$LAYYYTER
Love Begins
Stranger Things
Cosmic Funnies
Show & Tell
NASA
pixel skylines
Xuebing Du
RMH
Mike Driver
@theartofmadeline
Noah Kahan
No title available
Product Placement
cherry valley forever
Keni
hello vonnie
Origami Around
#extradirty
𓃗
seen from Colombia
seen from United States
seen from Belgium
seen from Türkiye
seen from Bangladesh
seen from Indonesia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Sri Lanka
seen from Austria
seen from Malaysia
seen from Switzerland
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Italy
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from Bangladesh
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
seen from Italy
@desuidesu
Want to keep my cat and am low on funds for a pet deposit . 14 days is the extended ti… Destiny Etse needs your support for Support for Pet
Any help is appreciated. I want to keep my fur baby but am running tight on funds. I am also opening up commission for $5 a drawing or pay what you can sort of way. I love my cat and want to keep her with me 🩷🩷🩷
Truuuueeeee
shawn character-specific x reader tropes that i will eat up every single time.....:
Sammy Bryant: -Babysitter/Nanny!reader -cheating on Tammi!!!!!! -witness!reader that he needs to protect
Jack Abbot: -night shift Nurse!reader -slightly too young resident!reader -robby's daughter/younger sister!reader...........................
Andrew Pope Cody: -stripper!reader (season one scene made better) -childhood friend of Craig or Deran!reader -babysitter or teacher to lena!reader
if you ever think to yourself, "hmmm i want to write this but people already did it" WORRY NOT!!!!! i will be reading everyone's version of the same thing a billion times if i could!!!
🎀 Curvy curves 🎀
All female bodies are gorgeous 🫶🏻
inspired by @thebirdandthebee papa jack series as its got me in such a dad!jack mood so go read their work!!!
———
jacks sat on the couch, leant back, prosthetic off and watching your daughter as she stands by the couch, using it to hold herself up and bounce slightly. hes on solo dad duty while you are on shift today, and he loves nothing more than a lazy day with his baby girl. its a lot more entertaining as of recent, as rosies recently started talking more.
she toddles closer to jack, her hair in little bunches bouncing as she goes, and looks at his leg. she pauses for a moment raising a little finger to her pouted lips.
“no weg?” her sweet voice reaches jacks ears and he freezes.
sure shes seen him without his prosthetic before, but this is first time shes been able to verbalise her thoughts or confusion about it. jack adjusts on the couch, clearly uncomfortable with tiny humans question. hes thought about how to tell her about it before, of course he has, but actually being in that situation is entirely different. it took him a while to believe that his leg (or lack thereof) didn’t make him ugly or a freak or undesirable and a lot of work, love and understanding from you. but thats you. his wife. who is also a doctor and sees the horrors of the world. so of course you are going to be more accepting of his prosthetic. this is his daughter. his perfect little baby who’s biggest horror is loosing her favourite teddy. she wont understand, she cant understand. what if she thinks hes gross? and she decides she doesn’t want to go near her daddy anymore because hes weird?
hes snapped out of his spiralling thoughts by a little hand poking his thigh. okay, deep breaths, he thinks.
“um, yeah rosie, papa doesnt have a leg.” he says slightly awkwardly.
her big eyes peer up at him as she asks the golden question, “why?”
“well uhhhh-“ shit why did she have to do this when you were at work, “papa got hurt annndd…. the doctors couldnt save his leg.”
she brushes some of her little auburn baby hairs away from her eyes. after a moment of hard contemplation, she reaches down and grabs her foot rather clumsily attempting to lift it to jacks stump. when she doesnt get the solution shes looking for she tries again and again, grunting in exertion with furrow in her brow much like her fathers. it takes a minute of confused staring for jack to figure out what the hell shes doing.
“baby,” he chuckles, “you cant give me your leg, you need it honey.”
she grunts again, “but papa no weg.”
jack leans over the arm of the couch, “well luckily for the both of us,” his voice strained as he brings his prosthetic round from just behind the couch, “i have this.” he places the leg infront of him and taps it. this captures rosies attention. “some very smart people made papa a new leg so i can still walk.” she reaches out a hand but hesitates, taking in a lot of new information. “its okay bubba,” he encourages “you can touch it.”
she points one finger out and gently runs it along the material. she leans down slightly to get a better look. she clearly finds whatever she was looking for as she announces, “papa ‘pecial weg.”
this pulls another soft laugh from jack, “yeah rosie, papa has a special leg.”
her brow remains furrowed and her lips still pouted, tapping a small finger against them. he can see her processing everything, terrified for her conclusion of the whole situation. after a while, she speaks.
“o’tay. papa pway tea pardy?”
his daughter renders him stunned once again. thats it? okay? no fear, no disgust. just the sweetest little okay. hed been mentally preparing for rejection, obviously followed by a divorce because who wants to stay with a man who terrifies his own daughter, but she just doesnt… care?
no thats the wrong word she obviously cares because she asked and was concerned for her father but shes just, unphased. she just stares up at him, unaware that her papa is having some kind of crisis, just wanting to know if she should go and get her tiaras for the tea party.
“papa o’tay?” she questions.
jack snaps back to the moment, meeting his babys expectant eyes. “yeah sweetheart im okay. you wanna play tea party?” she nods. “okay then lets have the best tea party ever.”
she squeals as jack picks her up and presses kisses all over her chubby cheeks. he places her down and she runs to her room to get the tea set, all the guests and the most important part- the tiaras. he can hear her laughter down the hall as she babbles to all her stuffed animals, probably inviting them to the tea party.
he shuffles down onto the floor, his prosthetic now next to him as he looks at it.
he never thought someone not caring could cause his heart to be so warm.
run to you: chapter eleven
marcus pike x f!reader
A/N: SURPRISE! Happy almost-end of RTY. It's taken far too long, I know, but for those that have stuck around and still hold interest in these two and their trainwreck of a story - thank you.
Summary: Following on from ‘Traitor’ and ‘You’re Somebody Else’. An unexpected visitor throws you right back into the life you thought you left behind. Working beside the man that put you behind bars is one thing, pretending like you never loved him is another.
Word count: 6.3k
Warnings: swearing, graphic violence, graphic thoughts of death and torture, reader is Stressed my guy, marcus "i dont have time for bullshit" pike, a kidnapped hostage stand off situation, use of guns and graphic descriptions of bullet wounds and blood, A N G S T (god i love it), i love grace van pelt, jacob wilson is golden retreiever, patrick fucking jane and his antics, some more angst, critically injured marcus, hospitals and talk of surgeries and more death
main masterlist | series masterlist
This story is 18+ only.
The vicious turning of your stomach increases with every second you spend in the car, wedged between two men, complete strangers. They say nothing. The male driver, also a stranger, says nothing. You say nothing. The silence that fills the small space creates a thick tension, curling around your shoulders and tightening around your chest, and you worry any sound or movement you make could shatter it all completely.
You dare not shift in your seat, remaining so still an ache starts to grow along your limbs and deep in your lower back. You don’t breathe too harshly, but the panic that stirs within your chest threatens to ruin that. You focus on each lungful, the inhales and the exhales.
In, and out.
Repeat.
In, out.
You count them.
One, two, three…
Eyes falling to your lap where your fingers anxiously pick at the other, you find you’d picked completely through the skin by the side of your thumbnail. Blood builds and smears along your nail fold where the skin had given in to the small assault, but you can’t stop. Your other thumb still picks at it, its blunt nail scratching through the sticky warmth and spreading the blood further.
Breathe.
In, out.
It’ll be okay.
It’ll—
You grind your teeth as tears begin to sting behind your eyes. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this shaken, this terrified, in your entire life. Not when you’d been a part of this world all that time ago—you were on a different side back then. Not when you’d been arrested—you’d been scared, sure, but at least they were the so-called ‘good guys’.
They wouldn’t kill you just because you were an inconvenience to business.
You’re going to die.
It sinks into you, heavy and relentless. You wonder if what they say about a warm bright light is true, if you do get a few moments of reliving memories before falling into the inevitable abyss. Would it hurt? Be quick? The fear of death is nothing compared to the fear of not knowing all that could happen before the end. Maybe they’ll drag it out, make it a punishment for getting in their way before showing some mercy with a bullet.
No. No crying, you tell yourself.
This is it, and whatever happens… well, there’s no changing it.
A voice echoes in your ears—warm, familiar, stubborn.
I won’t let anything happen to you.
You can’t be mad at him for breaking his promise. It was your own stupid self that got you into this position. If you had just waited at his apartment, endured the safe walls of his home and the waft of his cologne after he left… if you had just listened, you wouldn’t be here.
It was heartache that had you all but running out of that door. You needed air, needed something to clear the sudden onslaught of memories and the way his voice swirled in your mind. It was always real to me.
It had been real.
The soft spoken words, the gentle touches, the way he had looked at you, the way he had made you feel, the way he said those three little words that had been your ultimate undoing…
It wasn’t all a lie.
At least if you die, when you die, you’ll know that. You’ll have that to reflect on. You’ll go knowing the love you had felt had been accepted, and returned. It still hurts, the scarring left from how everything had changed permanent and lasting deep in the very core of you, but at least, while it was happening back then, it had been real.
The car rolls to a stop, and your heart briefly along with it. You don’t know where you are, where you’re being taken to next. You don’t move until they gesture you to. The hand that curls around your arm when you awkwardly make your way out of the backseat is tight, an unspoken promise that there was no easy way out of this.
There was no running.
In, out.
Maybe he’d find you in time. Maybe he was already close.
You comfort yourself with that as you’re moved into a new vehicle, the sound of liquid being thrown about and splashing behind you. You look back out the open door in time to watch one of the men throw a small lit match into the now vacant backseat, eyeing the flames that engulf the interior of the car you had been in, thankful they didn’t decide to just leave you in it.
For now, there was still a bit of time.
—
His heart still beats thickly in his throat. Sweat had gathered on his palms as soon as he saw you exit the elevator, and had slowly built along the back of his neck with every moment in your presence. He's surprised he's been able to keep control over his voice so far, a barely there tremble threatening to break free in his words and cause him to stutter under your attention.
You were hard, and completely closed off. You listened throughout his little debriefing, and understandably been pissed when he told you just exactly what they were asking of you. It was hypocritical, even he had to admit.
Even with your evident and spoken anger and borderline disgust, a part of him still warms at the sight of you. He doubts that will ever fade.
“Are we done here?”
He sees how you struggle to look at him, feels the hollow echo of what once was before getting hit with harsh reality.
“Yeah. Yeah, we are.”
He feels weak as you move to leave the room, you couldn’t move quick enough.
It all hits him like a punch to the stomach and he folds from it, bracing his hands on the cool top of the conference room table and letting his head hang low. He drags in a breath, catching the smell of your perfume as you pass. It’s new, so different from your old one.
A reminder of how everything had changed, of what he did to you.
He exhales quietly, eyes slipping shut and seeing the hatred that had swam in your eyes behind his lids. The door slams shut behind him.
—
He gets it over a call.
The car was found, torched and completely destroyed, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that any potential evidence has been destroyed, doesn’t care they weren’t quick enough to intercept before whoever took you fled again. He doesn’t care because he’s relieved at the following information provided to him.
No body was found within the vehicle.
The immediate thoughts that had assaulted him of seeing your body, twisted, unmoving and burnt beyond recognition, vacate to the depths of his mind, and he finds he can breathe a little easier. His tie sits a little more comfortably around his throat, and he’s able to focus a little better on the road as he drives to the office.
You’re okay. For now, you’re okay.
They still want you alive, and that’s good. That means he has time.
“There’s a security camera around the corner from the lot,” Wilson’s voice continues to fill the car.
Marcus didn’t comment on it at the time, too busy swimming in his own thoughts and the sheer relief flooding his system, but he had heard the edge in the young agent's tone when he had answered the call. He’s thankful Wilson wouldn’t be forever haunted by the sick images his mind had conjured.
“It's old, but we’ve been able to get a rough image of the vehicle. Black SUV, tinted windows so we weren’t able to get a look at the occupants. Also got a slight partial plate, but it’s barely readable. I’ve sent it through to forensics to see if they can do anything with it.”
“Good. I’m sending a team your way, make your way back to the office once they arrive. I want you with me.”
If anyone on his team would understand the depth to this, it’s Wilson.
“Yes, sir.”
Marcus knows the agent has some experience at this kind of shit, having previously read over his history within his file before confirming his success at getting the position he was so eager for, but this time it was a little more personal.
You two had spent quite a bit of time together during the start of this case, would go as far as to call you two somewhat friends, and so the softer, less Special Agent Pike, more Marcus side of him feels the need to ask, to focus on something other than his own emotions.
“How’re you doing?”
The line falls silent, before the younger agent clears his throat quietly. “Can I speak freely, sir?”
“Always.”
It comes out in a quiet rush. “I’m so fucking relieved she’s not in that car.”
Marcus makes a low noise of agreement. “You and me both.”
—
“0800, on the dot. Not a second after, understood?”
The young agent before him nods, his enthusiasm evident. Marcus remembers that enthusiasm, the excitement at finally being where he wanted to be, where he worked so hard to get to.
This new guy… Marcus liked him. He knew watching over his interview that he’d be a good fit within his team. The kid was eager for an opportunity, had gall, and Marcus knew you’d be safe in his agent’s hands.
“Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“I don’t expect trouble along the way, but I’ll note it now that her safety is paramount. She’s—” he stops, looking down at an older photograph of you sitting amongst the various bits of paper pulled from the file and feeling the familiar ache creep around his heart.
She’s important to me.
The words had almost slipped free, danced so easily, so naturally, on the tip of his tongue it had taken his mind a moment to catch up and stop them from leaving his mouth. He clears his throat softly, tucking the image back into the manilla folder so he doesn’t have you smiling up at him.
He didn’t want to use your mugshot for the file made for Wilson. He didn’t want the agent to go into this with a preconceived idea of who and what he would assume you are. After everything, the least he could do was give you a chance to be known as you are, not what they made you to be.
“She’s integral to the case. Should anything arise, her safety is your highest priority.”
Agent Wilson straightens in his seat, a cool wash of determination settling into his features. Yeah, Marcus thinks to himself, he’s a good fit.
“Understood, sir. She’ll be in good hands.”
Marcus nods.
He thinks you’ll like him the most out of his team. His other agents are great, but you’ll be on your guard. The others will be quiet, and will keep to themselves more often than not. That wouldn’t help you. Wilson’s a talker, though. Sometimes, relentlessly so. It might help you find some comfort in this shitshow, might make things a little easier for you, a little less lonely.
—
He studies your photo where it’s pinned on the board, only a little ways away from one of the murder victims' post mortem images. The images are a stark contrast from each other, one warm in hues, brightness swimming throughout the image and bursting from the wide spread of your smile. The other is cold, clinical. Void of life.
The more he looks, the more his mind twists and runs, swapping the features of the two women until it’s painted a version of your own post-mortem photograph. Skin sunken beneath your open eyes, pupils fixed, unseeing. A cold measuring tape held next to the gaping hole in your skull.
He blinks, and the images are as they were.
Jane is damn near adamant they want you alive, but without definitive proof that you’ll be okay, it does little to settle his mind.
Marcus turns away from the board with a new wash of nausea he swallows down, flicking through the notes provided to him by Lisbon’s team from the interrogation and marking the noted locations of addresses on the map spread out before him.
He can hear the work beyond the conference room, a part of him comforted by the sheer amount of effort put in by both his own and Teresa's agents.
They’re close.
That familiar feeling swirls in the pit of his stomach, knowing that with every new bit of information that comes through by the hour, they’re closing that gap between them and you. It overrides the worry, pushes his anxiety to the side until all he feels is brute determination, the urge to get the job done and retrieve you swiftly and safely.
You’ll be okay.
He’ll make sure of it.
Marcus feels the presence of someone hovering just inside the door of the conference room, and fights the sigh of annoyance threatening to break free from his lungs. He doesn’t want to entertain niceties, doesn’t have time for idle chit chat and useless empty conversation, so he cuts straight to the chase with a sharp edge in his tone that says just that.
He’d feel ashamed by the bluntness of it if his mind wasn’t working so damn hard to absorb every possible bit of information given to him in an effort to get any closer to you.
“Can I help you with something, Agent Van Pelt?”
He sees her move in his peripheral as he shuffles through more notes, more paper, more satellite images of warehouses and shop fronts and galleries. She shifts slightly, almost unsure as her eyes glance back to the open door to the conference room before they roll back to settle on him.
“I just wanted to say that it’ll be okay,” she says finally. “We’ll find her.”
It’s spoken so surely, so warmly sincere, it completely cuts through the icyness that had settled in his chest and worked its way through his nervous system. He feels his shoulders slacken slightly when he eventually meets her eyes, the tightness of his features softening when she gives a small reassuring smile.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, giving his head a little shake to settle the mess of emotions swirling through him. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be—”
“It’s okay,” Grace’s smile widens . Her eyes fix on the board behind him in open interest, but it doesn’t hit him like it did with Jane and Lisbon. It doesn’t get his hackles up in defence with a need to shield you from potential judgement.
“Seems like she’s really something.”
He looks over his shoulder, gaze swiping one more time over your image. “She is.”
—
It’s a warehouse, empty save for the leftover pallets, a few odd pieces of old machinery from previous companies and the van you had been driven in.
You’d lost track of the route they had taken you, not wanting to risk anything by making it obvious you were trying to decipher your location by looking out of the windows. There was no point. You doubt you’d make it very far if you chose to run.
Playing along, doing what these people ask when they ask it, it’d hopefully buy you some time. Hopefully the time Marcus and his team needs if they were looking. No, you know he is. You can feel it.
Before all the recent developments, you probably would’ve resigned yourself to your uncertain fate, and accepted that you were just another pawn for the FBI. A nobody, just mere collateral damage in the wider grand scheme of things.
You lost track of how long you’d been standing in the one spot, almost scared to move. The small group of men had shown you out of the van and onto the main floor of the warehouse, and then moved to the sides. They stayed quiet, sometimes talking quietly amongst themselves, but otherwise leaving you alone.
A welcome relief.
“You’ve certainly been working away, haven’t you? Piece after piece. Surely you’re tired.”
The men take their cue and start their exit, leaving you alone with the newcomer. The one pulling the strings and keeping them in line, if their quick and quiet departure was anything to go by. They clearly deem you no threat whatsoever.
You turn to the voice, eyes sweeping over the familiar face of Edward Thomas. You recoil a little in surprise, almost expecting someone else to be with him because of how out of character something like this was for the older man, but he remains alone, and you are left standing corrected.
“Didn’t really have much of a choice,” you murmur.
You don’t think openly admitting you had readily agreed to helping the FBI wouldn’t work well in your favour.
“How’d you know it was my work?”
“I didn’t,” he admits quietly, “in the beginning. We actually thought you were still in prison.”
“We?”
Edward smiles, though it lacks any warmth or sincerity. He looks tired, older. “Asking for yourself, or your FBI boyfriend?”
You ignore the goad, glancing carefully around the vacant space with a barely concealed shiver down your spine. Now what?
“What am I doing here?”
He sighs, rubbing a tired hand across his weathered features.
“This whole thing, it’s—it’s turned ugly, and quite frankly I’m tired of it. I had no intention of being this involved. I needed something to offer in return for my… retirement, let’s call it. After all, after a few of your pieces had been discovered by myself, interest has grown in your particular… area of expertise. You have a few curious in what you can offer.”
A sick feeling turns your stomach, but you keep a hold of your expression. “So you’re not auctioning off my pieces anymore, you’re just auctioning off me.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Throwing me to the highest bidder so you can, what, run away to a sunny beach somewhere? That’s not like you, Edward.”
“Yes well, as I said, it’s turned ugly.”
“By ugly, you mean the people that have been killed.”
“You’re quite naive if you didn’t think that was happening before your arrest. People died then, and people will die now. It’s simply a part of the world you so readily jumped into.”
“Can’t really blame the girl.”
A calm and collected voice takes you off guard, and you quickly school your stunned expression into something a little less obvious as the one and only Patrick fucking Jane all but waltzes into the room, looking completely at ease as he slides his hands into the pockets of his slacks.
“She wasn’t exactly given a brochure on the workings of an underground art ring upon her application.”
If he’s here, then his team isn’t too far behind.
And if his team isn’t too far behind, surely that means Marcus would be with them, too? A slight twinge of hopes grows to life in your chest, your heart picking up with the possibility you’d be walking free from this.
Edward frowns at him in confusion, eyes darting to the direction of the van and where the three men that had bought you in had disappeared to.
“How the hell did you get in here?”
“The door,” Jane comments as if it were obvious, and you can’t help the eye roll, pinning him with such a look of disdain it makes his lips twitch.
“And what are you doing here?”
He has the nerve to look bored, eyes observing the empty warehouse in false interest. The sheer ease he remains in has Edward’s frown deepening with every step he takes further into the room.
“Checking out industrial real estate. What’s the going rate for one of these?” His hand leaves his pockets to gesture vaguely about the open room.
“Mr Jane, I must admit I do tire of your little games.”
You startle, eyes widening as you glance between them.
“You two know each other?”
“We met at the museum,” Jane shrugs. “When I said I was following my own leads, I was. It just wasn’t you. I did have to get you out of the way, though. Sorry about that.”
He doesn’t sound sorry in the slightest. You stare at him, at a complete and utter loss, your mind struggling to piece together all of the events that had led you here. Did he intentionally upset you at the museum? To get you to leave?
It’s all a big fucking game to this man.
“You knew,” you realise slowly, your brows coming together, “you knew I’d leave the investigation.”
“I expected. Just like I expected Mr Thomas here to make a move as soon as he knew you weren’t being monitored anymore,” Jane explains easily, unbothered by the way your face twists with his little reveal.
You had been a pawn.
Just not the FBI’s pawn.
You were Patrick fucking Jane’s pawn.
“What I didn’t expect, was you running off, and.. you know, all that happened after,” he trails off with a slight wince. “That was inconvenient, I’ll admit.”
He, at the very least, has the grace to look apologetic at that. So he didn’t mean for it to work out like this. He knew Marcus would flip and put you into protective custody. He counted on Marcus getting you out of town and finding you somewhere safe to lay low while they worked out the rest of the case.
What he didn’t count on, however, was the mountain of emotional baggage he was undoing and letting loose during his little playtime pretending to be an FBI agent.
“Inconventient?” You grind out, anger simmering beneath your skin. “I got fucking kidnapped, Jane!”
“Like I said—inconvenient.”
“Enough.”
“Oh my God, I can’t believe you. Marcus was right, you really are a fucking dick.”
“Things could’ve gone smoother, yes—”
You jump at the sudden firing of a gun, wide eyes immediately flying to Edward where he stands unimpressed, holding the weapon towards the ceiling. He then levels it between you, your undeniable anger at the consultant melting steadily into fear.
Jane takes a step towards you automatically, his arm outstretched as if he could reach you despite the distance between you, but he stills when the gun is aimed for him.
“I said enough.”
—
“North entrance is covered,” Rigsby reports as Marcus arrives on scene mere moments after them. “South’s free—they’re not expecting company.”
“Good,” Marcus nods, eyes scouting the area around the warehouse and the flashy expensive car Thomas had left parked along the side. Might as well be a flashing neon sign in an area like this. “How many on the north?”
“Three,” Cho replies plainly, checking over his weapon.
“You certainly work quick. We’ll send a small team to cover both exits for now, when—”
“We need to wait for back up, we don’t know how many are inside yet.”
He fights the frown threatening to dig between his brows as he looks at Lisbon, her expectant gaze already fixed tightly on him. He knows that. He doesn’t need to be told that like he’s some freshly graduated baby agent, let alone by someone who’s not even on his team. He bites back the sarcastic words building on his tongue.
“When SWAT arrives,” Marcus continues as if she didn’t interrupt him, “we make the call to move in. How far out are they?”
“Four minutes,” Cho provides again, looking between the two superior agents with a look he couldn’t quite decipher, but otherwise keeping quiet.
Anything could happen in four minutes.
Marcus presses his lips together, eyes raking over the structure they suspect you’ve been taken to and its wider surroundings. His hands find his hips as he studies the high windows, wondering if Wilson would be able to find anything to climb up on to find a point to look in to until backup arrives.
“Uh, where’s Jane?”
Rigsby’s carefully posed question pulls Marcus's attention from the building, his teeth quickly mashing together as he attempts to reign in the hot flood of irritation that sweeps over him. Sure enough, the consultant is nowhere to be found when the team looks, and the irritation morphs into something a little stronger, something with a bit more of a kick.
He can’t help it.
Marcus smiles at Lisbon, stiff and sarcastic. “I see that tight leash is working well.”
She sighs, barely sparing him a glance. “Don’t.”
“If he does anything to—”
A single shot echoes from the warehouse and he jolts as if it had come straight for him and pierced right through his chest. Seconds of silence pass, and with each slowed tick of time in his mind, there you are. On the autopsy table, a bullet through the head. Cold. Lifeless.
Someone speaks, reporting to the incoming team that shots have been fired and he doesn’t care to look at who calls it in. His eyes dart over the building, waiting for movement, a yell, a scream, anything—
He doesn’t, he can’t, wait any longer. Logic, strategy, training—it all blends and settles at the sound of nothing. It’s instinct, it's pure adrenaline. Marcus takes off towards the building while reaching for his weapon, the thought of you bleeding out on the filthy floor, losing precious time with every moment he wastes standing around, pushing his legs harder as he comes up upon the back entrance.
“Marcus!” Teresa shouts after him, already following. “Cho, on me. Rigsby, Van Pelt, you’re on the north entrance. Wilson, wait for SWAT and direct on their arrival!”
—
Your ears ring from the gunshot. The piercing echo of it threatens to stop your heart then and there, the tremble in your hands obvious as you quickly and carefully raise your hands in an effort to show you’re of no threat. Jane mirrors you, studying the way the gun ever so slight shake in Edward’s hand as the barrel of it bounces between the both of you.
“FBI, put your weapon down.”
You almost choke on a sob at the familiar voice.
He’s here.
You feel Marcus move step up and next to you, his own weapon held steady and pointed directly at Edward . You watch the recognition, the panic, the indecision, the urge to flee play out on the older man’s face, the shake in his hand increasing under the presence of Marcus.
“You’re surrounded. Don’t go doing anything stupid. This is your one and only chance to walk out of here, so put it down, and we’ll talk. We can figure something out.”
“I just want this to be over,” Edward mutters with a distinct tone of irritation, flustered by the sudden presence of an actual FBI agent and having their weapon pointed at him, “it wasn’t meant to go this far… I didn’t want any part of this.”
“I know,” Marcus soothes carefully, his voice smooth and calm. “Put the gun down, and we’ll talk about it.”
“You know, it’s your fault,” Edward continues, completely absorbed in the stress of his thoughts, and the gun changes direction to land directly on you, “if you had just stayed aw—”
“Hey,” Marcus snaps immediately, “if you’re going to point that at anyone, you point it at me. She got dragged into this because of me. All of this? It’s on me, do you hear me?”
You jump in fright at the echo of two gunshots towards the front of the warehouse, and in a split second, you watch Edward jump in surprise too, and give way to the panic that overrides the logic of a negotiation.
It all happens so quickly. You feel a shove from the right, the direct force of a body moving and colliding with you just as more shots ring out throughout the warehouse and you stumble back and away from where you had just been standing.
Edward falls back from the shots Teresa and another agent direct at him, the pair suddenly appearing from behind you and quickly advancing towards him, while Jane jumps forward to kick the gun away from the hand that weakly reaches for it.
The body that had collided with you is sprawled on the ground and your heart drops to the pit of your stomach at the familiar hand swept dark hair of Marcus. He doesn't get up. He doesn't move.
Bile builds in your throat as you drop to your knees, uncaring as the rough floor scuffs the skin of your knees through the thin material of your dress. You tug desperately at his jacket, rolling him over and clawing at his body until he sprawls over your lap, heavy and unmoving.
“Marcus? Marcus, look at me,” you beg softly, a strangled sob falling from your throat when his eyes eventually flutter open languidly and focus tiredly on yours. “What did you do? God, what did you do?”
His lips part, words building on his tongue, but before they can fall from his mouth he jolts in your arms, heaving and coughing and sputtering. It sounds fucking horrible.
You watch the blood ooze from his lips, creating a stark trail of bright red that melts into his faded stubble and slides down along his jaw. You push at his jacket and feel your heart plummet to the floor at the deep maroon patches outwardly soaking the crisp white shift from the holes in his torso.
“It’s okay,” you soothe shakily, wiping the blood away from his lips with your thumb and feeling your stomach jolt with the wet sticky feel of it. “It’s okay. Keep looking at me, okay? I’m here. Somebody help me! Marcus, please—hold on, please—”
“Pike!”
Someone takes him from your arms, lays him on the ground and covers the bullet wounds with their hands. Teresa is yelling out orders, something about getting medics in and SWAT and soon more people swarm the warehouse. You sit on your knees, hands warm, and when you look numbly down at them, you see the glisten of his blood coating your skin.
There's so much blood.
“Marcus?” You whimper quietly, his name sticking to the inside of your throat.
“Hey, come on,” a female voice speaks from the side of you, her hands winding around your arms and pulling you from the ground. Your widened eyes find hers as you stumble to stand on two feet, her red hair previously pulled into a ponytail slightly ruffled and out of place as strands fall across her face.
“Let’s give them some space, let them help him. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“I don’t—I don’t know,” you reply hoarsely, eyes falling back to where Marcus lay on the ground as even more people surround him.
“Look at me,” the redhead speaks, a gentle smile pulling at her lips as you do as she says. “Good. Do you feel any pain?”
“Uh, I don’t… I don’t think so.”
“Okay,” she says softly, winding an arm around your back and gently leading you from the warehouse. “We have people out here that are going to help you—”
Why are you shaking so much? So damn hard?
Your breath gets stuck in your throat, and your hand moves to cover the length of it in confusion, hoping the press of your fingers would help the oxygen move more freely into your lungs.
Instead of helping you find your breath, you feel the smear of blood along your skin and the heady metallic ring of it sinks into your senses, the urge to vomit suddenly curdling your stomach.
The shaking increases as you jerk your hand away from your neck as if it had cut you. You make a noise, something small and choked, and your knees weaken from the spin of your head.
“Hey, I need you to take a deep breath for me, can you do that? I’m here, I’ve got you.”
“I-I’m trying,” you choke out, suddenly aware of the hot tears spilling down your cheeks as the wind hits with a sharp bite as soon as you step out of the building. “Is—is he going to be okay?”
The redhead briefly glances back at the warehouse, and you think you find a small edge of uncertainty shine in her eyes, but it’s gone within a blink. She gives you another small, reassuring smile though it does little to steady the tremble sitting within your limbs.
“The medics are onsite, he’s in good hands.”
—
The plastic chair is uncomfortable beneath you, the thin scratchy blanket wrapped around your body doing very little to cushion the solid surface of it, yet you don’t move. You don’t think you could if you tried. You hate hospitals. You hate the sterile smell, the cold white walls, the rush of staff and the endless ring of alarms and codes.
This room isn’t too bad, though.
It’s a smaller waiting room, away from the hustle and bustle of the main hospital corridors, and away from the half dozen pairs of eyes that seemed focused on studying your every move. It’s nicer in here, both in style and temperature. The walls are a softer, more welcoming cream colour and a little wall mounted heater keeps the space filled with a nice warmth, but it does very little to calm you.
Your tea had long gone cold next to you, delivered by a startlingly quiet member of Lisbon’s team, Rigsby was it?, before he left you to your thoughts again. You didn’t reach for it once.
Instead, you stare blankly ahead, mind turning over with worry as Marcus is off somewhere in the hospital, somewhere bleeding and hurt and possibly dying. No one comes to talk to you. No one had come to comfort you since Grace had found this room and put you in here, and you think you prefer it that way.
You think she knows you would prefer it that way.
He’s hurt. Severely so.
He’s hurt because he pushed you out of the way, because he took the bullets that had been meant for you, whether they were accidental or not. He had moved with very little regard for himself, instinctively putting himself between you and potential death.
You should be the one in theatre. You should be the one broken and bleeding on an operating table. And yet, you’re not. Here you are, with nothing but bruised, scraped knees and a shot to shit nervous system on the brink of collapsing in on itself.
“Hey Picasso,” Jacob murmurs softly, his face appearing in your view as he crouches down before you, “I think we should get you home—”
Your head is already shaking before he can even finish. Leave? No. No, you can’t do that. What if something happens during surgery? What if he deteriorates and he has no one here to beg them to keep trying? What if—what if he dies on the table and you’re not here for it?
His face creases in sympathy, his hand warm as it comes to rest over your knee.
“Listen to me, alright? You with me?”
His head tilts, waiting until he’s sure you’re fully locked in and focused on him.
“He’s lost a lot of blood. He’s got a collapsed lung, and quite extensive internal bleeding. They said he’s gonna be in there for a while—hey, look at me.”
He ducks his head to help your eyes meet his, and you do your best to swallow down the lump quickly building thickly in the base of your throat.
“While he’s in there, getting the help he needs, I’d like to get you home so you can shower, and get into something more comfortable. Lisbon’s under strict instructions to call me if anything changes, and we’ll come right back once you’re done, alright? How does that sound?”
“Sounds like he could die,” you mutter, voice rough and hollow. “Is he going to die?”
His thumb softly swipes at the stray tear on your cheek.
“I have been assured they are doing everything in their power to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“It should’ve been me. It should be me.”
He gives a small, sad smile. “I may not have been a part of this team for very long and know him very well, but I think we both know that was never an option for him.”
“Is it my fault?”
“Absolutely not,” he says firmly, shaking his head, “and you know damn well he wouldn’t want you thinking like that. Now come on, the quicker we go and do this, the quicker we can get back.”
“You promise we’ll come straight back if… if he—”
“If I happen to get a call to say he…” he trails off, eyes dropping to where his hand rests on your knee before he gathers the strength to meet your eyes again. “If I get that call, we’ll come straight back, alright? Even if you’re all shampooed up and half naked. I swear.”
Your eyes dart between his, searching the soft forest green depths for any trace of a lie. You find nothing but sincerity. Your fingers wrap around his hand, briefly comforted by the steady warmth of it as he turns it in your hold and interlocks your fingers carefully.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
He helps you stand, releasing your hand in an effort to keep the blanket wrapped around your frame. He tucks it back under your chin, giving you a little grin.
“Hell, you being here half naked would probably bring him back before any crash cart could—”
“Jacob,” you half sob in surprise, unsure whether to be horrified or angry. Your face must display it all openly.
He flinches, face creasing from shame. “I know, I know. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I get weird with this kind of shit, let’s just go.”
—
We’re almost near to the end 😭❤️
Under Pressure
(Little Miracle Series pt.8)
jack abbot x ICUnurse!singlemom!reader
wc: 1.8k
summary: jack is kinda anxious about proposing to you.
tags: fluff on fluff on fluff!
little miracle masterlist
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
By late summer you were back to work and Miracle was back at the daycare center. It would be her last summer at the hospital as she would be entering elementary school in the fall. If you asked her she would say she was excited but you knew that she'd miss the hospital.
You can't believe a year has gone by since you've started dating Jack. Now he was a part of your life and you a part of his. He would do anything for you and for Miracle and throughout your relationship he has proven it tenfold.
Just the week before your returned to work it was Miracle's birthday. She wanted a hospital themed birthday party. The two of you tried to talk her into a different theme but she was adamant about it.
It was easy to decorate, you both just stole supplies from your departments. Gloves for balloons, blank prescription bottles for goodies, and face masks for the hell of it. Everyone seemed to have a fun time. Especially Miracle. She received an abundance of gifts from her friends.
Robby was the last to give his gift, "You can be whatever you want to be when you grow up, but just know there is always a place for you in The Pitt."
Miracle opens the box and inside is a stethoscope. "Thank you, Uncle Robby!" She immediately puts it on and presses it to his chest. "It's real! I can hear your heart beat."
"Do you like?"
"I love it!" She jumps into his lap for a hug.
When the party is over and all the guests are gone, Miracle goes to her room to play while you two clean up. "This is the first party in this house." Jack mentions
"Oh nice, a christening. Hopefully we can plan for more." You smile.
"Would you like to host more parties?" He asks
"I've never had a lot of friends to do it." You shrug, "I think it's nice to share big moments like birthdays with other people."
He nods as he continues to wash dishes.
"You want to host a party, and propose to her at said party?" At work, Robby tilts his head as Jack explains to him the plan.
"Everyone will know it's an engagement party, except her. She likes surprises. It'll be okay, right?"
"What if she says no in front of all those people?" Santos interjects.
"You think she'll say no?" Jack turns to her worriedly.
"There's always that chance, You can't be too sure." She shrugs.
"No way she says no. She loves you." Javadi counters.
"But she did have her doubts before." Jack's gaze goes distant. Was this a bad idea?
"Yes that was before. Before her abusive ex was sent to prison and she saw help to not negative emotions delegate her life. She's doing things now she's never done before living with a partner, hosting parties, going out with friends! She doesn't live in fear anymore." Robby holds his shoulders.
"But there's still a chance she could say no." Jack huffs.
"This is the most worried I've ever seen him." Ellis watches beside Mel as the attendings talk.
"I'm like this… all the time." Mel says.
"I don't even have a ring yet so nothing is set in stone. Miracle is starting kindergarten soon and she just started back to work. A lot is going on right now." He takes a breath and looks around seeing the swarm of residents surround the desk listening to his panic, "Don't you people have work to do?" The crowd quickly disperses, shuffling to find something to do.
Later in the night when it gets quiet, Jack goes to the ICU. You're sitting at one of the desks typing on a chart. You brighten when you see him, "Hey, what are you doing up here?"
"I just wanted to check on you." He smiles, "You doing okay?"
"I'm fine. You know, you could've just texted me,: You look at him, knowingly.
"It's nothing. I wanted to see you."
Some nurses giggle as they walk past the desk. "Hi Dr. Abbot." They chime.
"Thank you, I'm fine." You stand up and hold his shoulders, "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yes."
"Are you for sure for sure? C'mere." You take his hand and lead him to one of the supply closets. "What's going on? Tell me."
"It's no big deal."
"Liar, you won't look me in the eye." You hold his face.
He takes a breath, "Do you want to get married?"
"Like in general or to you specifically?" He wilts. "I'm kidding! Of course I want to marry you. Is that what you are worried about?"
"I was getting in my head about it. A lot has been going on. I don't even have a ring. Miracle is starting school at the end of the month—"
You put a finger to his lips, "We're not automatically jumping to a huge ceremony the day you propose. Relax." You rest your hand on his chest, "You can relax knowing, when you get a ring, I will say yes. I promise" You kiss him to seal the promise.
"You promise." He rests his forehead against yours.
"Mhm. Now, when you do it should I act like an automatic yes where I nod my head fast and jump around or should I hold the suspense so people think there's a split second chance I might say no so it makes it more exciting."
He rolls his eyes, "The less anxious option please."
You giggle as he presses his lips against yours. You squeal as he moves down your neck.
"New patient in 10 from— Hello Nurse!" Your friend, Nana, walks in through the other door.
The two of you separate, "What were you saying?"
"Huh? Oh new patient in 10 from surgery. He's all yours." She grabs some items from the shelf, "Hi, Dr. Abbot."
"Hi, Nana." He looks at his shoes.
Once she leaves, you turn back to him, "Feel better?"
"Yes."
"Good. I'll text you my ring size and some reference photos so you can get looking." You give him another peck on the lips then push him out of the door.
A warm night in September, when you both have a day off together, you invite a few friends over for a nice dinner party. Jack lets you handle the details, he follows your lead. You invite Robby, Dana, Lena, and your friends in the ICU Nana and Therese. And of course your guest of honor, Miracle.
You pour drinks for everyone and laugh with them as Jack brings out the food. You go into the kitchen to help, "Are we having dessert?"
"It's a surprise." He smirks.
"Thank goodness I practiced my surprise face." You take more plates and kiss his cheeks.
After dinner, Miracle gets sleepy and crawls into your lap as the adults continue talking and laughing telling stories. You sway side to side as you listen. You look over at Jack. You take in every detail of his face as he smiles and laughs. You think to yourself, yes you could spend the rest of your life with him. You were each other's second chance. You both deserve this chance at happiness. Your love has shown to be boundless and right now you couldn't be happier.
"I'm not very good at this but we gathered you all here today because we all have been a big part of our lives. And that is all due to the biggest part of our lives, our little girl." Jack pinches her side causing her to squirm in your arms. "Now I can't imagine my life without her and her mom." His eyes move from her to you, "I love you more than anything. I hope I've proven that I'd do anything for you. You have my heart and I want us together until the very end. Will you marry me?" He pulls out a small velvet box and opens it setting it on the table. A dainty silver band with a diamond rests in the cushion of the box. Miracle gasps jumping out of your lap when she sees the ring and the room falls silent.
"Jack…" Your eyebrows knit together.
He gulps nervously as you pause. Everyone's eyes widen as they wait. You can't hold the suspense much longer, "I will. I would love to marry you." Everyone cheers and clinks their glasses together.
"You said you wouldn't do that." He takes the ring out of the box and places it on your ring finger.
"Sorry I had to see you squirm a little." You kiss him.
"My mommy and daddy are getting married." Miracle squeals.
"Just like the movies, Lovely. Are you happy?"
"Yes!" She holds Jack's neck for a hug and he kisses her cheek, "Now Daddy will really be my daddy."
After another round of congratulations, your friends bid you farewell and go home. You tuck Miracle into bed. "You know, Mommy will need a flower girl."
"I will do it!" She raises her hand.
"You will?! Oh thank goodness. I love you, My Little Miracle." You kiss her nose.
"I love you too, Mommy."
"Goodnight, Miracle," Jack kisses her forehead.
"Goodnight, love you."
"Love you too, Princess." He turns out the light and you scurry off to bed with him.
When you close your bedroom door, you jump into his arms and pepper his face in kisses., "You are not nice." He mutters between the kisses. You push him on to the bed.
"C'mon I couldn't make it that easy for you. When have I ever done that for you?" You shimmy out of your clothes, "Just one last time, I promise."
Jack removes his prosthesis and takes his shirt and pants. "You promised last time." He pulls you close by the waist.
"Ugh but you should have seen your face." You straddle his lap, "I could never say no to you and yet you still looked scared."
"There's always the chance."
"There's never the chance." You hold his face, "I couldn't get you out of my head when we met. Remember the very last time I went to ED? I said Miracle wanted to see her friend."
"Yeah?"
"I lied." You kiss his neck.
"You did?"
"Well, sort of. She did miss you but she would have been okay. The daycare didn't call me, I snuck out to talk to you."
"Mm, like mother like daughter." He chuckles and kisses your chest, "It was coincidence that the one time you take the elevator down you bump into me at the same time I try to sneak away."
"It was meant to be. No matter how hard I resisted, I was always going to yours." You both scoot deeper on the bed. "I love you, Jack. I was always going to say yes to you." You begin to kiss down his chest, "Always."
His breath hitches then he grabs your hand and pushes you over so you're on your back. "I love you too but tonight is your night." He kisses down your stomach.
The two of you have a quiet and restless night as the future Dr. and Mrs. Abbot.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
tags: @cosmicneptune @ilocuras24 @lacy1986 @stardustworlds @a-true-janian-reply @amacphet @darknessofhell666-blog-blog @princess76179 @nyxmoretti @kidd3ath @lovehadlovelost @emmy626 @leeshy12 @evergreen9083 @flyinglama @heyyimmisunderstood @secretlyurfemmwife @sliverspringss @xxohsnapitspatxx @urgirl-jijiiii @sabrinathewitchh982 @luminaxs @1dhoe93 @melissa66orion @otteryougladimback @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @1-800-bobcut @generation-zero @jas241 @swiftwerewolfknight @beebeechaos @imaginecrushes @gf4lwt @tlc3802 @blackirisesinthesunlight @plan3tch1ld @untilmynextstory @hista-girl @xh444 @closelyinsanewave @chattyotter14 @vivi-xne @uncertainblissss @teaspacebar @midnightalbatross @of-converse-books-and-chocolate @marcysbear
AAAAHHHHHH I LOVED IT SO 🩷🩷🩷
Pedro Pascal getting a little lost in translation
Little Miracle Series (masterlist)
jack abbot x nurse!singlemom!reader
summary: jack meets a little girl wandering the ED one night and falls in love with her mom. follow along as they grow closer and their relationship flourishes.
tags: single mom, classic romance, toxic ex,
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
little miracle asks: askbox headcannons, and general statements
Sleepyhead: the first, second, and third meet.
Cupid's Chokehold: [coming soon]
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
if you would like to be tagged for future fics please let me know!! there is a tag list established for the series~! thank you for all the feedback on the first. There was so much positivity and request for more!
To Love Me Is To Suffer Me
Summary: After landing in the States after the events of South America, Frankie calls you to let you know he's coming home. To his surprise, you come to pick him up from the airport and bring him back to your shared bedroom effortlessly.
Pairing: Frankie Morales x Wife!Reader
Content warnings: takes place immediately after the events of Triple Frontier, Frankie is a girl dad x2 ("I got the new baby now" implies at least two kids) (I am a freak for semantics), brief mention of traumatic/premature birth and a baby in the NICU, positive mention of postpartum body (thoughts of body worship), angst, hurt/comfort, smut, crying during sex, little bit of lactation (not a kink here)
Word count: 2,193
Read on ao3 here
Author's note: 300 follower celebration!!! (extremely overdue; let's not talk about it.) 400 follower celebration to follow either tomorrow or the day after, then 500 the day after! I wouldn't be here without you (and your reblogs) ((that is how this platform works)) I love you so much; I am flattered that anyone wants to read my writing!!! you are so special to me!! thanks for being here!!! <333 anyways, title is a lyric from "Nettles" by Ethel Cain. hearing that live was truly a religious experience, and I 10/10 recommend. this fic has actually been titled and in the drafts since January (way before I saw Ethel live), but still. anywho I hope you turn on "Nettles" and get to reading and enjoy!!! ily ty for reading !!! <3
It’s been eleven days since you dropped Frankie off at the airport. He was supposed to be back six days ago. No phone calls, no texts, nothing. You’ve decided you won’t get truly concerned until tomorrow.
You can’t remember the number of times you went a week, sometimes two, without having contact with Frankie before he discharged from the military. This is an unsanctioned mission, but you still have an idea of what to expect from Frankie when he’s in it like this.
You’re in bed, alone, staring up at the ceiling. Both the two-year-old and the five-month-old are (finally) fast asleep in their rooms. None of Frankie’s girls can ever seem to get good sleep when he’s gone.
It’s 11:47 PM when you finally put your phone on the charger and shut your eyes. It’s 11:49 when the distinctive ringtone you’ve been waiting to hear for the last six days finally sounds off in your quiet bedroom.
You accept the call and bring the phone to your ear.
“Frankie?” Your voice is soft and hopeful, and Frankie swears he can feel his heart twist.
“Hi, baby,” he sighs on the other end. “I’m sorry.”
You let the apology sit in the air for a moment before you ask where he is.
“Airport. Um, I’m about to call an Uber, but I wanted to let you know I’m coming,” he says softly.
You can imagine him sitting on a metal bench near baggage claim, his Standard Heating Oil hat in his hand, his phone in the other.
“I’ll come get you,” you decide, swinging your feet over the mattress.
Frankie shakes his head even though you can’t see him.
“No, I’m sure the girls don’t want to get out of bed. I’ll call an Uber, be home within the hour, hopefully,” he says, the exhaustion in his voice evident.
“Frankie, I’m coming. I’ll see you in half an hour,” you say before hanging up the phone.
You grab the hoodie Frankie left on the chair in the corner and throw it over your tank top, the fabric so long and worn that it almost conceals your pajama shorts.
With soft footsteps, you head into the nursery first to grab the baby. You manage to pick her up from the crib without waking her, then walk to the garage and get her situated in her car seat.
Then you head to your oldest’s room, but she ends up waking up when you snake your hands beneath her body.
“Mama?” Her little voice is so tired.
“I’m here,” you murmur as you wrap your arms around your daughter and carry her to the garage, where you slip on some sneakers.
She doesn’t make another noise, having fallen right back asleep in your arms as you get her situated in the backseat with her sister.
The drive to the airport is silent. You’re bracing yourself to possibly see a battered version of your husband, definitely more withdrawn than before he left, hopefully a richer version to save you from the buckets of debt.
The traumatic birth of your youngest, who came six weeks early, paired with her three-week-long NICU stay, not to mention the court bills that have come with Frankie getting busted for cocaine use and subsequently getting his pilot’s license suspended, have been the biggest hits.
As you pull into the arrivals line, you spot the back of him.
You text him, telling him to turn around, and he quickly finds your car. You put the vehicle in park and get out. He doesn’t need your help putting his duffel bag in the trunk, but he does need your arms around him, and you need the same from him.
He breathes in the scent of your shampoo and clutches the fabric of his hoodie on your body.
“Let me drive,” Frankie murmurs softly when you pull back.
“No, you’re tired. I got it,” you insist, gently pushing him toward the passenger side.
As you get back on the highway, Frankie lets out a deep sigh, prompting you to turn your head briefly, then do a double-take when you notice his face.
“You shaved.”
It’s thankfully the only visible change that occurred over the last week and a half. You’re sure his body aches, but he seems physically okay.
He brings a hand up to scrub over the lower half of his face.
“Was in the jungle for God knows how long,” he says softly. “Got itchy.”
You glance one more time, then fix your eyes on the road.
“It’ll grow back.”
“I know,” you mumble.
The rest of the drive is quiet. You know better than to ask what happened when it’s all so fresh, so you focus on driving.
Frankie keeps turning around in the passenger seat, stealing glances at the girls, like he needs reminding that they’re there, that he’s back with them.
When you pull into the garage, Frankie opens and shuts the passenger door, immediately going for the oldest, then his duffel. He still worries about you lifting anything heavier than the baby, despite you being cleared by the doctor and being five months postpartum.
With the baby in your arms, you open the garage door and let Frankie step through, then shut it behind you.
He drops his duffel in the hallway, then heads into your oldest’s room and softly lowers her into her bed while you put the baby down in the nursery.
Frankie stares at his beloved two-year-old for a moment, watching her chest rise and fall with each breath she takes. He missed her and her sister deeply while he was gone. Every move he made in South America was with them and their mother in mind.
He finds you in your shared bedroom, already going through his bag and sorting things into the hamper.
“That can wait,” he says, coming up behind you and gently grabbing your wrists to stop your movement.
There is a feeling of anger at your husband for leaving you in the dark for a week and a half, but there’s also relief that he has his hands on you again.
It’s never easy with Frankie, never black and white, not even when things are going great, but you couldn’t walk away even if you wanted to. You’ll never feel as safe anywhere in the world as you do in Frankie’s arms.
You lean into his hold and let him wrap his arms across your front. Your eyes shut for a moment as you soak up the moment of relief with your husband home, safe and sound.
“You stink like the airport,” you murmur after a moment.
Frankie drops his arms and takes a step back before kissing your shoulder.
He steps into the bathroom, not bothering to shut the door all the way. You hear the shower turn on, the shucking of his clothes, and the shower curtain closing.
You venture down the hall to check on the girls one last time, finding them sleeping peacefully in their beds before returning to your bedroom, shutting the door behind you before you finish sorting the clothes in Frankie’s duffel.
After pulling Frankie’s hoodie over your head and dropping it in the hamper, too, the shower turns off. You hear him brush his teeth, and a few minutes later, he steps out, naked, skin damp, his hair dripping water down his back as he opens his side of the dresser to pull out some boxers.
He joins you in bed a minute later and pulls the covers up to your chins, then turns his body toward you and pulls you close, his front pressed against your back.
“I missed you. I’m sorry,” he mumbles into your hair.
It’s all so overwhelming. It isn’t like when he would come back from a deployment or one of the quicker missions. This was voluntary, and it obviously went bad, and he didn’t have Uncle Sam at the ready to pull him out if things went worse than bad.
You don’t know what to do other than follow your instincts, which are telling you to grab his hand. You take his hand and move it down, down, down to in between your legs.
Frankie cups your mound and sighs into your hair. He dips his fingers underneath the elastic of your shorts and finds your bare cunt. He slides his middle finger through your slit a few times before slipping the tip of his thick finger inside of you with a small whimper escaping from the back of his throat.
All he could think about on that mountain while he, Santiago, and Will waited for Benny to come back from the boat was you. All he wanted to do was hold his wife in his arms and show you how much he loves you.
So he tightens his arm around you, his right hand gently stroking your stomach where your tank top has ridden up. The stretch marks, some old, some new, some glossy and some more wrinkled with time, are soft against his fingertips. He loves them, loves that his babies put them there. You bear these marks the same way you bear everything else: with more grace than Frankie can fathom.
He barely lasted those eleven days in the jungle without you. He isn’t totally sure he could have also taken care of the girls the way you did without him. You’re better than him in every way, and he’ll never be worthy. He can only hope to make you feel good in return for being so perfect.
He works his finger in and out of you for a moment before you turn over, his finger slipping out of your shorts.
“I need to feel you,” you plead with a whisper.
You pull his boxers down, and while he gets them off his body, you pull your tank top over your head, then kick your shorts off.
“You sure?” he asks softly as he positions himself on top of you, his hands planted by your head, holding up his body.
“Mhm.” You nod and pull him closer, his heavy cock brushing against your sensitive entrance.
Frankie leans down and kisses you as he pushes inside of you, swallowing your moans and the soft whimper from the tight pinch.
You pant beneath him, and he peppers your face in kisses.
“I love you. I’m never leaving you again,” he says, slightly out of breath. “Fuck, you’re perfect, and I’m an asshole.”
“No.” You moan softly as he rolls his hips against yours. “Not an asshole, baby.”
Frankie whimpers softly and kisses your chin.
“You took care of our girls all on your own. They’re healthy and happy, and I could never do that without you. You’re incredible,” he babbles, his brow furrowing.
Honestly, he’s in disbelief that he’s inside of you, in bed with you, and not being yelled at and kicked out. You’ve always been too good for him, and he’s just a grumpy coke addict who got lucky.
“I’m sorry I left you,” he whimpers.
You bring your hand up to cup his cheek, his stubble scratchy against your palm. “You’re here now. I love you. We’ll get through this, I promise.”
Frankie lets out a shaky sigh and buries his face in your neck as he starts thrusting into you at an even rhythm.
“I love you,” he repeats over and over in your ear.
He sinks down onto his elbows and snakes one hand between your bodies to rub your clit.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
It’s spoken like a chant, and his voice breaks more and more with every admission of love.
You feel the tears well in your eyes just as Frankie’s own tears hit your shoulder.
“I love you,” he whispers. “Fuck, I’m gonna–”
“It’s okay,” you whimper in his ear.
You wrap your arms tightly around his back and kiss his neck. The let-down has started, and it smears against Frankie’s chest with every thrust of his hips in and out of you. He moans softly when he feels the warm liquid begin to stain his chest.
Frankie rubs your clit just that much harder to make sure you come before he does, which has you whimpering into his neck and digging your nails into his skin before he’s spilling inside of you, filling your cunt with his warm cum as he groans.
As the two of you come down from your highs, you let out a sniff and reach out to wipe Frankie’s tears.
“We’re gonna be okay,” you promise.
“I’m never gonna hurt you again,” Frankie vows. “Gonna be a better husband, a better father. I promise. Fuck, I love you and our girls so much. I’ll be better.”
You nod and rub your thumb back and forth across his cheekbone.
“I know,” you whisper, smiling softly. “I love you, baby.”
Frankie will tell you about Tom and the money tomorrow. For now, he’ll keep replaying you saying “I love you, baby” in his head as he drifts off to the best sleep he’s had in nearly two weeks.
dividers by @/saradika-graphics
tags: @person-005 @upintheclouds95
p.s. if you would like to be added to/removed from my all works/Frankie Morales/Pedro Pascal characters taglist, comment or message me!
I want to do this with him so much
Los Angeles (growing up etc), Sophie Altemus
A Year Of Healed
Heeeeey. A year ago today I posted the first chapter of Healed annnnnnd well, congrats to my flighty Gemini self for sticking with something for over a year. To all who have read, thank you. To all that have helped me (@mothandpidgeon, @schnarfer, @forspringcleaning, @for-a-longlongtime, @sin-djarin), thank you. To Joel Miller for being hot, thank you.
Anyways, Joel and Doc's story isn't done, just yet and I'd like you to
Save The Date
Saturday, May 2 For the next chapter and a big surprise I'm excited to show you.
It all began, like so many ideas, in a group chat with @mothandpidgeon and @schnarfer. (lol just noticed I called him JOE)
Below the cut are some previews and more memories.
this makes me laugh.
~Vibes~ for the next two chapters.
And of cooooourrrseeee. Joel & Jefferson by my beloved vv @valevntine.
If you want to share any of your favorite parts/chapters/things/etc. please do, whether publicly or privately.
Seriously though, thanks for letting me get sentimental on main. I certainly treasure this story. 171,000+ words, 30 chapters, and countless smut scenes... we're healing Joel Miller y'all. 💞
Aaaah congratulations on the milestone 💕
Shared custody
Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x reader
Robby Masterlist Updates account
Balancing your final year as a resident while raising a five-year-old is hard enough. Co-parenting with your ex Michael Robinavitch? That’s a whole different challenge.
warning/tags: smut, minors DNI, porn with plot (lots of plot), age gap (but reader’s age isn’t disclosed) jealous!robby, co-parenting, Robby is sooo girl dad coded, attempt of slowburn, they're down bad for the other, inadequate medical terms, longing, unprotected piv, pussy eating, fingering, handjob, creampie, multiple orgasms
“Robby,” you repeated for the millionth time, staring at the way his focused eyes stayed glued to the computer screen. “Robby, are you even listening to what I’m saying?” Your words went in one ear and straight out the other. His attention was completely locked on the patient charts, as if the world had temporarily ceased to exist.
You let out a quiet sigh, then reached over the nurse station counter, fished a latex glove out of the open cardboard box, and with a quick movement, snapped it right against his back.
“Ouch!” Robby exclaimed, finally jerking his gaze away from the screen. He rubbed the spot where the glove had stung him, looking equal parts surprised and betrayed. “Why the hell did you do that?”
“Because I’ve been trying to talk to you!” You fought to keep your voice from snapping, though the frustration was definitely leaking through. “Did you call the bouncy castle people already?”
He nodded, leaning back in his chair with a groan. “Yeah, already did. They’re charging me two hundred extra for switching from the unicorn castle to the capybara one with less than a week’s notice, by the way.” He tried to sound annoyed, but it didn’t quite land. Michael loved his daughter far too much for that. If he had to build a goddamn capybara bouncy castle with his own two hands so she could have whatever she wanted in the entire world, he would do it without hesitation. Instead of irritation, his expression softened into something almost endearing, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was fighting back a smile at her latest demand.
“And you’re paying for it without complaining because you’re a great father,” you said matter-of-factly, unable to hide the fond smile tugging at your own lips. “Remember, the party’s at three. You still good for setup?”
Robby exhaled through his nose, the sound almost a laugh but not quite. "They're delivering the capybara monstrosity at one-thirty. Said they'd set it up in the backyard." He rubbed a hand over his jaw as if he was remembering what other arrangements he’d made. "Also confirmed the balloon guy with a helium tank, should be there by two."
You nodded, feeling the relief you always felt whenever Robby managed to take care of everything. Co-parenting with Robby has always been like this, efficient, practical, and competent. No missed pickups, no forgotten appointments. He'd never once let your daughter down, even when work tried to swallow him whole.
"And the cake?" you asked because you can't help it, even though you knew the answer.
He gave you a side-eye, the one that said do you even have to ask? "Chocolate with vanilla buttercream, extra sprinkles. Pickup at two-fifteen, I'll swing by after my shift ends, already talked to Shen and he’ll cover for me.”
Five years ago, you were a fourth-year med student rotating in this very department, terrified of screwing up in front of the mighty Dr. Robinavitch. Then Dr. Robinavitch slowly became Dr. Robby to you… and eventually he was just Michael when you were moaning his name under the weight of his body in his bed.
What you and Robby once had was simple, and you both liked it that way. It was the comfort of each other’s company after a brutal shift when neither of you wanted to be alone. No strings, no labels, no complications of being a real couple. No whispered rumors in the hospital about Robby seeing a med student outside of work. No pressure on Robby’s well-known inability to commit to anything more than passionate sex at night and coffee in the morning.
But simple things didn’t always stay simple, especially not when two adults knew exactly how risky it was to keep skipping protection, and neither of you ever felt much enthusiasm about pulling out. “Fuck, this is the last time, Michael,” you’d said more than once, breathless and frustrated. “Why are you nagging me?” he’d reply with a half-smirk, still catching his breath. “I had every intention of pulling out before you wrapped your legs around me like that.”
And that’s exactly how, six months after the first night you slept in Robby’s bed, you found yourself staring at the most terrifying sight you’d ever witnessed in your life: two pink lines on a plastic stick.
The conversation that followed was painfully awkward. You told Robby you were pregnant, and Robby, being who he was, decided it was time to put on his big boy pants and play his cards right. Life had handed him something he never thought he’d get, a baby, a real chance at a family. So he did what any traditional man would do in his position: he settled with you.
You’d moved into his house, and Robby and you had settled into a routine, not as two people who casually slept together on lonely nights, but as partners, and soon-to-be parents.
Robby took you to every single appointment. He insisted on every test to ensure his child’s safety, blended you the best prenatal smoothies, disgusting carrot-and-spinach concoctions that made you gag but that he swore were just what you needed, and even pushed hard for you to take early maternity leave. But of course, you refused, determined to finish your last year of med school before the baby arrived.
The day your daughter was born was the happiest day of Robby’s life. Even now, it still brought him to tears whenever he thought about it, the moment his entire life changed forever, the day he met his greatest love, his reason to keep going, to keep living, to try harder every single day.
But even as Robby put in his best effort to be a boyfriend, it didn’t take long for the fantasy to crumble. It wasn’t all sunrays and paradise, and after endless long shifts in the ED, endless diapers, and all-night cries that never seemed to stop, you were both running on fumes. It became painfully clear, day after day, that the only reason Robby had decided to settle down with you was because he’d gotten you pregnant.
You could see how unhappy he was. He barely spoke a word to you when he got home from work. He’d just sit on the couch with distant, lost eyes staring at the wall like he was the most miserable person alive. The only times he laughed or smiled were in the presence of his daughter. You couldn’t help but feel crushing guilt for trapping him in a relationship he never truly wanted. Robby had longed for a family and for company, but once he had it, he didn’t know what to do with it.
That’s why, after five months of fights and desperate trying, you decided it was time to do the most noble thing you could: let him go. Set him free instead of keeping him trapped beside you in a pretend marriage he’d only started because he was too considerate to let you raise his daughter alone.
Hannah Robinavitch had never once envied her friends whose parents were still married. She never got sad or asked why the three of you couldn’t just be a normal family. Because she already knew you were one, a little different from the others, maybe, but still a family nonetheless. And having separate parents actually had its perks. It meant two houses, twice as many birthday presents, and two different vacation destinations every single year.
Sunlight slanted through the tall maple trees lining the backyard fence, painting patterns across the grass. Your yard was huge, the short green grass always perfectly maintained, and the swimming pool sparkled with crystal-clear water that seemed to catch every ray of light. It was the kind of house you could never have afforded on a resident’s salary in a million years. But Robby had made sure you and Hannah had it anyway the moment the two of you decided to part ways and break up. He’d never blinked at the money when it came to his daughter. If giving her (and you) the nicest possible place to live during your half of the week with her, in a safe, beautiful neighborhood full of every comfort meant making his baby girl happy, then he would do it without hesitation.
Because fuck, Robby was such a good father. The kind who puts his little girl first and everything else second. He finally had a real reason to take days off work and actually go on vacations. He finally had something to look forward to, a future worth living for: taking care of his daughter, watching her grow up, teaching her things, just being needed by this helpless little angel who still demanded he check under the bed for monsters every single night.
You’d read once that when it came to having children, women should look for a man who would make a good father, not necessarily a good husband. Because love could run out. People broke up. They got divorced. But a child was a lifelong commitment. And you’d won the lottery with Michael, even if sometimes you still wished he could have been as good a partner as he was a father.
The enormous capybara-themed bouncy castle Hannah insisted on dominated the grass as screams of delight and the rhythmic thump-thump of small feet echoed from inside it. All her kindergarten friends chased each other in circles as their parents clustered near the patio tables, drinking iced tea and making polite small talk about preschool and summer camps.
You were on snack duty, refilling the chip bowls, and right on cue, the side gate swung open. Robby stepped through, wearing dark jeans and a button-down shirt rolled to the elbows, the sleeves catching on the muscles of his forearms, revealing Hannah’s name tattooed on his wrist.
He was carrying a large gift box wrapped in shiny silver paper with a bright red ribbon tied around it. The second Hannah’d spotted him, the entire backyard might as well have disappeared.
“Daddy!” She launched herself down the slide so fast the inflatable nearly tipped. She was sprinting with her bare feet on the grass before she even landed properly.
Robby dropped to one knee just in time to catch her as she collided into his chest like a missile. He laughed and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her clean off the ground for a second, even though she was getting too big for it. She squealed and buried her face in his neck.
“You came! You came!”
“Wouldn’t miss it, babygirl.” He set her down but kept one hand on her shoulder. “Happy birthday.”
She was s already eyeing the box. “Is that for me?”
“Depends.” He raised an eyebrow. “You been good?”
“Super duper good! Ask Mommy! I only ate two cupcakes and I shared my shovel in the sandbox with the other kids!”
You caught his eye over her head, and Robby gave you the tiniest smirk, yeah, he knew “two cupcakes” was probably an undercount.
“Guess it’s yours then.” Robby set the box on the grass, and Hannah attacked the paper. A brand-new bike glints in the sunlight, purple with whitewall tires, training wheels already attached, and even a little bell shaped like a flower.
Hannah froze for half a second, then let out a shriek that made half the parents jump. “A BIKE! Daddy, a BIKE!”
She flung herself at him again, hugging him so hard he had to brace himself. He laughed again, softer this time, and rubbed a hand over her back. “Figured it was time for you to have some riding lessons.”
“I can ride it now? Right now?”
He glanced at you for a quick check-in, the way he always does when big decisions happen, and you nod once.
“Yeah, angel,” you said, walking over. “But helmet stays on, and daddy’ll hold your seat until you’re steady.”
Hannah was already trying to climb on, so Robby steadied the bike with one hand, using the other to guide her foot to the pedal. She wobbled the second her weight hit the seat, but she was grinning so wide it looked almost painful.
Robby shot you another look and then crouched beside Hannah again. “Ready?”
She nodded furiously, and Robby started walking her forward, keeping one hand on the seat, the other hovering near her shoulder to steady her in case she fell. She pedaled hard, poking her tongue out in concentration. The bike lurched, straightened, and lurched again. Robby kept pace easily as you watched from the patio steps. The man who once told you, half-asleep after a fifteen-hour shift, that he wasn’t sure he knew how to be anyone’s dad, was now the same man who walked backward in front of a wobbling five-year-old, talking her through every turn.
“Push harder with your right foot… there you go. Look where you want to go, not at the ground. Yeah, just like that.”
Hannah laughed when the bike finally held a straight line for more than three seconds, and Robby let go of the seat, just for a heartbeat, and then grabbed it again when she tipped.
“I did it! I almost did it!”
“You’re doing it,” he corrected her, encouraging like he’d read in so many parenting books. “Keep going.”
They made a loop around the bouncy castle. Parents pulled out phones to snap pictures of her, and someone even started clapping, making Hannah beam like she was crossing a finish line. You felt eyes on you, Robby’s, briefly. He didn’t say anything, but the look told enough: we made this kid. Look at her.
After another lap, he slowed her to a stop near the bouncy castle. She was flushed and sweaty, but utterly triumphant. “Can we take the training wheels off?” she asked immediately.
Robby exhaled a laugh. “Tomorrow, maybe. Today we celebrate the fact you didn’t eat pavement.”
He ruffled her hair, then stood, brushing grass off his jeans. Robby walked over to you, watching Hannah show off her new ride to anyone who’ll listen.
“You good?” He asked you. “You’ve been running this circus solo all afternoon.”
“I’m fine. Exhausted, but fine.” You paused, then added softly, “She’s having the best day. Because you’re here.”
He looked at you then, and something about his eyes reminded you of the way he used to look at you when you were falling asleep on his couch with a newborn between you. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
Hannah zoomed past again, ringing the little flower bell. “Five,” he muttered, almost to himself. “How the hell did that happen?”
You didn’t have an answer, you just stood there beside him, your shoulder almost brushing his, watching your daughter ride circles around the backyard.
Two hours later, you were cutting slices out of the chocolate cake while Robby stood right next to you, handing them out to the sugar-desperate kids swarming the table.
You passed another slice to Robby. He took it from your hands, brushing his fingers against yours for a brief second.
“You know, I didn’t see Vet Guy over here,” he said, pulling on a dramatically disappointed face. “Bummer. I was really hoping to finally meet the guy.” You decided to ignore the sarcastic, obviously ill-intended comment. Robby, never one to let silence win, kept going. “I suppose he was busy. Did he have a labradoodle to give a haircut?” He let out a loud, self-satisfied chuckle that rumbled into a deep “Ha!”
“That’s a pet esthetician, you know?” You mumbled, aggressively slicing the knife through the cake. “Vets don’t do haircuts.”
“Oh, you’re right,” he mock-apologized, not even pretending to drop the subject, not when he had weeks’ worth of jokes lined up. “Then I guess he had some high-risk procedure. Open-heart surgery on a hamster, maybe?”
“You’re hilarious, Michael,” you said with your biggest deadpan face. “How long did it take you to come up with that one?”
“Oh, I have plenty more where that came from,” he replied, grinning. “Do you even call him Doctor? I mean, vets aren’t even real doctors.”
“Of course they are!” you shot back with sudden, exaggerated respect for the veterinary profession, purely to piss him off.
Vet guy was nice. You’d met him at the hospital after he came in with a nasty dog bite on his leg. You’d tended to the wound while he respectfully flirted with you, not too hard, not desperate or aggressive, but just enough to make you feel seen. He asked genuine questions about you, shared funny stories from his own job, and somehow managed to pull real smiles out of you even after a brutal shift.
When he asked for your number, intending to take you to what he swore was the best Thai restaurant in Pittsburgh, you’d hesitated. You didn’t need more distractions from residency and motherhood. But Dana had insisted you accept. She said you needed to spend time with adults outside the hospital, to do something just for yourself, and to let yourself be treated nicely for one night. Secretly, you knew she was cracking up at the way Robby’s jealousy flared every time Vet guy flirted with you, the way he clenched his jaw, cleared his throat, and rolled his eyes like a petulant child.
You’d gone out with him a couple of times. It was fun. He was a gentleman, smart, funny, handsome, the type of man most women would be thrilled to stumble upon. But then your stupid, stupid brain did that awful thing it always did whenever you started seeing someone new: it compared him to Robby. Robby would’ve ordered that. Robby would’ve said that. Robby would’ve done that. As if your brain had never gotten the memo that you and Robby had broken up. That it hadn’t worked. That you were supposed to be looking for a guy who wasn’t like him at all.
“Oh, please. WE are doctors. They’re frauds.” Robby scoffed. “What’s that guy’s biggest life achievement? Getting vomited on by a dog?”
“You’ve clearly thought a lot about a guy I’ve only gone out with like two times,” you offered him your fakest smile. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were the one dating him, not me.”
Robby’s expression, which up until that moment had been mocking and sleazy, changed completely. His smile flattened into a thin, straight line, and his eyes turned serious. “Funny,” he mumbled as he handed another slice of cake to a waiting kid.
“And to answer your question, no, I wasn’t gonna bring some random guy I had dinner with a couple of times to my daughter’s birthday. You know me better than that.”
He didn’t say anything else. Robby knew you were right, you weren’t the type of person who introduced someone new into Hannah’s life unless it was truly serious. But behind all the mockery and cheap jokes, there was something dangerously close to jealousy. The thought of you deciding another man was better than him, more worthy of your time and interest, the idea of Hannah ever having a stepdad, of him no longer being the only male figure in both your lives… it infuriated him.
Was he an asshole for wanting to keep you all to himself when he had no right to demand to be the only man in your life? Maybe. Was he stupid to pretend that a gorgeous, smart, and amazing woman like you would stay single forever, living on the memory of what you two once were, waiting for him to finally grow a pair of balls and give you what you deserved? The same thing he’d had every chance to give you years ago, but had been too scared to reach for, letting it slip away Definitely.
As the party came to an end, kids hugged, and parents collected backpacks and stray shoes, mumbling thank yous to you and Robby.
You stood by the gate, waving and promising playdates. Robby was on Hannah duty now, helping her say goodbye to each friend, crouching so he was eye-level, reminding her to say “thank you for coming.”
Most of the crowd thinned out quickly, a few stragglers lingered, one of them was Ethan, father of Mia, one of Hanna’s closest friends from the four-year-old room. Divorced last year, or so the gossip went. Nice enough guy. Tall, with an easy smile. He was hanging back near the patio table, helping stack chairs while his daughter ran one last lap around the bouncy castle.
You walked over to grab the last of the empty cups. “Great party,” he said, straightening up. “Hanna’s in heaven. That bike was a killer gift.”
“Thanks. Robby picked it out.” You smiled, tossing cups into the trash bag. “She’s been begging for one since she saw the big kids riding at the park.”
Ethan nodded, lingering his eyes on your face for a second. “Smart move.” He paused, then added, softer, “You pulled this off like a pro. Solo hosting a kindergarten party? Respect.”
You laughed lightly. “Not entirely solo. Robby’s been here all afternoon.”
“Yeah, I saw.” His tone was casual, but there was a flicker of curiosity there, maybe appraisal. “You two seem… good. Co-parenting goals and all that.”
“We manage,” you said neutrally.
He stepped a little closer, dropping his voice like he was sharing a secret. “Listen, if you ever want a break from… all of this. I just… figured it might be nice to talk to someone who gets the single-parent thing.” He smiled warmly. “Mia talks about Hannah nonstop. Be good for them to have more playdates. And for us to… catch up. Maybe you could give me some tips for this whole co-parenting lifestyle.”
It wasn’t subtle at all. The way he held eye contact a beat too long, the slight lean, the casual brush of his hand against yours when he handed you a stray napkin. You felt heat creepong up your neck. It wasn’t interest, exactly, just the awkward awareness of being seen that way.
You opened your mouth to deflect politely. But before you could, behind you, a voice cut in.
“Ethan, right?” Robby was there suddenly, casual as anything, holding Hannah’s new helmet in one hand. “Mia’s dad.”
Ethan straightened, his smile faltering only a fraction like he’d been caught red-handed. “Yeah. Hey, man. Good to see you.”
Robby nodded once. “You too.” He flicked his gaze to you, then back to Ethan. “We’re starting to clean up over here. You need help finding her shoes? Think they’re by the slide.”
Ethan blinked, then laughed it off. “Nah, we’re good. Just saying goodbye.” He looked at you again. “Think about what I said, okay? No rush.” He waved, called for Mia, and headed toward the gate.
You exhaled slowly, but Robby didn’t move. He was quiet for a long minute, then: “Sooo. Ethan.”
You snorted as you started gathering stray plates from the patio table. “Yeah?”
Robby followed, picking up cups without being asked. “Seemed chatty.”
“He’s friendly.”
“Very friendly.” Robby stacked the cups. “Animated, even.”
You glanced at him. His face was neutral, almost too neutral, a sign of how secretly annoyed he was. “Robby.”
“What?” Innocent. It sounded too innocent.
“You’re being nosy. First with vet guy, and now again.”
“I’m making conversation.” He set the stack down. “Guy was all secretive talking in your ear. What’d he want?”
You laughed despite yourself. “None of your business.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”
“Not bad. Just… standard divorced-dad. He wanted to organize some playdates. The usual.”
Robby nodded slowly, like he was filing that away. “Huh.”
You waited, but he didn't elaborate. Instead, he picked up a stray balloon string, winding it around his fingers. “Guy’s got some nerve. Hitting on you in the middle of our kid’s birthday party.”
Our kid. He didn’t say it possessively, just as a fact. You turned to face him fully. “Jealous, Robinavitch?”
He met your eyes without flinching. “Curious,” he corrected. “Big difference.”
“Sure.”
He didn’t deny it. “Anyway,” he said, his voice back to normal without the edge of jealousy in it. “I’ll help deflate that monstrosity in the yard before it blows away. Then I’ll get out of your hair.”
After Robby had helped the bouncy castle guys, he hauled the last of the folding chairs back to the garage and carried out three trash bags without being asked. He stepped back into the kitchen through the sliding door. “Hannah's out cold,” he said, keeping his voice low so he didn’t wake her. “Tried to get her to brush her teeth, but she rolled over and kept sleeping.”
You laughed under your breath. “She’ll be up at six tomorrow demanding to ride the bike again.”
“Good luck trying to talk her out of it.” You felt the weight of his gaze as he pushed off the counter. “Anyway, I should head out. Early shift tomorrow.”
You turned the faucet off, drying your hands on a dish towel. “Thanks for everything today. Seriously. She had a great time thanks to you.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Thanks to both of us. We’re a good team.”
You walked him toward the front door. At the door, he stopped, with one hand on the knob as he turned back to you. For a second, he just looked, not at your face, but at all of you.
His eyes started at your bare shoulders where the thin straps of your sundress sat, tracing the line of your collarbone, then they dropped deliberately down the front of the dress. You felt suddenly aware of every inch it covered, and of every inch it didn’t. Robby lingered his gaze on your waist, the flare of your hips, and the hem brushing just above your knees. Then lower, to your legs, and back up again, slower this time, until he met your eyes.
There was heat in the way he looked at you, nothing subtle about the way his eyes roamed your body. It was the look of a man who was remembering exactly what you feel like under his hands, what you tasted like, what sounds you used to make when he was inside you. The kind of look that said he wanted to back you against the nearest wall, hike that dress up around your waist, and fuck you until the only thing either of you could hear was your own breathing and the wet sound of skin against skin.
He didn’t say anything, there was no need for words. Your mouth went dry as the heat coiled in your lower belly, the same way it had many nights before. Five years since you stopped sleeping together. Five years of boundaries, separate beds, separate lives. And still one look was enough to make your body remember.
He exhaled through his nose, almost an incredulous laugh, “Happy birthday to her,” he said quietly, nodding toward the living room. “We made something good.”
“Yeah,” you managed to say, your voice coming out softer than you meant it to. “We did.”
The weeks slid by in the same rhythm you’d grown accustomed to: long shifts at the hospital, trying to be a present mom whenever you weren’t buried in charts, and the handoffs with Robby at your house.
It was a Saturday afternoon, the day of Hannah’s ballet recital. You arrived a little early because she had been buzzing about it for weeks, her first real performance after long months of practice. Plus, you appreciated every rare opportunity life gave you to wear something that wasn’t scrubs. You’d gotten your hair done, put on soft makeup, slipped into a nice dress and high heels, and for once you felt like a whole different person. Someone confident. Someone who could take on the world.
You loved Hannah. You loved being a mom. But sometimes you missed the person you used to be before all of this. You missed being seen as more than just “Mom.” You missed conversations with adults that didn’t revolve around kindergarten, tantrums, or pediatric appointments. You were still young, and even though you’d always been mature for your age, you’d had to grow up fast the moment you became a mother. You had never imagined yourself with a child before you even became a doctor. You certainly hadn’t pictured managing residency at the same time you were raising a tiny human being.
But even if life hadn’t turned out the way you’d once planned, you didn’t regret any of the decisions that had brought you here in this auditorium, about to watch your daughter’s ballet recital.
You spotted Robby near the front row, saving seats for the two of you. When he saw you, he stood, waving you over with a half-smile. “Hey,” he said as you slid into the seat beside him. “She’s backstage, losing her mind. Kept asking if both of us were coming.”
You laughed softly, settling your purse on the floor. “Wouldn’t miss it. Was she nervous?”
“Not one bit. She made me practice clapping in the car.” He glanced at you, his eyes lingering a second longer than necessary. “You look nice.”
You couldn’t avoid feeling the heat creeping up your neck, but you brushed it off. “Thanks. You cleaned up nice, too.”
Before he could reply, the lights dimmed, and the ballet instructor, a woman in her sixties, welcomed everyone, and then the curtain slowly parted.
There she was. Hannah stood front and center in her pink leotard and tutu, her hair,the same brown shade as Robby’s, pulled into a slightly lopsided bun secured with a sparkly clip. She immediately scanned the audience, spotted the two of you sitting side by side, and her whole face lit up like sunrise. Forgetting every rule about staying still, she waved at you both with both hands.
The routine was equal parts adorable and chaotic, little arms waving with enthusiasm, a few spins that turned into giggles, and tiny dancers bumping into one another. But when it came time for her part in the middle, Hannah nailed it, twirling with maximum concentration, poking out her tongue slightly the way it always did when she was trying her hardest.
You were grinning so hard your cheeks ached as you recorded the whole thing on your phone, careful not to miss a single moment. Beside you, Robby was doing the same, leaning forward in his seat like he was afraid to miss even one second of his little girl shining under the stage lights.
When it ended, the room erupted in applause. You and Robby were on your feet first, clapping loud enough to drown out half the parents. Hannah beamed, blowing kisses at the audience, then bolting offstage the second she was allowed.
Backstage, Hannah launched herself at you both at once, her arms around your legs and Robby’s in a group hug.
“Did you see me twirl, Mommy? Daddy, did you see?”
“We saw everything,” Robby said, scooping her up in his arms. “You were the best one up there, angel. Hands down.”
“You were perfect,” you whispered, leaning to place a big and loud kiss into her hair. “So proud of you, baby.”
Hannah tugged at your hand. “Can we get ice cream? To celebrate?”
Robby raised an eyebrow at you as if awaiting to see what your answer would be, and silently hoping it’d be a yes.
You smiled. “Ice cream sounds perfect.”
He set Hannah down on the floor, then crouched so she could climb onto his back. She wrapped her little arms and legs around him tightly, her favorite perch. With a soft grunt and an easy smile, Robby straightened up, carrying her like she weighed nothing.
The three of you headed for the exit together. You walked beside Robby, close enough that your shoulder brushed against his every few steps, but neither of you pulled away. There was something about the way the three of you looked, almost like a picture-perfect family to anyone glancing from the outside. It made your mind loosen the reins on old fantasies: how different life would have been if the three of you had managed to make it work. If being together had been a choice made out of love instead of obligation, the only option he felt he had at the time.
God, how much you still wished things had worked with Robby. What wouldn’t you give to see him truly happy to be with you, instead of miserable the way he looked every time the two of you came home from a long shift.
The ice cream shop had a neon sign flickering “OPEN” in red letters, sticky vinyl booths, and the widest variety of ice cream flavors you’d ever seen. Hannah insisted on extra sprinkles and chocolate sauce on her cone. She was perched between you and Robby on the bench seat, swinging her legs and recounting her ballet routine for the third time.
“I did the spin and everyone clapped SO loud! Did you hear it, Daddy?”
“Loudest ovation in the room,” Robby said, wiping a streak of chocolate from her cheek with his thumb. “You owned that stage, babygirl.”
You watched them as you ate your strawberry ice cream cone drizzled with hot fudge. It was uncanny how much Hannah looked like Robby, like he had been cloned into a tiny, feminine version of himself. The same soft brown hair, the same big, puppy-brown eyes that were easily the warmest you’d ever seen in your life. Eyes you could never say no to, because one single look from them melted your heart every time.
She was already slowing down, the adrenaline from the recital and the sugar rush from the ice cream finally catching up with her. Her head rested heavily against Robby’s shoulder as she munched the last bites of her ice-cream, her little eyelids starting to flutter.
The walk home was only ten minutes, but Hannah's steps turned sluggish halfway there. Robby scooped her up without a word, and she curled against his shoulder as she’d always belonged there, tucking her head under his chin as she fisted her little hand on his shirt.
At your front door, Hannah was completely out, her rosy cheek smooshed against Robby’s collarbone, with her mouth slightly open. You unlocked the door quietly and stepped inside.
Robby carried her upstairs like she weighed nothing. You followed, watching the careful way he lowered her to the bed, tugged off her ballet slippers and pink tutu, and pulled the covers up.
Downstairs again, you were suddenly aware of how quiet the house was without her chatter filling it. He stopped a few feet away. “She’s wiped..”
“Yeah.” You smiled. “She had a big day today.”
He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “And you… in that dress. You’re punishing me. You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Robby.”
He didn’t back off. Just looked at you in the same way he did the night of the birthday party. Tracing his eyes over the neckline of the dress, the way it hugs your waist, the bare skin of your breasts.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you said, but your voice came out quieter than you intended. As if part of you didn’t really want him to stop. You longed for the validation, for knowing you were still the woman who drove him insane, the one who made him feel things no one else could, his soft spot, his weakness.
And for Robby, you still were. Until this day, you were the only one who could bring out the most vulnerable side of him. It wasn’t just the physical part, though God, your body drove him insane. He could still feel the ghost of your skin against his every night when he closed his eyes. It wasn’t the sex either, though in fifty-four years of life he’d never found anyone who felt quite like you did, anyone who made him feel so many things, who woke up the most primitive, most virile part of him.
It was simply you. Your strength when you carried a pregnancy and still worked your ass off for your career. Your quick mind and the way you could deliver a witty comeback that put him in his place when he deserved it. Your competence, something he found extremely attractive, both at work and as a mom. And watching you raise his daughter with a patience and love only you could give, loving her so fiercely with every bone in your body… it made him feel things he’d never felt before.
“Like what?”
“Like you want to eat me alive.”
He huffed a half-laugh as he stepped closer. “Can’t blame a guy for looking.”
You swallowed, using all the self-restraint you had in your body to stop yourself from jumping into his arms. “Every time we’re close like this, I have to remind myself why this is a bad idea.”
He tilted his head. He knew you too well, he could see how much you were trying to be strong and how much you wanted it too. “And why’s that, exactly?”
“Because we tried. We crashed. We hurt each other. We’ve got a kid now, it’s not just us we gotta think of, but her. And we’ve got a good thing going on, we’re good at this.” You gestured between you. “At being her parents. At not screwing it up. Adding… whatever this is… risks that.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “Don’t think. Just do what you want.”
You stared at him. “Is that your new motto? ‘Don’t think, just do it?’”
He took another half-step, close enough you could smell the mint from his ice-cream on his breath. “One night,” he said. “Doesn’t have to mean more. Doesn’t have to change anything tomorrow. We used to be so good together. You remember that? Because I do, I remember it every single night.”
Your pulse hammered in your throat, a rhythm that matched the sudden heat blooming in your belly. You remembered it too, every vivid and overwhelming detail.
The kind of chemistry you and Robby had in bed had been like nothing you’d ever experienced before. The way your bodies responded to each other was like they were made for it, instinctive, almost frightening in its intensity. Every single touch felt magnetic and electrifying, sending sparks racing across your skin even from the lightest brush of his fingers. The way he knew exactly how to unravel you, and how you could do the same to him. You had both cried out in pleasure every single time, sounds that echoed in the dark of his bedroom, your bodies slick and trembling, chasing that peak until the world narrowed down to nothing but the two of you.
It was the kind of fire you only find once in a lifetime. But you couldn’t do it.
You couldn’t risk setting that fire loose again and burning down the delicate, carefully manufactured system you had built together. For Hannah’s sake, you needed to keep Robby exactly where he was: your co-parent, your reliable partner in raising your daughter, not your lover anymore. One wrong move, one night of giving in to the pull that still crackled between you, and everything could crumble, the peaceful handoffs, the shared birthdays, the stability Hannah thrived on. You refused to gamble with her sense of security just because your body still remembered how perfectly he once fit against you, how his voice sounded when he fell apart because of you.
“Of course you’re horny. You just want a quick fuck. I should’ve known.”
His expression flickered, showing a little of something that looked like hurt in his eyes. “Come on. It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?”
“Okay, fine. Maybe I do want sex,” Robby admitted, “but come on, don’t pretend you don’t want it too. You remember how much fun we used to have.”
He found your waist, pulling you gently against him. You gasped softly as he slid his palms lower, cupping your ass through the fabric, possessive squeezes that send sparks straight through you. He massaged your flesh deliberately, pressing his thumbs in just the right spots, drawing you closer until you were flush against his chest.
“God, I want you,” he murmured against your ear. “So fucking much. Always have. Always will, probably.”
He dug his fingers a little harder into the curve of your ass, kneading the soft flesh with confidence. You were so close that you could already feel the hard outline of his cock pressing insistently against your lower stomach. He was hard for you, just from being this close, just from a few lingering touches. It took every ounce of willpower you had not to give in, not to reach down and palm him over his pants until he groaned into your mouth the way he used to.
“Keep your hands where I can see them, Robinavitch,” you warned, trying to sound threatening. It came out breathy and weak instead. You couldn’t fool anyone, least of all him. You wanted this, maybe even more than he did.
“You don’t want my hands where you can see them,” he replied with that stupid, cocky tone he always slipped into when he knew he had you right where he wanted you. “You want them in places you can’t see. You haven’t forgotten how good I am with them, have you? Nah… some things these hands did to you are impossible to forget.”
You bit your lip hard to stop yourself from smiling. Cocky motherfucker.
Finally, with the last scrap of self-control you could muster, you pushed him away. “You had your fun. Time for you to leave.”
“I was barely starting to have fun,” he said with a wicked smile as he took a step back, rubbing one hand over his face. “You, cruel, cruel woman.”
“You’ll live,” you muttered. “Go chase some nurses. They love you. Well… the ones who don’t actually work with you do.”
“You hurt me,” he exclaimed dramatically, pressing a hand over his heart in mock offense. “I don’t have any nurse to chase. And even if I did, nobody could compare to us. You know that.”
“You broke things off with the last one?” you asked in mock surprise, playing dumb. “What was her name? Nora? N… Natalie?”
You knew Robby had had his fair share of affairs throughout the years, nothing too serious, nothing that ever deserved a real conversation, and definitely nothing meaningful enough to introduce to Hannah. Still, it stung. You couldn’t exactly throw it in his face, you’d gone out with people too. But you wished the asshole would keep his flings away from the hospital, away from the place where you had to watch him flash those stupid little smiles and do his little shoe-lace trick for whatever nurse had caught his eye this month. The same way he’d once done it for you.
“I won’t answer to those accusations against me,” he said, shaking his head with a low chuckle. Robby stepped closer again and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head. “Have a good night. I’ll see myself out.”
You couldn’t stop the smile from tugging at your lips as you watched him walk toward the door and finally leave the house. Five years later, and your body still caught fire whenever his hands were on you. Five years later, and you still loved your silly arguments and the way he could make you laugh even when you were pretending to be mad at him. Five years later… and you were still deeply enamored with Michael Robinavitch.
The clock on your nightstand glowed 2:17 a.m. when the first cry cut through the dark.
It wasn’t not the usual sleepy whimper or the “I had a bad dream” whine. It was a sharp sound, followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of vomit hitting the floor.
You were out of bed before your brain fully registered it, rushing down the hall. Hannah’s room light was already on, and she was sitting up in bed, with the bedsheets twisted around her legs, her face shiny with sweat, and her eyes glassy because of the tears. There was a small puddle of bile on the rug beside her, and another streak down the front of her pajama top.
“Mommy—”
“I’m here, baby.” You dropped to your knees beside the bed, lifting your hand to her forehead. She was burning, her skin hot enough to make your palm sting. “Oh, sweetheart.”
She leaned heavily into you, her body trembling as another wave hit her. This time it was dry heaves because there was nothing left in her stomach to bring up. You lunged for the small trash can under her desk just in time, holding it steady beneath her chin while your other hand gathered her soft brown hair back from her face. With gentleness, you rubbed slow, soothing circles on her back, murmuring the same comforting nonsense you always did in moments like this.
“It’s okay, baby… you’re okay. Mommy’s got you. Just breathe, sweetheart.”
Your voice stayed calm and steady for her sake, but inside, your mind had flipped into full doctor mode, racing through the mental checklist at lightning speed. Fever. Persistent vomiting. She had been fine at bedtime, tired from her long ballet practice, a little sniffly maybe, but nothing that had raised any red flags.
“Mommy… tummy aches,” Hannah mumbled weakly.
Your heart clenched so hard it hurt. You scooped her up immediately, blanket and all, and carried her to the bathroom. You ran a washcloth under cold water, wrung it out, and pressed it gently to the back of her neck, hoping the chill would bring some relief. Then you offered her a small sip of water from the cup on the sink. She took it obediently, but almost instantly spat it back out, coughing and whimpering.
Reaching out for the thermometer from the medicine cabinet, you grabbed it and slipped it under her tongue, holding her close while you waited for the beep. 103.8. You managed to get a dose of Tylenol into her, but she could barely keep it down, her whole body shuddered as she fought the nausea, and her teeth chattered from the fever chills as she curled into you even tighter, shaking hard.
Helpless, that’s how you felt, completely helpless. And as a mother, feeling helpless was the worst torture imaginable. You were a doctor, and yet here in your own house, with your own child, there was only so much you could do. The cold washcloths weren’t bringing her temperature down fast enough. The medicine wasn’t staying in her long enough to work. Nothing seemed to help.
You couldn’t stand seeing your baby like this: so pale, so tired, her usual bright energy drained away, her little body trembling in your arms.. In this moment, more than anything, you wished Robby were here. Robby would know exactly what to do. He always did. He’d take one look at her, assess the situation and figure out what was wrong with Hannah right away. He’d fix it the same way he fixed dozens of people every single day in the pitt.
You sat on the edge of the tub with her in your lap, rocking her slowly, trying to keep her calm while you dialed Robby.
He picked up on the second ring. His voice was rough with sleep, but instantly alert when he realized you wouldn’t be calling this late at night if there wasn’t something really urgent going on. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
“Hannah’s sick. Fever’s 103.8, she’s been vomiting for the last twenty minutes. Won’t keep anything down. She’s shaking.”
There was the rustle of sheets and the immediate creak of a bedframe on Robby’s end. He was already moving, even half-asleep. You could practically see him sitting up in the dark.
“Okay,” his voice came through the phone. “Did you give her Tylenol?”
“Yes.”
“Motrin too? You should alternate if the fever’s that high.”
“I only have children’s Tylenol here,” you answered. “Motrin’s at your place.”
There was a brief pause, then a quiet “Okay… okay. Alright.” You heard him exhale slowly, the sound of fabric shifting as he moved. “Cool clothes? Cold washcloth on her neck or forehead?”
“I’m trying the cloth right now, but I’m not seeing any changes. The fever won’t come down at all.”
“Are you hydrating her? Give her small sips of water, tiny amounts so she doesn’t throw it right back up.”
“I am,” you said, glancing at the half-empty cup on the bathroom counter. “She’s spitting most of it back up. She can’t keep anything down.”
Another pause stretched between you. Even for a man who could keep ice-cold composure during the most chaotic live-or-die codes in the ED, something in Robby’s voice betrayed how uneasy he really was. You heard the rustle of clothes being pulled on quickly, then the unmistakable jingle of keys.
“So, fever’s still not budging?” he asked.
“Not yet. She’s miserable, Robby. Keeps saying her tummy hurts, and the dry heaves are getting worse. She’s shaking so hard her teeth are chattering.”
You heard loud, hurried footsteps crossing his floorboards, followed by the sound of a door opening and closing with a firm sound.
“Take her to the ER. Now.” There was no hesitation left in his words. “I’ll meet you there.”
Your stomach dropped. “You think it’s that bad?”
“I think 103.8 in a five-year-old who can’t keep meds or fluids down is worth getting checked. Could be viral, could be something else. Better be safe.”
You nodded even though he couldn’t see it. “Okay. I’ll get her dressed. We’re leaving in five.”
“I’m already in the car. Text me when you’re on the road.”
He hung up, and you moved fast, changing Hannah into fresh pajamas, wiping her face, and wrapping her in the softest blanket she owned. She was listless now, her soft head lolling against your shoulder as small whimpers left her lips every time the nausea rolled through her again. You grabbed her insurance card, your wallet, a spare change of clothes for her, and the little stuffed unicorn she’d been sleeping with every night.
You placed Hannah in her car seat, with her blanket tucked around her. You buckled her in carefully, kissing her hot forehead. “We’re going to see the doctors, okay? Daddy’s meeting us there. You’re gonna feel better soon.”
She just nodded with her eyes half-closed. The drive to the hospital was only fifteen minutes at this hour through the dark and empty streets. You kept one hand on the wheel, and the other reaching back to hold hers. She was quiet except for the occasional gags into the bowl you’d wedged beside her seat.
You pulled into the ambulance bay lot, killed the engine and unbuckled Hannah. She was burning up, her usually light body now felt heavy and limp because of the fever. You wrapped the blanket tighter around her and lifted her carefully into your arms as you hurried toward the sliding glass doors.
They whooshed open, and Lena, the night-shift charge nurse, looked up from the desk. Her face immediately softened with concern the moment she recognized you.
“Hey… oh, honey.” Her voice dropped gently. “Is that Hannah?”
“Fever hit 103.8 at home,” you rattled off, shifting your daughter’s weight higher on your hip, trying to keep your voice steady, as if you were presenting a case, not describing your daughter’s symptoms. “Persistent vomiting, abdominal pain. I gave her Tylenol twenty minutes ago, but no improvement at all.”
Lena nodded briskly, already waving you over. “Bay six. We’ll get vitals right away.”
“Who’s on tonight?” you asked, walking fast down the familiar hallway. “Shen?”
“Dr. Abbot. I’ll send him your way as soon as he’s free.”
“Oh, thank God,” you exhaled, the relief hitting you so hard it made your shoulders sag for a moment. If there was anyone in this entire hospital you’d trust with Hannah besides Robby, it was Jack, Hannah’s godfather. You still remembered the day Robby had asked him to be his daughter’s godfather. The way Jack’s eyes had filled with tears, the two men pulling each other into a tight hug like brothers, like two men who were the only ones who truly understood the weight of this life, the long shifts, the losses, and the rare moments of hope like that one. Abbot had promised right then that he’d always have her back, no matter what.
You were halfway down the hall when Robby rounded the corner. The second his eyes landed on Hannah in your arms, his entire expression shifted to fatherly fear.
“Hey, angel,” he said softly, stepping close. He brushed a gentle hand over her back. “Mom said you’re not feeling good, huh?”
Hannah managed a weak, cracked little “Daddy…” before turning her face back into your neck, hiding from the bright lights and the unfamiliar sounds.
Robby flicked his gaze up to yours, doing that assessing scan he always did, checking not just Hannah, but how you were holding up. “You okay?”
“Fine,” you whispered, though your voice trembled as the tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. “Just… scared. I hate seeing her like this. She’s never been this sick.”
He nodded once. “I’ve got her.”
You handed her over without hesitation. Hannah clung to him immediately, wrapping her small arms around his neck and burying her face against his shoulder like he was her safe place. Robby carried her the rest of the way into the bay. He laid her down gently on the hospital bed, keeping one hand resting protectively on her stomach while the other smoothed damp strands of hair off her forehead with tenderness.
One of the night-shift nurses stepped in right away and rechecked her temperature. “It’s up to 104.1 now.” Her oxygen saturation was still holding steady, but she was clearly dehydrated, her lips cracked and dry, her eyes a little sunken, her usually rosy cheeks pale.
A couple of seconds later, Abbot strode into the bay, sweeping his eyes over the scene: little Hannah lying on the bed, Robby standing guard on one side, you on the other.
“Hey,” Abbot said, pulling Robby into a quick, one-armed brotherly hug, clapping his back once, and giving you a nod. “Heard our girl was here. Sorry, I was tied up with a gunshot wound, perforated lung. It’s chaos tonight.”
“She’s been throwing up everything, couldn’t even keep the Tylenol down,” Robby reported, giving the facts the way two attendings would, except this time his voice carried an edge of helplessness he rarely showed. He wasn’t the doctor tonight. He was the father. “Fever’s up to 104.1. We should get an IV going, more Tylenol, Zofr—”
“I’ve got this,” Abbot interrupted gently but firmly, keeping his tone calm and reassuring as he stepped closer to the bed. He looked down at Hannah with the softest smile, dropping his voice into that sweet, playful tone he saved only for kids. “Hey, Hannah Banana… we’re gonna get you feeling brand new before you even realize, okay?” He offered her a warm smile and the gentlest pinch on her cheek.
“Uncle Jack…” she mumbled, her voice cracking pitifully as another wave of nausea rolled through her.
The nurse started the IV in her tiny hand. Hannah cried out at the poke, a heartbreaking whimper that twisted something deep in your chest. Robby was right there, holding her other hand tightly, talking her through it in that calm voice he used with every scared kid who came through these doors. “Just a little pinch, angel. You’re being so brave. Almost done… that’s my good girl. Daddy’s right here.”
You stood on the opposite side of the bed, holding her foot gently in both hands and rubbing soothing circles over her ankle with your thumb, as if your touch alone could somehow absorb her pain and make it yours instead.
“We’ll keep her under observation for a while, wait for the fever to come down,” Abbot told you both. “I’ll come back in fifteen to check on her again, but she’s in the best hands tonight with the two of you right here.”
“Thank you, Jack,” you said quietly with gratitude. He gave your shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze before stepping back.
“Thanks, brother,” Robby added right after you, his hand never leaving Hannah’s hair.
Robby didn’t leave her side for even a second. He didn’t glance at his phone, didn’t step out to grab coffee, didn’t let himself get distracted by anything else. He stayed right there, anchored to the bed, resting one large hand gently on Hannah’s forehead, occasionally stroking her damp hair back from her skin. Every few minutes he’d lean in and murmur soft, ridiculous nonsense to her sleeping body, telling her she was tougher than any superhero, that the doctors here were the absolute best because they all knew her dad, and that meant she was getting the royal treatment, the best care in the house. You watched him from the corner of your eye. Even after everything, this was still who he was when it mattered most: steady, devoted, completely focused on the tiny human you’d made together.
The hours dragged, and eventually, after the second round of meds, Hannah’s fever finally started trending down. It had dropped to 100.7, and for the first time all night, some color began creeping back into her pale cheeks as her chest rose and fell more peacefully under the blanket.
You and Robby were slumped in the two chairs pulled up beside her bed. Robby broke the silence first. “I know what you’re thinking. You did everything right.”
You let out a shaky breath, staring at Hannah’s sleeping face. “Maybe I should’ve brought her sooner. She would’ve gotten better faster.”
He shook his head slowly. “You waited until it was warranted. You’re a doctor. You know the signs.” He reached over without hesitation, covering your hand with his on the shared armrest. His palm was warm and grounding in a way that made your throat tighten. “It’s just viral. She’s gonna be okay.”
Without thinking, you turned your hand over beneath his and laced your fingers through his, holding on tightly. For a moment, you didn’t care what it meant, or what anyone walking past the bay might think if they glanced in and saw the two of you like this, exes, co-parents, sitting together holding hands. The exhaustion of the night had stripped everything down, and right now, all that mattered was that Hannah was improving and Robby was here.
“Thanks for coming,” you whispered, even though you knew the words weren’t really necessary. Robby would drop everything and be anywhere either of you needed him, that had never been in question.
“Always.” He brushed his thumb slowly over your knuckles, a gentle motion. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
By the 6 a.m. check, Hannah’s fever had already dropped to 99.8. The IV fluids had done their job, and she hadn’t vomited anymore, even managed a few sips of apple juice without it coming right back up.
She shifted under the blanket, blinking up at you both. “Mommy? Daddy?”
“Hey, sweetheart,” you whispered, leaning forward to brush her hair back. “How’s your tummy?”
“Better,” she mumbled. “Did uncle Jack cure me?”
“He did.” You smiled, feeling a wave of relief flood through you. “You’re doing great now.”
Robby reached over, stroking his thumb over her cheek. “Morning, angel. You scared us.”
She managed a tiny smile, then winced. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” He kissed her temple, lingering there for an extra second. “Just glad you’re feeling better.”
Jack came back a moment later for a quick exam and a review of vitals and labs, thankfully nothing alarming. Viral gastroenteritis, most likely, with a febrile response.
“Thanks for curing me, Uncle Jack,” Hannah said softly with that radiant smile that could melt absolutely anyone in seconds. “You’re the best doctor ever.”
Abbot grinned widely, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked down at her. “Well, thank you, Hannah Banana. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”
Robby cleared his throat dramatically from the other side of the bay, crossing his arms. “Second best,” he corrected, raising an eyebrow at his daughter.
“Second best,” Hannah agreed immediately, turning that same sweet, dimpled smile toward Robby now, like she was bestowing him with the highest honor.
“Don’t worry, Hannah,” Jack said, leaning in conspiratorially and lowering his voice as if sharing a great secret. “I won’t tell your dad that you actually think I’m the better doctor.” He glanced sideways at his best friend with a mischievous glint. “A man with a fragile ego like him couldn’t take it.”
Robby let out a low, genuine chuckle, shaking his head. “Is she clear to go back home?” he asked, his tone shifting into something more serious, though the corner of his mouth still twitched. “See? I’m asking for your professional opinion and everything.”
Jack nodded, glancing once more at the monitor readings before looking back at both of you. “I’d say she can go home. Fever’s trending nicely downward, and she’s keeping fluids down now. Just keep checking her temperature regularly to make sure it stays down. If she starts vomiting again or the fever spikes back up, bring her straight back, but you two already know that better than most.”
Robby stood, stretching his back with a low groan. “I should head out,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Shift starts in thirty. Gotta change, grab coffee, pretend I’m human.”
You looked up at him, still holding Hannah’s hand. “You’re going in?”
He shrugged, like it was obvious. “Someone’s gotta run this place. You—” He nodded toward Hannah, then you. “—should take the day. Go home with her. Get some sleep, keep an eye on her. She’s fine now, but she’s still wiped. And you’ve been up all night.”
You opened your mouth to argue, out of pure habit, mostly. The words were already forming on your tongue, something about not wanting to burden the team, about pulling your weight like everyone else. But they died the instant your eyes landed on Hannah.
She was curled up small on her side in the hospital bed, the blanket tucked around her shoulders. You couldn’t stay away from her, not today. The thought of leaving her for twelve long hours, of being stuck in the ED while she was at home, possibly starting to feel worse again without you to notice the fever creeping back up made your stomach drop. You wouldn’t be able to focus. You wouldn’t feel at ease for even a second. Every patient you saw would be overshadowed by the constant fear that Hannah might need you and you wouldn’t be there to catch it, to bring her right back in.
And honestly… part of you simply wanted the day off. You wanted to take her home, wrap her up in her favorite blanket, and spend the whole day curled together on the couch. Just the two of you. A Disney marathon playing in the background while she rested her head on your chest and you stroked her hair.
So instead of arguing, you closed your mouth and let the silence settle. The decision had already been made the moment you looked at her.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Okay.”
Robby nodded, satisfied. He leaned down to kiss Hannah’s forehead again. “I’ll come by after shift to see how you’re doing.” He straightened and hesitated for half a second, then reached out and squeezed your shoulder, brushing the side of your neck, just once, before he pulled back. “Text me updates. I’ll turn off silent mode.”
“Will do.”
He lingered for another beat, like he didn’t quite want to leave the room, then turned toward the door. “See you later, angel,” he called softly to Hannah, who was already drifting again.
“Bye, Daddy,” she mumbled, half-asleep.
He gave you one last look, longer than necessary, before slipping out into the hallway. You exhaled slowly, while Robby and Jack handled the last few details with the nurse, you gathered Hannah’s things.
Home sounded like the best idea you’d had in hours. If there was one thing you truly hated about this life, it was how little time work left you to be the kind of mom you desperately wished you could be. Residency had already demanded so much, and motherhood had taken the rest. Every free moment you managed to carve out, you longed to spend it with Hannah. You didn’t want her to grow up one day and feel like you had missed it, like you weren’t there for the special moments. You didn’t want her to remember a childhood where her mom was always rushing, always tired, always halfway out the door.
By the time you pulled into your driveway, Hannah was already dozing in her car seat again. You carried her inside and laid her gently on the couch. The house felt wonderfully quiet after the night chaos of the ED. You changed into new pajamas, made her a nest of pillows and her favorite fuzzy blanket, then crawled in beside her, pulling her body against your chest. She stirred just enough to wrap one arm around your waist and mumble, “Mommy, will you stay today?”
“I’m not going anywhere, baby,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Today is just us.”
The rest of the day unfolded slowly. You started with her favorite movie, Encanto, because she never got tired of singing along to every song, no matter if she was just recovering. Hannah curled up with her head in your lap, as you gently played with her hair while she hummed to the songs.
When the movie ended, you made a simple lunch together, something easy on her stomach, a bowl of oatmeal with bananas and strawberries. She only ate half, but she kept it down, earning praises from you. After lunch, you moved on to Moana. She sat cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in her blanket like a burrito, occasionally lifting her head to point at the screen and say, “Look, Mommy, the ocean! Can we go to the beach too?” You laughed softly and pulled her closer, letting her rest her cheek against your shoulder.
Robby’s shift ended late, as usual, and by the time he signed out, he was bone-tired, but the pull to check on Hannah overrode everything else. He texted you: Just got off. Coming by to check on her. You home?
Your reply wasquick: Yeah. She’s asleep. Door’s unlocked.
He let himself in quietly, finding you on the couch where you were curled up with a blanket. “Hey,” you whispered. “She crashed about an hour ago. Fever stayed down all day, no more vomiting.”
Robby exhaled, shrugging out of his jacket and walking over. “Good. That’s good.”
You nodded toward the hallway. “You want to peek in on her?”
He did, already heading to Hannah’s room. She was sprawled on her stomach, with one arm flung out and her stuffed bunny tucked under her chin. Her breathing was deep and even, Robby stood in the doorway for a long minute, just watching her chest rise and fall.
When he came back to the living room, you’d poured two glasses of water and set them on the coffee table. He sank onto the couch beside you, close enough that your knees almost touched, far enough to keep the boundary.
“She looks so much better,” he said quietly. “Color’s back.”
“Yeah.” You tucked your legs under you, pulling the blanket tighter to your body. “I was terrified last night. Thought… I don’t know. Worst-case scenarios kept running through my head.”
He nodded. “Me too. When you called, my heart stopped for a second.”
You took a breath, then another. “You’re a great dad, Robby. You know that, right?”
He glanced at you, surprised by the sudden moment of honesty. “Trying to be.”
“No. You are.” You met his eyes so he could see how much you meant every word that left your lips. “I always knew you would be. Even back when… everything was a mess. When we were still figuring out how to be parents instead of just two people who accidentally made a kid. I saw it in the way you held her the first time. You stepped up. Every single time.”
He looked down at his hands, rubbing his thumb over a callus on his palm, like he didn’t know how to take the compliment.
“We might not have planned her. But Hannah got the best possible dad out of the deal.”
Robby swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the movement of his throat. His voice came out rough when he finally spoke. “I’ll always be grateful to you for that. For giving me her. For making me a dad when I didn’t even know I could be one. When I didn’t even know if I wanted to be alive.” He exhaled, sounding almost like a laugh without humor. “I look at her sometimes and think… how the hell did I get this lucky? She’s smart, she’s kind, she’s fearless. And half of that’s you. But the other half… I get to be part of it. Every day. Because of you.”
The air between you thickened, it was full of years of shared history, good, bad, messy, beautiful. “I still love you for that,” he said quietly. “Not like… not trying to cross lines. Just… I’ll always have love for you. Because you gave me the best thing in my life. And you trusted me with her. That means more than I could ever express.”
“I know. I feel the same way.” You rolled your head to the side, trying to loosen the knot that’d been building since last night. The motion made your neck crack loudly, and it pulled a wince out of you.
Robby lifted his brow. “You okay?”
“Just the couch napping. My neck’s killing me.”
He didn’t hesitate, standing up right away. “Come here.”
You did hesitate for half a heartbeat, long enough to consider the offer. You were too tired to argue, and you knew how good Robby’s hands were, so you stood up from the couch, then turned so your back was to him. He stepped in behind you, close enough that you felt the warmth of him before his hands even touched you.
He settled his fingers on your shoulders first, pressing his thumbs into the muscles along the tops of your traps, working in slow circles. You couldn’t help dropping your head forward on a soft exhale, closing your eyes as the pressure hit exactly where you needed it.
“God,” you murmured. “You’re still really good at that.”
He huffsed a quiet laugh against your hair. “Muscle memory.”
Robby moved his hands, working down the column of your neck, tracing the tense line on either side of your spine, then out across your shoulders again. You melt into it without meaning to, dropping your shoulders and slowing your breath as the ache unwound thread by thread.
For a minute, it was just that: his hands on your shoulders. Then he slid his palms lower, intentionally, until they settled at your waist. He pulled you back gently, just enough that he had your back pressed against his chest.
He brushed his lips along the side of your neck, teasingly soft at first. Then, firmer in a slow, open-mouthed kiss just below your ear.
Your pulse jumped immediately at the contact of his lips against your skin. “Robby.”
He didn’t stop. Another kiss, lower this time, along the curve where neck meets shoulder. He tightened his hands on your waist, slipping his thumbs under the hem of your top, grazing your bare skin.
“This is a bad idea,” you whispered but it came out unsteady.
Robby moved his mouth over your skin. “Then why does it feel so good?”
You didn’t have an answer, you couldn’t think of one that made sense. He kept going, trailing kisses along the side of your throat, sliding one hand up your side, splaying his fingers across your ribs, the other staying firm at your hip, holding you against him.
You tipped your head back against his shoulder in instinct, and he took the invitation, kissing the exposed line of your throat. Robby drifted his hand higher, brushing the underside of your breast through the fabric. Your hands came up in response, half to stop him, half to hold on, and they landed on his forearms, gripping them.
He murmured against your skin. “Tell me to stop.”
You didn’t stop it. Not one single part of you wanted to. Maybe if you weren’t so bone-deep tired, physically drained from years of resisting him, of constantly convincing yourself that you didn’t want this, that you weren’t aching for this every time he got too close, you might have found the strength to push him away again. To remind yourself of all the careful boundaries you’d built for Hannah’s sake. To remember why this was dangerous.
But right now, none of that mattered. Right now you needed Robby. You needed his warmth, you needed his touch, those large, capable hands that knew every inch of your body better than anyone else ever had, or ever would. You needed the intoxicating pleasure only he could ever give you, the rumble of his voice in your ear, and the way he could make you forget every careful reason you’d built to keep him at arm’s length.
The resistance you’d been carrying for years suddenly felt too heavy to hold anymore. In this quiet moment all you wanted was to let go. To stop fighting the pull that had never really gone away. To let Robby remind you, just for tonight, how good it felt to be wanted like this.
Under your shirt, one of Robby’s hands cupped the swell of your breast through the fabric of your bra. He traced slow circles over the peak, teasing the nipple into a tight point, making you arch without meaning to, and he rewarded you with a soft bite at the curve of your shoulder.
“Fuck,” you whispered, the curse slipping out before you could stop it.
Robby exhaled a rough laugh against your throat. “There she is.” He sounded proud of getting this reaction out of you, of remembering your body even if it’d been years since the last time he’d touched you.
He palmed your other breast now, both hands working in tandem to knead your flesh, brushing his fingers back and forth until the friction through your bra was almost too much. Your nipples ached, already feeling oversensitive, and every pass of his fingers sent heat straight between your legs. You could feel him behind you, his thick cock rigid, pressing against the small of your back through his jeans. The size of him, the heat of him, the way he rocked forward just enough to let you feel every inch, made your thighs clench.
You should stop this. You knew you should. But your hands were already reaching back, curling into the fabric of his shirt at his hips, holding him closer instead of pushing him away.
He growled with approval, leaving one of your breasts to slide his hand down the front of your body. He was slow, giving you every second to say no.
“When was the last time someone fucked you the way you deserve?” he murmured against your neck, slightly tightening his fingers once he reached your thigh, dangerously close to the waistband of your shorts.
You stayed silent, like part of you didn’t want to admit the truth. Robby didn’t pull back, he kissed your neck again. “Tell me, baby. When was the last time you were properly fucked? Deep and hard like I used to… Until you couldn’t think straight?”
You swallowed once, then answered honestly, barely above a whisper. “I haven’t slept with anyone since the last time we were together. About four years ago.”
Robby stilled completely. He lifted his mouth from your neck like he was waiting for the punchline. “You’re joking.”
You shook your head. “I’m not.”
He stared at you for a moment, processing the new information. Then he let out a slow, disbelieving breath. “What about those guys you’ve dated? The vet? That other guy a year ago, what was he? An engineer? What about him?”
“Two dates, maybe three at most with any of them,” you said quietly. “Never went further. Never slept with any of them. Being a mom and a resident… there’s no time. Between Hannah’s schedule, shifts, studying, and trying to keep everything together, sex just wasn’t a priority.”
Robby tightened his jaw, and a fix of emotions flashed through his face, surprise, heat, and a fierce kind of possessiveness. “Fuck,” he muttered. “You can’t just tell me you haven’t been fucked in four years and expect me to act like it’s nothing.”
Before you could respond, he dipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, then under the elastic of your panties. “Four years. Four fucking years without anyone touching you the way you need. Without anyone filling this perfect pussy. I’m gonna leave you so fucking wet and satisfied when I’m done with you tonight. You’re gonna be ruined for anyone else after this.”
There was no hesitation now. He parted your pussy with two fingers, finding you already slick with arousal, your lips swollen, and he dragged his digits up through your folds in one long stroke, making your knees nearly buckle.
“Jesus,” he whispered against your ear, already sounding wrecked. “So fucking wet for me.”
Robby circled your clit, it was light at first, his touch feather-soft, just enough to make your hips jerk. Then it turned firmer, pressing down in tight circles the way he always knew you liked. The exact pressure, the exact rhythm. Muscle memory for him too, apparently.
You tipped your head back against Robby’s broad shoulder, fluttering your eyes shut so you could focus entirely on the intense pleasure flooding through your body. A shaky breath escaped your lips as his fingers worked you open with precision.
He kept his other hand on your breast, tugging your bra down roughly so he could give your nipples the attention they craved. He rolled the sensitive peaks between his thumb and forefinger, pinching and tugging in perfect time with the slick strokes between your legs. The dual sensation was devastating in the best way, making your pussy clench and flutter around nothing.
He slid one thick finger inside you, stretching you carefully, opening you up with a patience that drove you insane. When you pushed your hips back greedily, silently begging for more, he added a second finger, sinking them deeper. You were so tight, clenching hard around the intrusion, and Robby let out a guttural groan against your ear, like the feel of you was almost painful for him too.
“Still so fucking perfect,” he rasped with want. “Fuck… the way you grip me. Like you never want to let go.”
He curled his fingers deliberately, hooking them forward until he found that spongy spot inside you that made your vision flash white for a second. A broken moan tore from your throat as he started stroking your g-spot with every thrust. The sound was loud enough that you both froze for half a heartbeat, listening for any noise from upstairs. The house stayed quiet. Hannah was still fast asleep. Robby didn’t waste another second, he resumed his movements, going deeper now, fucking you steadily with his fingers while his thumb kept the pressure on your clit.
Robby alternated the pace just to torment you, slow and deep, then faster and harder, then dragging it back to that torturous slow rhythm again. Teasing you right up to the edge without ever letting you fall over it.
You rocked back against his hand, chasing the pleasure, chasing him. Every curl of his fingers and every swipe of his thumb made your clit throb and your walls flutter around him. You were soaking his hand, the wet sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of your dripping pussy filling the quiet room.
Your breathing turned ragged. Small and desperate sounds slipping out despite your best efforts, whimpers, half-moans, his name once or twice when he hit the spot just right.
He kissed your neck again, sucking lightly and then soothing with his tongue. Robby couldn’t stop his hips from rocking against your ass in shallow thrusts, matching the rhythm of his fingers, allowing you to feel how hard he was, painfully so.
Your thighs started to tremble. The coil in your belly wound tighter and tighter. You were close, so close, and he knew it, still remembered how your body shook, how your pussy pulsed and clenched when you were about to let go.
“Come on,” he murmured against your ear. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.” He pressed his thumb harder on your clit, and crooked his fingers again, stroking that spot in quick pulses. “Let me feel you cum. Please, baby, I want it so bad.”
It hit you like a wave. As you orgasmed around his fingers, your back arched, throwing your head back against his shoulder, opening your mouth on a silent cry that turned into a choked moan when the pleasure finally broke. You came hard, shuddering and clenching around his fingers. He had to tighten his arm around your waist to keep you upright when wave after wave of pleasure hit you, until your legs felt like liquid.
Robby’s arms stayed locked around you for a long moment after you came down. Slowly, he turned you in his arms until you were facing him. Your legs felt unsteady, so he steadied you with his hands on your waist.
When he lifted the hand that was inside you, the one still slick and shining with you, he brought it to his mouth without breaking eye contact with you.
Robby licked his fingers slowly, first one, then the other, dragging his tongue flat and thorough, tasting every bit of you.
“Fuck,” he murmured, humming as if the taste of your slickness pleasured him. “Still taste the same. Sweet. So goddamn good.”
Heat flooded your face, your chest, everywhere. You couldn’tlook away, the sight of him, with his lips wet and his eyes locked on yours, while he savored you like that, made your core clench again. It felt so aching and empty without him inside you, and you desperately needed to be filled again, to feel the stretch of his cock impaled inside you, to have his weight over you while he made you feel owned.
The words slipped out before you could think them through. “Fuck me, Robby.”
His mouth curved almost predatory. The words he’d longed to hear for so long. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He leaned in until his forehead rested against yours, allowing you to feel his hot breath on your lips. “Ask nicely.”
You narrowed your eyes with defiance even through the haze of want. “Go to hell.”
He laughed, the same laugh he used to give you in stolen moments years ago, when you’d push back just to watch him unravel. “Still stubborn,” he said, almost fond. “Good to know some things don’t change.”
Robby didn’t hesitate. In one smooth motion, his hands were under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, nd your arms around his neck, as he carried you up the stairs. His mouth found your neck again on the way, kissing and nipping while he navigated the familiar hallway in the dark.
He pushed open the door to your bedroom with his shoulder, kicking it shut behind him, and turning the lock with a click. Robby set you down on the edge of the bed but didn’t step back. He stood between your spread thighs, looking down at you with an expression that made your stomach flip.
“Fuck… I feel like I’m dreaming,” he cupped your face, stroking his thumb over your cheeks. “You, here, letting me touch you again after all this time. After everything.”
Then he was on you, Robby climbed onto the bed, his knees bracketing your hips, and pressing you back into the mattress with his weight. He crashed his mouth down on yours in a desperate kiss while he ran his hands over your body.
He groaned like a man starved, staring at your chest. “These tits… God, I missed them.” His mouth descended immediately, devouring you with almost frantic need. He sucked one nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue roughly around the peak before he sucked it hard, hollowing your cheeks. He kneaded the other breast, digging his fingers in, flicking and pinching the neglected nipple until you arched off the bed with a loud moan. He switched sides, licking and biting, sucking marks into the flesh like he wanted to claim every inch. His stubble was scraping deliciously against your skin, making you whimper and thread your fingers through his brown hair, holding him to you.
He was almost desperate in the way he worshiped your body, groaning against your skin, grinding his hips down against your thigh so you could feel how painfully hard he was. “So fucking perfect,” he mumbled between sucks and bites. “These tits were made for my mouth. Look at how pretty they look. I love sucking on them… fuck, baby.”
You were panting, pushing your chest further into his face as pleasure shot straight to your cunt. Robby spent long minutes there, alternating between teasing licks and rough hungry suction, until your nipples were swollen, sensitive, and glistening with his spit.
Then he started moving lower. His mouth trailed wet kisses down your sternum, over your stomach, pausing to nip at the soft curve just below your navel. He settled between your spread thighs, pushing your shorts the rest of the way down to bunch around your ankles. For a moment, he just stared at the damp spot on your panties with eyes full of lust.
“Look at you,” he rasped, his hot breath right against your dripping pussy. “You’re making such a big mess for me. You ruined your panties… so fucking soaked.”
He leaned in and mouthed at your pussy over the thin fabric, pressing kisses along your slit, dragging his tongue slowly from your entrance up to your clit through the soaked cotton. He sucked gently on your clit through the material, making your hips jerk. Then he pulled back just enough to blow cool air over the damp spot before diving in again, licking broad stripes, nipping at your folds, mouthing at you like he was trying to taste every drop of your arousal through the barrier.
You moaned louder, with your thighs trembling around his head and your hands fisting the sheets as he teased you mercilessly. Robby hooked his arms under your thighs, holding you open while he continued the torturous worship of his mouth. Every time you tried to grind harder against his mouth, he pulls back slightly, keeping you right on the edge, whimpering and desperate.
“Robby… please…” you gasped, but he only groaned against your pussy and keept teasing, determined to drive you insane before he finally gave you what you both needed.
He looked up at you from between your thighs, gleaming with satisfaction. Robby hooked two fingers into the thin cotton at your hip and ripped. The sound of fabric tearing filled the quiet room. You only had a second for the cool air to hit your bare, dripping pussy, because right away Robby’s mouth was on you, aggressive and devastatingly skilled.
He devoured you like a man who’d been starving for years. There’s no gentle buildup or teasing licks. He buried his face between your thighs with a hunger that bordered on feral. He drags his tongue broadly, giving you flat strokes from your entrance all the way up to your swollen clit, lapping up every drop of your arousal like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
He groaned deeply into your pussy, the sound was filthy. “Fuck, baby… you taste even better than I remembered,” he said against your folds before diving back in.
He ate you out with aggression, swallowing your clit into the heat of his mouth, swirling his tongue around the bundle of nerves before releasing it with a filthy pop. The sudden loss of suction made you whimper, only for him to immediately flick the tip of his tongue rapidly against your clit as his stubble scraped against your inner thighs with every movement of his head.
Robby alternated between deep licks that plunged his tongue inside you, fucking you with it in slow strokes that had you dripping down his chin, and tight suction on your clit that made you curl your toes hard.
Every time you tried to muffle your moans, he only doubled down, sucking harder, licking deeper, devouring you like he’d been dreaming about this exact taste for years. He gripped your ass, spreading you wider for his mouth, holding you firmly in place so you couldn’t escape the assault of his tongue.
“Oh my God… Robby—” Your voice cracked as he flicked his tongue rapidly over your clit. “Fuck, right there, don’t stop, please don’t stop…”
He ate it like he loved it. Like he needed it. His hands weren’t idle either. One arm banded across your lower stomach, holding you down when your hips started bucking too wildly. The other hand reached up to palm and squeeze your bare breasts, making you moan louder.
You pushed up onto your elbows, desperate to watch him. The sight was both obscene and intoxicating, Robby’s head buried between your thighs, his shoulders flexing as he worked, eyes closed in pure bliss while his mouth devoured your cunt. His jaw was moving with every lick and every suck, his lips and chin already shiny with your wetness. When he glanced up and caught you watching, his eyes darkened even more.
He pulled back just enough to spit directly onto your swollen pussy, a thick glob of saliva landing right on your clit. The warm sensation made you gasp, asd he watched it drip down your folds for half a second before he drove back in, spreading the spit with his tongue, mixing it with your own slick until everything was messy and glistening.
“God, look at this pretty pussy,” the words came out muffled against you. “So fucking wet for me. Been waiting four years to taste you again.”
He continued his relentless assault on your clit, and you couldn’t look away. The sight of this strong man, completely lost between your legs, eating your pussy like it was his favorite meal, was almost too much.
“You’re so fucking good at this… shit, your mouth—” A broken moan escaped you when he sucked hard on your clit again. “I’m gonna… I can’t! Robby, I’m close already…”
Your second orgasm built fast, and it crushed over you without mercy, making you bow your back off the bed, tearing a broken cry from your throat as the pleasure peaked. Robby didn’t let up for a second, he sucked your nub harder, drawing the orgasm out until it felt endless.
Your vision whited out, tears spilling down your cheeks as the pleasure rolled through you while he kept licking you through it greedily.
You sobbed his name, “Robby… fuck—oh god,” as your body shook uncontrollably, clamping his thighs around his head when the intensity bordered on too much.
He finally eased off only when your cries turned into overwhelmed whimpers, your body limp and trembling on the bed. But even then, he didn’t pull away completely. Robby continued placing soft kisses to your folds, licking up every drop of your release like he couldn’t bear to waste any of it. His hands soothed your thighs, rubbing circles while you came down.
Robby lifted his head, letting you admire his lips and chin glistening with your cum between your spread thighs. “Four years… and you still taste like heaven.”
When he finally started kissing his way up your body, his mouth was soft, reaching your mouth and kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He pulled back, hovering his face above yours. “You okay, baby?” he asked with an edge of worry in his tone, cupping your cheek with one hand, brushing away a tear. “Talk to me. Was that too much?”
You managed a shaky nod, still catching your breath. “I’m… fine. Just… holy shit, Robby.”
He chuckled softly, pleased with himself after seeing the effect his mouth had on you. “You’ve got the most perfect pussy in the world, you know that? So fucking pretty when you cum. And look at the mess you made…” He glanced down between your bodies at the soaked sheets, a proud and filthy smirk tugging at his mouth. “You still soak everything when I eat you out. God, I love how wet you get for me.”
Your voice came out breathy, needy, honest in a way you haven’t been with him in years.You were finally embracing what you truly wanted. “I need you, Robby. All of you. Please.”
Something possessive flashed in his eyes. He didn’t make you ask twice this time, just sat back on his heels and stripped in a rush, yanking his shirt over his head, then shoving his pants and boxers down his thighs in one impatient motion. His cock sprang free, looking every bit as thick as you remembered it, with the head already flushed in a dark red, leaking precum.
He was rock-hard, with the veins standing out along the shaft, curving slightly upward the way you loved, because it hit your g-spot so easily. He knelt between your spread thighs, pressing his into the mattress, and looked down at you with hunger. “Stroke it a little,” he asked you. “Let me feel your hand on me first.”
You sat up just enough to reach him, wrapping your fingers around his impressive length. He felt hot in your palm as you gave him a firm stroke from the base to the tip, swirling your thumb over the leaking head to spread the precum. Your touch made Robby groan deeply, twitching his hips forward into your touch.
“Fuck… It’s so big,” you whispered, locking your eyes on the way your hand looked around him. “I need it so much, Robby. I’ve missed this cock. Missed how full you make me.”
He watched your hand move, his breathing growing increasingly ragged with every stroke. “Slow, baby. Just like that. Real slow.” His voice was strained, like he was already fighting not to cum from your touch alone. “Shit, I’m close already. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this… your hand feels too fucking good.”
You kept stroking him slowly, twisting your wrist on the upstroke, squeezing just the way he’d always liked. Robby's head fell back for a moment, a moan rumbling in his chest, before he looked down again, watching your tits move with each stroke, watching your slick pussy still glistening from his mouth, waiting for him.
He reached down and gently took your wrist, stilling your hand. Then he shifted forward, gripping the base of his cock and rubbing the thick head up and down your soaked slit, coating himself in your wetness. The pressure against your clit made you whimper.
Robby leaned over you, bracing one hand beside your head, the other still holding his cock against your entrance. He locked his eyes onto yours. “Should we.. uh… grab a condom?”
You didn’t even hesitate, spreading your legs wider for him, sliding your hands up his arms to grip his shoulders. “I’m on the pill,” you whispered. “Go raw. I want to feel all of you.”
A deep groan escaped him as he notches the head of his cock right against your entrance, pressing just enough to tease the stretch without pushing inside yet. He cupped your face with his free hand, brushing your lower lip while he held himself right there, waiting for the moment he finally sank into you after four long years.
When he finally pushed forward, you felt the blunt pressure increasing, letting you feel every inch as he sank into you. You both moaned at the same time, he was thicker than you remembered in the haze of memory, and the stretch was intense, bordering on overwhelming after so long without anyone inside you. Your walls parted around him, fluttering and clenching as he slid deeper, inch by slow inch, until his hips were flush against yours and he was buried to the hilt inside you.
The fullness was perfect, almost too much, pressing against that deep spot that made you curl your toes instantly. “Fuck… baby,” Robby groaned, dropping his forehead to yours for a second. “You feel… Jesus Christ. So tight. So fucking wet and warm. I missed this pussy so much.”
He stayed still for a heartbeat, letting you adjust, both of you just breathing each other in after four long years. Then he started to move. The first thrust was slow and deep, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in with a wet sound. The second was a little harder. By the third, he’d found a steady rhythm, long and powerful strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. The drag and stretch were incredible, every time he bottomed out, the head of his cock kissed that deep place that made sparks explode behind your eyes.
“Oh my God… Robby,” you moaned, already trembling, and he’d just started. “You’re so fucking deep.”
It felt amazing for both of you. For you, it was like waking up after years of numbness, every nerve lighting up, pleasure flooding your body in waves with every thrust. For Robby, the groan that left him is guttural, almost pained with how good it felt to finally be inside the only place that’d ever made sense in his life.
His hips snapped forward harder, the slap of skin on skin filling the bedroom as he fucked you with measured strokes. You were trying so hard to stay quiet, bringing your hand to your mouth to bite down on the side of it, muffling the moans that kept trying to spill out. You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, then fluttered them open again. Robby was watching you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, flicking his gaze between your face, your lips parted, eyes glassy with pleasure, to your tits bouncing with every thrust, and down to where your pussy was stretched wide around his cock.
He watched himself disappear inside you, the shiny wetness coating his shaft every time he pulled back, your folds clinging to him greedily. “Fuck, look at that. Your pretty pussy taking me so well after all this time. Stretched so tight around my cock… making such a mess on me.”
You bit harder into your hand as a particularly deep thrust made you whimper loudly. Robby’s rhythm started to pick up, snapping his hips with more force, the perfect angle to hit your spot inside you over and over, making you clench around his length.
“Shit… right there,” you whimpered. “That spot… fuck! I can feel every inch. God, I’m so full.”
“Stop squeezing like that,” he groaned, almost pleading, tightening his grip on your hips. “You’re gonna make me cum already if you keep clenching around me like that. This pussy is too perfect… so fucking good. Feels like heaven. I’ve dreamed about this for years… being buried inside you again.”
He leaned down and captured your mouth in a messy kiss, swallowing your muffled moans, before he suddenly gripped the backs of your thighs and lifted your legs, hooking them over his broad shoulders. The new angle let him sink even deeper, and the next thrust punched the air out of your lungs as he bottomed out completely, pressed his hips tightly against your ass, grinding his cock against that deepest spot.
“Oh my god—Robby!” You gasped against your hand, rolling your eyes back. “Like that! Like that… Please don’t stop.”
He fucked you harder now, making the bed creak softly beneath you. “So perfect,” he panted between thrusts. “You feel so fucking perfect. This body… these tits… this tight little pussy squeezing me. I missed you so much. Missed fucking you like this.”
He slid a hand between your bodies, finding your swollen clit with his thumb and rubbing firm circles in time with his thrusts. The added stimulation was pushing you toward the edge fast.
“Cum for me, baby,” he growled. “I want to feel you cum around my cock. Let me feel it.”
When the pleasure started cresting, your words turned into fragmented, needy whimpers.
“Yes… yes… right there, oh fuck, I’m cumming. Michael, I’m cumming—”
The combination of his deep strokes, the pressure on your clit, and the overwhelming fullness after four years was too much. Your third orgasm of the night crashed over you even harder than the other two. Your back arched violently off the bed, a broken cry tearing from your throat despite your teeth sinking into your hand. Your pussy clamped down around him like a vice, pulsing and fluttering rhythmically as waves of intense pleasure ripped through you.
Robby groaned loudly, his hips stuttering as he felt his own impeding orgasm approaching. “That’s it—fuck, yes—milk me, baby. I’m cumming—”
He thrusted deep one last time, burying himself as far as he could go, and finally allowed himself to cum. You felt the thick pulses of his seed as he filled you up, rope after rope of cum flooding deep inside you, so much that you could feel it spilling out around his cock where you were stretched around him. Robby kept grinding his hips against you through his orgasm, drawing it out, making sure every drop stayed inside you as long as possible.
He stayed buried deep while you both came down, breathing hard, your bodies slick with sweat. Your legs were still over his shoulders, your pussy still gently fluttering around his softening cock.
“Four years,” he whispered hoarsely against your lips. “And you’re still mine.”
An incredulous chuckle rumbled out of his chest, utterly satisfied. His brown eyes were in disbelief, like he genuinely couldn’t believe he just got to be inside you again after all this time. The lines around his eyes crinkled deeply as he smiled. “Jesus Christ,” he murmured, sounding a little husky fro the exertion. “I can’t believe I just got to be inside you again. That was… fuck. That was the best fuck of my life. Better than I remembered. Better than anything.”
He stayed there a moment longer, savoring the connection, before he finally pulled out of you. You both groaned at the loss, a thick of his cum leaking out of you onto the already-soaked sheets. Robby rolled off you and onto his back beside you, reaching out with one arm to pull you against his side
He turned his head to look at you, brushing damp strands of hair off your forehead with gentle fingers. “How was that for you, baby?” he asked softly. “Tell me. Was it okay? Did I hurt you at all?”
You huffed a small, tired laugh against his collarbone. “You already know the answer.”
He hummed, but didn’t let it drop. “Say it anyway.”
“Robby.” You tilt your head back just enough to meet his eyes. “Stop fishing for compliments. You already know exactly how good it felt. It was amazing. More than amazing. I don’t even have words for it. I came so hard I— God, I needed that.”
He smiled again with a satisfied grin, and pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. “Good. That’s all I wanted, to make you feel as good as you made me feel.”
As the afterglow started to fade, and reality started to creep back in… the sleeping five-year-old down the hall, the careful co-parenting boundaries you’ve both worked so hard to maintain. You shifted slightly, propping yourself up on one elbow to look at him.
“You should get going now. It’s late. Hannah will be up early, and I don’t want her to wake up and find you here. It might make things weird or confusing for her.”
Robby let out a genuine laugh, rolling onto his side to face you fully. “Oh, so that’s how it is? You use me to break your four-year celibacy, three orgasms, mind you, and now you’re kicking me out?” His eyes sparkled with humor, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Cold, woman . Real cold. I give you the best, and only, dick you’ve had in years, and this is the thanks I get? Straight to the door?”
You couldn’t help but laugh with him, swatting lightly at his chest. “I’m serious. You know how she is. If she comes in here looking for me in the morning and sees you in my bed, she’ll have a million questions. Or she’ll think we’re back together and get her hopes up. We can’t do that to her.”
He propped himself up on one elbow, too, mirroring your position, still grinning that cocky grin that made him look ten years younger. “Three orgasms,” he repeate, holding up three fingers like he was making a point. “I ate that pussy until you were crying and shaking, then fucked you so deep you saw stars, and now I’m being evicted? Harsh, really harsh. I feel so used right now.”
“Robby,” you said, trying to sound stern but failing as another laugh bubbled up. “Come on. You know I’m right.”
He sighed dramatically, flopping back onto the pillow but keeping one arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer so your bare breasts pressed against his chest. “I don’t want to go. Not yet. I want to stay here and cuddle you. Just hold you for a while. I promise I’ll leave early tomorrow morning, before Hannah wakes up. I’ll set an alarm, sneak out. She’ll never know I was here. Please, baby. Let me stay. I missed this. Missed holding you after.”
You hesitated, chewing your lip. The warmth of his body against yours, the beat of his heart under your palm, the way he kept tracing circles with his fingers on your lower back… it all feels dangerously good.
He sensed your wavering and leaned in, pressing soft kisses along your jaw, then to your lips. “You’re perfect,” he murmured between kisses. “So fucking perfect. The way you took me tonight, the way you came for me… You made me feel whole again. Nothing in my life has ever compared to this. You and Hannah… you two are the best things that ever happened to me. Being inside you again, hearing you moan my name… it reminded me how much I still need you. How much I’ve always needed you.”
He tightened his arm around you, pulling you fully against his chest so you were tucked into his side, resting your head on his shoulder. Robby slid one of his legs between yours, tangling you together under the messy sheets. He kept kissing you, your forehead, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, then back to your mouth in lingering presses.
“I mean it,” he whispered against your hair. “You made me the happiest man alive when you gave me Hannah, but nights like this… being with you like this… it completes something in me. I feel alive. Whole. Like the missing piece finally clicked back into place. No one else has ever made me feel this way. No one else ever could.”
You melted into him despite yourself, and the night passed in fragments of deep sleep, the kind you haven’t had in years. Robby’s arm stayed across your waist the whole time, with his fingers splayed over your stomach like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. His chest rose and fell against your back in an even rhythm, and the snoring… God, the stupid snoring you’d missed so much.
You woke slowly, first to the weight of him, then to the ache between your legs, the reminder of last night still dried on your inner thighs. You felt him stir behind you as consciousness returned. You could practically hear the smile before you even turned your head.
When you did roll over, he was already looking at you with his eyes half-lidded, sleepy, and crinkled at the corners. And yeah, there it was, that stupid and contented grin spreading across his face like he’d just won the lottery.
“Stop smiling,” you muttered. “You’re creeping me out.”
He huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, didn’t even try to dial it back. If anything, it got wider. “Can’t help it,” he said. “Woke up next to the most gorgeous woman in the world. Kinda hard not to smile about that.”
Heat climbed up your neck despite yourself. You rolled your eyes, trying to play it off. “Flattery at six a.m. is a cheap move, Robinavitch.”
“Fuck,” he breathed, roaming his eyes over your face like he was seeing it for the first time. “Look at you.”
He dropped his gaze appreciatively, taking in the messy hair spilling across the pillow, the sheet tangled around your bare hips, the faint marks his mouth left on your collarbone last night. He reached out, tracing one with his thumb, gently.
“Don’t even think about it, Michael,” you warned him. You’d had your fun last night. It had been amazing, even better than you remembered sex with Robby ever being. But it had been one time. One stupid lapse of judgment, one moment of weakness that couldn’t repeat itself again. You couldn’t let it. Not when the delicate balance you’d fought so hard to maintain for Hannah was so stable. You refused to risk your daughter’s sense of security just because your body still craved the man who used to know every inch of you better than anyone else.
Robby snapped his eyes back to yours, looking equal parts hungry and amused. “You know how I get when you call me Michael.”
“Last night was a relapse. I was tired, and… Emotional. Not happening again today. Not happening again ever, as a matter of fact.”
“Yeah?” He laughed before he shifted, rolling you onto your back in one smooth motion. His body came down over yours, caging you under his weight. Robby braced his forearms on either side of your head, his knees bracketing your hips. “You sure about that?”
You pushed at his shoulder. “Robby… get off.”
He stirred above you, lifting his head. For a moment, he didn’t move, but you kept pushing, gentle but insistent, until he finally rolled off you with a sigh and propped himself up on one elbow.
“All of this… It was a mistake,” you sat up and pulling the sheet up over your bare chest, suddenly too aware of your nakedness.
Robby reached for you instinctively, but you shifted away, scooting back against the headboard. “Why?” he asked. “It felt fucking amazing for both of us. You know it did. We’re good at this, we’ve always been good at this.”
You shook your head, the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way your bodies still fit together like they remembered every single time before… it made your resolve weaken. “You know why not. I can’t just think about ourselves anymore. We have to think about Hannah. We can’t hurt her. We already crashed once, and I’m not putting her through big changes, through the uncertainty, the chance that everything falls apart all over again.” You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “I know you, Michael. In a month you’re going to regret this. You’re going to need space, and your head won’t be in the right place for commitment. I won’t do that to her. I won’t do that to any of us.”
Robby sat up fully now, the playful morning haze completely gone from his face. “It’s different this time. The first time… everything was happening all at once. You know how fucked up I was… After Covid, after… everything that happened. Having to take care of the whole ED… I was drowning. I couldn’t be what you needed. But I’m not that man anymore. You know I’ve changed. You’ve seen how much being a father changed me.” He leaned forward slightly. “I want you. I want this. I want the family. I want the commitment.”
You swallowed hard, and for one dangerous moment, you let yourself imagine it, waking up like this every morning with his warmth beside you, the three of you as a real family, lazy weekends and shared dinners and Hannah running between you both. The picture was so beautiful it hurt, but reality settled back in fast.
“You should go,” you whispered, looking away toward the window so he wouldn’t see the tears gathering in your eyes. “We shouldn’t keep talking about this anymore.”
Robby exhaled, running a hand through his messy, sleep-tousled hair. “It’s not fair.”
You let out a bitter little laugh. “A lot in life isn’t fair, Robby. You know that better than anyone else.”
He watched you for a long moment. The silence stretched between you until he finally swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. You stayed under the sheet, trying not to watch the familiar way his muscles moved as he gathered his clothes from the floor and got dressed.
When he reached the bedroom door, he paused, turning back to you with that half-smirk that you knew meant trouble. “You can try, but I know you can’t stay away from all of this for too long. I’m a real catch.”
You couldn’t help the tired laugh that escaped you. “Goodbye, Michael.”
He gave you one last long look full of affection before he slipped out of the room and down the stairs. The sheets still smelled like him, your skin still remembered his hands, nd you were left alone with the echo of everything you wanted but couldn’t let yourself have.
A/N: Oh my god, I finally wrote something!!!😭 I’d had this idea sitting in my brain for so long, and the other day I finally felt the urge to start it. After about a week, and using all the free time I have between work and college, I actually managed to finish it. Finally something with a bit of plot, lol.
I really hope you enjoyed this idea! I’d love to write a second part, but with my schedule… that could be anywhere from two weeks to a year from now. It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything, so it’d be really nice to hear your thoughts, if you liked it, your favorite parts, anything really🫶🏻
dividers by: @cafekitsune
Gonna have to grovel harder then Michael 😜💕
Because You See Me
a/n: I started watching Animal Kingdom. Nuff said.
summary: As J's girlfriend, you're used to romance and gentleness. But when he moves into his grandmother's house, you meet his uncles, and become intrigued by one uncle in particular.
pairings: pope x f!reader
word count: 5.9k
warnings: age gap (everyone is 20+), implied violence, blood, cheating, smut (dom!Pope, spanking, biting, but reader wants it)
Masterlist
You notice him before he notices you.
Not because he’s loud—he’s the opposite. The rest of them fill space like they own it. J with his quiet calculation, fingers drumming methodically against his thigh; Craig with his restless energy, all broad shoulders and sudden laughs; Deran with that sharp, coiled edge, jaw working as he scans the room; and Baz, seeming relaxed as ever, his arm draped over the back of the couch, the neck of a beer bottle dangling loosely from his fingers.
But Pope is different. Pope stands with his weight centered perfectly, shoulders squared, hands hanging loose at his sides. Like a soldier waiting for orders that never come.
You’re halfway through a lukewarm beer you didn’t really want, condensation dampening your fingers as you perch on the arm of J’s chair, when you catch it. The way Pope watches the room from the shadowed corner—eyes moving in slow, deliberate sweeps, brow furrowed slightly—like it’s a crime scene he hasn’t pieced together yet.
He turns. Slow. Deliberate. Like a predator sensing movement in tall grass. You don’t look away. His eyes narrow just slightly, hazel irises contracting around dilated pupils, like he’s trying to discern if you’re a threat. You lift your chin a fraction, feeling the cool air on your throat. Not a challenge. Just… not backing down. After a beat, he walks over, footsteps nearly silent against the worn floorboards.
“Have you two met?” J asks, casual, fingers still tapping that same rhythm against his thigh.
Pope doesn’t answer him. His eyes stay on you, unblinking, focused with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.
“No,” you say, offering your name, voice steadier than you expected.
He repeats it, quieter. Testing how it sounds on his tongue. The word hangs in the air between you, simple and insufficient.
“That’s it?” you ask, one brow lifting, condensation from your bottle dripping onto your knuckles. “That’s all I get?”
His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, just a momentary softening of that granite expression. “What do you want?”
“I don’t know. Your name?” The question feels more intimate than it should.
There’s a pause. You can almost see him deciding, jaw working slightly beneath stubbled skin. “Pope.”
You tilt your head, hair brushing your collarbone. “You always this intense?”
J lets out a quiet huff beside you, like he’s expecting this to go sideways, his body tensing subtly, as the eyes of his uncles flicker nervously between you and Pope.
But Pope just watches you, shoulders squared beneath his faded gray t-shirt. “You always ask questions like that?”
“Only when people answer like you do.” The words come out with more heat than intended.
He reaches out, taking the beer from your hand, and takes a slow swig, throat working as he swallows, eyes never leaving yours. After another beat, he walks away, leaving nothing but a lingering tension in the air where he stood.
You roll over, unable to fall asleep next to J in his small twin bed, his breathing too even, too controlled, like everything else about him. The clock’s red numbers cast a glow across the rumpled sheets: 2:17 AM. You decide to give up on sleep, easing your weight off the creaking mattress and padding barefoot across the cold tile floor to the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
You turn, droplets sliding down your wrists as you dry your hands on a dish towel that was probably more expensive than any clothing hanging in your closet, unfazed by the man standing in the shadowed doorway, his broad shoulders nearly filling the frame. “The dishes.”
“Why?” His voice is gravel, rough from disuse at this hour.
“Can’t sleep. Figured I might as well do something useful.” The faucet drips behind you, each drop echoing in the quiet kitchen.
He steps closer, not threatening—just intent, the moonlight from the window catching the sharp angles of his face. “It’s not your house.”
You shrug, leaning back against the counter’s cold edge, ceramic pressing into your lower back. “So that means I can’t be helpful?”
His brow furrows, deep lines etching between his eyebrows like they’ve been carved there. “You’re not doing it right.”
“Sorry,” you huff, “I didn’t know there was a wrong way to scrub crusty mashed potatoes off a plate.” Your words hang there, suspended in the dim kitchen like dust motes.
Pope stares at you like you’ve said something wrong, his eyes unnervingly focused, pupils dilated in the low light. He doesn’t respond with words, instead stepping to the sink beside you, his arm brushing yours as he grabs the wet sponge off the counter, water dripping between his calloused fingers.
“Pope, you don’t—“
“Andrew,” he says, rinsing a plate under the stream of water, the sound cutting through the silence as he hands it out to you, waiting, droplets sliding down the ceramic.
“What?” you ask, grabbing a dishcloth that smells faintly of detergent.
“My name. It’s not Pope. It’s Andrew.” His voice softens on his own name, like he’s sharing something precious and forgotten.
“So why does everyone -”
He cuts you off again, turning to face you, locking your eyes in his stare. The hazel of his irises catches the moonlight, turning them almost amber. “You can call me Andrew.”
A slight smile curves on your lips, the corner of your mouth lifting just enough to create a dimple. “Okay, Andrew. What makes me so special?”
He turns back to the now empty sink, gripping the edge of the counter until his knuckles shine white against his tanned skin. You can’t help but notice how the muscles in his arms flex at the movement, veins rising beneath the thin fabric of his worn t-shirt.
“Because you treat me like a person,” he offers simply, voice rough like sandpaper against concrete.
In the half-day you’ve known him, you’ve seen how the rest of his family treats him - guarded, almost afraid, like they have to walk on eggshells around him. The way they tense when he enters a room, conversations dying mid-sentence. J had mentioned his uncle had some...odd behaviors, but something in Pope’s careful stillness doesn’t frighten you the way it should.
“Well, you are a person,” you respond, offering the small joke to try to ease his tension, your voice softer than intended.
He exhales slowly, his broad shoulders dropping a fraction, like that hit somewhere deeper than expected. “You don’t know what I am,” he mutters, the words barely audible over the persistent drip of the faucet.
You meet his eyes, stepping close enough to catch the faint scent of soap again. “Then tell me what you are.”
Silence stretches between you, thick as honey. For a second, you think he might actually tell you.
Instead, he shakes his head, jaw clenching tight enough that a muscle jumps beneath the stubble. “You wouldn’t come around here if I did.”
You don’t answer right away. Because that feels like a test. And you’re not sure who you’re trying to convince when you say, “You don’t know that.”
His gaze sharpens, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of color remains. “I do.”
“How?”
He steps closer. Not touching. Just there, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. “Because no one else wants to. Not really.”
He walks away without another word, leaving you standing alone in the kitchen, your fingers still damp from dishwater, gripping the counter edge too hard.
The next few weeks become a slow torture. Whenever his brothers throw a party, Pope is there—not having fun, but cleaning up, his presence both unsettling and oddly comforting. When he finally lets himself relax, his eyes are on you. You tell yourself to look away, but can’t. You sit on J’s lap, his hand rubbing small circles on your bare thigh, while Pope brushes off any woman who approaches him. J’s lips brush against your neck, and instead of closing your eyes and savoring the feeling, you meet Pope’s gaze across the room, hating yourself for the electricity that sparks between you.
You try to convince yourself it’s nothing—just attention from someone when J has grown distant since moving in with Smurf. But late at night, guilt gnaws at you, making your stomach twist, yet you still count the hours until you might see Andrew again. Wrong and right fade together like watercolors, leaving you sick with want and shame.
A few weeks later, you arrive at your apartment to find Pope leaning against your door, one shoulder pressed to the peeling paint, his face half-shadowed in the dim hallway lighting.
“Andrew,” you say, his name still unfamiliar on your tongue. “What are you doing here...and how do you know where I live?”
“You never ask me for anything,” he says with no greeting, ignoring your second question entirely. You probably don’t want to know anyway.
“I can say the same to you.” You dig through your bag, past crumpled receipts and loose change, for keys that somehow always fall to the very bottom.
“I’m asking now.” His eyes, hazel with flecks of amber, lock onto yours.
“For what?”
His gaze flicks to your mouth, lingering on your lower lip for a heartbeat too long, then back to your eyes. “For you to open your door.”
You exhale slowly, the sound loud in the quiet hallway, and slide the key into the lock. The familiar click echoes as you step into your apartment, the wooden floor creaking beneath your feet. He’s your boyfriend’s uncle. A man whose very presence makes rooms go silent. But you can’t resist his pull, magnetic and dangerous.
“Want to talk about what’s bothering you?” you ask, standing beside the open door, one hand still on the knob. You study him, noticing the way his shoulders tense, the way his jaw tightens at the question.
“I don’t know,” he admits. It’s quiet. Honest.
More honest than you expected from him. You feel something loosen in your chest, just a fraction. “Fair enough.”
The rapid knocks slice through the silence of your apartment. Adrenaline floods your system as you lunge across the room, fingers fumbling with the lock, your pulse hammering in your throat. There’s only one person who would come to see you at this hour of the night.
When you swing the door open, you find Pope slumped against the frame. Ghostly pale. Each breath a gasp. His hand clamped against his side where thin, crimson liquid seeps between his fingers, darkening his already dark shirt.
“Oh my God—” You choke back his name, glancing frantically down the hallway. “Get in. Now.”
He staggers forward. You yank him inside, slamming the door, eyes darting wildly—lock engaged, blinds closed, no witnesses. Blood roars in your ears as your body shifts into survival mode.
“Sit,” you command, half-dragging him toward the couch.
“I’m fine,” he growls through clenched teeth.
“You’re bleeding through your goddamn shirt.”
“Had worse.”
“Congratulations,” you hiss, shoving him down. “Sit your ass down before you collapse.”
He sits slowly, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead.
You’re already grabbing a faded blue towel from the bathroom, your brain flipping through your inventory—first aid kit under the sink, a half-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol, gauze bandages. Not enough for a wound like this, but it’ll have to be.
“What happened?” you ask, kneeling on the hard floor in front of him, the chill seeping through your thin pajama pants.
“Nothing,” he says automatically, voice a raspy whisper.
You give him a look, eyebrows raised, lips pressed into a thin line. “Try again.”
You watch the veins in his throat as he swallows. “Job went sideways.”
“Clearly.” You reach for the blood-soaked hem of his shirt. His hand catches your wrist—not rough, but firm, his palm hot against your skin.
“Wait.”
You still, pulse fluttering beneath his fingertips. “What?”
His eyes flick over your face, searching. “You don’t have to do this.”
The words hit wrong, settling like stones in your stomach. Almost like he’s giving you an out. You frown, the crease between your brows deepening. “Yeah, I do.”
“No,” he says quietly, his breath warm against your cheek. “You don’t.”
“I’m already doing it,” you reply, softer now, leaning close enough to smell copper and sweat. “So unless you want to bleed out on my couch, let go.”
His grip loosens, fingers trailing reluctantly across your skin as they fall away.
You pull your hand free and pull up his shirt. Your stomach drops. The gash tears across his ribs, jagged and raw, still weeping blood that pools in the hollows of his abdomen. Purple bruising is already radiating outward from the wound.
You inhale sharply. “Jesus Christ, Andrew.”
“Told you, I’ve had worse.” His voice is labored.
“That’s not comforting.”
“It should be.”
You lock eyes with him, heat rising in your chest. “It’s really fucking not.” His gaze burns into yours, unblinking. Devouring. You snatch the towel and press it hard against the wound. He hisses, body going rigid, veins standing out on his neck.
“I know, I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Hold still.”
“I am.” His jaw clenches tight enough to crack.
“You’re not.”
“Yes, I am.” Each word is forced through gritted teeth.
“You’re shaking.”
You press harder on the wound, blood seeping between your fingers as you reach blindly for the first aid kit. “A hospital never crossed your mind?” Your voice comes out sharper than intended.
He just stares at you, jaw muscle twitching.
“Right.” You press harder, making him hiss. “Stupid question.” The silence between you pulses like the blood under your hands. “You came here,” you finally say, the accusation hanging.
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t have any other options.” Your eyes burn into his.
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Not ones I wanted.”
Your hands freeze against his torn flesh. Something electric passes between you before you force yourself back to the task. “Andrew—“
“I know,” he cuts in, voice raw. “I’m sorry.”
You rip open gauze packets with your teeth.
“Wasn’t thinking.” His admission hangs in the air between you.
You meet his eyes, close enough to feel his ragged breath, as you tear the blood-soaked towel away without warning. He stifles a groan that vibrates through your bones. “I need to clean it.”
A curt nod.
“This is gonna hurt like hell.”
“Do it.”
Your fingers hover over the wound. “Nothing for the pain?”
“No.” The word is final.
You exhale shakily. “If you hit me—“
“I won’t.” His eyes lock onto yours with such intensity you can barely breathe.
“You might want to.”
His hand suddenly grips your wrist again. “I won’t.”
His certainty anchors you in the chaos. “Alright,” you breathe, fingers trembling as you soak the gauze with alcohol. “Ready?”
He nods once. You press it against the wound. His entire body goes rigid, a strangled sound caught in his throat as his knuckles turn white against the couch. Blood seeps through the gauze, staining your fingers.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper repeatedly, your face inches from his. His breath comes hot against your cheek, the scent of copper and sweat filling your lungs. You work methodically, your hands steady while your heart hammers violently against your ribs. Each time he flinches, something twists deeper inside you.
“You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt,” you say, voice raw.
“I’m not pretending.” His words scrape out between clenched teeth.
“Andrew—“
“Fine. It hurts,” he cuts you off, eyes burning into yours, “like fucking fire.”
You freeze, caught in his gaze.
“But I’m fine.” The words vibrate with tension.
You shake your head, leaning closer. “Liar.”
His expression shifts—something dark and electric flashing behind his eyes. You don’t push him. Once the wound is clean, you reach for bandages, fingers trembling against his blood-slick skin. “This might need stitches,” you mutter, throat tight.
“I’ll be fine.” His words vibrate against your fingertips.
“You keep saying that.” Your voice cracks.
“Because it’s true.” His eyes burn into yours, daring you to look away.
You don’t. You stare back, taking in every detail—the pallor beneath his skin, the sweat beading his temples, the pulse hammering in his throat. “Yeah,” you breathe, barely audible. “You usually are.” The words hang between you like a confession.
Pope’s gaze locks onto yours, pupils dilating. “Usually?”
You tie off the bandage with shaking hands, knuckles brushing his ribs. “Even Cody’s have limits, Andrew,” you whisper. You lean closer until your breath mingles with his. “You don’t have to hit it alone.”
The air between you crackles, charged and dangerous. Pope’s fingers suddenly grip your hand, his touch burning. “You mean that?” His voice is raw, desperate.
Your heart slams against your ribs. “Yeah,” you say, not breaking eye contact. “I do.”
He studies you with such intensity you can barely breathe, like he’s memorizing every detail of your face. Then, his thumb traces the back of your hand. “Okay.”
You finish securing the bandage, your hands lingering against his skin until he inhales sharply. You pull back like you’ve been burned. “There,” you say, voice unsteady. “Try not to rip that open again.”
“I’ll try.”
You shake your head, the motion gentle and unhurried. There’s no real frustration there—only a slow, quiet acceptance that settles in your chest. You push yourself upward, but before you can rise fully, his hand drifts to you and curls around your hip, a steady, warm weight that pins you in place. You freeze, eyes tracing the line of his fingers, solid and grounding against your skin. A low pulse of heat blooms where they rest.
“Sit with me for a second,” he says, his voice hushed and rough at the edges. It’s not a command, but a plea.
You swallow. Logically, you tell yourself you should brush his hand away, reassert the distance you’re accustomed to. But instead your voice slips out: “Just until you stop looking like you might pass out.”
His grip tightens, just enough to communicate relief without causing pain. He exhales.
“Okay.” You lower yourself back onto the couch, settling beside him, closer than necessary. Neither of you moves away. After a minute, he shifts with a careful movement so as not to undue all the work you just did.
His shoulder presses against yours, light yet unmistakable. You stay still, heart thudding softly against your ribs. He leans his head toward you, close enough that you feel its weight humming next to your arm.
“Hurts,” he murmurs after a few seconds, voice nearly lost in the hush of the room.
You glance at him. In the soft lamp light, you see his jaw set, eyes shadowed with fatigue. “I know.”
He nods, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Silence follows, thick and warm. “Thank you.”
You blink, surprised by the vulnerability in his tone. “Don’t make it weird,” you say automatically, though your voice is softer than you intend.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Am not.”
You let out a soft laugh from the back of your throat. “You’re really bad at this.”
“At what?”
“Being taken care of.”
He tilts his head, thinking. “Smurf’s the only one who’s ever taken care of me. So, yeah—you’re probably right.”
Your chest constricts, lips pressing together. “Good thing I’m nothing like her then,” you murmur.
He turns his head just enough to catch your face. “Yeah,” he says quietly. A few more minutes pass in easy silence. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”
You swallow hard, catching the glint of something wet in his gaze. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth before debating your options. You finally decide to answer honestly. “Because I know what it’s like.” You offer him a sad smile, the corners of your mouth tugging down. “My brother… he took the same meds as you.”
His eyebrows knit together, confusion and concern mingling in his expression.
“I saw the prescription bottle on the kitchen counter one day. Smurf asked me to grab something for her, and I—” you cut off, shaking your head.
He reaches up, fingers brushing your arm. “It’s okay. I’m not mad.”
You let a shaky sigh escape. “I was close with my brother before he died - car accident,” you offer before he has a chance to assume. “I never felt afraid of him, so…I guess that’s why I’m not scared of you. And you,” you add after a pause, “you’ve never given me any reason to be.”
He looks down at his hands, then back up at you. “Sometimes I wonder,” he murmurs, voice low, “if my dad hadn’t left, if Smurf wasn’t… who she was, maybe I could’ve been—normal.”
Something like ice settles in your gut at his confession. You shift until you hold him gently into your arms. You’re careful around the bandage on his side, mindful of every movement.
He responds by wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing his head into the hollow of your shoulder. You don’t need words; the embrace says it all: comfort, solidarity, the silent promise that someone will always be here.
You don’t cross the line all at once. You step a toe over, sitting poolside on a Saturday, the concrete hot against your bare thighs, the air smelling of chlorine.
“You’re staring again,” you say, sunglasses pushed up into your damp hair.
Pope doesn’t look away, his eyes intense and unblinking. “You noticed.”
“Hard not to.” Your fingers trace condensation down the side of your glass.
“Does it bother you?”
You shake your head, feeling droplets of water slide from your hair down your neck. “No. Just makes me wonder.”
“What?”
“What you’re thinking about.”
A pause. His jaw works slightly, that muscle twitching the way it does when he’s deciding whether to speak. “You.”
You huff out a quiet laugh that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “That’s not helpful.”
“It’s true.” His voice is rough, honest in a way that makes your skin prickle.
“Okay,” you push lightly, leaning forward so your shadow falls across his chest, “what about me?”
His gaze drifts over your face, like he’s memorizing the curve of your cheekbones, the shape of your mouth. “You say one thing,” he says slowly, each word deliberate, “but you mean something else.”
Your stomach tightens into a hard knot. “Like what?”
“You say you love J,” he continues, sunlight catching the flecks of amber in his eyes, “but you don’t sound like it when you talk about him.”
“That’s not—“ Your protest dies as his fingers brush against yours on the hot concrete.
“You don’t look at him the way you look at me.”
That shuts you up. The pool filter hums in the silence between you. “Andrew—” His name tastes different on your tongue now.
“I’m not wrong.” There’s no triumph in his voice, just quiet certainty.
“No,” you admit, quieter now, watching a bead of sweat trace his collarbone. “You’re not wrong.”
The air shifts, heavy with something electric that makes the hairs on your arms stand up.
“Why are you still with him then?” he asks, the question hanging between you like smoke.
You swallow, throat clicking dry. “I don’t know.”
He steps closer, close enough that you can smell his skin—chlorine and sweat, and something musky. “Yeah, you do.”
Your voice drops to barely above a whisper, the words scraping your throat. “It’s not that simple, okay? You’re J’s uncle. And you’re older—”
“Is that bad?” His question cuts through pretense, eyes searching yours with that unnerving directness.
You let out a breath and meet his eyes, noting how his pupils have expanded, leaving only a thin ring of color. “No,” you say, feeling something inside you surrender. “That’s the problem.”
That night, he knocks on your apartment door, three sharp raps that echo through your empty living room. When you open it, the hallway light catches on the angles of his face, shadowing the hollow beneath his cheekbones.
“You shouldn’t be here, Andrew.” Your voice sounds thin even to your own ears.
His jaw tightens, that familiar muscle jumping beneath the stubble on his chin. “You want me to go.” It’s not a question.
His flat tone catches you off guard. “That’s not what I said.” The door frame digs into your palm as you grip it tighter.
“Semantics.”
You shake your head, hair brushing against your cheek. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” He shifts his weight, boots scuffing against the worn linoleum in the hallway.
“Make it that simple.” The air between you feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.
He steps closer then, leaning his body towards you. “It is simple.”
“For you.” Your voice drops to a whisper.
“For us.” The word hangs in the narrow space between your bodies.
Your chest tightens, lungs constricting. “There is no ‘us.’”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. He just looks at you, gaze traveling over every inch of your face. “Say that again,” he says, the words barely disturbing the air.
You hesitate, mouth dry as sand.
“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth lifting in the ghost of a smile.
You hate how easily he reads you, how he peels back your layers with surgical precision.
“Andrew—”
“I don’t want anything from you,” he says suddenly, hands hanging loose at his sides, knuckles scarred from fights you’ve never asked about.
You blink, heat rising to your face. “That’s... not true.”
“It is.” His voice is steady. Certain. “I’m not asking you to leave him. I’m not asking you for anything you don’t already give.” He steps into your space, close enough that your breath stutters, that you can feel the heat radiating from his skin.
And you know he’s right. Some part of you has wanted him since he helped you with the dishes that first night you stayed over at Smurf’s, his forearms slick with soap suds, veins prominent under tanned skin. You’d stopped trying to hide it—looking at him just as intensely as he looks at you, never breaking eye contact with him when J kisses you, your gaze locked on Pope’s over his nephew’s shoulder.
You’re lost in your thoughts until Pope grabs your chin, his thumb rough against your skin, bringing your eyes up to meet his. The contact sends a jolt of electricity down your spine.
“Do you want me to go?” His breath fans across your face, warm and smelling faintly of whiskey.
It’s a question this time.
And you answer the only way you know how—crashing your lips onto his, clutching the collar of his button-down, pulling him over the threshold. You don’t give him a chance to ask the question again, deepening the kiss, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him until his chest is flush against yours. The door slams shut behind him.
He hesitates for a fraction of a second, a stiffening of his shoulders that betrays the war between his better judgement and his desire. But then his hands are on you, large and warm, settling on your waist. He holds you like a porcelain doll, like something fragile that might break if he squeezes too hard. It’s infuriating. It’s exactly what you’re trying to escape with J.
You pull back just enough to look at him, admiring the lines of experience etched around his mouth and eyes. Standing here in your entryway, he’s holding himself back with a trembling control.
“Take me to the bedroom,” you whisper against his lips.
He nods, a short, jerky motion, and lets you lead him down the hall. When the back of your knees hit the mattress, you sit, pulling him down with you. He settles his weight over you with agonizing slowness. His lips find yours again, softer this time, exploring.
His hand slides up your side, thumb brushing the curve of your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt. The touch is feather-light, a ghost of the pressure you’re seeking. You arch your back, trying to force more contact, trying to tell him without words that you don’t need to be handled with care.
His fingers fumble with the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly, exposing your skin to the cool air inch by inch. He presses open-mouthes kisses to your stomach, his tongue flicking out against your skin with a delicate, wet touch.
“Andrew,” you breathe, your voice coming out harsher than you intend.
He looks up, his eyes dark, his hair messy from your fingers. “What is it? Are you okay? Do you want me to stop?”
“No,” you say, reaching down to unbuckle his belt. “I don’t want you to stop. I want you to stop being so gentle. You’ve been burning holes in me with those eyes for months. Show me how much you want me.”
His gaze hardens, his soft eyes sharpening into something predatory. He understands. The shift in the air is instantaneous. “You want rough?” he asks, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating against your ribs.
“I want you to fuck me like you mean it,” you challenge.
A low growl rumbles in his chest, and his veneer shatters. He doesn’t ease into it - he snaps. He surges forward, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss that steals the air from your lungs. His teeth graze your bottom lip, biting down just hard enough to send a jolt of electricity straight to your core.
His hands are no longer tentative. He rips your shirt off, no longer bothering with the slow, seductive removal of fabric. The sound of tearing seams fills the room, but you don’t care.
He breaks the kiss only to shrug off his own shirt, revealing a chest lightly dusted with hair and defined by hard muscle.
Then he’s back on you, kissing you, devouring you, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat. He doesn’t squeeze, just rests his fingers there, a heavy, possessive weight that makes your pulse flutter beneath his palm.
“Is this better?” he mutters against your mouth.
“More,” you gasp, tilting your head back to expose more of your neck to him.
He bites down on the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark. You cry out, your nails raking down his back, urging him on. He grinds his hips against yours, letting you feel the hard ridge of his cock through his jeans. He’s not holding back now. The friction from the denim is rough against your bare thighs.
He reaches between you, pressing the heel of his hand against the apex of your thighs, rubbing you through your pajama shorts. The pressure is firm and unrelenting, forcing a rhythm on you that you can’t escape. You buck your hips up to meet him, desperate for more.
“Look at you,” he groans, pulling back to watch your face. “So fucking hungry for it. Does he touch you like this? Does he make you this wet?”
“No,” you whimper, shamelessly grinding against his hand. “Never.”
“Good,” he says, suddenly flipping you over.
The movement is effortless, a display of strength that makes your head spin. You land on your stomach, face pressed into the pillows, before you can even process the change in position. He grabs the waistband of your shorts and yanks them down to your knees in one rough tug. The air hits your exposed ass, making you shiver, but before you can adjust, his hand comes down in a sharp slap.
The sound cracks through the room like a whip. A stinging heat blooms across your right cheek, radiating outward. You gasp into the pillow, your back arching instinctively. It hurts, but the pain is grounding, clearing away the fog of longing and need that’s been clouding your mind for months.
“Andrew!” you cry out, the volume muffled by the pillow.
“Tell me you like it,” he demands, his hand coming down on the other cheek, harder this time. The impact sends a shockwave through your body, making your pussy clench around nothing.
“I love it,” you moan, pushing your ass back up. “Don’t stop.”
He spanks you again, developing a punishing rhythm that leaves your skin burning and your nerve endings on fire. Between slaps, he kneads the flesh, fingers gripping tight. You feel exposed, vulnerable, and incredibly powerful.
“You’re soaking,” he observes, his voice thick with lust. “I think you were waiting for this. Waiting for someone to treat you like the dirty girl you are.”
“Yes,” you hiss, rocking back against his hand. “Please.”
“Please what?” He leans over you, his chest pressing against your back, his breath hot in your ear. “Please fuck you? Please ruin you for every other man?”
“Fuck me,” you beg, your voice breaking. “Ruin me, please.”
You hear the rustle of fabric as he finally frees himself from his jeans. A moment later, the hot, heavy weight of his cock rests against the crease of your ass. He feels bigger than you imagined, thick and throbbing with need.
He lines himself up with your entrance, not teasing, not waiting for you to adjust. He grips your hips tightly and slams into you in one thrust.
You scream into the pillow, your body stretching to accommodate him, the sudden fullness bordering on too much. He doesn’t pause to let you catch your breath. He immediately sets a punishing, pulling out almost entirely before driving back in deep, his hips slapping against your ass with every thrust. The bed frame slams against the wall, a testament to the strength of his movements.
This isn’t making love. It’s raw and primal and exactly what you asked for. He reaches around, finding your clit with his fingers, rubbing it in time with his thrusts, forcing you toward the edge whether you’re ready or not.
“Take it,” he grunts, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your back. “Every inch.”
You do. You meet him thrust for thrust, your body reveling in the sheer intensity of him.
After, you both lie on your backs, panting heavily, trying to catch your breath.
“Why me?” The question slips out before you can stop it, hanging in the darkness between you.
Pope turns his head slightly on the pillow, the sheets rustling beneath him. His eyes catch what little moonlight filters through your blinds, making them shine. “What?”
“Out of all the women who are always hanging around,” you say, running your finger across his collarbone. “The ones always hanging around your brothers. The blonde at the bar last week. Why me?”
He doesn’t answer right away. The ceiling fan clicks softly overhead, stirring the humid air. When he does speak, his voice is soft but certain, like the low rumble before an avalanche.
“Because you see me,” he says simply, knuckles brushing against your bare hip.
You swallow, feeling your throat click in the silence. “That’s not a good reason.”
“It is for me.” The mattress dips as he shifts his weight. He scoots you closer, cradling your head against his chest, and pulling your leg up to rest across his hips, rubbing soothing circles against your outer thigh.
Your chest tightens, heart drumming against your ribs. “Will you please stay tonight?”
He laces his fingers through yours, grip firm as iron. His eyes never leave yours, pupils dilated in the darkness. “As long as you want, Baby.”
Sleep finally comes easily for you, wrapped in Pope’s arms, anchored to him like a ship in a storm.
I MEAAAAANNNN 🤤
