trick him into meeting with Titus. Alone. In the remote guesthouse with the quaint, cottage exterior that tidily concealed its gruesome purpose.

Titus was ready for him. The ambush was easy, because Gander inhabited a world that Titus did not, a world in which no man as rich as Gander was ever really in danger. He didn’t know what it was to hunt. What it was to kill. Titus knew both, and it was his great pleasure indeed to teach Gander the ways of this new and terrifying existence.

He did not want it to go too long. His desire to have you had turned into something manic, a physical pain he carried everywhere. The pictures you sent him were fueling his addiction, but they weren’t coming fast enough for his liking. He needed more.

It was just the right amount of paralytic in the syringe. He needed Gander immobilized but alert. He tied the bug-eyed fuck to a chair, nice and tight, dragging him outside into the twilight gloom where nobody would see them. The staff were on alert. Mr. Danforth was conducting a private hunt that evening, and they were to act accordingly. All guests at the Lodge for the wedding were to be kept indoors. Distractions had been arranged.

Titus grunted from the effort of bringing Gander’s dead weight out into the dirt. The man’s eyes were bloodshot and runny as Titus explained exactly what was going to happen next.

“You have something of mine,” Titus told him, shucking his light jacket, rolling his shoulders. “I could’ve asked nicely for it, but that’s not nearly as fun. I like a bit of a challenge. So, I’m going to take it. I’m going to take your fiancé. She belongs to me now, do you understand?”

Gander couldn’t speak even if he wanted to, and Titus didn’t actually care if the man comprehended what he was saying.

“I know all about your little dens in Berlin and Phuket. I know what you do there and how those women end up. She’s not going to be one of those women. Over my dead fucking body will she be one of those women. But actually, over yours.” He retreated to the shed, opened it, brought out the aged, rusty saw he had chosen for the occasion. “If you were just a normal pervert I’d kill you before the next part. I want you to know I’ve had my people forge your signature on a few key documents. Your money? Your assets? Hers. We’ll strip that dipshit company of yours for parts, after I make a proper wife out of her. I know what you’re thinking—why wait so long? What’s the matter with you, Titus? Everything. Everything is the matter with me. Normally, that’s my cross to bear, but tonight it’s yours.”

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

You didn’t know what exactly was waiting for you in the guest house, but you suspected it was nothing good.

It was a warm summer night, sticky, fireflies dancing in the tall grass while you swished toward the cottage. Parts of the estate were allowed to grow wild. Flowers bobbed against you, brushing your fingers as you reached the charming, cobblestone path that curved toward the front door. It was white brick with black wood trim, a squat country chimney sitting empty and smokeless in the heat. Crickets and frogs roared from the tree line and a pond you had spotted from your window when it was light hour before. Your skin was on fire. The tone of Titus’s text had been so uncharacteristic it chilled your blood. He wasn’t being demanding or domineering, he wasn’t commanding you to send him a picture of your feet or your lips or your bra-clad tits.

come to the guesthouse, sweetheart. i have something to show you.

The door was open. You let yourself in, slipped off your heels, and padded barefoot through the cottage, looking for him. Titus was waiting for you in the kitchen. It was late, but he looked wired. His eyes harbored a strange, dazzling light. He had put on a clean, crisp suit, storm gray, a pair of engraved cufflinks and a paisley pocket square making him look sharp indeed. Leaning against the heavy wood table, he tipped his head to the side, watching you.

It had been ages since you had been in the same room together. The effect was immediate, charged, like licking a socket, the thrill of his presence, his proximity, shooting through you in bursts. He sucked all the air out of the room, always had.

“I was hoping you would wear that,” he said, lovingly, with a low, simmering warmth that went straight to your cunt.

It was a silky, lacy peignoir, just decent enough to pass as a flirty cocktail dress. But that wasn’t why Titus had given it to you weeks ago. You knew what he liked about it—without a bra, your nipples peaked teasingly through the delicate fabric, the weight of the silk catching on your every curve. The color, blush pink, felt obscenely innocent given your shared desires.

“Titus,” you said gradually. You could tell by the smothering silence that you were utterly alone in the house with him. “Why am I here?”

He beckoned you forward with a single, curling finger. And you went, because for almost a decade you had been waiting for more than precocious banter. Everything on your body had once belonged to him—the dress, the gold chain necklace, the bracelet, even the luxurious body wash you had used that morning. Until that moment, you hadn’t considered that he was terraforming your life, making you into exactly what he wanted one purchase, one text, one command at a time.

And more shocking, you found you didn’t mind.

When you were an inch away, Titus leaned down to breathe in your neck. He groaned softly, one hand reaching for your chin, tilting your head up until you had no choice but to look him in the eyes. His eyes. They were magnetic. His grip was firm, his thumb nestled in the groove below your lip.

“You know why you’re here.”

“I don’t—”

“You do.” Titus smiled, it was a slow affair, cold and confident. “Think, sweetheart, use that beautiful, devious brain of yours and think hard.”

You swallowed a strangled breath. God, you wanted to touch him and be touched.

“What would make you the happiest girl on Earth?” he whispered, searching your face.

You blinked, hard. “You. Being with you, getting fucked by you, being yours.”

Titus’s eyes drifted shut, an almost sweet expression gripping him before letting go and the frigid mask descended again. Still, you felt his hand tremble on your chin. “Daddy’s so proud of you, you’re so good. I hope you can forgive me, baby, you’re so good and tonight I’ve been so, so bad.”

You gasped as he let go of you. He sank one hand into his pocket, the other he used to flick open the refrigerator door. You had been so focused on him, on his heat, his power, his body, his dangerous, mesmerizing eyes, that you hadn’t even noticed the rest of the kitchen. But now you saw it. You saw everything.

“Titus…”

Gander Schmitt’s head was on a silver tray, saran-wrapped like a leftover Easter ham, his eyes glazed and staring, his mouth open in fixed, grimacing horror.

Titus left the door open, returning to where you stood, moving behind you and wrapping his arms around your middle. His head landed on your right shoulders as he cuddled you to his body, squeezing in a way that told you fighting, running, was pointless. “Are you the happiest girl on Earth tonight?”

You stared at Gander. It was impossible to tear your eyes away. It was so bizarre, so disgusting, it didn’t feel quite real yet. Reality was shivering through you, adrenaline coating your veins in unleaded. Your mouth opened and closed several times as you tried to formulate the words. “Was he alive?” you finally asked in a choked whisper. “When you did it?”

“Until I hit the carotid, yes.”

Nonchalant. Factual.

“I don’t…I’m not…” A part of you had always known this was coming, that the game of cat and mouse never ended well for the mouse. It did shame you that you didn’t give a shit about Gander being dead, only what it meant. “Fuck you, Titus. My life is over.”

He let go when you pried yourself out of his grasp. Surprising. But you weren’t about to give him points, not for anything. You marched over to the fridge and gripped the door, shaking it. “Are you fucking insane?”

“Yes?”

“Not for the obvious reasons!” You screamed, stamping your bare foot, rattling the timbers supporting the roof. You panted at him, hunched, crazed, snarling. “I mean it, you fucking asshole, what am I supposed to do now? Don’t you understand? I’m not like you, Titus. I can’t just do whatever the hell I want when I want. I wasn’t going to marry him for love, for a thrill, my family is in trouble. In trouble. I’m the only child. I’m their last hope.”

He withstood the lecture with the strangest little smile on his face.

Once you had screamed some more and worn yourself out, he calmly rounded the table, took the refrigerator door from you and closed it. “Are you finished?” he asked.

“No. No.”

“I know all of that, baby.” Titus collected you into his arms, and you squirmed until he started in on his next phrase. “I’ve taken care of everything. You’ll be my wife.”

You’ll be my wife. The words made the world spin. You settled against him, then twisted to look up into his face. “But I was never good enough before, my family--”

“You were always good enough,” Titus murmured into your temple, dragging his nose down to yours, his lips touching yours, greedy, as if he wanted to steal the breath right out of your lungs. “I just wasn’t sick of our game. You make the chase so good, but now I’m ready to win.”

He escorted you away from the kitchen and the odd, lingering smell there, taking you to the adjoining living room. Maneuvering you against the back of the couch, he trapped you there, his body wedged against yours, his hips scrunching the silk fabric against your groin. He had rehearsed this, you thought, planned it all, every word, every protestation, every minute of his triumph.

“Here.” Titus calmly slid his phone out of his pocket and handed it to you. “I’m going to touch you now, and you’re going to dial your father. You’re going to explain to him that Titus Danforth is your daddy now. You’re going to tell him that you belong to me, that you’re going to be my wife and the very willing mother of my children. His little girl won the big prize.” His eyes sparkled with pleasure, with menace. “Won’t he just be so proud?”

The phone almost slipped out of your hand from so much flop sweat greasing your palm. Your father’s contact was already queued up, ready. Titus waited until your thumb hovered over the CALL button to ruck up your dress and pull down your underwear until it was around your knees. It fell the rest of the way without any encouragement. His chest was hard and hot and expansive as you braced yourself against it and his fingers, God his fingers, slid carefully over your slit.

“Fuck,” Titus moaned into your ear. “I knew you would be wet. I knew you’d love my engagement gift.”

You didn’t trust your own voice as the phone rang. Titus crooned gently into your ear, just nothing, just sounds, chuckling when you gasped as his fore and middle finger tucked up under your clit, massaging, too insistent, too prodding to be genuinely pleasurable.

“If you tell him what I told you to,” Titus murmured. “I’ll let you cum.” You assured him with a hasty nod. Your eagerness made his cock twitch against your thigh. “That’s right, sweetheart. Little games for children are over. The adults are playing now.”

There was a severed head in the refrigerator. You were about to announce an engagement to a different man the night before your wedding. God only knew where the rest of Gander had gone. You couldn’t tell if the fight had left you or if this was something else, but you didn’t want it to be resignation. That was what marrying Gander would have been. Defeat. A noble defeat maybe but a defeat all the same. You leaned back to stare up into Titus’s face. That he smelled clean, laundered, spritzed with woodsy aftershave, made it all feel okay. That if his world and his violence were yours to share, at least there would be propriety when the lights were on and strangers were looking. You could hold your head high at his side, clasp a hand that was steeped to the wrist in blood.

Your lips parted and he took that as the invitation it was. The kiss sealed the deal, and for an instant, the rhythmic circling of his fingers against your clit softened into something sweeter. He balanced you on the knife’s edge of pain and pleasure.

“Put it on speaker phone,” he said, waiting and watching for your reaction. He might think the game was over, but you knew there were still myriad ways to lose. And to go where and to do what? Throw yourself at another monster whose dimensions were yet to be known? Titus you understood. Titus, in his way, could be controlled.

He wanted to feel big and powerful and all-consuming, inevitable as myth, a man unbound by the tawdry rules of a society that men like him shaped. And like all unimaginably powerful men, he also craved the lie that there was something he couldn’t have, something he couldn’t take.

“Where’s my ring?”

Titus bit your lower lip, pulling until you gasped and bucked against him.

“On the other side of this phone call,” he said.

Your father’s voice drew you out of the fuzzy half-reality the cottage had become. Titus nodded as you began to speak, wedging the pads of his fingers under your clit again, allowing his fingertips to graze your entrance, suggest what might be had if you did as he instructed.

“Hi Dad,” you said, your voice rising to a shrill register you didn’t recognize. “How’s…how’s your night going?”

Titus pinched back a laugh, tightening his lips. Your father mumbled something about winning a few hundred dollars at the blackjack tables. He wasn’t even far away, sequestered with the rest of the wedding guests inside the lodge and casino.

“That’s great,” you said, a bit tartly, cutting him off. Oh my God shut up. “There’s been a change of plans. I’m afraid…” Your eyes widened, flying to Titus for help. “Gander, he…um…he…”

Accident, Titus mouthed, holding your gaze. Heart attack.

“He had a heart attack I think, the doctors are still—” Titus sucked the side of your neck, rubbing, rubbing, promising relief but never delivering, making your eyelids grow heavier as you tried to chase his touch. “He’s not going to make it.”

Your father exploded on the other end, panicked, furious.

“It’s a-all right,” you hurried to promise. Beads of sweat gathered along your brows. Titus noticed, licked them casually away. You couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of your mouth, but they arrived, halting and vague and stupid. “You c-couldn’t know this but I’ve grown really close to Titus over the last year. I know it sounds c-crazy but he wants to help.”

Titus pinched your clit, impatient; your head flew back as you tried not to shriek.

“Tell him,” he growled into your throat.

“He’s my d-daddy now. I belong to him. He’s marrying me and I’m his,” Titus’s fingers slowed to a far more enjoyable pace, cheating higher, outlining your swollen lips, teasing your entrance, dipping in to test if you were still soaked, still shivering and whorishly wet. Every word drew out more kindness. He pushed one finger inside, to the knuckle, holding you up as your knees buckled. “I’m going…going to give him so many babies. I won the big prize, okay? Everything is going to b-be okay now.”

Titus ripped the phone out of your hands, hung up the call and threw his mobile clear across the house. You heard a window shatter as he fucked you with his fingers in earnest, two, pressing a ravenous, open-mouthed kiss to your neck as you worked your hips frantically against his hand.

“That’s right, sweetheart, mine. Mine. No more teasing. Now you have a very greedy daddy to please. Nod if you understand. Nod if you like it.” His voice was sharp gravel in your ear, his hand possessive and seeking as he thrust his fingers in and out, letting you hear the squelch, how desperately your pussy tried to keep him from leaving too soon. When you nodded, when you moaned throatily for him and said, “No, I love it,” his response was to grab you by the throat and tip you over the edge of the couch.

You bounced down onto the cushions, scrambling to find him as he prowled to the edge of the sofa, then around, stripping as he went. Jacket. Shirt. Undershirt. Belt. He sank down with a grunt beside you, lashing out with one arm to hook you around the waist and pull you, roughly, onto his lap. Your thighs went where they yearned to, on either side of his. He helped you push the dress over your head and toss it aside.

You reached for his fly, but he just as readily slapped your hands away. Titus smirked, reaching into his pocket, fishing out the biggest diamond engagement ring you had ever seen. He put it in his mouth, showing it to you between his teeth. His eyebrows went up, once, goading, and you carefully slipped your left ring finger through the sparkling circle, into his mouth. His tongue rolled against your finger, teasing.

While you were momentarily stunned by the sheer, indulgent size of the stone, Titus unzipped his trousers, grimacing and wincing as he pulled out his cock. Everything in your life was about to be a lot bigger. His dick was painfully hard, pulsing with his heartbeat, a vein along the edge jagged as cut glass.

“I’ve waited a long time for this,” he whispered, leaning forward to kiss your chin. His skin glistened. The faint, golden light in the cottage caught the sweat in his curls and made them shine. “Don’t disappoint me.”

“Should’ve taken it for a test drive first,” you teased, risking a little hazard. His deep, mean eyes flashed with interest. “I’ve already got the ring.”

Titus pulled your hips flush with his, lifted you, gave you the courtesy of a warning nudge against your cunt before he lowered you onto him with sickeningly good aim. Your body relented almost immediately, even his impressive size welcomed when the host was so profoundly willing. “I want my sweet stuff,” he sneered, throwing your own words back at you. “And I want it now.”

“Am I your sweet stuff?” You carded your hands through his hair, arching, leaning back to present your tits to his mouth. He watched them jiggle, transfixed, jaw jutting out as he sheathed his cock, letting you feel just how much you would be expected to take, and take, and take.

“You know you are, baby.”

“Daddy’s sweet stuff.”

He buried his face in your chest, holding you to him with a tenderness you didn’t expect from him. Interesting. “Give me everything,” he hissed, latching on to one nipple and then the other, a sound almost like a sob wrenching out of his throat. “All your sweet stuff for daddy.” His fist tightened in your hair, exerting steady pressure until you accepted he wasn't going to let go and stared up at the ceiling, utterly exposed, utterly filled. Your world was expanding. Your world was him. He was already so close, you could feel his cock swelling, shoved to the limits just from a brief, hot soak. “Say please, sir, and no, sir, and may I have some more, sir? Fuck me like a good girl if you understand.”

You did and you did.

“Sir,” you whispered, grinding against him, bouncing, finally letting yourself go, tilting over into the dark swirl of pleasure and dark pit of him, a place from which one could never, ever return. “Please, may I have some more.”

[ceriseangels]

𝗜𝘁'𝘀 𝗚𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗜𝗹𝗹, 𝗜𝘁'𝘀 𝗚𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗦𝗶𝗰𝗸 𝗢𝗻 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗙𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗿- 𝗔.𝗣.𝗖.

Pairing- Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody x Fem!Reader

WC- 6.2k

Summary: Too many men are staring at you at one of Craig's parties. You’re not dating Pope, so why does he feel the need to stake his claim?

Contains- 18+ MDNI, smut, p in v sex, shy!reader, canon-typical watchful pope (kinda stalker-y? nothing crazy), i likely changed the timeline of some things here, r is deran's best friend, knew of/had a childhood crush on pope, but he didn't know who r was until after he got out of prison when she was fully grown, r drinks alcohol, tipsy sex (both parties) pope cody consent king

A/N- pope gif in the lil phone is from @/boydkye73 on pinterest <3 divider from @pxrce-lain ! i have been obsessed with the dean x allie on the floor scene in off campus, and thus this was born <3

Sun warmed salt water laps at your legs, your surfboard allowing a soft rock with each wave. Your heart pounds as you glance at your best friend, unsure you'd heard him correctly.

"You're trying to corral me to one of Craig's parties?" You clarify, brow raised.

Deran just shrugs at this, his own board parallel to yours in the water.

"Listen, all I'm saying is if you want to see me this weekend, that's how it's going to happen. Craig's got me on beer duty," he adds with an eye roll.

You both know this will leave Deran blowing three jobs' worth of money on alcohol. This is not your first rodeo when it comes to the Pope family, or rather, your lifelong neighbors.

Growing up in one of the richest neighborhoods in California had been daunting for you- a meek, sullen child with pointy ears and crooked teeth. You did not fit into the posh corporate world you'd been brought into, your parents both a CEO power team.

Deran had taken you in, though, on the first day of kindergarten. You'd been sniffling quietly in the corner after your nanny had dropped you off. tempted to place a thumb between your lips when a scruffy, shaggy boy lined your vision.

You'd been inseparable ever since, but as you got older, you'd chosen to stay far away from his brother's antics. Burrowing away for most of high school, you recall hearing loud whoops and pool splashes late into most weekend nights.

You also recall the times where your eyes would linger out of the window, falling on the elusive, oldest brother. When it came to him, that voice in the back of your head telling you to look away you fucking creep was utterly silenced.

Even if all you did was stand there, so small through your giant window that it wouldn't matter even if you were spotted, there was a pounding chant of guilt echoing in your mind.

He doesn't even notice you, he's in love with someone else. Get over it.

Now that you're an adult, you're thankful you didn't act on such impulses. You can only imagine the havoc a middle-aged-situationship would have wrecked on your teenage self, let alone at the hands of a Cody.

Though, you suspect that Pope's different, that he wouldn't have ever thought it. Your previous thoughts weren't wrong, either. He really didn't know who you were.

Because he's so much older, your paths rarely crossed during your time spent in the Cody house. All you'd ever had was an elusive idea of who he was, of what he's turned into.

It drove Deran crazy, too, your near-psychotic whining at moaning. All for someone who, truly, did not know you existed.

Then, he got out of prison.

Things were different after that. He was home more, just watching and lingering at first. This soon turned into some brief, light conversation.

A shiver runs down your spine just at the memories of his terse questions, his one worded replies. You can only imagine what he'd be like this weekend, loosened by alcohol and the sun's warmth. A thread of compulsion stitches itself in your chest, and you act before you can think.

"Fine, I'll be there," you seal your fate, sparing Deran a sneaky glance. Sue you if your curiosity beats logic just this once.

Confusion furrows his brows at this, shock parting his lips. The longer he looks at you, the quicker he's going to figure out

"Are you sure?" He asks, eyes darting toward an incoming wave.

It's far off, you guys have a little bit more time until it really hits, but you get a head start anyway.

You paddle with your arms, eager to get away from his knowing gaze. Nodding, you turn to look back at him over your shoulder.

"I'm positive," it's shaky, and utterly unconvincing.

He raises a brow at you, still wading behind you.

"And this has nothing to do with rekindling your old love for a certain brother of mine?" He asks, though you ignore him.

Finally, the wave is close enough for you to prop yourself on your two feet, your core acting as your built in balance beam.

"What'd you say?" You call to him, and you both know damn well you're full of shit.

A few days later, you're out of your skin, a marionette bound by tight bikini strings and pure anxiety. The bass of some shitty rock song Craig likes vibrates through the entire pool deck, tickling your feet.

Glancing around, you're eager to find Deran, the only person you know at this godforsaken party. It's lawless, and you're thoroughly shocked at the intimate details you've found at this party.

You thought you'd seen it all, spending essentially your entire life with this family. You do have to say, the angle in your window is nothing compared to the close and personal view you have of some girl's ass, perched high up in her thong bikini as she does a bump off a key Craig's lifting to her nose.

You're not stupid, you know what the deal is with this family. You knew what you were getting into when you'd accepted this invite, but this was maybe the fifth party you've ever attended, college years included.

Your eyes eventually fall on the one Cody brother you'd been most anxious to see, though you're not entirely complaining. Pope is nearly parallel to you across the deck, his hardened gaze already burning into you.

His stare is like an electric shock, an impenetrable force nestling itself deep in your chest. Lips tightening, you give him an awkward wave. You try not to focus too hard on the skip of your heart when he returns your niceties.

Averting your gaze toward the sliding glass door, you long to escape into the quieter confines of the Cody household. Though it's not empty. the crowd in there is smaller, less mimicking of sardines in the metal tin of this backyard.

The walls call to you like an old church hymn. One that's been lost to the crevices of your mind, but the realization is instant all the same.

Just as you move to stand, water droplets prick you like a million tiny icicles, piercing into your warm skin. Your jaw drops upon impact, whipping your head just in time to see Craig emerge from the water.

The waves of his cannonball ripple throughout the water, an instant giveaway- aka the physical proof you'd need to avoid his denial.

"Craig!" You squeal, cheeks burning at the heads that turned to land on you.

"Sorry, sorry, baby," he laughs, the flow of your pet name an easy stream from his lips. "Guess you have no excuse now, hm? C'mon in!"

He waves a hand, once again splashing you. You shiver at the small sprinkles he subjects you to, rubbing your hands up and down your arms.

"Not right now," you shake your head. "I was actually going to go to the kitchen. Do you want anything?" You ask, praying the idea of another beer distracts him from his prodding.

You're lucky you're you, because Craig just gives you a sad smile, eyes darting behind you, just for the briefest moment.

"Nah, I'm good," he replies. "Make sure you drink some water."

You nod, unsure of what exactly he saw to really make him back down. As much as the Cody boys love you, they love teasing you even more.

You're met with your answer, though, when you turn to see the sliding glass door propped open halfway. Pope stands over the threshold, stance wide and intimidating.

His arms cross over his chest like a bouncer, ad you almost feel like asking if you're allowed to go in.

The eye contact you share on the short journey from the edge of the pool to the door is agonizing. You exist in a weird, Pope Cody purgatory for a moment as you near.

The air is thick around you, neither of you taking the leap to speak first. You raise your empty seltzer can, silent permission to do what you so please.

He grants you this access, quite happily, if the gleam in his eye wasn't pure delusion your end. Angling his body to the side, it's just enough room to squeeze through, but not without grazing your bikini-clad chest over his bare one.

It takes everything in you to stay focused on his face, and to not drift down to the plush muscle of his pecs, his abs, illuminated by the late afternoon sun.

Once you're in, it's an immediate bee line to the kitchen, where you crack another seltzer in record speed. You're not really a drinker, and this is officially your third drink before dinner.

You're not drunk drunk, a pleasant buzz humming its way through you. The rapid speed with which you're drinking, however? This could lead to a problem.

Cracking your can, you're eager to let your eyes fall closed as you allow the fizzy drink on your taste buds, into your liver. Before you can reach such peace, though, you spot something in your peripheral. Rather, someone.

You jump, lips jerking from the can in your grasp, little bubbles spilling over the spout. Pope is there. Just standing. You're not sure how long he's been there, if he was looking at the way you'd bent over in your swimsuit to get another drink from the cooler.

"Pope!" You squeal, your fingertips a delicate graze along your bottom lip. You can't help but notice the way he follow the action. "I didn't realize you were in here!"

There were a few other party-goers roaming throughout the house, some moans echoing in a far off room. A pretty typical Saturday for this family.

"Sorry," he deadpans, yet there is a soft gleam in his eye as he takes you in. "Just wanted to make sure you're okay. You're drinking pretty fast, y'know that?"

He settles further in, resting his lower against his back, arms folding over his bare chest. His brows quirk in concern, and you have to tell yourself that it's his brotherly instinct. That even though he sees you now, that you'll never be much more than his little brother's friend.

His stupid, idiotic friend, who forgets every word in the English language the second a shirtless man flexes his biceps in front of her.

"Uhm-I- I'm not," your cheeks are burning, heart pounding in your ears as Pope leans closer.

His hand reaches out, and you're paralyzed in fear. Your breath hitches in your throat as your hands meet, all he for him to pluck the can from your fingers and pour it out in the sink.

"Hey!" You scoff, stomping a petulant foot. "I was drinking that!"

"And now you're not," he replies, matter of fact. He turns to you, walking the short distance from the sink to where you are, tucked into the corner of the counter.

He stops, a breath away from you, and looks you up and down. Your blood hums in your veins at the proximity, the warm air of his breathing enticing enough to write an entire song about it.

His hand climbs up slowly, long, thick fingers grazing over your forearm, your bicep, your shoulder. A shiver unzips your spine at the proximity, and you can't help but reach your own hand up, now hovering over his touch.

He locks in on your jaw, two fingers latching at the bone there, turning your gaze up to meet his. His eyes are piercing, though the wink of hazel peeking through is enough to turn your knees into jelly.

"You'll thank me when you're not up at 3 am, with Deran holding your hair back over the toilet," he murmurs, and then he walks out of the kitchen.

A rush of air flees your lungs, into all this newfound space. Chest heaving with deep, heavy breaths, you snap your head to watch him walk out, sliding the glass door sliding closed before you can say,

"That was just one time!"

He's gone by the time it leaves your lips, your airy defense of your behavior at Baz and Cath's wedding getting stuck in your throat. You were surprised he'd remembered you then- you'd just graduated college, and Craig had convinced you to go hard.

Of course, you both had very different definitions of what that meant.

You opt for a water bottle before sliding out, suddenly eager for the relief of the pool in this aching heat.

Setting your water down on your chaise lounge, you kick your flip flops off, happy to see Deran splashing around with your other surfer friends.

"There she is!!" Craig calls, wolf whistling to punctuate his excitement.

You roll your eyes, taking a tentative step onto the stairs. The cold is shocking at first, and you fight the urge to flip your toes out of the water, to retreat back to your solitude.

You're here now, and Craig isn't the only Cody boy burning a whole through your bikini top.

Pope is, once again, just out of your line of vision, his curls fluffing the edges of your peripheral.

Though you can confirm he's there, you think you'd be able to tell just on feeling alone. The intensity of his stare is enough to burn a hole through you.

You picture it now, his wide eyes making a laser-like icicle in your middle, where it would fall off like a wall in a cartoon movie. It's a pretty good comparison, you think, as Pope Cody has you completely hollow, empty to roam through you as he pleases.

"Stop being a baby!" Deran yells, snapping you out of your thoughts.

You give him a nervous smile, taking another sheepish step.

"God! You're so boring!" He groans, swimming over to offer you a hand.

If you hadn't known Deran your entire life, you'd be wary of accepting the hand of a Cody boy. He leads you down another step, but you don't make it very far until Craig proves your point.

"Come on you two!" He yells, reaching his own hand out to encircle yours, tugging you in before you can react.

A scream falls from your lips as you tumble into the water, the muffled whoops of other party goers echoing above you. You gasp as you breach the surface, smoothing your hair out of your face as you fight the urge to deck Craig in his stupid, smirking face.

He cocks his head to the side, not unlike a dog, a pout jutting out his bottom lip.

"Aww, come on, baby, I'm sorry," he croons, attempting to swim closer to you.

All this does is disrupt the water more, waves now bobbing up to your chin as you float.

"Don't you dare!" You hold a finger up, dodging out of his way as he closes in on you. He jumps at you a moment too late, flopping onto an empty pocket of water.

The damage is still done, though, his now third splash related offense in the past twenty minutes.

You're lucky, as you're now on the other edge of the pool, not too far from where Pope was sitting earlier. He'd be behind you, if he's still there, but you're too scared to check.

"Craig! You better get away from me, you freak!" You yelp as he nears you once again, thoroughly caged in between groups of boys drinking beers to the right, and girls on floats to the left. He's relentless, shaking his voluminous head of hair out, all over you. "Gross! You're like a wet dog!"

This elicits laughter from the parties on either side of you, the boys undoubtedly some of Craig's friends. They clap him on the back in congratulations once they realize what's going on, and the incorrect conclusion they've clearly drawn makes you feel nauseous.

"Don't act like you don't like it!" He teases, though he's dialed it up a few notches, putting on a performance for his bros.

You roll your eyes. This is classic Craig, and the entire reason why, in all your years of knowing this family, you've never fucked him. You attempt to be nonchalant as you freestyle your way to the front of the pool.

As you climb the steps, you're subjected to some more whoops, some more whistles. Your cheeks burn as you desperately attempt to ignore the spotlight you've been thrust under.

You're quick to grab a towel, wrapping it around you and settling into your chair once again. This allows you another glance at Pope, his gaze still on you, now hardened, angry.

The contrast pricks your skin like ice, suddenly very uncomfortable, upset, even, at the possibility of Pope being mad at you. What could you even had done to piss him off this much?

You recount the past 15 minutes in your mind- nothing in your little pool excursion had anything to do with him, so you give up on solving that mystery.

Allowing yourself some reprieve, you dry off in the sun, towel now splayed long behind you, catching the droplets that fall from your hair. You take in the music, a rap song now, one you vaguely recall hearing through your window many a night.

Slipping on your shoes, you pad back into the house. It's emptier now, the early evening sun warding off the extras, the people with little to no connection with the Codys.

You take advantage of this situation, making your way to the kitchen once more. A peek in the cooler proves unfruitful, so you swing open the fridge.

There's a slight arch to your back as you search on the lower shelves, gasping in delight at the sight of your favorite canned cocktail, an entire row of them, in fact.

Popping up from the fridge, you turn to return outside. Except, you can't.

The sight of Pope, just, standing there, in front of the door jolts your nervous system, shaking you from head to toe. Your adrenaline surges, if only for a brief moment, placing a hand on your heart.

"Jesus Christ, Pope!" You gasp, breathing heavy. "You scared me!"

"I'm sorry," he mutters, and your heart churns.

That's what has always gotten you about Pope- his authenticity is bare in the face of his simplicity. It's never rude, it's never fake. It's just Pope.

"I didn't mean to," he continues, and you take a few steps closer. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay, it didn't really seem like you actually wanted to go swimming."

You're a bit shocked at this, but it's a pleasant surprise more than anything. You wouldn't have guessed that's what he was scowling about, still having a bit of a hard time swallowing that pill.

"I'm fine," you smile, feeling an odd ease at his concern. "Thank you, Pope."

His eyes light up just a tad at your words, and your heart flutters.

"You're welcome," he drawls, heat blooming in your cheeks. "How many is that?"

He nods to the drink in your hand, and you glance down, jaw slack for a moment before saying,

"Oh! Three. I haven't had any more until now. Someone brought a whole pack of my favorite, so, I'm gonna have to pay them back," you joke, but he quirks a brow.

"I'm going to be drinking it all night," you explain, your words tugging the corner of his lip. "I have to compensate!"

He chuckles at that, shaking his head and taking a swig of his own beer.

"On me, don't worry about it," he shrugs, and this time, you're not sure what exactly he's implying.

"You mean, you'll pay that person back?" You prompt. He shakes his head.

"Nah, I paid Deran already. Had him get extra when he told me they were your favorite," he says, like it's the most normal thing in the world.

Butterflies ricochet around your tummy, fluttery and excited and brutal and sharp.

"You got my favorite drink?" You clarify, needing that last bit of validation.

"Well, technically, Deran did," he says, and you're not sure if he can tell what the look in your eye is desperate to say. "But it was my idea, yeah. I was happy when he told me you agreed to come."

Your heart positively drops at this, your eyes going wide. Heat blooms deep in your belly, unsure what to do with all this attention.

"You were?" You choke out, absolutely dumbfounded.

"I was," he replies with ease. "Is that okay?"

His eyes are also wide as he asks this, and it's a Pope you've never seen before— vulnerable and soft, if only for a moment.

You can't help the urge to meet all of his Popes, every version of him. Even the ones that scare you.

"Ye-yeah," you stutter, cheeks on fire. "I just wasn't expecting it, I guess."

"I've been known to be full of surprises,"he deadpans, and you can't help the laugh bursting from your chest.

This gets him, too, his own chest shaking, cheeks bunched in a sweet, small smile.

"Thanks, Pope," you say one last time before finally making your way past him. You look back before you open the door, placing a delicate hand on his bicep. "I appreciate you."

With a quick squeeze, you turn, and walk out the door.

One hour and quite a few drinks later, you're a perfect tipsy, perched on your same chair. You smile, pleasantly enjoying the sloppy, makeshift dance floor a group of girls formed earlier in the night.

One of them had taken over the aux, and soon enough, echoes of Megan Thee Stallion and Sabrina Carpenter flooded the backyard. Craig wants to sleep with, virtually, all of them, so he lets it happen. He lets it happen with a shit eating smile on his face, too.

"Hey," a voice comes in from your left.

You glance over your shoulder, happy to see Deran approach. Slinging an arm over your shoulder, he asks,

"You gonna get out there? I think there's a certain someone who'd happily join you," he asks, giving you a small nudge.

"Ew," you scoff, "I'm not dancing with Craig. Nice try, though."

He chuckles, but nods his head.

"No, bug," he says. "Pope."

You whip your head to face him, eyes bugging out of your head.

"Are you kidding?" You ask. He shakes his head no.

"I'm not dancing with Pope," you whisper-yell, and Deran looks at you as if you're deranged.

"He's been looking at you all day! He's been asking if you were coming all week! He made me get those fuckin' fruity drinks you like…" he trails off, and you can't help but sink your teeth into your bottom lip.

"He was asking about me?" You ask, and Deran's head falls back.

"God!" He groans. "This is so gross, you don't even know," you giggle, and he continues with a reluctant smile. "But, yeah. He was so excited to see you."

"Good to know," you muse, returning your attention to the dance floor. A truly underrated way to people watch, you think.

"So…" he prompts, and you raise a brow. "Are you gonna get up there?" He points, and you shake your head once again.

"Still no, sorry, bub," you smile at his annoyed expression.

"Come on!" He eggs. "I'll go queue up your favorite song!"

"I didn't realize you cared this much," you tease.

He rolls his eyes, pressing his lips together.

"I don't," he barks, and you give him a look. "Fine, I do. But only because Pope won't shut the fuck up about you, and it's getting to be embarrassing, almost."

You light up from the inside out, sitting up a bit straighter.

"Really?" You coo, and he backs away from you, holding a finger out in front of him.

"Okay," he resigns, "you're making me do this. Don't say you didn't make me."

"Do what?" You shout after him, but he's gone.

You smile as you watch your friend maneuver the crowd, very natural in such a social element. You're a bit envious, as you'd never been one to take to this so easily. It's not that you can't, but it's the ease with which Deran's able to woo that you long for.

Maybe if you were, you might actually have a boyfriend here with you, instead of longing for the same man since high school. You afford yourself the smallest glance, and the sight of him is like propane to your heart's open flame.

He's still looking at you, nothing different now except that Craig's joined him, happily taking in the large group of bikini-clad girls dance in his yard.

You can't help but let the eye contact wash over you, consuming you like a warm balm, slow and melting and soft, nothing like almost disciplinary look in his eye.

God, are you fucked up?

The thought sparks a flicker of shame, and you dart your gaze back to Deran, very familiar, poppy chords reverberating through the backyard.

Your eyes are wide, and he beckons you up there. You're not sure if it's the alcohol, or the day in the sun, or just, Pope, but you go.

You're on your feet, light, flowy steps over to Deran, eager to cling to him in this strange environment.

He holds his hand out, helps you find comfort and rhythm in your favorite song. You have to admit, it helps, and soon you're loose, not entirely sure where Deran is, but you know he's near.

Spinning through the dance floor, you feel the last little bits of your insecurity fly away. Your body sways to the beat, natural and effortless.

You feel the stares from the party goers, and it's scary at first, different. Though your vision is a bit hazy, you can spot the heads swiveled in your direction.

It's mostly guys, and you're not too worried about that. Of course they're looking, you're a girl dancing drunk in a bikini. It's not terribly unexpected.

What is, though, is the large figure that settles in behind you. You fight the urge for panic to take over, body rigid until you recognize the hand gripping your hip.

"Pope!" You breathe, relaxing into him upon realization. "You can't keep scaring me like this!" You tease, and if you're not mistaken, there's a small hint of a blush on his cheeks.

"Sorry, baby," he mutters into your neck, swaying with you. "Is this okay?"

You nod, and he pinches your bare hip.

"Words," he demands, and it's embarrassing how fast you obey.

"Yes," you breathe. "It's okay."

He takes this as permission, your word to feel more of you, fingers trailing from the small strings of your bathing suit to the bare skin of your hips, your thighs, your ass.

He's a torch to your flame, his hands sensual and sweet all at the same time. The sway of his hips against yours makes you dizzy, your head falling back on his shoulder.

Your arm comes up to cup his jaw, fondling the sharp bone as he leans down, peppering kisses all along your neck. It's slow, sloppy, almost, his lips wide and wet and wanting.

"Pope-" you choke out, and a growl cuts you off.

Heat pools in your lower belly as something hard pokes against your ass, your own slick coating your bikini bottoms.

"Too many guys were looking at you, baby," he mutters in your ear. "Couldn't stand it. Was the most horrible thing I've had to see all night. Worse than when Craig caged you in the pool. Wanted to fucking kill him."

His words are breathy, your own catching in your throat.

"Pope-" you whisper, squeezing your legs together in a sad attempt to quell the rising heat.

"I know, honey," he whispers, pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek. "Let's do this for a little longer, hm? Listen to the rest of your song and then I'll fuck you. Don't worry, baby, just let go. Have fun."

A strangled moan wrestles from your chest at his words, and you listen. You obey, because what else would you be doing for Pope Cody?

The rest of the song truly could have been a master class in sexual tension, grinding and touching and just barely kissing. It was damn near pornographic, and by the time the final beat played out, you were jelly.

There's no words as he escorts you into the house, his body bracketing yours the entire journey to his room. The quiet settles over you, then, as does the seriousness of what you're about to do.

"Hey," he says, getting you to look at him. "Are you super drunk?" He asks, and you shake your head no. He raises a brow, and you justify.

"I'm a little tipsy, but it's nothing crazy. I can say the alphabet backwards, if you'd like," you smile, and this gets his own going.

"Maybe another time, baby," he sits down on the bed, patting his knee for you to sit. "You sure you wanna do this?" His voice is low, smooth.

"Yes," you mutter, pressing your forehead against his. "Want this so bad, Popey."

He squeezes his eyes shut, a groan escaping through gritted teeth.

"Fuck, you can't call me that, baby," he laughs despite himself.

You smile, your arms looping around his shoulders. He seizes the opportunity to rest his own hands on your waist, thumb running over the skin there.

"Any time you want to stop, you tell me, got it?" He asks, and you nod.

"Words," he orders, again. You obey, again.

"Got it," you smile, leaning in to kiss him.

The feeling of his lips on yours is indescribable, sweet and sultry and sloppy. His lips immediately slot open, his tongue darting into your mouth to explore as much of you as he can.

"Taste so good baby," he mutters, and you turn your body to straddle him.

He pulls back, letting you work, very clearly enjoying the show you've put on in his lap.

"So fucking pretty…"he trails off, hands once again resting on your waist.

"You too, Popey," you murmur, and you feel him twitch in his swim shorts.

"Dammit," he exhales, pressing his forehead to your tummy. "Do I need to prep you, baby? Or can I just fuck you?" He asks, and you're a bit taken aback,

"You ca-"

"Don't fuckin' lie to me," it's a quiet demand, though his grip on your jaw was anything but. "You gonna fuckin' lie to me or do I need to stretch your pussy out?"

"Just fuck me," you manage through squished cheeks and a big pout. He brings your lips to his, a sloppy desperate kiss before he flips you. "I need you, Popey, needed you all day. Needed you since you got home from prison."

This got him, an eager tug at your top exposing your tits. He groans at this, a wet, desperate, 'fuck', pressing his head into the valley between them.

"Please, Pope," you whisper, grinding your hips up into him. "These, too, gotta feel how wet you got me out there."

He's nearly in tears as he uses both hands to reveal your pussy to him. You're pretty sure a tear actually falls at this sight, a soft laugh shaking your chest as he presses slow, sensual kissers there.

"You're so fucking beautiful, fuck!" He exclaims, desperate and whiny, almost.

You're leaking— from his special attention, to his drinks, to his dancing, to this. Pope Cody just feels that fucking good.

While he has his moment, you tug at the waistband of his swimsuit, tugging the rest of the way after he gives you the ok.

Cock springing free, your jaw goes slack. It's…big. The red, angry tip curves upward, nearly hitting his belly button. A sweet hand reaches down to touch it, and he jerks at the contact.

"Y'sure I don't need to stretch you, baby?" He whispers, and you scoff.

"I want your fingers even less, now, actually," you remark, and are rewarded with a little bead of pre-cum.

You rub your thumb over the slit, collecting the clear liquid and bringing it to your lips. You close your eyes, sighing around your digit.

"So yummy, Popey," you cradle his face in your hands as you tell him. "Can't wait to taste it next time."

He absolutely crumbles at this, repeating it as a mantra to himself as he lines up his cock with your entrance.

"Next time, next time, next time, next ti- FUCK!" He shouts, cutting himself off as his tip breaches your entrance.

Your own jaw goes slack at the intrusion, head falling back onto the pillow. He adds another inch, and you shiver, a stark contrast to the fire brewing deep in your belly.

He licks his lips as he gazes down at you. He gives you one more inch.

"Pope!" You squeal, gripping his bicep and kicking your legs.

"Almost there, baby, you got it," he coos, smoothing your hair back with his big palm.

"That's not all?!" You wail, wide eyed and shaky.

He has the audacity to laugh at this, and you let out a long whine.

"Stop bein' a brat," he quips, adding another inch. "Told you to not fuckin' lie to me."

You whine, tears pricking the back of your lids at your earlier decision. Pouting your lip, you give him wide eyes. It's these that earn you his entire length, sinking into you the second he sees them.

"Oh, baby," he coos. "Don't cry, don't wanna cum yet."

You whine, clenching around him at his words. He stays there for a moment, forehead pressed against your shoulder while you both catch your breath.

"Pope," you whisper. "Move, please."

He listens, giving his hips a short rock back and forth, back and forth.

Each thrust punches a cute squeak from you, a sound that soon gets him addicted. He grips your hips, pulling them up to meet his as his thrusts grow longer, deeper.

He's throbbing inside you, his own breath shaky with each pulse. You dig your nails into his shoulders, reveling in the hiss as you bring your lips to ghost over his ear.

"You can go harder, Popey," you suggest, nipping the shell of his ear. "Not gonna break, y'know."

He lets out a near feral groan at this, pulling all the way out and teasing you with his tip, all to slide it back in with a brutal force.

He repeats this, then again, then again, until he's built a rhythm that has you shaking, whining for more.

And you do. You whine, you thrash, you clutch his biceps. He loves that, you've found, it's a sweet spot for him.

"Just like that, Pope, 's perfect," you whisper, raking your nails through his hair.

A strangled moan escapes him, and he manages to go even faster, even deeper at your words.

"Am I doing good?" He asks, face buried in your neck.

You continue to dance your fingers along his scalp, eager to provide some desperately needed comfort.

"So good, honey," you tell him, bringing his face to yours. "You're so good, making me feel incredible."

"Fuck-" he grunts, balls slapping your ass in quick, wet plaps. "I'm gonna cum, honey," he says, shoving his hand between you to find your clit. "Say you're there with me, yeah?"

The over-stimulation is instant, your eyes rolling in the back of your head at the feeling.

You nod, at a loss for words. You know who you're dealing with, though, and you scramble to find them anyway.

"Yeeess…" you trail off, jaw slack with the pleasure. "Fuck yes, keep doing that and you're gonna make me cum, Pope."

Your tongue lolls out of your mouth, eagerly chasing his mouth in a sloppy kiss as you both chase your release.

"All for me, baby?" He asks, desperate and sweet. "You're gonna cum for me?"

You grip his cheeks at this, forcing him to look at you for what feels like the hundredth time today.

"All for you, Andrew," you say, and he just, breaks.

The groan that wrangles itself from his chest is almost angry, violent as he twitches inside you, spurring your own release around him.

It's intense, a blinding, white hot light that bursts all around you. Back arching off the bed, you moan as your core squeezes, retaining all the pleasure for you before releasing. Small waves still ripple over you, shaky and sweet.

His gasps are raspy as you work each other out, his thumb not slowing until you fall limp on his bed, hand tapping his out of the way.

He collapses on top of you, desperate breaths wracking through him as you both come down. He can't stop pressing kisses over your body, small, quiet, 'thank you's echoing against your skin.

"Don't have to thank me, baby," you reassure him, scratching his scalp once again. This causes him to jerk his hips inside you, eliciting more moans from the pair of you. "Just have to let me do that again."

He lifts his head up, finally, a large smile on his face. He leans down, and plants a kiss on you. A real one, this time. Not a lustful kiss, not a 'get-me-to-orgasm' kiss, but a real kiss. You could kiss him for a lifetime.

"We can do that any time you want, baby."

[croigealai]

𝐃𝐫 𝐃𝐨𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞

featuring: jack abbot x vet!reader

After dealing with an abuse case that leads to a bite, you go to The Pitt to get it checked out. Thankfully you have a handsome doctor whos very good at distracting you

request: yes

wc: 5,138 [i apparently don't know how to write anything under 3k words]

content warnings: age gap (reader is 27), mentions of animal abuse/neglect, dog bite, medical inaccuracies, medical talk, injury

It was a well known truth that you adored your job. Becoming a vet was what you considered to be the best decision of your life. Helping and healing animals and getting some much needed serotonin with cuddles and play times in between. It was incredible but it was heavy. 

And when you told people you were a vet, specifically an emergency vet, there were two camps. The first, who thought vets were the devil incarnate that pushed drugs and unnecessary tests just to make a quick buck (despite the fact that you don’t set the prices or make anything from the drugs and tests). And the second, who thought it was all sunshine and rainbows and you spent 90% of your time cuddling with your patients. 

Neither were right of course and neither know the mental, and sometimes physical, weight of caring for their pets put on you. You had spent many nights crying in your car before you drove home because you couldn’t save someone's beloved cat or dog, or over the abuse cases that came into your office. Your shoulders constantly weighed down by heart-break and tiredness as abuse and neglect cases come through your door, some cases where euthanasia is the only humane option. Your senses are always on high alert with pet parents, watching their behaviour and words for fear that they’ll lash out of you. It was a lot to carry. Yet you did it with grace and kindness, even if the owner is screaming in your face about the cost of a procedure that will save their pet's life. 

But you occasionally get a good owner, a person who laughs and jokes with you and makes the job feel a little lighter. That’s what you got when Jack Abbot first walked through the door, his german shepherd at his heels with his tail wagging so fast you thought the thing would take off. You wouldn’t have thought there was anything wrong with him at first sight, but Jack (with a bashful look and eyes darting around the room so as not to make eye contact) explains that he ate something he shouldn’t have as you do your initial exam.

As you do the exam, conversation flows easily between the two of you work on Gunner, talking about how long you’d been in the job (at that point you were qualified for a year and at that location for six months), what he did and how emergency veterinary medicine seemed a lot more pleasant than human emergency medicine, no one talking back to your or fighting your medical knowledge. 

When he said that you chuckled and rolled your eyes saying the patients might have been a bit more pleasant, but you still had to deal with pesky human owners, a smile on your face despite the seriousness of the situation - one you couldn't help. It was light. Almost joyful. You had felt some of the pressure ease from your shoulders as you talked, hands and fingers moving with less tension and more gentle precision. Almost like you were old friends reconnecting and not two strangers meeting for the first time. 

After that day, Jack and Gunner became your favourite patient and owner. Gunner had been sweet, giving kisses and cuddles to all the nurses, techs and vets that worked on him, paw poking out of his cage as he came out of sedation as if to say pay attention to me. And Jack was, well, he was different. His dry wit and sarcastic (if sometimes macabre) humour the perfect mix to make you smile after a long day, the way he looked at you and saw the bone deep tiredness and made sure to ask if you were okay when he picked Gunner up later that afternoon. He cared about your wellbeing as well as Gunners. He saw the damaged parts of your soul that mirrored his own and decided it was still worth getting to know. 

It was only two weeks later that you saw Jack and Gunner again, only this time without the imposing fluorescent lights and anti-sceptic smell of the exam room, instead there was a soft golden glow as the sun began to set over the mountain. The soft blue of the day changing to the brilliant hues of pink and purple of the evening. The scent of wildflowers and sycamore trees in the park make the world feel light and a thousand miles away from the city, despite existing in the same place. A bubble of peacefulness and serenity where the chaos melts away and you can simply be. 

You’re sitting on a bench by the water, a small pond with water lilies and jewelweeds spread along the edges. You had brought a book to read, a romance book you could escape into. Instead find yourself distracted by the hummingbirds as they flit around the edge, a blur of colour and life, then there's a sudden weight on your chest. Two massive paws, pressed firmly against your shoulders and a long lolling tongue dragging against your cheek. 

You laugh and pull your head back slightly, a voice letting out a low “Gunner” coming from nearby and almost missed by you as you reach your arms around the dog and scratch at his fur. There’s an exasperated sigh, a hand reaching for Gunner’s collar to pull him off you, but you glare at Jack for just half-a-second, a warning off dont you fucking dare. He sighs again, but he can’t help the small smile that twitches at the corner of his lips or the roll of his eyes as he instead sits down beside you. 

You continue playing with Gunner for a bit. Hands running through his hair and pressing kisses against his snout and top of his head, not ignoring Jack but enjoying the playful energy of the dog. To his credit, Jack just watches. Eyes roaming over your face and body. The way your eyes are bright and full of life. Shoulders soft and slightly slouched, the tension he had seen coiled up in them a few weeks ago gone. The mask of professionalism long abandoned as you instead embraced playfulness and familiarity. 

Eventually, Gunner removes himself from your chest and instead lies across both yours and Jack's feet. He’s relaxed, head lolling to the side as he pants from the exertion and excitement. Jack starts the conversation then, asking how you are and what you were doing in the park and while the initial questions are almost formal it quickly takes a friendly turn as you talk about what you like to do on your days off. 

He tells you he got Gunner at the recommendation of his therapist, something to keep his mind and body busy so he’s not constantly obsessing over work and to actually get him outside of the house, you don’t ask him to elaborate. You tell him you like to come to the park, or go for hikes, just anything to get you into nature. It grounds you, reminds you of your humanity and how there is still beauty in the world. Your favourite thing to do is to find little unknown paths (making sure to mark your way for safety) and how you sometimes find the most beautiful places by mistake. 

It's natural the way the conversation flows, the two of you bouncing off one another's stories and humour like it's second nature. You don’t have to fight to find the words. Don’t have to rake your brain to find a topic or an ice breaker. It’s all just there, at the tips of your tongues just waiting for the right moment. There’s a shared smile, a moment of stillness as the sun finally sets, lamps above you flickering to life and placing you both in a halo of white light. It's almost intimate, and neither of you notice it, but you’ve moved closer now. Shoulders and thighs pressed together, voices no longer carrying on the wind but instead shifting to hushed whispers, like children sharing secrets, as you finally say goodnight. 

Jack never tells you, but he had only gone through the park as shortcut, it hadn’t been a part of his weekly regime. Until that day. When he saw you, face streaked by the last golden rays of light, he was compelled to approach you, some unseen force drawing him into your orbit. He had gone to greet you, only for Gunner to get there first and while he had acted annoyed at the dog for all of half a second he was grateful for the icebreaker. After talking to you, for what seemed like hours, it became his normal. He would walk through the park almost daily for the next two weeks with Gunner, hoping for a glimpse of you. 

You did the same, conveniently going back to the same spot at the same time almost every week, hopeful to see both Jack and Gunner and you do. Almost every meeting follows the same pattern, Gunner greeting you with his tongue on your cheek and Jack sitting silently beside you before conversation starts. Sometimes, on the days where the sun sits higher in the sky and sets that little bit later, you walk with them through the park as you talk. It's comfortable, even in the quiet moments where you simply laugh and smile as Gunner plays with the other dogs in the park. Neither of you desperate for conversation, just closeness. Just each other’s steady presence. 

There are a handful of times in the months after, where Jack goes from favourite patient to friend (potentially more but you don’t dare name that emotion just yet) that you see them at the clinic. Usually it's during the weeks where you're so exhausted that you can just about drag yourself home and get yourself cleaned, fed, and into bed. 

Sometimes it’s for an emergency, Gunner once again getting into something he shouldn’t or that one time he got the zoomies and threw himself into the wall so hard by accident he was walking with a limp. Others, it was simply to deliver you a sweet treat and your favourite cup of coffee or a home cooked meal under the guise of Jack making too much and knowing it was one of your favourites - when in reality it was because he knew you were having a rough week and just wanted to make you smile. When this happened, the nurses and techs that witnessed it would tease you relentlessly about the tension and ask how your favourite owner was doing. You simply responded with a roll of your eyes and quick redirection to the next patient.

It all comes to a head a few weeks later. In the early hours of the morning where the sun is just starting to peak over the horizon and the darkness of the night sky gives way to hues of red and orange that promise a new day. A new beginning. You had been unexpectedly called into the clinic, the police and animal control intervening in a hoarder situation after a wellness check, where the night-shift team was simply overwhelmed with over a dozen dogs that were brought in and needed a few extra pairs of hands. 

It had started off standard, going through and doing basic checks. Temperatures, heart rates, BPs, body conditions, all base lines as your colleagues give you the information of the case. You move through the dogs with ease, until you come to the last dog. A medium sized scruffy thing that was so matted you couldn’t tell which end was the face and which was the tail. It seemed calm, but with the heaviness of the coat you were sure the poor thing couldn’t move very well so you still approached with cautious gentle movements. As you went to try and place your stethoscope against where you assume the heart was, again the fur was so dense and matted it was the best you could do, the dog freaks out and snaps at you. Teeth burrowing in the palm of your hand and drawing blood. 

It hurts. Blood starts trickling down your palm and across your wrist leaving a small pool on the exam table, but you remain calm. You don’t scream, don’t freak out. It won’t make the situation any better, it would just freak the dog out more. Just simply take a deep breath as the dog lets go, small whimpers leaving its mouth (you can only assume it has teeth and gum issues), and take a step back. The tech that's with you, quickly steps out and calls for another vet and a sedation kit while ushering you out of the room. You move with quiet, almost robotic steps, self-preservation kicking in, and keep your hand high against your chest. You haven’t even looked at the wound yet, don’t even think you can. 

A nurse, Amanda, joins your side, arm wrapping around your shoulders to keep you steady (you hadn't even noticed you started to sway) as they set you down in an office chair. Gently, so as not to hurt or spook you, they remove your hand from your chest and start flushing it with saline. You look at their face instead of the wound, already knowing what was to come. There’s a grimace, a scrunching of the nose as they reach for a bandage and quickly wrap it. 

“We need to get you to the hospital.”

Amanda’s voice is firm, matter of fact. There’s no room for argument. In the past, you may have stitched up a bite or two for yourself or your colleagues but this was different. This was an unknown dog with an unknown vaccination history (if they had any) and it was deep. Even if you didn’t see it, you felt it when the teeth punctured the skin. You let out a heavy sigh, resigned to your fate and simply nod. 

“I can-”

“Nope.”

Another word that gave no room for argument. Amanda knew you were going to suggest driving yourself and immediately shot it down. Whether it was because she thought you might have just driven home and treated yourself or because she thought you weren’t in any condition to drive you didn’t know, but you assumed the former because it is something you had done before. 

So with a resigned, and slightly rattled, breath and a small roll of your eyes, you nod. Amanda takes you to the hospital herself, most of the dogs now looked at and awaiting results from further tests so neither of you are urgently needed. As you head towards Pittsburgh Medical Trauma Center, you try and tell her you're fine and to just take you home but she levels a glare at you and simply says, “Let someone take care of you for once.” That makes you shrink back into your seat with a small pout. 

When you finally get to the ED, Amanda signs you in with the receptionist but you insist she go home. It’s nearing 6 am and you know her kids will be up for school soon and she should see them before then. She tries to argue, saying you shouldn’t be left alone and shock could still set in but you very gently tell her you won’t be alone. Jack works at this hospital and should be on shift, and you know he’ll take care of you. She doesn’t believe you, eyes narrowing in suspicion for a few seconds before she finally relents with a deep breath and a finger sternly pointed at you, “Fine, but if I find out you signed out AMA, so help me god the dog bite will be the least of your worries.”  

“I promise I’ll stay as long as I need to.” Your voice is quiet, all fight leaving your body as the adrenaline drops and leaves exhaustion in its place. Amanda gives a single nod, a small smile on her face as she drops down and gives you a hug goodnight and then you're left alone. 

The waiting room isn’t busy, a few people scattered around the room in various stages of sleep, all waiting to be seen. There’s a couple in the back corner, heads tilted towards one another as a hushed argument passes between them, you can only assume one of them doesn’t want to be here while the other insists they came. It’s quiet otherwise, just the ticking of the clock and the clacking of the receptionist's keys filling the air combining into a gentle metronome that has your eyelids fighting to stay open. 

You drift off, for just a few minutes, and awake with a small groan as a gentle hand pushes on your shoulder. You're greeted with a red-headed nurse who has a smile on her face as she calls your name softly, “Yeah, sorry I didn’t mean to drift off like that.” 

She steps back to let you stand, a small click coming from your knees as you do, “It’s okay, it's pretty early in the morning and from your intake form you had a busy last few hours.” 

She leads you into the ED, pointing to an empty bed where you take a seat as she draws the curtain closed, “I’m Lena, I'm the charge nurse and I’ll be helping the doctors look after you this morning. Why don’t you tell me what happened?” 

Her voice is quiet, calm. A soothing undertone that immediately puts you at ease and you find yourself opening up without any hesitation. Any embarrassment you may have felt melting from your body and being replaced with a scared vulnerability. “I’m an emergency vet, and got bit in the hand by an unknown dog breed with an unknown vaccine history.”

She nods along as you talk, taking notes on her tablet, “That explains how well wrapped your hand is then”, the lightness in her tone brings a smile to your face. 

“Yeah, my colleague Amanda wrapped it for me. I haven’t even looked at it yet.” As you glance at the bandage around your hand, you can see redness starting to appear at the top, the bleeding still ongoing but contained by the pressure. 

“Okay, why don’t you change into this gown? Then I’ll get you all set up on the heart monitor and pulse ox then I’ll get the doctor in here to have a look at the wound. We’ll most likely need a few blood samples as well to rule out things like tetanus and rabies, though I assume you’re up to date with those?” 

You nod your head, clearing your throat a little as emotion suddenly wells up inside it, “Yeah, got them refreshed when I first started at the clinic a year ago.”

“Good, I’ll be back in a sec.”

Lena leaves you to change privately, curtain once again drawn closed. As you get changed and resettle back into the bed, Lena is across the room at the nurses station inputting your chart information when she’s approached by Jack. 

Lena gives a small, teasing smile, having bullied the man into talking about the reason he seemed happier and lighter these days, she knew who you were, and was absolutely going to meddle now that she had the perfect opportunity to. Jack had, after all, denied any romantic attraction to you and brushed Lena off any time she asked him if he had asked you out on an actual date yet. 

“What have you got for me Lena?” 

She hands him over the tablet with your chart information, her eye brow lifting in contemplation as she watches his eyebrows shoot into his hairline and his face contorted into concern. It was unusual for the calm, controlled and sometimes overly stoic Jack Abbot to actually show this level of emotion while working. It was nice to see that underneath the bravado of the esteemed veteran and doctor, he was still human.

“Female, 27, dog bite from an unknown dog with an unknown vaccine history in bay 2.”

He nods his head, eyes still glued to the screen even as he turns to the bay, “Vitals?”

“Going to get them now, I wanted to give her privacy to change first.”

He nods again, slowly lowering the tablet down to his side as he takes a deep breath. He had to steel his nerves. He could already feel his heart rate picking up, adrenaline pumping through his veins as worst-case scenarios play through his head. He knew you were a fantastic vet, had seen it in action and through stories. You had been bitten before but none of them had led to a hospital visit (though he had previously scolded you when he noticed a stitched up wound on your arm about how you should have come in), which meant this was bad. He pictured pools of blood. A bite on your face, your neck, your arm. He saw exposed muscles and flesh and bone. Damage beyond repair that meant your career as a vet was over. 

His head spun, each thought worse than the last. A haze of anxiety falling over his mind. But then there was a gentle voice, very similar to Lenas, in the back of his mind. It reminded him if it was as bad as he thinks, the trauma room would be in chaos right now. Lena wouldn’t have waited for vitals. He or Shen or Ellis would already be in there assessing the damage. Blood would be coming from the blood bank. Calls would be made to prep an OR. A deep breath, a stuttering heart beat, and the haze fades slightly. It's not as thick, not as debilitating. It's manageable and with one step at a time until he’s pulling back the curtain to see you there, with a bandaged hand and all fingers moving as they should. 

You give him a small bashful smile, head dipped down slightly to avoid his case as a flush rises to your cheeks, as he steps into your space with Lena behind him. He pulls up a rolling chair beside you and places the tablet on the bed as he gently reaches for your hand, there's no words spoken. Not yet. But the silence isn’t heavy with tension. It's light with relief - that you’re okay, that Jack's going to look after you. 

He’s gentle as he unwraps the bandage, touch featherlight to the point that you’re unsure if he's actually touching you, and his eyes keep wandering to yours. Concern written into his irises, you realise he’s watching to see if it hurts. To make sure you remain pain-free during the examination of the wound. You’re so distracted watching him, you don’t notice Lena at the other side, just feel the gentle pressure of the probes and the pulse-ox as she applies them. Then there’s a steady beep, your heart beat now echoing around the room. It's a little faster than usual, still in the range of normal, and you know it's because of Jack's proximity. Lena knows too, but doesn’t comment on it, instead letting you know she’ll be back once Jack’s done to do a blood draw. 

As the bandage is fully unwrapped and disposed of, you try not to look at the wound, instead focusing on Jack's face as it scrunches up in concern. There's still some blood around it, most of it dried but there's still a small trickle out of it than you can feel. Gently, Jack prods around the wound and you wince slightly with an “ow.” It's a dull ache now, nothing like the piercing pain it had been at the time, but the small amount of pressure still hurts.

His eyes quickly snap up to yours, the concern in them having grown at your pain, “I’m sorry.”

You quickly shake your head, knowing it wasn’t his fault. He needs to check the wound and make sure there’s no nerve or tendon damage, “Don’t apologise,” there's a small laugh in your voice, one of disbelief that he’s apologising for doing his job, “I know you didn’t mean it.” 

He gives a small nod of acknowledgement, concern never leaving his face as he turns back to your hand. “I need to clean the area with some irrigation and potentially do a debridement depending on how damaged the skin is…” He hesitates for a second, adams apple bobbing as he gulps down the knot that had built up in his throat, “It might hurt a little.”

You simply nod and watch his face, “That’s okay, I’ve got a pretty good distraction.”

You smile at him then, a true honest smile, and you can see him falter for a second. The way he has to clear his throat, his hands clenching and unclenching as the words register in his mind. Some of the tension he was carrying melting away just a little as his shoulders slump and he wipes his hand over his face to try and fight off the smile that was forming. 

“Now is not the time for flirting.”

He tries to sound serious, as if he’s scolding you, but you can hear a little bit of lightness peaking through the concern. You shrug your shoulders as he turns to give you an exasperated look, one that doesn’t last very long as he sees the smile stretching your lips, “I don’t know. I think it’s the perfect time.”

He can’t help the smile now, a small one that is fleeting as Lena walks in with the irrigation kit, eyes moving between the two of you with a knowing look. She’s quick to exit the trauma bay, but not before sending a wink to Jack who just rolls his eyes and puts on a fresh pair of gloves after touching his face. You let out a small giggle at the interaction but quickly school your features as Jack glances at you with a small glare. 

As he looks away to your hand again, you can’t help the smile that forms. You weren't lying when you said he was a good distraction, and as he starts cleaning the wound and getting rid of some of the dead tissue around it, you can’t help staring at him. Barely registering the pain, except for a small wince here and there. He’s objectively very handsome but that’s not why you’re looking. 

You were so used to seeing him free, unguarded. Your time in the park usually filled with small smiles and relaxed shoulders. Here you can see tension rolled up inside of him. His shoulders tense and eyes, though filled with concern, are hard and concentrated. There's armour in place and you think you might be one of the few people who see him without it. It’s a warming feeling. Knowing he trusts you enough to be a person he lets his guard down around. 

You know he’s been hurt in the past, the death of his wife and his deployment being loosely discussed in your time together. There’s deep lingering scars buried beneath his skin and he lets you see them, the same way you let him see yours. Neither of you tried to heal the other's broken parts, but instead existed in them together. Acknowledging that they made you who you were and they were not things to change, but integral parts of your soul. You didn’t need to be healed. You needed to be seen. And you both did that. 

So lost in thought and your admiration for Jack, you don’t notice he’s finished. That there’s a fresh bandage wrapped around your hand, pure white and unblemished. You also don’t notice the way Jack is now also watching you. 

The anxiety that had ratched through his body not even 30 minutes before now fizzled out and replaced with a steady thrum of affection and unspoken attraction. He had known months ago that the line between friends and something more had blurred when it came to you but he refused to acknowledge it. Shoved it down and pushed it into a corner of his heart that was meant for him alone. But as he watched you, your gaze almost reverent as it tracked the lines of his face, he realises he can’t push it down. That it was not something meant for just him to hold. It was something meant for the two of you, to discover and tend to together. 

There's a few moments of silence, both you lost in your own thoughts, a powerful and mutual understanding of we want this echoing in your hearts but not yet spoken aloud. This wasn’t the place. This wasn’t the time. You wanted space, privacy. Somewhere the confession can plant itself and grow without being bothered. 

Then there’s a disturbance, the pushing of the curtains and Jack moves away from you as Lena clears her throat and enters the room with the blood draw tray. There's a small grimace on her face, an understanding that she’s interrupted a pivotal moment as she sees the looks on your faces, but the ED has an ebb and a flow and it has to move on. Silence settles over the room again, a subtle growing tension lingering in the air. 

As Lena finishes taking your blood, your bed rails go up. It will take a while for the results to come back and she insists you try and get some sleep while you wait and you smile at her gratefully before turning back to Jack.

“I’m going to prescribe you some broad spectrum antibiotics and you need to keep the wound clean and I want you to come back in a few weeks for a check-up to make sure its healing okay.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, a small smirk playing on your lips, “Orrr”, you drag the word out almost childishly and he rolls his eyes at the playfulness but still levels you a stern look because he’s seen how you’ve handled dog bites before, “you can pay a personal visit.”

There is a beat of stillness, your heart rate elevating and echoing around the room creating an even greater sense of tension, and Jack smiles. It's soft, the crows feet at the corners of his eyes crinkling just a little as he lets out a restrained breath and crosses his arms over his chest with a raised eyebrow. 

“That would be highly unethical of me.” 

He uncrosses his arms then, leaning forward and bracing his forearms on the bed rail as he eyes you again. Mischief and affection now filling up the space where concern previously lived, his voice dips low, almost whispering so no one outside of the two of you can hear it.

“But it could certainly be arranged”