everything is more beautiful because we're doomed

extremely normal about my obsessions (no, i really am) moony ✿ she/her ✿ 18+

[jacksbrownie]

Doesn't Get Any Easier - Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody x reader

Summary: A thunderstorm digs up painful memories for Andrew Cody. Specifically- memories of his late sister, Julia. Good thing you’re there to hold him through it.

Warnings: thunder? and nothing else...I think

A/n: my first pope fic yay!! pls be nice . divider by the lovely @/cursed-carmine

Word count: 1.2k (idk if this is long enough to be called a full fledged fic)

_____

Outside, thunder strikes once again. Announcing its arrival with a deafening boom. The accompanying flashes of lightning lend it an ominous quality. 

Andrew looks to be unbothered where he sits next to you on the couch. His gaze is locked onto the screen in front of you, visuals of the camera panning over grasslands playing on it. The arm he leaves resting along the back of the couch, with your neck leaning into it remains unmoving. 

However the way his palm, anchored on one of your legs curled up underneath you- just above your knee tightens its hold on you, almost in tandem with the cracks of thunder bursting across the darkened sky, does not go unnoticed by you. His grip loosens a little along with the fading noise, but his fingers remain firmly wrapped around your thigh, almost in nervous anticipation.

Waiting for the next boom, to clutch at the same spot like a lifeline. Grabbing on, in preparation for a forceful impact which will never come.

You’re sure he isn’t actually paying attention to the TV anymore. He’s got that distant look in his eyes, a look of intense concentration clouding his previously relaxed features. But you realise it for what it is, he’s thinking hard about something that is bothering him.

“Andrew- hey, are you okay?” you murmur softly into the suddenly tension-filled space as you straighten your posture. 

It’s a question that would, coming from literally anybody else, make irritation bloom in his chest. But coming from you, it almost feels like an entirely different question to Andrew. The taunting tone he’s come to expect the question to be laced in is blatantly absent from the words flowing past your lips. 

You don’t want to mock him, he reminds himself as he tears away his gaze from the documentary to train it on you instead. In fact, the way you sound can be closely associated with worry. You always worry. Especially when it comes to him. Andrew lets the guilt of having become the main catalyst driving forth that particular reaction in you, take up space instead.

He lets it take up space. But he does not allow it to spread, to migrate down until it takes hold of his limbs and renders him useless.

In a way he can’t really find words to describe, he enjoys the worry. Revels in the way your eyebrows furrow in that adorable way, the way you adjust your volume to be lower than usual to make it a little easier on him when he gets in his head the way does sometimes. The repetitive back and forth pattern in which you trace along his knuckles softly to let him know you were there for him- like you were doing right now.

Because it all pointed to the fact that you cared. You cared about his physical and mental wellbeing. You cared about making sure he was never overwhelmed, no matter what was at stake. You cared about him knowing he was safe. 

Andrew brings his other hand down to envelope your free one, hoping to bring you the same reassurance you often brought him. His gaze slips from your face, following along your arm to lock in your intertwined hands. 

Closing his eyes, he allows the weight of your hand in his ground himself with a deep breath. “It’s um- you know, Julia. She was really afraid of storms. Well, the thunder really. The noise- it, uh, it used to scare the shit outta her.”

Andrew's eyes refuse to meet yours. You try ducking your head- just a little, to encourage even a fleeting moment of eye contact. It kills you inside, every time he gets like this. Mostly because it was such a rare occasion that you had to coax eye contact out of him, since usually he gave it so freely and in abundance.

His piercing eyes, always inviting you to open up, no matter what the subject of the conversation was. Making his presence known, the solid reality of how he was there to listen. To lean on, to cry (God help whoever made that happen), to hold you, to kiss your worries away. Letting you know that with him, you were safe. No matter what.

His unflinching gaze roaming every inch of your face while he cradled your face in his rough palms- holding you between them like you were something precious and fragile. Finally landing on your lips before descending on them, kissing you as if it gave him the oxygen he needed to live, to be around for the next second. Breaking contact only to let out half-cracked whispers of ‘I love you’s, pressed to the corner of your mouth.

So, to see your Andrew- the epitome of reassurance, hesitating to allow himself the same grace he’s always so quick to offer you, pokes at something in your chest like a hot iron rod.

You pause the patterns you’re tracing on his knuckles to lay your hand, palm down on the top of his hand and squeeze in hopes of drawing him out from wherever his mind had wandered off to. Andrew finally lifts his head slightly, giving his eyes permission to sweep over the junction of your throat. 

Not quite where you’d like him to, but you can tell the action takes great effort on his part. 

“And back when we were kids sleeping in the same room, she’d slip into my bed when it rained,” he continues in a voice drenched in unsteadiness. “I’d hold her hand, ‘protect’ her until the thunder passed.” A small chuckle sneaks its way in as Andrew recollects bits and pieces of memories which now seem to him to be from another lifetime.

“I don’t- I guess it just doesn’t get easier sometimes.” He admits with a deep breath, his eyes gracing yours with their presence once more, lips pulled up into a half-smile which much more closely resembles a grimace for your sake.

You don’t get a chance to formulate a response- one you feel might be sufficient at the moment before Andrew drops his head on your shoulder. Nose prodding at the crook of your neck, nestling into the warmth the spot offers. He wraps his arms around your middle, pulling you impossibly closer.

You let him pull you against him, arms circling you in the most Andrew way possible. His hold grows so tight that it's borderline painful before swiftly loosening as soon as he picks up on the slightest involuntary hitch in your breath.

“I’m sorry my love,” you offer into the crown of his head, hand rubbing up and down his back. You can feel the muscles going slack. No longer pulled taut, to fit the rigid posture he always maintained.

Dropping a lingering kiss to follow up your apology, your palm continues its journey. Up and down, up and down again. Leaving its path a little more easier to tread on its next trip down.

“Don’t be,” the reply comes muffled against your skin. “Not your fault.” 

You watch the sky outside light up in preparation for another boom. The journey continues through the freckle-filled planes you love more than anyone could, well at least according to you, smoothing over knotted muscles. Up and down, again and again.

thank you for reading! comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[not-neverland06]

𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨…

💿 Never Getting Laid 💿

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴: 𝘚𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘺 𝘉𝘳𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘵 & 𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

We were so happy / Why not mix it up?

I think this schedule could be very nice  / Call up the boys and crack a Miller Light / Watch the fight / Us girls are fun but stressful / Am I right?  / And you got a right hand anyway

Overview: You knew it was a risk, dating a cop and all, but Sammy is different. Or, he was, at least. He was probably the best boyfriend you've ever had, the only one you ever saw yourself getting serious with. But then, he had to go and make buddy-buddy with the assholes in his department. Now your sweet boyfriend is gone and you're left picking up the pieces.

a/n: I actually got pissed at myself rereading this because she let him off way too easily at the end. So it's been revamped and, in my opinion, I think she gives him a proper amount of hell (Also, note the lyrics of this song, it’s going to be following those slightly misogynistic points for the first section of the plot)

more at: Belle’s 3k Extravaganza

wc: 12.7k

By no means are you the type of woman to throw on an apron and go all June Cleaver for a man. However, Sammy seems to be the exception to your rule. The first time you surprised him with dinner, there had been such earnest gratefulness in his eyes that you couldn’t help yourself. Every time you think of how stressed he gets at work, how much hell he receives on patrol, you just get the urge to take care of him. 

It’s bad enough you’re spreading it for a cop, now you can add traitor to feminism on the list. Who can blame a girl, though, when he’s got biceps like those? Every time you see him, you just want to sink your teeth in him. Mark your territory for any doe-eyed woman that tries to flirt her way out of a ticket. 

Most of your time is spent at his place so you can cook for him like you are tonight. Usually, while you wait for the food to finish, you find yourself cleaning up a little. The way he practically drops to his knees every time you take care of him has your sixth sense going off. 

You know it’s coming soon, him asking you to move in with him. Your female spidey-senses are primed to go off the second you find a man ready to commit. It is such a rare trait nowadays. 

It would be smart to say yes to him; you practically live with him already. But something is holding you back. No matter how much you care about him (maybe even love him), there is this gnawing thought that’s been plaguing you. Everything's been going good. 

Perfect, even. 

You’re crazy about each other, your fights are always resolved quickly, and he does anything he can to make you happy. But things are too easy, too conflict-free. Something bad is coming, you just know it. 

The lock clicks on the door, and you find yourself smiling, already untying your apron. Turning the heat down on the stove, you turn in time to see Sammy walking in. His face lights up as he sees you. 

He drops into your embrace the second you open your arms. You laugh a little, shifting your hips so his holster isn’t digging into you. He mutters into your neck how much he missed you, and you feel the rest of your carefully enforced independence shrink away. 

It’s inevitable. You’ve gone full housewife. 

“How was work?” You ask, dragging your hand through his hair as he pulls back. He shrugs you off, and you sigh, realizing this is going to be a man-no-talk-about-feelings night. He huffs and tosses his jacket on the kitchen island. 

Your gaze narrows, and you click your tongue once. Sammy’s eyes widen before he picks it up, moving it to the entryway closet. Where it belongs. 

“Good boy,” you murmur, smirking when you see the color that grows on his cheeks. 

He comes up behind you, arm winding around your waist. You glance down at his thick forearm and physically hold back the urge to dig your teeth into him. “God, sweetheart, this looks amazing,” he lets out a breathy exhale as he watches you finish up dinner. You grin, making him a plate as he lets go and takes a seat at the island. 

“Beer?” You ask, already getting it for him. I’m a traitor to my people, you think as you hand your man a cold one to go with the steak dinner you’d cooked. You’re making yourself your own plate when you catch him frowning at the stove. 

“What’s wrong?” He finally looks over at you and raises his brows. “I thought you liked this,” you tell him, nodding toward the food. 

He lets out a scoff and gives you an incredulous look. “‘Course I do, are you kidding? I love anything you cook.”

You fight back your smile at such simple praise. “Alright, why do you look like someone pissed in your beer, then?” 

His face screws up and you can’t help but laugh. Almost sheepish, he rubs the back of his neck, no longer meeting your eyes. “Got a couple guys from the station coming over.”

Shrugging, you finally take a bite of your dinner. Compliments to the chef, you think smugly. “What’s the big deal? Ben comes over all the time.”

Sammy moves his food around his plate and you glare down at the action. “They might be a little hungry.”

You let out an astonished scoff and he shrinks back with that boyish grin on his face that makes it nearly impossible for you to be mad. “Jeez, what am I, Sammy? Your girlfriend or maid? You know I don’t cook for any man.”

He glances down at his plate and then back at you with a pointed look. Rolling your eyes, you wave him off. “This is a rare exception because we have such amazing chemistry in bed. I swear, if you were an inch smaller down there, you’d be nuking stouffers.”

Sammy lets out a small huff of laughter that makes the constant tight feeling in your chest ease ever so slightly. “Glad to know what I’m worth. I’ll just order a pizza.”

“Shut up,” you tell him, already digging around in the fridge for some food to make his friends. You cut open a pack of kielbasa and toss it in a pan, your dinner going forgotten on the counter. Pointing a spatula at Sammy you warn him, “Don’t get used to this.”

He laughs at the sharp look on your face, his smile dropping when you pinch your lips, openly glaring at him. “Of course, sweetheart.”

You turn back to the stove with a weak sigh. “I’m only doing this because you’ve got that pathetic kicked puppy look on your face.” Quietly, he makes his way up to you, arms once again tugging you into his firm chest. 

“I promise,” he mutters into your neck, pressing a soft kiss there that has your stomach flooding with warmth. “I’ll make this up to you with my amazing bed chem,” he mocks. You laugh but it trails off as you melt further into him, an ache between your legs getting stronger the longer he kisses you. 

“You play dirty,” you mutter, and he smiles against your skin, knowing exactly what he’s doing. 

The guys he invites over seem nice enough. They’re loud, brash, and a little abrasive in the way your dad’s old friends used to be. Nothing you can’t handle or don’t expect from a group of off-duty cops. 

Though, your skin does crawl when you set the food out in the living room and you realize just the type of men you’re currently serving. Never ever again, you swear to yourself. There’s a knock at the door and you go to open it. 

A little piece of you relaxes when you look through the peephole and find Ben waiting on the other side. He smiles as you tug open the door. “Hey,” you greet, already pulling him into a hug. He presses a brief kiss to your temple and wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you back into the apartment. “You have no idea how relieved I am to see you,” you tell him. 

“Yeah?” He lets out a low whistle as he takes in the disaster area that is Sammy’s kitchen. “When’d you have time for all this?” He chuckles, plucking some of your leftover steak and popping it in his mouth. 

“When I skipped dinner,” you grumble, ignoring the concerned look he shoots you. “It’s just a one time thing,” you tell him. “Sammy’s seemed a little off lately, I figured he needed an easy night.”

“Yeah,” Ben walks up to you, hand once again finding your shoulder. “I’ve noticed that, too. Was getting a little worried.”

Any further conversation is interrupted as someone shouts, “Beer!” from the living room. You shoot Ben an astonished look that he only laughs at. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” Sammy trails off, eyes narrowing at Ben’s completely platonic touch on your arm. He walks over and swats his grip away, tugging you back into his chest. 

You let out a short chuckle at the amused look on Ben’s face. “I’ve been designated the beer wench,” you tell Sammy. He scowls, brows furrowing as he scoffs. 

“I’ll take care of it.” He reaches over for the dinner you’d abandoned and places it firmly in your hands. “Finish eating, sweetheart.” He doesn’t leave any room for argument, redirecting you to a seat as he points at Ben. “You’re with me, come on.” Ben shoots you one last grin before he helps Sammy carry the beer into the living room. 

The living room gets louder the longer they stay. For the most part, you manage to ignore it, flipping through your book as you pick at your dinner. 

“We need more dip!” Your brows furrow and you look up with a scoff. There’s no way they think you’re actually going to bring them any. Right?

Shaking your head, you settle back into your seat and resume reading. “Dip!” 

“Fuck me,” you mutter, shoulders tense as you work to ignore the assholes in Sammy’s living room. 

It’s not much longer until Sammy’s walking into the kitchen. His brows raise when he spots you at the table. You give him a tense smile that’s met with a confused frown. “I thought you were in my room.”

You shake your head, “Nope. Been in here the whole time.”

Sammy glances between you and the living room with a cute little furrow between his brows. “Can you hear us in there?”

“Oh yeah,” you scoff. “Loud and clear.” Your point is almost instantly proven by a loud round of jeering laughter that makes your skin shrink back. 

“Oh, well,” he hums, digging through the fridge to grab the dip. “How come you didn’t bring this?” He asks, holding up the container. 

Your eyes narrow sharply. “Maybe because it’s not the fifties and they’re grown men who can walk their asses into the kitchen themselves. Besides, you’re the only one I’m sleeping with, you’re the only one who gets to ask for it.”

A grin breaks out on his face as he walks over to you. You lean forward, chin tilting as his hand slides around your shoulder to cup the back of your neck. “I’ll get them under control,” he promises, pressing a lingering kiss against your lips. 

You just nod, head tilting as you admire his ass as he makes his way back into the living room. With a heavy sigh, you force yourself out of your chair and start cleaning up the disastrous array of dishes. 

Your hands are pruny and dried out by the time you’re done. So, with the most reluctant gait, you force yourself out into the living room to fetch your favorite lotion. A football game is playing on the TV at an obscene volume, but they seem to be ignoring it in favor of whatever card game they’ve got going on. 

Ben shoots you a small smile as he catches you creeping around the perimeter of the living room. Just as you’re about to sneak out, he calls your name, cutting through the buzz of chatter. “Gonna join us?”

His smug grin is met with a stare that promises death. “Oh, sure,” you grit out, wishing you could choke him out. Sammy waves you over and you perch on the edge of the couch’s armrest. “You winning?” You ask, glancing over his cards and finding yourself completely lost on whatever game it is they’re playing. 

One of his buddies lets out a loud laugh and Sammy’s cheeks go red. You’ll take that as a no. The guy reaches over, slapping Sammy’s shoulder. “Hey, who knows, maybe your little lady can be a good luck charm.”

“Don’t love that,” you whisper to Sammy as he takes you by the waist and pulls you onto his lap. 

“What,” he teases,  “you don’t like being my little lady?”

You slap at his shoulder and he just laughs. You make yourself comfortable, head resting in the curve of his neck as you watch a few more rounds of this odd game play out. It doesn’t seem that anyone’s particularly good at it. Every turn ends with someone muttering something obscene under their breath. 

When your brain has reached its threshold for drunken cheers, you turn your lips toward Sammy’s ear. “I’m going to bed,” you tell him. Already struggling to keep your eyes open. 

He peers over at you, eyes a little wide. “You’re staying the night?”

You pull back, slightly offended by his tone. “Don’t I always?” 

Something shifts on his face, this fleeting emotion that he doesn’t let you get a decent read on. “Yeah, yeah,” his tone is too light, so casual you don’t believe it. “I just don’t want us being loud and keeping you up.”

You just shake your head and press a firm kiss to his cheek. “You know I sleep through anything.” Balancing slightly on his shoulder, you push yourself up to your feet. 

“Calling it quits?” Ben asks, looking just as bored as you are. You just offer him a tired smile and move to head to Sammy’s bedroom. 

“Hey, sweetheart, you mind clearing some of this away so we can use the table?” Turning, you’re shocked to find one of Sammy’s buddy’s addressing you. Although, you’re not sure how you can be certain considering he doesn’t even look at you when he’s speaking, eyes too focused on his cards. 

“Excuse me?” You mutter, so taken aback you forget to tell him off. 

“You’re a doll,” he dismisses, swiping one of the other men’s cards. Stunned by the audacity and such blatant dismissal, you actually find yourself doing what he asks. It feels wrong as you bend down and scoop up the plates. You practically made them a feast, the least these assholes could do is help you clean up. 

With a low huff and a pointed glare at Sammy, you take the dishes into the kitchen. You don’t even want to clean them. You’ve already spent half an hour doing that tonight. But the idea of all this food being dried on the ceramic tomorrow disturbs you just enough to grab the sponge. 

Ben walks in from the living room, a couple of plates and glasses in his hands. He drops them by the sink and you send him a grateful smile. “Thought you were going to bed,” he muses, digging around in the fridge for another beer. 

A little bit of shame curls in your stomach as you clean up after the men in Sammy’s apartment. “Yeah,” you shrug. “I just don’t want to worry about this in the morning.”

He lets out a snort which snags a laugh from you. “Why would you worry? This ain’t even your place.”

Your hands still, soap and soggy crumbs dripping beneath your fingers as you hesitate to meet his eyes. “Well,” you force a cheeky smile and shrug. “Not yet, at least.” God, how pathetic are you?

He holds his hands up, surrendering even though you can see there’s more he wants to say. You watch him as he heads back into the living room and drop the dishes in the sink. You’re done for the night, you’ve done far more than you even wanted to. Sucking in a sharp breath you dry your hands and try to head back to bed. 

A quick, “Beer!” has you pausing at the threshold of the kitchen. It pains you, but you’re already in here and you don’t feel like looking petty in front of Sammy’s friends. Grumbling under your breath about men and getting off their fat asses, you pluck a beer from the fridge and plop it in the first outstretched palm you see. 

The man chuckles while Ben shoots you a surprised look. “Nice, Sammy. You’ve got her well-trained. Must’ve learned from the first marraige.” Your jaw actually drops as you stare at the balding man addressing your boyfriend. 

Another one pipes up, his laughter making your skin crawl. “Everyone knows the first is just a starter. It’s not until, at least, the third that you actually land a decent broad.”

You suck your teeth, staring pointedly at Sammy while you wait for him to pipe up. When he doesn’t, a low chuckle leaves you. “Hear that, baby? You got one more after me.”

Sammy finally meets your eye, just barely. His head ducks down as he shrugs. “They don’t mean it like that.” You let out an astounded gasp, looking around for anyone to support you on just how insanely backwards this whole conversation is. But the only one who will meet your eye is Ben and his stupid face just says “I told you so.”

“Right, okay.” You finally make your way into Sammy’s bedroom, just to grab your bag and turn your happy ass right around. “I’m going home, Sammy,” you call over your shoulder. 

“Wait- What?”

You hear Ben let out a little laugh while you grab your coat from the hook. “Hope you’re ready to get reacquainted with your right hand, man.” His tone is malicious. 

It’s strange, going to your own place after work. Not immediately starting on dinner. It’s a slight wake-up call that you’re committing too much of your time to a man who hasn’t even asked you to move in yet. 

Still, that doesn’t make you miss the smile he always greets you with any less. Tossing your coat on the back of your couch, you head into your kitchen. Your cabinets are hardly stalked, the majority of your meals taking place at Sammy’s apartment. Meaning your dinner tonight is going to be expired ramen and some saltines. 

You’ve had worse. 

Your phone rings just as you toss the ramen in the microwave. Glaring down at the screen you watch Sammy’s picture light up. Crossing your arms, you lean back on the counter and wait for it to stop. He immediately calls back and you decide to let him stew a bit. You allow three ignored calls before you finally pick up on the fourth. 

“Hey, sweetheart, where are you?” He’s doing a horrible job at masking the stress in his voice and it almost makes you smile. 

“I’m at my place. Where else would I be?” You turn to the microwave, watching as the water bubbles and froths over the lid of your ramen cup. Grimacing, you redirect your attention to Sammy. More importantly, the leftovers you know he has and you really want to dig into. 

“With me,” he supplies, laughter light and uneasy. 

You hum a little and shake your head. “I don’t know. Is this because you miss me? Or is it just because I’m so well trained?” You make zero effort to hide the venom in your tone. He should know he screwed up. He should have also already figured out that he was going to be put on a week-long sex probation after last night. 

Sammy lets out a low groan and you can picture the way he probably slides his hand across his jaw, eyes clenching shut. “I’m really sorry about that, honey. I swear, I told them off the second you left. I just got drunk and…”

“And… acted like the sort of jackasses I’ve already spent a lifetime dumping?” You supply for him. 

He lets out another low laugh and you hate how you find yourself smiling at the sound. “Exactly. So, would you come over? Let me make it up to you?”

You let out a sharp breath, eyeing your boiling dinner with disdain. “You’re lucky I don’t have anything to eat over here.”

You let yourself in with the key Sammy gave you. Not an invitation to move in, just an easier way for you to get in before him and have dinner ready. Maybe his friends were right, he does have you trained. 

Shaking away the disturbing thought, you narrow your eyes as Sammy walks out of the kitchen. He gives you that familiar smile of his you love and it takes every iota of self control not to return it. 

He frowns when you don’t reciprocate. “Really, sweetheart?” 

“What?” You take your coat off, kicking the door closed behind you. 

Sammy shoots you a flat look, palm finding a spot on your lower back as he guides you into the kitchen. “Is this how we’re playing it tonight? You want to be passive-aggressive?”

You scoff, some of your anger easing as you realize he’s made dinner, tonight. “I actually just prefer aggressive-aggressive, you should be happy I’m being passive.” Sammy just laughs and presses a firm kiss to your temple. 

“You’re impossible, you know that?” You hum, watching as he grabs two plates and drops them on the dining table. You follow him, moving to take a seat when his hands snake out and take a hold of your waist. 

“What’re you-” There’s no stopping the laugh that bubbles out of you as he tugs you onto his lap. And that knowing smile he sends you means he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “Yeah, I’m the impossible one,” you scowl, but it’s defeated by the smile tugging at your lips. 

He reaches up, brushing some hair over your shoulder as he shifts you in his lap. He’s got a better view of your face now, his expression softening into something sincere.  “I really am sorry about last night, hun. There’s no excuse.”

You bite your lip, arm lifting to wind over his shoulders. Inside, you’re still fuming, raging at him for not even attempting to defend you, just letting those guys speak to you like you were some maid. But you’ve spent years being the “cool” girlfriend, always letting shit slide so that guys don’t get tired of you after a month. 

So, instead of doubling down, you lean down and kiss him. “It’s fine, Sammy,” you tell him. 

Unfortunately, the cool girl syndrome has and always will be a chronic blight on your life.

“We, uh, have a schedule, now,” he tells you. His eyes drop from your face, fiddling with a stray thread on your sweater, instead. 

You swat his hand away before he ruins the hem. “What do you mean?” 

“Every Thursday night,” he tells you, head resting against your shoulder as you pick at the food he made. “There shouldn't be any more surprise drop-ins for you.”

You let out a huff that he tenses at. As much as you want to object, you’ve been on the receiving end of one of his rants when he was first divorcing Tammi. She had never wanted to go to his office functions. Never wanted to meet any of his cop buddies. She was always so neurotic and steadfast in being as separated from his work as she could be. 

You didn’t want to do that. You weren’t looking to be the girl that shit on her man hanging out with his friends just because you don’t like them (cool girl strikes again). You don’t want his friends to be right, you don’t want to just be the stepping stone while he looks for the third wife. 

“Alright,” you acquiesce and he perks up. That stupid, crooked grin almost makes it worth it. “But that bar-wench shit isn’t ever happening again,” you warn him, tone icy as you pull him back by his hair, forcing him to meet your eyes. 

Sammy nods eagerly, “I know, baby. We’re just gonna order pizzas from now on, you won’t have to do a damn thing.” Your gaze narrows into something sharp and he offers a timid smile. “And for the rest of tonight, I’m at your beck and call, promise.”

Slowly, you loosen your grip on his hair, running your fingers through the curls. And the way he preens when you call him a “Good boy” almost makes you think his friends won’t be a problem. 

There’s a game on the TV, soccer or football, you don’t know. Sammy’s got it turned down low so you can focus on your book. He’d dropped onto the couch an hour ago and hasn’t found the energy to move since. 

Peering over the edge of your book you watch as he pulls your legs into his lap, eyes never leaving the TV. A little smile curls on your lips as his hands idly stroke over your skin. He doesn’t even look like he’s aware he’s awake and he still needs his hands on you. 

You hide behind your book as your smile grows. Asshole, making you all flustered over something so small. 

Really, though, it’s not your fault that all your exes were pieces of crap. That now your standards are so low you think a man respecting your “no” is a sign of saintliness. 

Just as you settle back into your book, Sammy’s door slams open, loud footsteps sounding through the entryway. Your heart jumps to your throat, legs jolting as you try and get a look over the couch. Sammy’s hands tighten around your legs, stopping you from bolting. Despite the way you can feel your heartbeat in your abdomen and are about to soil yourself, Sammy looks utterly unbothered. 

“Where you at, man?” 

“Shit,” you hiss at the unnecessarily loud voice coming from the door. Grabbing your phone you check the date and, sure enough, it's Thursday. Like an idiot you’ve already forgotten that he and his buddies are now on a strict schedule. You’ve been getting good at staying away or making yourself unavailable during his Thursday night games. Not tonight, though. 

The bald cop, Tony, you think his name is, makes his way to the living room. He eyes you and Sammy, cackling when he sees your legs in Sammy’s lap. “Shit, man,” he slaps Sammy’s shoulder. “She’s got you whipped.”

It’s almost subtle, the way Sammy brushes you off, reaching up to greet the man with one of those bro hugs. But you know him too well, you’ve gotten too good at recognizing the slight flush on his face is embarrassment. As if showing your girlfriend affection is something to be ashamed of. 

No wonder they’re all divorced.

Curling completely into yourself, you watch Sammy jump up, heading into the kitchen to greet the rest of his friends streaming in. At the very least they’ve decided the dining table is a better place to play than the living room. That way you don’t have to sneak past them when you try to head into Sammy’s room. 

With something venomous burning inside you, you pick up your book again. You’ll just ignore them, read, and go about your night like they aren’t a newfound plague on your peace. As they all settle, it grows increasingly difficult to try and drown them out. 

They’re filling the apartment with expletives and insults straight from the eighties, clearly none of them are any good at whatever they’re playing. You’re not even sure why they get together. You’ve never witnessed one successful game. 

Through the tin of rowdy men, you manage to make out a knock on the front door. You can’t imagine it’s anyone from this group, they prefer just busting through like the Kool-Aid man. 

Sitting up, you tilt your head, trying to hear if anyone’s moving toward it. Another knock and then Sammy’s shouting, “Babe, can you get that?”

“Babe?” You scoff, nose wrinkling as you push off the couch. Sure, you’ll get the door he’s five feet from. You send him a glare he doesn’t bother acknowledging as you throw open the door. 

Ben’s waiting on the other side with an easy grin. He’s balancing an obscene amount of pizza boxes as you pull him inside. “Glad you’re here,” you tell him, taking half of the stack from him. 

“Thank you,” he mutters, trailing after you into the kitchen. Without even thinking, you’re grabbing plates, already pulling out slices for the others. 

Ben gives you an odd look, leaning against the island, head tilted as he watches you. “You’re turning domestic.” His tone is teasing, but it’s not friendly. It seems like a warning. 

Swallowing thickly, you shrug, too embarrassed to meet his eyes. “It’s not that big of a deal.” You pause, finally looking up at him and he offers you a knowing smirk. “Right?” You whisper, suddenly unsure of yourself. 

“Sure,” he grins, taking some of the plates for you. “Whatever you say.”

“You’re such an ass,” you hiss, following him into the dining room. His shoulders shake a little as he laughs and you roll your eyes. Sammy gives Ben a brief greeting, smiling up at you when you pass him his plate. 

You toss Tony’s plate on the table with barely enough control to not have the glass shatter. Just as you begin to walk off, his arm snaps out, hand wrenching your wrist back. “Ow,” you curse, frowning down at the tight grip. 

“How about a beer, sweetheart?” He doesn’t even look at you. 

You’re just about to tell him off when Sammy’s voice cuts through the chatter. “How about you keep your hands to yourself, Johnson?” The rest of the guys go quiet, looking up from their cards with nosy intrigue. Sammy’s just staring at Tony, and you swear you’ve never seen him so angry. 

You’ve heard him yell before, sometimes into the phone, a lot of the times when he’s ranted to you. But this was a lot colder than what you’ve experienced. Too calm to be safe. Slowly, Tony’s disgusting, clammy hand releases your arm. 

Sammy doesn't look away, cards splayed carelessly on the table as he leans forward. “You touch her again and we’re gonna have a problem. Got it?” 

God, that’s hot.

Tony cows under Sammy’s glare. He shrugs, picking up his cards and muttering how he didn’t mean anything by it. You just scoff, glaring down at the bald bastard. Then, just as you’re thinking about dragging Sammy into the bedroom for being so commanding, he laughs. 

Your lips part in astonishment, Ben’s head snaps to him with a furrowed brow. Sammy reaches over the table and slaps Tony’s shoulder. “Ah, come on, man. I’m fuckin’ with you. No big deal.” The other men let out stilted laughter, trying to get over the sudden tension. 

Sammy looks over at you, “Right, babe?”

No, it’s a big fucking deal. If I feel those clammy palms one more time, I’ll cut off his fat fingers and serve them to you all on the next game night. 

And stop fucking calling me that!

“Whatever,” you mutter, eyes narrowing at him as you swallow every venomous word down. Your dignity burns as it tries to crawl its way back up your throat. But, you force it down, making yourself turn around before you say something you regret. 

But, then, Tony chuckles. “Well, the beer, sweetheart?”

That fraying thread of self-control unwinds just a little more as you turn around to glare down at Tony. “You got legs, don’t you? Go get your own fucking beer.”

One of the other guys pipes up, snickering at you like you’re just a little dog yapping at them. “You on the rag or something? Just bring us another round.”

At this point, you don’t even look to Sammy for help. You already know he’s not going to do jack shit. He’s clearly too much of a pussy to snap back at guys with seniority over him. “Pigs,” you mutter, not caring if they hear as you storm off to the bedroom. 

The door to Sammy’s room is closed in a poor attempt to block out the noise that’s starting to give you a migraine. You can still hear them, laughing and making fun of each other like they didn’t just humiliate you. Like they didn’t just drag your sweetheart of a boyfriend to the dark side. 

You glare down at your phone, an article about that jackass Tony glaring back up at you. You’ve seen multiple bodycam videos, smaller articles, all about this asshole who uses excessive force and has been involved in multiple internal affairs investigations. Sammy might have a shorter temper than most, but he’s not corrupt and he doesn’t just casually hang out with pieces of shit like this. He definitely doesn’t play about someone putting their hands on you. There’s something about this whole situation that seems wrong. You just haven’t figured out what, yet.

The door slowly creaks open and you look up with a scowl. Sammy never checks on you when these guys are over. So, it’s not much of a surprise when you see Ben poking his head inside. “Hey,” he offers a tentative smile. 

You sit up, patting the spot on the bed by the footboard. “What’s up?” You ask, anger simmering down slightly as he drops himself beside you. 

“So,” he flexes his hands, gaze darting to the door before landing on you again. 

You give him a shaky smile. “What’s up, Ben? You’re acting weird.” You tilt your head and shrug. “Weirder than usual.”

He lets out a low laugh, nudging you with his elbow. “Shut up.” For the first time since game nights began, there’s a genuine smile on your face. “What do you think of Sammy’s new buddies?” He nods toward the dining room and you scoff. Whatever face you make clearly says everything you haven’t because he sucks his teeth and nods. 

“Yeah, I’m not much of a fan, either.” 

“What the hell is going on? I’ve never even heard half their names before and suddenly they’re infesting our apartment.” Ben’s brows perk at the slip up and you shake your head, brushing it off. 

He rubs the back of his neck, shifting further up the bed. “I don’t know, there was a change in the shift rotation, we’ve been seeing a lot more of them lately. I can’t believe he’s actually getting along with the assholes.”

“Yeah,” you laugh, but it does nothing to mask the hurt in your voice. “How the hell do you think I feel?” He looks over at you, expression softening at the pain on your face. Carefully, he wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in for a brief hug. 

He seems hesitant to even touch you, probably out of respect for Sammy. But you’ll take whatever comfort you can get, as small as it may be. 

Just as you rest your head on him, the bedroom door creaks open completely. Sammy walks in, brows furrowed and a scowl on his face as he takes in the both of you. “Was wondering where you went,” he mutters, glaring at the arm Ben has around you. 

Ben lets out an awkward sigh, slowly letting you go. You almost complain, but you don’t feel like dealing with any more machismo drama tonight. 

“What’s going on?” Sammy asks, closing the door behind him as he steps into the room. He stands in front of you both, arms crossed in that way that usually makes you want to bite him. But your attraction to him tonight has been severely and utterly depleted. 

“We were just discussing the impeccable manners of our guests,” you joke, trailing off when he doesn’t even crack a smile.

“My guests,” he corrects, tone painfully sharp. 

“Right, well,” you stutter, completely unsure of yourself. You’ve had too manny slip ups tonight. You’ve allowed yourself far too many moments of delusion thinking that Sammy might actually take the relationship a step further. 

Ben jumps in, a scowl on his face as he gets to his feet. “You’re acting like she doesn’t practically live with you, man. Cleaning the place and-”

“Butt out,” Sammy snaps, taking a step closer to Ben. You can feel it brewing, the tension that always seems to linger between them. They’re one pissing contest away from just beating each other bloody. 

“Hey, you know,” you get up and stretch with a dramatic yawn. “I’m pretty tired, think I might go to sleep.” Sammy’s eyes dart toward yours before he takes the hint, scoffing as he storms out of the room. 

Ben shoots you one last look before he follows after him. In the wake of their absence, something like shame seems to fill you. Your relationship is deteriorating right before your eyes, slipping through your fingers. It feels like you’re just letting it happen. Should you be doing something more?

Is this just a phase he needs to go through?

He did skip the whole bachelor pad thing after his divorce, pretty much already ready to date you. Maybe some part of him never got to expel that chauvinistic resentment of Tammi and he’s doing it now. Not that it makes it any better. 

Turning off the lamp, you lay down over the comforter and force your eyes to close. 

Barely a few hours later, you can feel the bed dipping behind you. Sammy’s arms wind around your waist, careful as they pull you into his chest. He’s trying not to wake you, completely unaware that you’ve been up the past few hours debating the future of your relationship.

There's a part of you that thinks you've figured out why he's acting like this, why he would ever possibly hang around these clowns. But it's not good enough to excuse how he's been behaving.  

“They gone?” You grumble, holding stubbornly to your pillow so you don’t give in and turn around to hug him. 

“Yeah,” he hums, the noise vibrating against your back. He pulls you closer, lips slowly trailing along your neck, hands dipping to the waistband of your shorts. Your eyes narrow and you bite back a scoff. He can’t seriously think he’s going to get lucky tonight? 

“Just need to clean up,” he tells you, hands pausing their descent. The silence between you is loud, it takes a moment before you catch his meaning. 

“When the hell did I turn into your maid?” He stiffens behind you, arms tightening around you. “Not my guests,” you spit out, “not my fucking problem.”

“Oh, baby,” he rolls you over and you hold tight to the pillow. He frowns down at it as it pushes him back from you. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he promises, attempting to tug the pillow from your hands. 

You kick out at his ankle and glare. “What did you mean it like? And what was all that with Tony? You’re just going to pretend like it wasn’t a big deal?”

With a low grunt, he wrenches the pillow from your hands. You scowl as he pulls you into him. “I’m really sorry, honey,” he whispers, brushing some hair off your cheek. “That was just…” You raise your brows, so fascinated with whatever BS excuse he’s got this time. 

Sammy just sighs, forehead falling against your own as he gives up entirely. “Pathetic,” you whisper. “You’ve got nothing?” Your finger digs into his side and he lets out a low laugh. 

“No, nothing.”

“Well then-”

“‘Cept this,” he cuts you off, lips finding yours as he rolls over, taking you with him and settling you comfortably on his lap. You can’t help the little moan that slips out, hips Pavlov’d into immediately moving against his. 

His hands drift down, palms finding your ass as he pulls you tighter against him. “You do not play fair,” you mutter against his lips. He just lets out another laugh, thrusting up into you and shocking another moan from you. 

“Never said I did,” he teases, hands already reaching for the hem of your shirt. With a defeated sigh, you relent, sitting up and peeling off your top. His hands trail up your body, rough callouses ticking the sensitive skin as he cups your breasts. 

You fist his shirt in your hands, dragging him up to meet your lips. “Off,” you demand, tugging at his t-shirt. Sammy’s quick to oblige, soft muscles of his abdomen flexing as he tears it off. What little patience he has snaps as you finally take off your bra. You can't help the laugh that tears out of you when he grabs your waist and flips you over, pressing you into the pillows. 

His lips carve a path down your body, skin igniting under every touch as he hooks his fingers into the band of your shorts. “Let me make it up to you?” He asks, shoulders already parting your thighs. 

You consider it, he does look handsome between your legs like that. But there’s a barbed hurt in your chest, and humiliation from earlier tonight that makes your tongue knot.

Mouth souring, you shake your head and pull back. “No,” his face falls and you can’t help the cruel laugh that slips from you. You tug him up by his chin and offer a sharp smile. “No sex until you get your little buddies under control.” His jaw drops before his head is falling to the crook of your neck. 

“You don’t play fair,” he grumbles, and you can feel just how unfair you’re being by how tight his boxers are. 

“Never said I did,” you hum, pressing a kiss to his temple and rolling over. Sammy follows, arms winding around your waist as he mutters to himself. 

He can clean his apartment by himself. He can cook his own meals and talk shop with his friends as much as he wants. But he does not get to disrespect you and think everything’s going to be fine and dandy. 

You’ll just have to discuss this with him when you’re both not pent up and disappointed. 

Your head is resting on his lap, his hands idly stroking along your spine when he laughs. You peer up, curious as you try and catch a glance at his phone. “What is it?”

“Come here,” he pulls on your arm and you sit up, curling into his side. “Just some stupid shit from the guys.” He offers you his phone and you take it, stomach already burning with anticipation. Please just be Ben being a sweet dumbass and not something horrible. 

T > Rookie lost it on me today

J > That one’s got a stick up her ass

T > I swear to God I can’t even get through a goddamn conversation without her calling me a Pig. 

Your stomach knots itself completely as you glance over at Sammy. He’s already turned his attention to the TV, completely unaware of your internal meltdown. Then, the kicker, Sammy, replying to J’s message. 

Pretty sure it’s just a tampon

It’s immediately followed by one of those morons sending a gif of Miss Piggy losing it.

Not only did your man just make a goddamn period joke, they dragged Miss Piggy into this. How the fuck dare they? 

You toss Sammy’s phone onto his lap and he lets out a slight groan as it nails his groin. “What,” he trails off at the look on your face. “Oh, come on, sweetheart. It’s not that big a deal.”

Crossing your arms, you put as much space between the two of you as you physically can. “You really think that’s funny?” Sammy rolls his eyes, turning back to the TV and ignoring you. “Fuck that,” you hiss, reaching over and turning it off. 

Sammy’s glare is sharp and for the first time he looks like he has no interest in you. That look on his face is just flat, empty as he waits for you to get your rant over with so he can go back to his game. 

“So, you agree with that shit?” You demand, heart pumping a little too fast. 

Sammy’s head sinks back into the couch cushions with a heavy sigh. “No, come on, leave it alone. It’s just a joke.” Tears sting your eyes as you're reminded of every failed relationship. Every moment you were dismissed or appeased so they could just go back to whatever they want, not giving a damn about how you feel. 

“Seriously, Sammy. When I’m upset and just happen to be on my period, do you just dismiss how I’m feeling? Pretend to give a shit so you don’t have to deal with me? When I’m upset do you just think I’m being ridiculous?” 

You’re honestly not trying to start a fight. But you’d grown up around the type of men who knew blaming it on your cycle was the best way to shut you up. The most effective way to invalidate your feelings and make you feel so small. You need to know if the man you care so much about has secretly been that sort of man this whole time. 

Sammy scrubs his hand down his face and lets out an incredulous laugh. “This is different,” he defends, staring at you like you’re overreacting. 

And maybe you are, maybe you aren’t. At this point, it doesn’t matter, because there is no excuse for just how much he’s changed over a few weeks. “How is it different?”

Sammy just shakes his head. He gives you a flat look and scoffs, turning the TV back on. You purse your lips, biting your tongue so the tears don’t spill. “I don't like your new friends.” He either doesn’t notice how choked up you sound or doesn’t care. 

“Good thing you’re not my mom,” he mutters. 

“No,” you stand up and he sighs. “Just your live-in maid.” Sammy lets out another tired sigh, head sinking into his hand as you collect your things.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going home, Sammy. “ And as the door slams behind you, he doesn’t try to stop you. 

As you head to his apartment, making sure it's not a Thursday, you have to build yourself up. Give yourself a dozen pep talks before you manage to crawl up the stairs. 

You’re going to sit down. You’re going to have a conversation. After a copious amount of research on his new friends, you've come to your own conclusion. This has to be some sort of undercover shit he's doing for internal affairs to try and bust these asssholes. But that doesn't change the fact that prolonged exposure to their behaviors has shifted who he is as a person. Changed him into a man you want nothing to do with.

He should have given you a heads up. Told you to stay clear for a few weeks while he works on this. Anything other than throwing you into this deep-end blind.

By the end of the night you’re either going to be single, again, or have the man you care about back. 

Tonight, you knock instead of using your key, just needing another minute before you face him. When the door opens, you’re caught off guard by the wide smile on his face. “Oh, thank god.” He reaches out, arms wrapping around your waist as he tugs you into him. 

“Uh, hi,” you smile, taken aback by the sudden surge of affection. You barely have a moment to hug him before he’s pulling back. 

“Guys are coming over tonight,” he tells you, and your heart drops to your ass as the door closes behind you. “Think you could whip something up for us, baby? I didn’t have time to call the pizza place.”

You’re stunned, absolutely gobsmacked by his audacity as he pulls you into the kitchen. While you’re frozen, jaw permanently dropped, he pulls off your coat and positions you in front of the stove. He even goes so far as to tie on your apron for you. 

“I thought you guys meet on Thursdays?” You mutter absentmindedly, blindly pulling ingredients out of the fridge. 

“Had a change of plans today,” he presses a kiss to your cheek, and then he’s gone. A minute later you hear his shower start up. You stare down at the stove for a long time before you finally move. 

You whip up a feast for him, a last meal if you will. Because you don’t need a conversation anymore. You know exactly how this night is going to end. Might as well give him something decent to eat while you dump him. 

The guys start to flood in while he’s still in the shower. They don’t take their shoes off, tracking mud across the linoleum, something Sammy can look forward to cleaning up on his own. They don’t greet you, acknowledge your existence, just grab a beer and carry on. 

Feeling numb, you dig through the fridge, finding an expired carton of milk that smells nauseatingly like sulfur. You pour it into your pan, expression flat as the clumps begin to slough out. 

The door opens again, you can hear the person taking their shoes off and know who it is before he walks in. “Need any help?”

You don’t turn to face Ben, just toss a handful of vegetables into the pan. “Don’t eat the dip,” you warn him. 

“Uh,” he lets out an awkward chuckle. You turn, eyes narrowed as you shake your head. “Well, shit, alright. You got Visine in there or something?” 

“Might as well,” you shrug. Slowly, eyes a little wide, he backs out of the kitchen. You just swallow down another wave of fiery rage as you brew up a crime against cooking. But, it will absolutely give them diarrhea for the next week, so you’ll pardon yourself this one time. 

Your anger and hurt just builds and festers with every call for beer. Every shouting bought of laughter that makes your shoulders jump and your head throb. By the time Sammy makes it out of the shower, your mind has been entirely made up. Humiliation has gone cold and turned your blood to ice as you stand in his kitchen. 

No part of you melts or swoons when he comes up to you with wet curls and presses a kiss to your cheek. His hands hover over your waist, brows furrowing when you don’t turn to reciprocate. You quietly plate his food, giving him an extra serving of dip, and pass it off to him. 

“Hey,” he puts the plate on the counter, voice low and soft. “What’s wrong?” He tries to get you to look at him but you stay stubbornly rooted in place, idly pushing the food around in the pan. 

“Were you ever going to ask me to move in with you?” 

He goes stiff, backing up with a frown that somehow breaches your walls and makes your chest ache. Never been good with rejection, you remind yourself, poorly attempting to build those walls back up. “It’s a little soon, don’t you think?”

You can’t look at him. The second you do, you know you’re just going to cry. You finally thought you were good enough for someone. That someone actually liked you, flaws and all. But, like every other relationship you’ve had, you were just deluding yourself. 

Sucking your teeth, you just nod. “Are we okay?” He asks, taking the food and backing up. 

“Fine,” you tell him, turning to bring the rest of the snacks to the dining room. Sammy takes his seat, still looking worried as you set everything up. Ben reaches for the dip and you swat his hand, his eyes widen slightly as he remembers your warning and he backs off. 

The last plate you set down is with barely any care. You’re angry and hurt, about to leave the one relationship you really thought would last. So, a little sauce splatters on the guys shirts. Not enough to do permanent damage, but enough to have them bitching. 

“Damn it!”

“What’re you blind?”

Smiling, you straighten up and let out a sharp laugh. “Alright, I’m done.”

Sammy frowns, hand tightening around his fork. “With the food?” Oh, and that poor pathetic ounce of hope in his voice makes something in you burn. 

The TV is blasting behind you and it’s just another noise adding to the pain in your head. You pick up the remote, shutting it off for a moment of peace. Immediately, the grown men in front of you boo, one even tosses a napkin at you, hand reaching for the remote. 

And you just… snap. 

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up! Jesus Christ, I am so sick of this, of all of you.” They go quiet as you slam the remote on the table, plates trembling. “You are grown men, you want a beer, then you go get it your goddamn selves. And before any one of you fuckers says some shit about me being on my period… I want it to be very clear that I have never been dryer in my life than I am looking at you pathetic excuses for men.”

Sammy stands as you undo your apron, tearing it off and tossing it at him. But you’re not done, it’s just pouring out- everything you didn’t say. Everything you held back for a man who never really wanted you. 

“God, you wonder why the female rookies don’t like you people! It’s because everytime she performs better than you, everytime she calls you on your shit, you undermine her and blame it on the ‘rag.’ You’re just pathetic little men who can’t handle a woman who is secure in her job because it reminds you of just how small you are.”

Your face is hot, chest heaving as you stand there, staring at them all. You’re sure they’ve seen this meltdown before. During their divorce proceedings, watching as their marriage fell apart or their daughters stopped talking to them. But, for once, they are blessedly silent and you feel like you can actually breathe again. 

There’s laughter and you look up to find Ben leaning back with a grin. He surveys the other’s faces and lets out a low whistle. You’re almost tempted to laugh with him. 

Then, Sammy reaches for you, hand hesitant as it lands on your shoulder. “Sweetheart-”

“No,” you snap, voice quieter now. He flinches as you slap his hand away, hazel eyes wide and shining with hurt. “I am done with you, Sammy. Alright?”

“What?” His eyes dart to the others and he takes a desperate step closer to you. But you just shove him back. “Hun, let’s talk about this.”

“No, no I’m done doing that. So, uh, enjoy cracking a beer with the boys without the drama of your untrained woman. You’ve got a right hand, what the fuck else do you need me for?” You grab your purse and shake your head.

Sammy chases after you but you’re not letting him weasel his way out of this again. You’d made a promise to yourself. You’re leaving single tonight, he’s had far too many chances to get his act together. 

Just as you’re running into the parking lot, you hear footsteps racing toward you. You whip around, watery glare turning confused when you see Ben catching up with you. “Hey,” he calls out your name and you let out a tired sigh as you stop. 

“Look,” he darts in front of you, slightly out of breath. “As entertaining to watch as that was, what’s happening… It’s not what you think.”

“I know,” you interrupt him. 

His mouth droops before snapping shut again. “Huh?”

“It’s got to do with an investigation, right?” Slowly, he nods, infuriatingly surprised by you connecting the dots. “Yeah, I figured that out a while ago, Ben. But he didn’t give me any warning before he turned into this Don Draper wannabe. He didn’t prep me or just keep me out of this. This all being a part of something bigger doesn’t change or excuse how humiliated he made me feel.”

Ben wants to say more, you can see it on his face. His arm lifts before falling limply to his side. With a sigh, he runs his hand over his face and offers you a sorry smile. “Do you need a ride home?” He asks softly. 

“No, but I appreciate it.” He nods, and you blink, eyes burning as you stare down at the pavement. Hesitantly, his hand lands on your shoulder, softly squeezing before he backs up. 

“Take care of yourself.”

You hum, throat too tight for words and wait for him to go back into the building before you let the tears fall. 

When you wake up the next morning, your eyes are crusted from crying too much and your head is throbbing from, again, crying a ridiculous amount. Blindly, you grope around your nightstand until you find your phone. 

It shouldn’t be a shock that Sammy’s reached out, but the amount of missed calls on your screen is a number you didn’t think you could ever reach. 

He’s also blown your messages up. The majority of them promising to explain his behavior. Asking you to call him. Give him one more chance (he’s had plenty). And then there are ones where you can tell he’s starting to get pissed off that you’re just ignoring him. 

Serves him right. 

Your thumb twitches against the call back button. Almost wanting to hear how he’s going to explain this away. But you force yourself to put the phone down. You swore to yourself, no more cool girl BS. You’re not going to just let him treat you how he did and get away with it. 

So, as difficult as it is, you mute his notifications. You don’t have it in your heart to block him, not yet. But you can at least spare yourself the misery of watching his picture light up your screen every ten minutes. 

Occasionally, though, throughout the week you have a moment of weakness. You’ll check to see just how much more he’s reached out and then listen to a few voicemails. They all relatively sound the same:

“Please, sweetheart call me back” and then you’ll hear Ben in the background “Man, this is pathetic” Sammy will tell him to shut it and, again, plead for you to just give him a minute of your time. 

When you start to feel really lonely, when your bed is just too cold and too big, you almost do it. You’re so close to just calling him so you can hear something other than the quiet of your apartment. This space that has become foreign to you because Sammy’s place was becoming home. And then, you’re reminded of how he treated you, what he took from you both by not just giving you a heads up on the investigation. And you put your phone down, hurt and angry all over again. 

By weeks end, your friends call you out to go to a club with them. They don’t know you broke up with Sammy, they think you’re still the perfect couple. Which leads to a night filled with painful, barbed reminders of how alone you are now, while your friends bemoan how perfect and sweet your relationship is. 

You should have told them the truth before you went out with them. But they’ve witnessed so many messy breakups from you. They’d probably just blame you. If you can’t keep a decent guy like Sammy than it has to be you whose the problem. 

So, after a long night of playing the designated driver (because you’re the only one happy and dating someone, in theory) and being reminded of how amazing your relationship used to be… You’re already in a foul mood when a passing cop decides it’ll be funny to get a handful of your ass. 

Not just a slap or a quick squeeze, either. This man puts both palms, cups your cheeks, and nearly lifts you in the air he squeezes so tight. And you, completely ignoring his badge, treat him how you would any other creep. 

You deck him. 

Suddenly your face is pressing against the hood of a patrol car. Your friends are shouting “We’re recording this, babe!” And you’re being cuffed and thrown into the back of their car. 

But, hey, at least your friends recorded it. 

“Whoa!” Ben is the first one to see you as you’re pulled into the station. You’d consider yourself lucky if seeing him didn’t mean Sammy was around somewhere. 

“What the hell are you doing?” He snaps at your arresting officer while the piece of shit jerks your arm out of socket. 

“She assaulted an officer,” his partner pipes up. Your gaze goes to the deep black bruise ringing his eye and you grin. 

“All right,” you huff. “Like he didn’t assault me first.”

Ben’s eyes dart between the both of you, his jaw clenching when he sees the marks on your arm from your rough detainment. “What happened?” He asks you, holding up a hand when the cop tries to talk. 

“I was out with some friends and this asshole thought he could just stick his hand up my dress.”

“Didn’t take much,” that bitch smirks. “Look at the length of that thing-”

“Hey!” Ben snaps and it catches the attention of some of the others milling around. “That’s enough. Now let her go.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Ben pushes the guy away, taking his key and working off one of your cuffs. “This is Sammy’s girl, you’re lucky I’m the one that found you, not him.”

The guys eyes widen and he backs off with a huffy sigh. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” your stomach rolls with disgust. “But if it were any other woman, you’d still somehow make yourself the victim? I see I only hold value when there’s a man attached to my name.”

“Alright,” Ben puts his hand on your back, turning you before you provoke another fist fight. “I’m sorry about that.”

He sits you down at his desk and watches you carefully. “I should file a lawsuit,” it’s an empty threat but you seriously considered it on the ride over. 

Ben snorts, eyeing you up and down carefully. “How’ve you been doing?”

“Fine,” you shrug. “About as well as anyone is after a breakup.”

Ben leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, a seriously concerned look on his fac. “He’s falling apart.”

“Ben…”

“Seriously, and not just because you poisoned him with spoiled dip,” that brings a small smile to your face. Ben returns it for a moment before his face settles into something more serious. “I don’t know how much more I can take. He’s snapping at any little thing. He won’t stop bitching at me. I’m losing my mind.”

“Look,” you rub your wrist and look away. “Am I being booked or not? I want to go home.”

Ben sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “You’re not getting booked.”

“Thank you,” and before you can even get up, he’s grabbing the loose handcuff and snapping it to his desk. Your eyes widen, stomach sinking as you tug futilely at it. “Ben,” you hiss. “What the fuck?”

“I’m sorry,” he shrugs off his jacket, laying it over your lap so your dress doesn’t ride all the way up. “But I can’t take this anymore.” 

Your jaw drops as he walks off and you know exactly where he’s going. “Traitor!” You shout at his back, he gives you a sarcastic thumbs up that almost make you wish you had a gun. 

You’re sitting there for about ten minutes before Sammy’s rushing up. Most of the guys in here know you, but the few that don’t keep asking how much a night will cost. You’re starting to think it might be time to retire this dress. 

“Hey,” your name rushes from him in one panicked breath. “What’s happening? Why are you cuffed?”

You suck your teeth and give him a sharp smile. “Your partner decided to play Cupid.” Sammy’s brows furrow, his hands already working on taking the cuffs off. 

“Yeah, but why are you here?” He asks, thumbs brushing over the split skin of your knuckles. You jerk your hand back before his soft touch weakens your resolve. Sammy frowns and you can’t make yourself meet the hurt look in his eyes. 

“Some asshole grabbed a handful outside The Strip tonight.”

“What the hell were you doing over there?” His tone is far too sharp for a man you’ve already broken up with. Eyes narrowed, your face snaps to his. 

“Tone,” you snap. Sammy’s jaw clenches but he backs off a little. “I was out with some friends. Still, being near that place doesn’t just give guys an excuse to grope me.”

Sammy takes a hold of your arm, pulling you away from Ben’s desk and leading you toward an empty room. “I’m not saying it does. I just thought I’ve told you a lot about staying away from there. You know how many half-naked girls we’ve had to pull from their alley?”

“Jesus,” you huff, pulling your arm away as he closes the door. “I got it. I was trying to go home, anyway.”

“Why-” Sammy stops himself, taking a deep breath as color grows on his cheeks. You wait for another lecture but he seems to love proving you wrong. “Why haven’t you called me back?” 

Your jaw slacks, an unintelligible garble of words stuttering its way free. “Seriously?” You land on, voice pitched with anger. Sammy’s eyes widen, glancing through the windows of the room to make sure no one’s paying attention. Taking in a deep breath, you force yourself to keep your voice mellow. 

You really don’t need to be arrested tonight. Again. 

“Sammy, that’s why you dragged me in here? Not because a cop copped a feel?” His expression falls flat at your poor excuse for a joke. Fuck me, then, God forbid you try and ease the tension. 

“Obviously I’m upset about that, sweetheart. But it’s not your fault and it’s not you I’m going to be telling off for it. I’ll deal with him later.” You’re sure that means Sammy’s going to beat the guy half to death and Ben will have to clean up the mess.

“Right now, I want to know why you’re just pretending I don’t exist. Like we haven’t been dating for six months.”

Your feet are aching from the obnoxiously tall heels you took out tonight. Not bothering to look at him, you take a seat at one of the desks and peel them off, letting out a low sigh of relief. Sammy just watches with his arms crossed, clearly at the end of his thread. 

“Look, babe, I don’t know what you’re not getting about me being done with you, but we’re through. No sex. No calls. No texts. This is what happens when people break up, Sammy.”

Sammy lets out a stressed sigh, lips pulling down as he drags his hand through his hair. “You don’t understand. I had to act like an ass, baby, I’m-”

“Working on an investigation?” You finish, giving him an unimpressed glare. “Yeah, Sammy. I’m not a moron, I figured out why you were acting like a chauvinistic pig all of a sudden. The problem here isn’t that, it’s the lack of communication that led to me being completely humiliated.”

His arms drop to his sides and he just stares, mind spinning as he struggles to figure out a way out of this. Spoiler, there isn’t one. 

“I don’t- What do you want me to do, hm? What can I do to make this better?”

You’re ready to dismiss him when you catch an officer’s eye through the window of the room. They’re all out there, his buddies, the asshole that arrested you. Watching and trying to pretend like this isn’t the most interesting thing that’s happened tonight. 

Slowly, you drag your gaze back to Sammy, a cruel smile pulling on your lips. “Beg.”

He stills, eyeing you warily. “What?” His tone is incredulous, slightly taken off gaurd. 

You shrug, “You really want me back?”

“You know I do.”

“Aright, beg.” You tilt your head, wondering if he’s actually capable of swallowing down his pride. 

Slowly, Sammy takes another step closer. “Please, sweet-”

“Hm, no,” you click your tongue, shaking your head in disappointment. “Do this properly, Sammy. On your knees.” His jaw clenches and it's audible how he swallows. Sammy turns toward the blinds and you sigh. “Blinds open. Unless you’re just full of it?”

“You know I’m not,” he grits out, cheeks flushing as a few officers fail to hide their peeping. You almost think he’s going to give up. Before you can scold him for taking too long, he’s dropping to his knees in front of you.

Your eyes widen imperceptibly and it’s an effort not to give away your shock. Sammy’s hands skate over the smooth skin of your legs, squeezing around your calves. “I fucked up, honey, I know that. I will do anything I can to make up for it, just, please, give me another chance.”

It’s a power rush, having such a domineering man on his knees in front of you. That boost to your ego is almost enough to make you cave. But you know Sammy, he can certainly do better than this. He just hates the idea of any of his men seeing it. 

Pursing your lips, you lightly kick your leg out. “Put my heels on for me.” He huffs, clearly upset by the lack of response, but he listens anyway. Getting to your feet, Sammy follows, expression expectant. 

You pat his shoulder in that condescending way men always do to you. “That was cute, hun. But I’m not changing my mind. You want to fix this, you’re going to have to work a little harder than that.”

Sammy doesn’t object, just scratches at his jaw and lets out a disbelieving sigh. You give him a sharp smile before you make your way to the door. “You're unbelievable,” he calls after you. You shrug, not bothering to look back as you make your way out of the station. 

A week after your “arrest,” you’re flipping through channels when a familiar face catches your eye. Tony, the crapbag that Sammy had around, has been arrested. As well as a bunch of other game-night regulars. Extortion, violation of civil rights, spoliation, and a list as long as your arm that just keeps on going. Truly, they are the epitome of scumbags. 

You can understand why Sammy was so bent on getting them put away. Even if it came at the risk of your relationship. As much as that makes him a good cop and an honorable man, it doesn’t make him a better boyfriend. 

Still, you find your hand inching toward your phone, finger hovering over his contact. You bite your lip, debating the risks when someone knocks on your door. Frowning, you toss your phone on the couch and get up to take a look through the peephole. 

It’s like he’s got a sensor for when you’re feeling weak. 

Sammy stands on the other side, hands shoved in his pockets as he rocks back on his heels. You step back with a huff and glance down at yourself. Taking an extra minute to hike up your shorts and adjust your boobs, you throw the door open. 

“Can I help you, officer?”

He scoffs, lips pulled in an endeared grin. “Still mad, I take it?”

You pause, taking inventory of emotions. The sting of humiliation has eased slightly since you practically put him on a leash at the station. And you do genuinely understand the motivations behind his behavior, you just wished he hadn’t executed it all so stupidly. 

“No, I’m not angry, Sammy. I just wish you a happy life of erectile dysfunction and involuntary abstinence.” Pulling back, you go to close the door when he slips his boot inside. Glaring up at him, you frown. “Got a warrant?”

“Enough,” he scolds, pushing the door open. You stumble back with an affronted noise. “You’re not breaking up with me.”

If it were any of your other exes, you’d probably be terrified right now. But he’s not being malicious or threatening to stalk you or take out your family if you don’t unblock him. Instead, there’s almost a slight thrill coming to life in you. 

“What?” You scoff. 

“I’m not agreeing to this,” he says simply, eyeing your skimpy pajamas with an appreciative gleam in his eye. 

You scoff and cross your arms,“That’s not how this works, Sammy.”

He shrugs, “Tough.” When he takes another step closer, you’re almost tempted to run, to drag this out a little longer. But his arms are already winding around your waist and he’s heaving you over his shoulder before you even get a chance to blink. 

“Uh, Sammy,” you grasp at his shirt as he marches through your apartment. “What the hell are you doing, you neanderthal?”

“I’m going to make it up to you,” you lift your head and peer around him to see he’s walking you straight into your room. Oh, that’s how he’s going to play this. “Then,” you let out a shocked laugh as he drops you on your bed. 

His grin widens at the sound as he grabs your ankles, pulling you even closer to him. “I’m going to ask you to move in with me.”

Your heart races as your expression falls. Your gaze darts to his eyes, trying to figure out if he means this or if this is just a last ditch effort to get you back. “What?” You shake your head, but he doesn’t let you pull away. “Sammy, do you really mean this?”

“‘Course I do, sweetheart,” he brushes a strand of hair off your cheek and leans down to kiss you. Your arms wind around his shoulders off muscle memory. 

But you force yourself to pull back, noses brushing as you take a good long look at him. “I’m not playing housewife anymore,” you threaten. 

He lets out a little laugh and nods. “I’m gonna take care of you, honey. Don’t you worry.” 

And god help you, you actually believe him, but it still doesn’t feel right. “No,” you whisper. Sammy draws back, brows knit in hurt as he shakes his head. “No,” you scramble back from him, arms wrapping around your stomach as you shake your head. 

“This isn’t how it’s going to work anymore. You don’t get to fix our problems with sex. Or just decide the course of our relationship. You fucked up, you made me feel like shit. For the first time, I felt safe with someone, and you just took that from me.”

Sammy’s face falls and he takes a seat on the edge of your bed. His head falls into his hands as he lets out a broken sigh. “I’m so sorry,” you believe him. There’s shame, disgust with himself in his voice, but that doesn’t fix this. 

“I’ll move in with you, Sammy,” you promise, and his head lifts. “But not anytime soon. I think… I don’t think I’ve been honest about who I am. I’m so used to putting on a show, to trying to keep someone’s attention, I haven’t been myself. I want you to be with the real me. To actually see me, not this glamorized version of myself perfectly made for your gaze.”

“Honey,” he reaches over, taking your hands in his. “Of course I see you. You’re not as good actor as you think,” you let out a watery laugh while he rubs his thumbs across the back of your hands. “But I’m a patient man.”

You shoot him a look and he offers you that boyish smile you love. “I can be patrient,” he swears. 

Nodding, you lean forward, brushing your lips against his. “Okay,” you whisper. 

“Okay?” he questions, not quite believing you. You smile and let your head drop to the crook of his neck. 

“But if you ever treat me like that again… Not even Ben will be able to find your body.”

Sammy lets out a little chuckle, it cuts off as you pinch his side. “Trust me, I believe you.” You lace your fingers with his and let out a small sigh. A fresh start might be the best thing for both of you. The both of you could do with learning to be independent outside of your relationship. And he really needs to know what you look like not being the cool girl before he makes such a big promise as being with you for real. 

You’re not planning on making it easy on him. But you have an odd suspicion he might be into that. And anyways, how were you ever expected to say no to a man with arms like these?

𝘕𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘎𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘓𝘢𝘪𝘥

𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳                  ♥︎

⇄              ◁◁  I I  ▷▷          ↻

⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵

💿 A mind that could flip like a switch 💿

end. — I do not own the characters or the show Southland, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2026. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[jacksbrownie]

LOVE that's she's got a SPINE yass she let him off too easy✋

[butyoudidthis4what]

The Shower

Jack Abbot x F!Reader

7.9k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: neighbor AU; will-they-won't-they tension; another famous rabbit nickname because it's me; self-doubt/self-consciousness; hand job; oral sex; PIV sex; masturbation; pretty much just fluffy and smutty!

Summary: When your hot water heater breaks Jack lets you grab a shower at his place. After you leave he finds himself enveloped by warm steam that smells like you. What's a man to do?

AN: I've wanted to do a neighbor AU with Jack for soooooo long and finally gave in! I'm calling it the Across the Hall AU (there will eventually be a fic titled Across the Hall 😂). I don't really love this but I'm doing my best to ignore that because I do love the AU so much and have a lot of other ideas for it, so I hope it's enjoyable enough to want more. We're not starting with them meeting because this is what inspired me the most and what my brain wanted to write for some reason and I needed to run with whatever it would give me right now lol. Thank you so much for all of your support and for reading and I hope it's okay and you enjoy! ♥️

The ding of the elevator draws your attention.

Jack must be getting home. Your apartments are the only ones on this floor, your doors directly across the hall from each other. As you go to lock your door you do your best to try not to think about where Jack has been and why he's getting home at 10 p.m. on a Thursday. You know from chatting last week that he got off this morning and is off the next few days.

Your entire body freezes when the realization hits you, preemptive jealousy and rejection flooding your system. What if he walks off the elevator with someone?

It's been over nine months of this… thing between you and Jack. You're neighbors, yes, but you're clearly so much more. And while it's clear that you're more than neighbors, it's unclear what you actually are, together and to each other.

The two of you flirt, sometimes subtly and with an intimate gentleness that almost makes your hearts ache, and sometimes intensely, both of you lit on fire by the other's words and body movements and facial expressions. There have been so many what you're both 99% sure were almost-kisses that you've lost count.

You have nicknames for each other. One day you'd called him Bugs, it had just slipped out without you even realizing. It took Jack about twenty seconds to put it together and figure out where it came from. You were going to apologize and assure him you'd never call him it again but he spoke first, responding to whatever you said and calling you Tweety.

Jack has invited you over and cooked you dinner and the two of you have eaten at his table sharing a bottle of wine or a six pack of whatever before you chill on his couch until you start to fall asleep, sometimes watching something on TV, but most of the time just facing each other and chatting. You've invited Jack over and the two of you have eaten takeout on your couch while showing each other your favorite movies and watching new ones together, trying to find movies that are so bad they're good and leave you both crying with laughter on your couch.

You’ve met his friends and the people who he’s closest with and who mean the most to him, some from the Pitt, some from his army unit, some from his SWAT unit. He’s met a couple of your more casual friends, knows that your closest and who mean the most to you don’t live in or particularly close to the city. 

Jack has hugged you so tightly and for so long on some of your worst days, until enough pieces of you have been put back together that you feel like you can function again, made you your favorite or ordered it in if you could stomach it, made you something light if you couldn't so that you had some food in your system. He always seems to know just what to do and just what you need. 

You've made Jack breakfast and eaten with him while he sat silently on your couch trying to process some of his worst shifts, ones that were hell or where there was more death than life or patients that particularly got to him, been with him however he needed on some of his worst days, never expect or ask him to talk or explain what's going on. You always seem to know just what to do and just what he needs. 

He knows all the gossip from your job. You know all of the Pitt gossip that Jack knows, which is pretty much all of it because people just tell him things without him asking or even hinting that he'd like to know. 

You tease each other in every sense. You've both been obviously jealous when there have been the occasional dates the other has gone on, have both acted out a little bit over said jealousy.

You text each other every day, some days more than others. It's not uncommon for you to go four or five days without seeing each other in person or hearing the other's voice, you're not spending every night at each other's house or constantly going over for dinners or just to hang or whatever. While there's less pressure to have a reason, much less a legitimate sounding one, to invite the other over, you both still frequently try to offer one, no matter how lame it ends up sounding.

You know each other's secrets, things neither of you have admitted to anyone else except maybe your therapists. You know each other's past, each other's present and each other's dreams for the future. You've become best friends in the most unique way despite how little time you actually spend together. You can't imagine life without each other.

Jack knows he's falling in love with you.

You know you're falling in love with Jack.

But Jack can't understand for a single second why you'd ever be interested in him, convinces himself that he’s making up all the evidence that you are.

And you can't understand for a single second why Jack would ever be interested in you, convince yourself you’re making up all the evidence that he is.

You're both scared. Neither of you want to lose the other.

So you just continue on in this perpetual state of limbo that's so far beyond better than nothing at the same time as it's absolutely fucking nowhere near enough.

You're fumbling with your key when you hear Jack step off the elevator. There's no footsteps behind or next to him. He's alone. A sense of relief you know you have no business having washes over you.

"Hey, Tweety." Jack watches you turn your key the opposite direction than he expects. His eyebrows raise slightly. "Heading out this late on a Thursday?" 

As he makes his way closer and stops walking he realizes you have a duffel bag with you, though it doesn't look like there's a ton in it. That observation has his eyebrows furrowing. He didn't realize you were going somewhere and wouldn't be around the next few days. He does his best to keep his voice light, curious but not intrusive. "Ah," he drawls, nodding at your duffel. "Escaping somewhere this weekend?"

He won't lie, he'll be disappointed if you are. He was kind of hoping to invite you over this weekend just to hang out at his place and make you dinner.

"Not quite," you laugh softly. "My, um, my hot water heater broke. I was planning on just dealing since they're either fixing it or replacing it tomorrow, but I don't know." You shrug at him. "I just need to wash the day off me." You let out a breath and smile at him. "A coworker sent me a pass to her gym so I'm going to go use the shower there. What about you? 10 p.m. on a Thursday." You force a smirk and raise your eyebrows. "Hot date?"

Jack snorts. "Hardly. A group of us from work went out to a bar to decompress."

You hold your smirk and tilt your head at him despite the way you want to cry and your heart sinks at the potential for what you say next to be true. "Could still be someone special there you haven't told me about who made you want to go."

He rolls his eyes at you playfully, but he can feel the butterflies in his stomach and fluttering of his heart caused by you seeming to care and maybe even being jealous at just the thought that there could be someone else. "I can assure you there's nobody special at work. You know there's absolutely nobody at work I'm remotely interested in and that I don't shit where I eat," he smirks back at you. "Why don't you just use my shower? Save yourself the time of getting to the gym and back."

"Oh, I, I," you titter, lick your lips and force yourself to pull it together. "I couldn't impose like that. It's getting late and it'll take up your time and, and… you know. It's very sweet of you to offer though, truly."

"You using my shower is so fucking far away from being an imposition. And it is getting late, yeah. Which is all the more reason for you to do the much safer thing and use my shower that's just across the hall." He cocks his head at you and raises his eyebrows. "You know if you go to the gym I'm going to stay up until you text me that you're home safe."

You let out a breathy laugh. He's right. You know he will. And you know there's something so protective with almost a possessive edge to it that makes your heart race and warmth bloom in your lower abdomen. "You don't have to do that, Bugs."

"I know," he nods once, "but I will anyway." Jack's voice drops to a murmur, his eyes dark and piercing yours as he holds your gaze. "I won’t be able to help it."

You're not sure how or when it happened exactly, but there's something in the air and the look in Jack's eyes that makes you think it might finally happen, that the two of you might finally kiss and give into this thing between you. When Jack's eyes leave yours and drop down to look at your lips you swear the tension in the hallway becomes so great that it's physically harder to breathe from the weight of it. Suddenly all you can really think about is Jack dragging you into his place and having his way with you until he's sated and ready to take a shower with you and scrub the day and his cum and sweat off you.

Jack's eyes drag back up to yours just in time for him to watch yours drop down and look at his lips. When you bring your eyes back to his the look you give him is so doe eyed and wanting and almost fucking demure Jack can feel the blood start to rush to his cock as he thinks about how you'd wear that look with your mouth full of his cock.

"I know… You’re silly like that aren't you?" you breathe, take a small step toward him.

"Yeah." The word is almost all air as Jack mirrors you and takes a small step toward you. "Only for you, though." And then the tension shatters. 

But not how either of you want it to. It's the loud thud of someone dropping something in the elevator on the floor below you that does it. Both you and Jack look away from each other, annoyed at the noise and regretting not having acted quicker on the moment you were clearly having. He clears his throat as you look at each other again. "I wasn't like that for the guy that lived there before you," he smirks. He takes the few steps to his door. "Come on."

You give him a small smile and shift on your feet. "You're sure?"

"100%." Jack winks at you and opens his door, holds his one arm up and out to invite you in.

You feel lightheaded at his wink. So lightheaded you have to bite your lip hard to ground yourself with the pain. You shake your head at him and laugh softly as you walk into his place. "Thank you."

"Of course," Jack hums as he steps in behind you and shuts and locks the door.

As he sets his keys down and gets his shoes off he realizes he's been saying my shower this whole time. But it can't really be his shower. He has to show you to his guest bathroom's shower. Right? It would be weird to take you to his shower in the en suite bathroom off his bedroom because then you'd have to walk through his bedroom and that feels weird and what if it was somehow pressuring? Or felt like he was trying to say something?

Obviously there's this thing between the two of you that you haven't defined or given into, this thing you both know is there and want but just haven't let happen because there's no way the other can truly feel the same. With the attraction, physical and sexual and emotional, between you a permanent undercurrent whenever the two of you are together now, the last thing Jack wants to do is make you feel like he's using that, or trying to, or being weird or creepy or like he's doing anything other than just trying to help you out. Because that's all he's doing, trying to help you out.

As you stand by Jack and get your shoes off and move them out of the way near a pair of Jack's while he does the same you're struck by how familiar and comfortable Jack's apartment has become. If you're honest with yourself you wish you never had to leave.

"I'm guessing you don't need anything other than towels?" he asks as you both walk further into his place. He loves seeing you in his space. If he's honest with himself he wishes you never had to leave.

"I don't even need towels. I packed some." You smile at him, a hint of a smirk to it. "I can use them, save you the laundry."

"Yeah, okay." He rolls his eyes at you playfully. "Or I can just give you proper towels so you don't have to use the thin pool towels I know you packed."

You scoff at him with mock offense and a wide smile. "I resent that."

"But noticeably didn't deny it." You can hear the smirk in his voice as he turns and starts walking down to his hall closet. "Where's the gym anyway?" Jack calls to you as he pulls out a couple towels of various sizes.

"Squirrel Hill South."

"Squirrel Hill South?!" Jack repeats with teasing incredulousness, huffing. He starts walking back toward you, holding your eye contact how he loves to do. "You were seriously going to trek to fucking Squirrel Hill South for a shower instead of just asking me?"

"Well, I don't know," you shrug, voice a little higher pitched with mock defensiveness. "I don't like to be a burden or impose and I didn't know if that was appropriate or would be awkward or weird or what!" you laugh. "I didn't want to put you in an awkward position."

"You could never be a burden or an imposition and it's not inappropriate or awkward or weird." Jack offers you the towels and you take them. He stays standing in front of you, raises his brows and gives you a small smile. "Would it feel that way if I asked you if I could use your shower?"

"Well, no. But, but that's-"

He shakes his head and interrupts you gently, sets his hands on your shoulders, fingers a little too far in toward your neck to be strictly platonic, his thumbs against your collarbones. There's an intimacy to it that makes you breathe a little harder. You have half a mind to drop the towels and your bag and grab his face, pull it down to yours as you step even closer to him. "No buts." He flicks his eyebrows up at you and nods in a silent yeah? "And no it's not different. Anytime you need, yeah? Anything. A shower, a bed, someone to listen, stitches, a distraction." He smirks deeply at you. "A cup of sugar or whatever it is they say."

You try to match his smirk but it's a little too soft and smiled. Jack's words warm you from your core. You want whatever this is between you so badly. Those are things you say to a close friend, sure, but they're things you say to your partner too. Your girlfriend or boyfriend. And the way Jack said it, his tone of voice and his facial expressions, there was something so boyfriend reassuring his girlfriend about it all that drives you insane and makes your heart flutter and makes you want and need him and makes you a little sad almost. Because he's not your boyfriend. 

"The same goes for you with me at my place, you know?" You click your tongue and bob your head to the side. "Minus the stitches, of course."

"I know," Jack chuckles. He gives your shoulders a little squeeze and then releases them and takes a step away from you.

"Good." You don't know why you do it or where the move comes from or where the confidence to comes from but you reach out and squeeze his upper arm. "Thank you, Jack."

The way you say his name there isn't special. It isn't whispered or breathy or giggled or moaned or anything special. It's normal. Like you always say it. And it rips through him in the best way, like hearing you say his name always does. It makes him want to kiss you and hold you and never let you go, makes him want to take you to bed and hear you moan it over and over again underneath him as he makes you feel better than you've ever been made to feel before, makes him want to cry with how much care you always say it with, how much warmth. It makes him want to get on his knees in front of you and ask you to be his, to go on a date with him, give him one chance.

As though all the times you've shared takeout on your couch or he's cooked you dinner and you've eaten at his place weren't, in reality, dates, even if you didn't label them as such.

"Did something happen today?" You furrow your brows and tilt your head at him, confused. "To make you need to wash the day off. You don't have to say, just I'm… here, like I said. To listen or distract or talk or whatever. Help how I can."

"Oh." You shake your head and shrug. "No, nothing happened. It was just a long day and sometimes showering helps me let it all go. I like my long, hot showers, you know," you laugh softly, your words a throw back to you telling Jack while you were both a little tipsy on his couch one night how much you love taking long, hot showers.

"Okay, good." Jack gives you one of those small, closed lip smiles that's all in his eyes and you melt.

"Thanks for checking." You give him a similar smile back and then start to walk toward the guest bathroom.

"Oh," Jack calls after you. "The fan in there doesn't work by the way, sorry. I've been meaning to get it fixed but never really had a reason so I just haven't."

"That's okay." You turn and look at him when you get to the door. "I like the extra steam."

"Perfect then. Take your time. They're good hot water heaters when they're not broken. Perfect for long, hot showers," Jack teases you with a smile.

You fake glare at him. "You better not have spoken them replacing mine with some shitty one into the universe."

Jack laughs and the sound makes you weak. You want to hear that sound always, every day, you want to be the one to pull it from him, the one to make him laugh and smile and be happy. "If they do, I promise I'll give you a key to my place so that you can come take your long, hot showers as frequently as your heart desires."

You swallow hard at the thought of Jack giving you a key to his place so that you could come shower. Your mind can't help but think about whether he'd ever join you eventually, whether that would be the start of something more, of you both just finally saying how you feel and exploring what's so obviously between you.

"Guess we'll have to see." You give him a lopsided smile and open the door.

"Guess so," he nods. "Enjoy."

"Thanks, Jack." You hold his gaze for a moment and then step inside the bathroom.

Jack knows he's going to think about the way you just said his name and the smile you gave him for the rest of his life.

Being in Jack's shower, even just his guest bathroom's shower, is a fucking trip.

You're pretty sure you spend the first five minutes just standing there thinking about it. Nothing actually specific. Just the fact of it, of where you are. It's almost like you're frozen in a way, mind present and thinking about how you're in Jack's fucking shower, but also so spaced out.

It's only once you unfreeze and come back to yourself that specific thoughts start to hit you as just below scalding water rains down on you. And all of those thoughts, of course, involve you in Jack's shower, but in Jack's shower, in the en suite off his bedroom. With Jack in the shower with you.

You know he has a nice built in bench in his shower, you guys talked about it once, how they let him build it in. You don't remember why or how it came up, but it doesn't matter.

You wonder if he'd let you kneel between his legs and suck him off. Your mouth feels so empty at the thought that you're pretty sure you pout to yourself a little. You think Jack might fight it a little at first, not want you to hurt or bruise your knees. But as you convinced him it's what you really want, what you need, you think he'd let you.

Maybe he'd let you take control and set the pace. Maybe sometimes he'd take control, hold your head with one hand, maybe both, and move you up and down just how he wants.

You're sure he's too seasoned of an emergency room doctor to be super into shower sex, has probably seen some gnarly injuries from it, but maybe your mouth on his cock would help convince him otherwise.

Maybe Jack would say your name lowly, voice even more gravelly than it usually is, dripping in need and lust and affection. Maybe he'd get you positioned perfectly standing between his legs and then tell you to turn around so that your back is facing him. Maybe he'd reach forward and run his fingers through you planning on rubbing your clit to get you nice and wet for him, huff a groaned laugh when he realizes you're already beyond ready for him. Maybe he'd guide you back further with his hand on your hips, get you in the right position and himself notched right at your entrance and then pull you down onto his cock before letting you fuck yourself on him.

Maybe… Maybe you need to get a fucking grip, you chastise yourself when you realize how deep into that day dream you are and how wet you know you must be with how prominent your heartbeat feels between your legs.

You force yourself to actually start showering. You know Jack said to take your time but you should still be considerate. It's late enough.

But as you shower the thoughts don't really stop. All you can think about when you finally turn the shower off and wrap one of Jack's towels around you are his hands all over your body and soft words of adoration and appreciation and maybe even love being whispered into your ear as he helps dry you off.

Once you disappear into the bathroom and he hears the shower start Jack realizes he's going to have to do everything possible to keep himself busy so that he doesn't just sit on his couch and think about showering with you. He makes himself act like it's just any other night, do what he would normally do and what he would've done if he'd gotten home tonight without seeing you. Or at least he makes himself try to act like it's just any other night.

Jack heads into his room and changes his shirt, grabs a pair of sweatpants and sits on the side of his bed and takes his prosthetic off, checks over his leg and cleans it and his prosthetic, pulls his sweats on and knots the one leg to keep it from getting caught under his crutches. From his room he goes to his kitchen to grab a drink and then crutches to his couch and sits in his usual seat, grabs the medical journal and opens it to the page he left off on and starts to read. Or at least he tries to read.

By the time you get out of the shower and walk out of his bathroom Jack's read a single paragraph about twenty times and has absorbed approximately none of it, his head far too full of thoughts of you. It's a miracle he hears you leave the bathroom and shut the door behind you and that you don't just walk out to him staring at a page of the journal completely spaced out and lost in his own little world. And hard.

Very obviously hard in his gray sweatpants. 

You smile at him almost a little bashfully as you get closer. "Thank you for that."

Jack sets the journal in his lap and returns your smile with an easy one of his own. "Anytime. Feel better?"

"Yeah," you nod, "I do. I really appreciate it. It was very nice not having to trek across the city."

"I'm sure it was," he chuckles.

There's a beat of comfortable silence between you. There's no awkwardness to it at all. Something about it is almost poignant and expectant. You and Jack find yourselves where you always seem to. Both of you desperately wanting the other to make a move to confirm this thing between you is real and reciprocal and wanted and needed, followed by neither of you making it, you unconvinced that Jack could feel for you how you do for him and Jack unconvinced that you could feel for him how he does for you.

"Well." You let out a long breath and then walk over to his front door, Jack sitting up a bit to keep a better view of you. "I'll let you get back to your night." You pause with your hand on the door handle and look over at Jack.

The words are on the tip of his tongue. You can stay if you want. 

Words that would be an unspoken ‘please want to stay.’

But he can't get them out. Not quick enough at least.

"Thank you again, Bugs." The smile you give him this time is absolutely unquestionably bashful and Jack wants to make you his, needs to. "I really appreciate it. And you. I really appreciate you. I hope you know that."

"I mean it. Anytime." Jack's smile is a little flustered and there's something so adorable about it that you bite your bottom lip which just makes him more flustered and his cock throb. "And I know. You make sure I know. I hope you know I really appreciate you too."

"I know," you nod, "you make sure I know." You shift your duffel and give Jack one last smile for the evening. "Goodnight, Bugs. Make sure you lock up." You wink at him, teasing him playfully about the way he always reminds you. You mean it though, you care about him just as much as Jack does about you.

Jack is floored the wink doesn't stop his heart or make him come untouched.

"Goodnight, Tweety." He gives you one last teasing smile for the night as you walk out, already knowing what he's going to call to you as you do. "Make sure you lock up too!"

Jack can hear your soft giggles as you pull his front door shut behind you. He's still for a moment, his brain trying to process everything that's happened tonight.

Jack has absolutely no idea what compels him to do it, but something in his subconscious does. He tells himself he's going to get the towels you used to throw them in the washer. He tosses the medical journal aside and gets up and crutches to the guest bathroom.

When he opens the door he's greeted with warm steam that smells like you, like your body wash mixed with your shampoo and conditioner. Jack immediately realizes his subconscious knew that's what would happen. He's frozen by it for a second before he quickly crutches into the bathroom and shuts the door so that no more steam can escape.

As he stands there, Jack's cock throbs even harder, the racing beat of his heart quickly the only thing he can hear. The thought crosses his mind as he breathes in deeply through his nose.

No. Absolutely not. No. He can't. It's wrong.

Before he fully realizes what he's doing Jack crutches over and puts the lid down on the toilet and sits, rests his crutches against the wall. It's not particularly comfortable but it doesn't matter. He's not going to be here long, he tells himself. Just another thirty seconds or so. He'll let himself sit in the steamy warmth that smells like you for just another thirty seconds or so.

Jack's hand brushes over his cock and his breath catches at the feeling. He didn't really mean to do that. He just didn't pay enough attention to where his hand was as he was bringing it up to run through his hair.

But it felt good. God, it felt so fucking good.

The way he brings his hand back down and starts to palm at his cock over his sweatpants is undeniably deliberate. This is wrong. He shouldn't. He can't.

Jack palms himself a little harder, bites his lip and groans. Does he seriously have this little self-control when it comes to you? So little that he can't just get up and go back to his couch or to bed and let his erection fade away?

Apparently he seriously has this little self-control when it comes to you because instead of getting up Jack shifts and pulls his sweatpants and boxer briefs down enough to free his cock and then nearly tears his shirt off. He lets out a heavy breath as he takes in another deep breath of your scent through his nose and rubs the bead of precum that leaks from his slit into his head.

This is so, so wrong. Getting off to the scent of you. This is so fucking dirty and probably a little creepy and, god what would you think of him if you knew what he was doing?

The thoughts fade quickly as he lets his eyes flutter closed and starts stroking himself properly as he continues breathing you in. You're all he's been thinking when getting himself off for a good while now, but this, this is different. The warmth of the air around him and the way it smells like you and the way the scent clings to him because of the steam makes it so different, makes it feel more real.

Maybe you'd like it, if you knew. Like that he was touching himself to the smell and thought of you. If the situations were reversed, though, he wouldn't mind. If he'd showered in your guest bathroom and you walked in once he left to warm steam that still smelled of him he wouldn't mind at all if you sat somewhere and touched yourself while you breathed him in and thought of him. He'd fucking want you to.

Jack doesn't know why, doesn't truly have a single fucking thing to draw the conclusion from, but he thinks you'd like it too. He thinks you'd find it hot.

If you knew he was doing this would you ask to watch? Ask him to show you what he likes? Would you slowly get closer to him so you could study every movement? Would you ask him what he was thinking about? Ask him to tell you all the things he thinks about when he touches himself? All the things he wants to do to you? Would you tell him all the things you want to do to him? Would you drag him to bed so you could both be more comfortable? Would you ask to take over? With your hand? With your mouth? Would you want to watch him come? Would you take your pants and underwear off and position yourself so he could come all over your cunt? Would you sink yourself down on him just as he started to come?

A million questions and possibilities run through Jack's mind, a million scenarios, ones he's imagined before and new ones. But his mind eventually settles.

"Jack?"

You and Jack are in his bed together, naked. You're tangled together on your sides, both of you breathless from making out. You press a couple of kisses to his jaw and scratch your nails at the v of his hips and whine slightly at the way you can feel his cock throb.

"Show me, please. Show me what you like," you whisper. "How you touch yourself. Please."

He swallows hard but nods. In addition to how fucking hot it is, there's something incredibly intimate about the ask, about the idea of touching himself with you watching. "Okay, Baby." Both of you shift and sit up against the headboard, Jack’s back propped up against it with some pillows comfortably and you pressed into his side, the position easier for you to bring your dominant hand across his body. Jack brings a hand that he has to focus way too hard on keeping steady to his cock.

"No, Jack," you interrupt before he can truly start, shaking your head at him. You hold your hand out to him. "Show me. Teach me. I want to be able to make you feel good."

"Fuck," Jack breathes, a heavy jolt of pleasure running up his spine. "I don't need to show you, Sweetheart. Just you touching me will make me feel good. Shit, just you watching makes it even better."

"But I want to know what makes you feel the best. I want to make you feel good, the best you've ever felt." You hit him with a pout that has him squeezing the base of his cock hard so he doesn't lose it just from that. "Please."

"Yeah, of course," Jack pants, reaches out and grabs your hand. "Anything you want, Baby. Anything and everything."

The groan Jack lets out as he imagines your hand wrapping around his cock at the guidance of his is ripped from deep in his chest. He knows that the feeling he's imagining would be nothing compared to the real thing, to how small your hand would feel in his and wrapped around him and how soft your skin would be against his cock.

Jack starts moving your hand up and down his cock slowly at first, picking up the pace with each pass until you're at a steady rhythm. He twists when he gets to his head and as Jack watches you watch your hand he can almost see you noting in your brain exactly where to start the twist to give him the most pleasure. He can't believe anybody, let alone you, would care for him enough to pay such close attention just so you can make him feel good.

"You're so big Jack," you moan softly as you work his cock. "I don't know how you're going to fit." Jack's hips buck at your words and your eyes meet as you look up at him. "You will fuck me tonight, right Jack? I need it. Need you."

"Yeah," Jack pants, "yeah, I'll fuck you tonight. I'll do whatever you want to you tonight."

"I want you to take whatever you want, want you to use me however you want." You look so truly desperate for it that Jack's hips buck just as desperately again. "I want you to do everything you've ever wanted to me, Jack."

He lets out a shuddery breath with a hint of a laugh to it. "That list is way the fuck too long for one night, Baby."

You giggle and bite your lip, twist your hand on your own just to surprise him and pull a loud groan of your name from his chest. It's like you can tell he's getting close despite this being the first time you guys have ever given in and done this, seen each other and kissed each other and touched each other like this. Jack can feel the way he's about to come, starts to draw in air to try to form the words to tell you, but instead his brows furrow in confusion when you slow your hand and then pull it away. He just barely swallows down most of a whine.

You hum soothingly, roll your head a little to kiss his skin wherever you can as his orgasm ebbs and then look up at him with an eager need in your eyes. "I want you to show me something else now."

"Oh yeah?" Jack has a feeling he knows what you mean, his heart somehow thundering harder at just the thought.

"Yeah." You move so that you're between his legs and facing him. And then you start to lower yourself and get comfortable laying between his legs on your stomach.

"Oh, Baby, you don't, you don't have to do this." He brings a hand down to your face where you rest it on his thigh and look up at him. "Your hand is more than enough."

"I know I don't have to, Jack." You smile at the precum he leaks when you say his name. You lift your head up and kiss his inner thigh up to his cock. "I want to, I promise" you murmur. "Show me how you like it, Baby, please."

You take his head in your mouth and swirl your tongue around it as you suck and moan. "Fuck!" Jack rasps, voice strained with pleasure. "Oh god, Baby, fuck. Fuck your mouth is so good, oh fuck."

As you slowly start to bob your head up and down one of your hands grabs one of his and brings it to your head as you look at him pleadingly. Jack knows it's a silent request for him to take control and show you how he likes it. He lets out a shuddery breath as he does what you asked.

Jack's hand speeds up, tightens around himself even more. He's close. He's so fucking close and it hasn't even been that long and he should be embarrassed but he's not. He's just fucking not. That's what you do to him. This is what you do to him. 

And you’re not even fucking here. 

He thinks he might be drunk off your scent. Jack never wants this to end, never wants the steam that smells like you and envelops him to dissipate. Not unless he can have the real thing. Not unless he can be fucking you with his nose pressed up against your neck or hauling you into the shower with him to make more steam that smells like you. Not unless you're his and he's yours.

"Jack." The way you say his name is almost moaned, your lips fluttering against his tip so you can take him back in your mouth as soon as you finish speaking. "Come for me."

Jack does with a breathy groan of your name, body almost trembling at how fucking good it feels as he watches his cum paint his chest and abdomen, a little hitting his collarbones and lower neck. His head drops back and he lets his eyes close as he keeps working himself through it, your name falling off his tongue over and over.

He works himself to a little painful overstimulation and then lets go of his cock as he pants and tries to come back down, aftershocks of pleasure ripping through his body as he basks in the post-orgasm haze and the smell of you. Jack can't remember the last time he came that hard. He's not sure if he ever has before. And all it took was the scent of you.

He's so astronomically fucked.

He's falling in love with you. With your beauty and smile and laugh and your personality and wit and how vibrant you are. With the light you bring into his life just by being his neighbor.

He craves you, wants you like he's never wanted someone before. He wants all of you, the good and the bad and the parts you haven't shown him yet and the parts of you that you haven't even discovered yet, in every possible way, sexual and otherwise. Jack wants you. All of you. All the time. 

You guys have your thing, but it's probably harmless flirting to you, not something that would ever go anywhere. He told himself you'd probably find this hot, but would you? Would you really? Or would you find it sad? A man his age touching himself.

Jack finally comes back around to where he always seems to land. Why would you ever want him?

He grabs some toilet paper and cleans his chest off. He stands up and opens the lid, tosses it in the toilet and flushes. It's as he pulls his shirt back on that his hearing apparently fucking comes back.

There's a knock on his door. "Bugs?" His unlocked door. He never locked it after you left, and he knows you, he knows you'll be concerned that he hasn't answered and you'll try it and he's in the fucking bathroom you were just in, that he has no reason to be in, that he never uses, always just goes to his, and you're too smart for your own fucking good and you'll put together why. You'll know.

So he needs to get out of here.

"Jack?" He hears the door start to open. "I'm coming in."

He just gets the lights off and makes it out of the bathroom and into the hallway a little bit, hopefully enough that it doesn't seem like he was coming out of there. "Hey, sorry," he calls to you as he crutches closer as you walk in. "I didn't hear at first…" He tries to think of some sort of excuse about why he didn't hear when he's always heard every other time, but he decides to let it go. You'll see right through him and the lie. 

"That's okay." You smile at him, cocking your head just slightly with a subtly suspicious smile. Jack looks different than you've ever seen him before. He looks… caught, almost. 

As you move closer to each other and you get a better look at him you realize he's flushed from the neck up, skin red and pink and a little blotchy, sweat making some of his curls stick to his forehead and his temple and neck a bit shiny. He looks hot. Literally and metaphorically.

You're so transfixed by him and thinking about what it would be like to have him on top of you while looking like he does right now that you don't even stop to think about why he looks like that right now, about what he could've been doing.

"You didn't lock your door." You raise your eyebrows at him and give him a teasing smile. "You need to."

Jack smirks at you. "Worried about me?"

"Yeah, actually," you laugh, the teasing sliding out of your smile and replaced by something so genuine Jack has to cover the way his breath hitches. "You'd be so mad if you discovered my door unlocked."

"Not mad," he shakes his head, "concerned and worried."

You shoot him an oh please look, but you know he's telling the truth. You know it would be that kind of anger that's really just a mask for intense and deep worry and concern. You lick your lips and take a breath. "I came back because I think I left my body wash."

Jack nods. "Ah, well we couldn’t possibly have that sitting in my guest bathroom until the next time you came over and grabbed it at your convenience. Absolutely required you getting out of bed and coming back over," he teases, crutching toward the bathroom with you.

"Nope," you pop the 'p.' "You might use it when you miss me," you smirk at him as you step by him to walk into the guest bathroom, your chests nearly brushing, something that isn't completely unusual, it's happened before and you guys hug. But there's something much more keyed up to the way your chests almost touch when combined with your words.

Your words that make Jack glitch for a moment. Do you know? Could you have figured out what he was doing before you came back in? No. There's no way you could've. You're just fucking around. He needs to fucking relax and be normal before he gives it away.

"Oh," Jack drawls with teasing amusement as you grab the bottle from the shower and then turn back to him and walk toward him, "is that your way of asking for a bottle of my body wash for when you miss me?"

The beat before you reply is just a few seconds too long for it to mean nothing, and fuck, Jack realizes, you might actually want that. But why? How? He has to be wrong. He's projecting.

You're undeniably a little flustered though, that much is obvious to Jack, but not flustered in a he made you uncomfortable way, more in a you've been caught kind of way. It makes his head spin.

Where the fuck everything that happens next comes from, where the confidence to do any of it comes from, you have no idea. It just seems to happen.

You stop in front of Jack, chests less than a centimeter from brushing. "You know one time you had me over you'd left a bottle of your body wash on the kitchen table for you to take into your bathroom the next time you went back there," you murmur, eye contact with him direct and unbelievably heady, a small ghost of a self-satisfied smile on your face. "So for all you know I already have a bottle in my shower just for that purpose."

Your smile pulls up a little wider on your face when Jack's breath catches in his throat and he swallows heavily. His brain tries to come up with something to say but just fucking can't because you just said that. You just said that and it’s how you said it and that smile and your murmured voice and the look in your eyes and fuck. 

You really just said that.

And Jack has no idea whether you do or don't but is now so beyond desperate to know.

"Thank you again, Bugs." You lean into him and up and press a soft kiss to his cheek, something you've never done before. "Have a good rest of your night."

You step back and smile at him before turning and walking to his front door, Jack almost frozen to his spot because you just said that and then kissed his cheek. Your lips had contact with his skin. Your lips.

You pause at his door again and turn back to him. "Make sure you really lock up this time, Bugs, yeah?" You flick your eyebrows up at him for a second in emphasis. "And have sweet dreams, Jack."

I want to be his neighbor he's falling in love with so badly. 😭 I hope it was okay and enjoyable enough that you'd like to see more of them! Let me know if you would! I love hearing your thoughts and comments and reactions, they often make my day and give me so much joy! ♥️ Thank you again for all of your support and for taking the time to read!! ♥️

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[jacksbrownie]

OOOHHHH the nicknames are ssooo CUTE!! the will they won't they is KILLINGG moi. So hot. Truly. I need them to smooch like neow.

And the parallels where they're both thinking the same thing about the other person????? 😫😫🤌♥♥

[thisismeena]

a moment of gratitude for season 1 Pope

[sexygaywizard]

Holy shit, oh my god! 50 of them??

[sexygaywizard]

Me when I'm a sexy gay wizard that suddenly realizes they are being followed by 50 rats

[50rats]

[sexygaywizard]

OMG LMAO I WOULD NEVER RUN FROM YOU, 50 RATS, I JUST DIDN'T KNOW YOU WERE BEHIND ME

[sexygaywizard]

You know what you are so right... We have a bond, these 50 rats and I....

OH SHIT OH NO

WAIT

I CAN'T FEED THIS MANY RATS

[sexygaywizard]

Oh wait I'm a fuckin wizard lol

Yay :) Enough treats for everyone :)

[sexygaywizard]

Happy rat day to my most popular post ever

[richeeduvie]

You're loving on Jack's thick ol' waist, but because his brain translates all your love for him into something that he can hate himself for, he thinks you're calling him fat. ...Like he doesn't know you'd want to fuck him badly if he were, too. // fic directory // crash!au tag // wc: 1.1k // smut tidbit // this is based on Shawn Hatosy's old tweets where he is so obviously insecure over his weight, and I just needed the beginnings of Sleepy drooling over the idea of Jack getting chubby...I needed it badly. Jack's fatshaming in the sense that he's Crash!Jack, and Crash!Jack will find every which way to hate himself, and there's a cruelty he doesn't realize affects other perfect people while he does it.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.

You’re behind Jack when you can’t help but realize, for the 1,000th time, how thick he is. 

He’s standing at the counter, cutting celery while still in his black undershirt. He’s broad. His back is broad, his shoulders are solid as they roll, and his shirt is stretched across his torso.

…These gifts are things you noticed about him the minute you met him, but now, it’s all yours. Jackie’s beauty is yours to take and keep and love forever, and you’re not able to resist slipping your arms around him from behind. 

You hug him tightly, your hand sliding around his middle. 

You squeeze. You kiss his shoulder blade when he stiffens slightly. 

“God. Your waist is so thick.”

You’re not one to notice Jack's knife stopping mid-slice, not when you’re still hugging him, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades, hands spreading across his belly as you take in the shape of him. 

“You’re built like a tank.” 

As you continue to nuzzle, Jack sets the knife down slowly. 

You couldn’t possibly know his beautiful brain is doing that awful recalibration, where he takes your perfectly harmless sentences and mutates them into something else. 

Thick waist. Tank. He glances down at himself at that. 

…He’s not soft, exactly. He can be when he relaxes and hunches over, but he’s…yeah. Okay. He’s heavier than he was ten years ago. Wider. No longer is there a slight slimness to him—no subtle V-cut that he had in his twenties. Yep. You’ll never get to see that. 

Jack...Jack knows he’s strong. He’s sturdy. He knows that, but fuck, it’s the most beautiful girl in the world saying these things, and all he can hear is the possibility that you mean fatass. 

He clears his throat. 

“Yeah?”

You hum a happy tune, still squeezing him. “Mm-hm.”

Jack waits for the rest. For clarification, maybe, but it doesn’t come, because why would it? In your little, bubbly brain, you’ve already said something sweet.

“You’re the sturdiest man in the whole wide world. Solid in all the right places.” 

Jack’s jaw tightens. His nose flares as it does.

He knows what you mean. You mean the words as they leave your mouth. Sturdy. Solid. 

But, he wouldn’t be him when it comes to you if he didn’t translate your words into something he can get self-hating over. Right, kiddo?

Translation says?

Big. Heavy. Old as shit. 

Jack pries your arms off his waist, just enough to turn around and face you. Your brows furrow over soft blinking eyes, confused. 

“What?”

He crosses his arms. 

“You saying I’m getting fat?”

Your eyes widen. 

“What?!” 

“You said thick. Thanks.”

“I said thick like…like good thick, Jack! And there’s nothing wrong with being fat anyway—but like…I meant strong thick. Not—not fat thick.”

Not that I’d mind him being bigger and juicier than he is now. A bigger Jack Abbot? You might die. More Jack to love? Your heart flutters the way your pussy does.

Jack stares at you, shrugging casually, as if he could relay to you that he really, really doesn’t care about the way his heart is sinking to his ass in thinking about not being enough for you. Nope, kiddo.

He’s just a little pissed you’d remind him.

“That’s not helping.”

You don’t know how your love for his body can turn into this. 

“Oh my God, Jack. You’re not fat, I’d want you if you were—”

You don’t think I’d want to climb you like a tree if you were any softer and bigger? How? I'm leaking at the idea---

"I just want you to know you have the waist of someone who could pick up a tree.”

He really does. God. It’s only ridiculous, but expected in the way your cunt continues to pulse, heat seeping in quickly. 

Jack shrugs again. 

“That’s not really a compliment.”

“Yes, it is!” 

He snorts with all the disbelief in the world at your high-pitched whine.

Well, almost. You keep some of it for yourself, because how can Jackie not believe you when you call all the sturdy bits of him beautiful?

It almost drives you as crazy as his body does. 

You grab Jack’s shirt at the sides, tugging him toward you. His muscles are pressed against your tits. If you pulled him any closer, they’d be smushed. 

You pull him closer. 

“Listen to me.”

You’re nothing but serious in the demand. 

“I like it. This.”

You feel Jack stiffen under the way you squeeze his waist again, and you’re sure the look he’s giving you is something to tell you he’s embarrassed—and it’s all your fault, and he’s almost as embarrassed as he is suspicious of your figurative drooling over him. 

“You’re strong, and you look it. I bet I could climb you and you wouldn’t even sway.”

Jack blinks in his staring. You think you’ve done something if he’s the first one to look away slightly. 

…But he wouldn't be your Jack Abbot if he weren't still chewing on the first comment, would he?

“Calling me a tank while you're grabbing at my waist feels like you were calling me…I don’t know. Not something I’m supposed to be.”

You sigh the sigh you’re known for, dramatic as it leaves your throat. 

“Would you prefer powerfully built?”

“That is…I don’t know.” 

“Densely, perfectly proportioned?—”

“Stop.”

Jack laughs with gravel in his demand, and you see the crack you’ve made. You can take advantage, but one day, you hope you’ll crack him open fully, and your love for him and his beautiful body will be believed and only that. 

You hook your fingers into his waistband, somehow pulling him closer. Your hand slips under his shirt, and you find nothing but a thick, thick waist with many slight hairs and warm skin. 

You hope your near-dazed grin is enough of a truth for Jack. 

“I’m serious. I love how you’re built…and—” 

Your voice goes soft. Maybe that helps him.

“I think, Jack, that you could be built another hundred ways and it’d be too easy for me to want you too much then, too.” 

Jack searches your face, and you think he’s trying to decide if you're placating him. You have before, but that usually requires a softer voice or open legs, and a manipulation you have to pretend isn’t there. 

“Yeah, Sleepy?”

“Yes, Jackie.”

Your cheek finds the pillow that is his shoulder, and it’s where Jack wraps his arms around you after a moment, hands resting on your back. 

“You feel like someone who can hold the whole world up for me. I don't think that'd change if you got any softer."

It’s a murmur, and it’s a moment of silence after. It's a waiting game to see how your words land.

And when he exhales quietly, patting your ass, you think they've landed well and settled on his heart.

“That’s sappy as hell, kid."

...You think you'll sneak him a bigger portion of his meal to prove a point. Not to him. Not now. Just to yourself.

[jacksbrownie]

this made me mad and a lil sad

[iloverodentmen]

What do you think about Andrew Cody’s gf buying him a bunch of clothes that he would never buy or try on. She tells him that no one will ever see him in them but he thinks he would look hot in some of the outfits. I think the idea of him standing in an outfit with his normal resting face would be hilarious! But he does it for his girl because it makes her happy!

he is soooo cute!

standing in the middle of the dressing room, curtain wide open while you blabber about his “color palette”. he has no idea what that even means but your eyes are shiny and your lips are painted with a smile he can’t deny.

“i can’t figure out if you’re a winter or an autumn” you tilt your head while you hold up a dark blue button down and a maroon one, debating which of the two makes his eyes pop the most.

“i was born in summer baby you know that” he grunts, hands hitching down his sides to grab you and get the hell out from that dressing room.

you giggle shaking your head and placing the dark blue shirt on top of his chest “i know that silly… i meant as colors undertones”

pope blinks, still not really getting what’s going on in your bright mind “try this on please?” you coo.

“baby that’s the tenth shirt i’ve put on” he complains but still takes off his shirt, revealing his muscled, freckled chest.

“but this is a different one c’mon!” your manicured nails help him with the buttons and with the collar, fixing it with the pads of your fingers. you look at his reflection in the mirror and nod your head “yup! you’re definitely a winter”

he has no idea what you’re blabbing about but you seem happy, and he’d do anything for his girl to be happy.

[put-your-whole-hatussy-in-it]

Shawn Hatosy Drabbles - Father’s Day

Masterlist

Warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, brief mentions of pregnancy

a/n: another one inspired by a convo with @sarah-paulsons-bottom-lip my personal endless supply of ideas for these characters lol thanks friend, hope you like ‘em

🤟🏻Pope Cody🤟🏻

“Alright kiddo, you ready?” you whisper. You feel sure Pope is probably already awake, but you want to let your little one think everything’s gonna be a total surprise anyway. All at once, you realize you’re bent a little too far forward and you wince, stifling a groan while you straighten up and put a hand on your tummy. “Is the new one crowding you again, Mama?” You give a half-grin and nod

“Crowding Mama” is the explanation Pope gave the first time you showed a little discomfort from the one on the way, and it’s apt enough that it stuck. But today, the discomfort passes quickly once you’ve straightened back up, and you open the bedroom door with a soft snick since the little one’s hand are full. They go tiptoeing in and much to your great surprise, Pope does actually seem to be asleep

His handsome face is all smoothed out and his lips are open just a little bit; he doesn’t really snore but he’s breathing heavy and rhythmic. His coppery curls are all smushed against his pillow, and he’s got one arm hanging off the bed entirely. “Remember what I said, bunny,” you whisper, catching up to your kiddo to lean down again, “stand back a little, okay? We don’t wanna scare Papa.”

Even after almost four years, you still sometimes feel a little goofy saying the word “Papa” to refer to a man who’s often so stoic and serious. But really, what else would’ve happened? When the little one heard everyone calling him “Pope” and everyone was so focused on getting them to call you “Mama,” it only makes sense the two words got a little mashed together in a baby brain

“Papa?” the little one says softly, then repeats it a little louder. You can see the hard jerk of his muscles that he stifles into just the tiniest movement, and your heart both aches and soars when he manages for the first waking expression on his face to be a soft smile for his child while his eyes flutter open, even though he was startled. “Hey there, kid. What’s all that?” His sounds are still soft around the edges with sleep

“Breakfast!” they reply, lifting the little tray up a bit, “for-for, uh, your day?” They look back at you questioningly and you chuckle. “Sure, bunny - it’s kinda all the fathers’ day, too, though.” Pope sits up against the headboard, groaning only a little as he stretches his legs. His eyes flick to yours and he gives you a tiny, warm grin that makes your stomach flutter before he returns his attention to the small human in front of him

“Oh yeah, that,” he says, and you huff a quiet laugh, “well that looks pretty good there.” His eyes are crinkled up in genuine joy like you so rarely see them, and he accepts the carefully proffered tray with an equal measure of consideration. You let the little one do all the things that wouldn’t actually super impact the quality of the breakfast - you know a lot of moms will let their kids do the whole thing for Father’s Day but you did actually want Pope to want to eat, so you handed off things like putting the bread in the toaster and taking it out, pouring milk into the bowl for the eggs, that kind of thing

You sit on the edge of the bed while Pope eats and lets the little one chatter his ear off, and then you scoot up to lay your head on his shoulder once he’s finished and goes to open the little carefully wrapped gift that was on the side of the tray. He’s perfect about it, not only making all the right noises and saying all the right words of gratitude, but he does actually seem to like the silly little stuffie you only lightly helped sew together

The three of you spend the day together, mostly outside on the beach enjoying the surprisingly mild summer weather. Once the little one is in bed and has received the requisite goodnight stories and kisses from each of you (never just one of you, unacceptable), Pope turns all his attention on you. “I’m pretty sure I’m the one who was supposed to draw you a bubble bath, love,” you chastise once he gestures you into the bathroom. “Mm, maybe next year, if there’s not another one in there,” he mumbles. “‘If’?” you tease, and he just nods and catches your chin between his fingers for a slow kiss. “Yep - if.”

🤞🏻Titus Danforth🤞🏻

You’re not entirely sure if Titus even knows exactly when Father’s Day is. As in, if he even knows what month it falls in, let alone the actual day. You’d asked Ursula if they had any plans for Chester this year and she just looked at you blankly. So it’s not exactly like you wake up that morning and say anything to Titus about it

Instead, you spend the whole day being only slightly more adoring than usual. You’ve shooed basically all the servants away for the day, and you’re determined to make sure he doesn’t even notice. But of course, being Titus, he does. “So when are you going to tell me why you’ve got me trapped in here all alone?” he asks like it’s a simple, predictable question while he stretches languidly on the bed. “Are you complaining?” you shoot back, pouring both of you another cup of tea

“Not at all,” he replies, getting up easily to wrap his arms around your waist from behind and watch you stir sugar into the cups, “just curious.” “Do you happen to know what day it is?” you ask lightly instead of answering. “Sunday?” he replies, and it doesn’t actually sound like he’s being coy. You chuckle quietly, and you feel his arms stiffen around you slightly

“I’m not making fun of you,” you caution quickly, and his muscles relax again, “but it is actually a holiday today.” “Not one of ours, hmm?” he mutters and presses a kiss to the side of your neck. “No, one of the ah, what’s the term - secular ones?” “Holiday means ‘holy day’ so how can it be secular?” he retorts, and you finally turn in his arms to glare at him. “Pedantic,” you accuse, and he lifts a shoulder innocently

You get distracted briefly by his thick neck and his broad chest, your eyes trailing down his torso to the hard, intimidating cut of his hips. He puts a finger under your chin to force your eyes back up to his own. You give him a guilty half-smile and he just raises an eyebrow at you. “So what is today, then?” he asks. “Do you actually not know?” you ask skeptically, and he finally huffs a bit, growls lightly in his throat, and shakes his head

“Damn, this actually is going to be a surprise then,” you say happily, and you skirt around him to grab some clothes. “I don’t like surprises,” he says, looking all dark and broody as his eyes follow you. “You’ll like this one, darling, I promise.” So that’s how Titus finds himself in a gazebo out on the grounds with his arms crossed, tapping his foot impatiently while you root around in your shoulder bag

“For a surprise this seems mildly poorly planned,” he says without any real bite, and you scoff. “I didn’t actually think I’d get this far without you catching on, forgive me.” There’s sunshine bouncing off the little stream that runs under this particular gazebo, and you can hear a few insects chirring in the distance. It’s actually a little perfect, and you quickly brush away the two tears that just creep out of the corners of your eyes

“What is going on?” Titus finally demands, unfolding his arms to throw his hands in the air in frustration when he notices you wipe the tears away. You chuckle breathlessly despite yourself and hold up your hand for him to be patient just a second longer. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry for the suspense - but here, first, lemme tell you what today is for the all the regular people. It’s Father’s Day.” You beam at him, and he squints in confusion

“O…kay?” You follow up his puzzlement with a small Polaroid, extending it out to him from your bag with a flourish. He takes it from you, still frowning, but once he’s gazed at it for a moment or two, his brow relaxes, and he looks up at you. There’s a slowly dawning expression of amazement and disbelief across his handsome face. “So, uh, yeah,” you say thickly, swallowing more tears, “h-happy Father’s Day for the first time.”

“Am I crazy, or are there two babies in this picture?” he asks in a wondering voice. “Not crazy,” you confirm, a small grin spreading across your face even despite your anxiety about having twins, “see? One, and two.” You point them out in the sonogram and then look up at Titus’s face, backlit by the sun. He sweeps you up in a gigantic hug that takes you off your feet, and you chuckle in surprise

🤲🏻Dr. Jack Abbot🤲🏻

“He’s gonna think it’s lame,” they say, wrinkling their nose. “Are you kidding me?” you protest, “he’s like, the lamest old man on the planet - he’ll love it.” The just-barely-now-a-teenager you and Jack adopted together three years ago frowns down at the metal model package in their hands. “For thirty bucks, though?” they say skeptically, and you laugh. “It’s on sale anyway, so it’s either thirty bucks now or sixty some other time, kid.” “Ah, fine - help me make sure this is the best one though, okay?”

The two of you spend a good twenty minutes looking through each and every model available on the little spinning thing in the corner of the hobby store, and they finally settle on the one they initially picked out. It’s a recreation of some World War II dogfighting plane, and you feel absolutely certain Jack is gonna lose his lil mind about it. “I really do think he’s gonna like it a lot,” you say in the checkout line, bumping your teen’s shoulder with yours, and they scoff and look down, trying to hide a blush

“It’s just…y’know. The first time I’m trying to do this shit - uh, sorry, this stuff,” they cringe unnecessarily while you shake your head in amusement, “for him and I. I want it to go good.” “The fact that you feel like doing it at all means it’s gonna go great. I promise.” They smile up at you before giving you a spontaneous hug around the middle, and you return it, fighting to keep your happy tears hidden

The night before Father’s Day, Jack is a little quiet in your room, rubbing his leg pensively after he removes his prosthetic. “Whatcha thinkin’ about there, doc?” you ask him gently, scooting over to peek up at him from around his bicep like a little ferret. He chuckles despite himself and brushes his thumb across your cheekbone. “Just wonderin’ about tomorrow. Trying not to have any real expectations, you know, like the family therapist said and all.”

Your heart squeezes, and you sit up to look at him properly. He’s tired, but there’s less sadness in him this year than in the couple of Father’s Days past, both of which went by without any acknowledgement from your kiddo. Jack’s always sworn it’s fine, and in front of them, he does a great job not even making a peep about it, but in the quiet moments behind closed doors, you know he’s been wishing for the validation of it all. You wonder briefly whether to put his mind at ease

Ultimately, you decide the surprise will be worth it, on top of the fact that you think the surprise doesn’t even really belong to you, so you simply say, “hey, baby - if nothing else, we all get a nice day off together tomorrow. You know we’ll do something fun regardless.” He nods with a weak smile, and you kiss him for a while before throwing a leg over his lap; you’re pretty sure you manage to distract him from his disappointment for the rest of the night before you both fall asleep

When the morning arrives, he rolls over blearily and rubs his face. “I thought you were up already,” he mumbles, “I smell food.” “Well you do smell food anyway,” you say mysteriously, and you hop up to head into the bathroom to brush your teeth while he tries to get a sleepy handle on the world. He’s finally ready to head out into the house, and you’re practically bouncing out of your skin. You gasp when you see the spread that’s actually laid out on the counter. “Jeez Louise, you outdid yourself!” you exclaim, surveying the pile of pancakes - some with chocolate chips, some without - and turkey bacon and nice, fluffy scrambled eggs. “You know I would’ve helped you,” you murmur in their ear as you give them a one-armed hug, and they just shrug like it’s no big deal

“Hey, uh, h-happy Father’s Day, Jack,” they stammer shyly, and they practically shove the little flat wrapped gift into his hands along with a card. He laughs in surprise, and equally awkwardly says, “oh, uh, thanks. Thanks a lot, kiddo.” He opens the card first, and you see tears spring to his eyes almost immediately, several of which have fallen by the time he’s done reading it. Neither of them will make eye contact with each other, but they’re both all smiles nonetheless

He lays the card gently on the counter and deftly opens the gift, exclaiming upon seeing it properly, “oh that’s so neat!!” He looks up and between you both in genuine excitement, and you can’t help the huge smile that spreads on your face. You and your teenager exchange satisfied glances while Jack continues to expound upon military history stuff that neither of you would probably ever have asked for, while he excitedly studies the back of the package

“Man, I can’t wait to put this together - thank you,” and now he finally does make eye contact with your teenager, who surprisingly actually allows it before going in for a big hug from their dad. You’re so pleased you could almost throw up as you watch them cling to each other, both of their eyes squeezed shut and content smiles on their faces. You all spend the rest of the day playing board games and watching movies, Jack in the middle every time he can be with an arm around each of you

Divider credit: @pixopix

Taglist: @geminiacally @stickerqueer @del79jji

[whiskey-thorns]

Keep the Nightmares Away

Daddy Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody x Fem!Reader: When the baby wakes you both up in the middle of the night, Pope has a mini freak out and parental anxiety.

Mentions: Mental health, post-pregnancy, Paternal anxiety, past trauma (hinted at?), Pope being a protective father and loving husband.

(I think writing Daddy Pope is my new favorite hobby lol so sorry for the influx)

Call it mother’s instinct, but your eyes opened several seconds before your heard the sound of the baby crying.

It made Pope dart upright in bed, he was never a heavy sleeper anyways, and he quickly scrambled behind you as you got up and out of bed to go across the hallway and into the nursery. His heart pounded at the thought of what could be wrong, always heading for the worst case scenario.

What if he’s got stuck?

What if he’s hurt?

What if-

“Hey, hey little guy” Pope listened as you cooed and hushed, immediately going to the cot to scoop up your crying child.

“S’he hurt?” Pope quickly, and anxiously asked, moving to flick on the warm night light so he could see the baby for himself.

“No…not hurt” You hummed as you bobbed at the knees, soothing the baby as he gripped his pudgy little knuckles into your oversized shirt (stolen from Pope’s work out clothes drawer) as he cried into you.

Pope swallowed and blinked nervously as the baby cried. Memories were suddenly trying to push their way into his head, the horrible criticizing voice inside of him reminding him of crying when he was a baby and receiving no help. No one to come and pick him up, to take him away from the scary monsters, to kiss the nightmare away.

“I think he had a bad dream, and a lil hungry” you guessed, brushing a thumb back and forth over the baby’s cheek whilst pressing your lips to his sparse, red head hairs.

You looked briefly at Pope, and recognized that look on his face, stiff and anxious. You freed up a hand to press against his warm shoulder.

“He’s okay, I promise” you reassured Pope. “S’normal for baby’s to wake up like this, cranky and hungry…unsure of why it’s all dark and weird looking, why no one is nearby after a full day of faces and voices.” You explained.

Pope swallowed and nodded, yet he couldn’t settle, not just yet.

“What can I do?” Pope asked, frustrated at how helpless he felt, useless to make it better in an instant. He needed instruction. Control. A purpose in order to not spiral entirely.

“Can you grab a bottle from the kitchen please baby?” You asked, moving towards the soft arm chair in the corner of the nursery.

Pope hesitated for a moment, reluctant to leave you and the baby, but eventually he left to retrieve a clean and sterilized bottle, filled up with formula. As Pope let the bottle sit out for a few minutes to come to room temperature, he gripped the counter, the sound of his son crying turning his heart sideways. As he tried to control his breathing, the voice of self doubt clawed its way in.

Why aren’t you fixing this?

You are a terrible father

You have no idea what you’re doing

She’ll leave, with the baby, because you’re fucken useless

Then, the crying dulled. Altogether stopped. Pope looked over his cold sweat slicked shoulder, in the direction of the nursery, now silent. He snatched the bottle and made his way towards the nursery, inside he could hear you, low and quiet, talking.

“You have nothing to be scared of little guy.”

“I know everything is new and scary, and it’s so confusing…but we won’t let anything bad happen…”

“Your Daddy and I won’t let any bad happen.”

“You’re safe…you’re so safe…”

“Daddy and I are here, we’re right here, always here…”

Your words had a profound effect on Pope. It was seeping deep into his soul, talking to your baby, his baby, with so much love and comfort. Pope dreamed of someone like you to be his parent. To tell him no bad would happen, that he was loved and safe, unconditionally.

Pope came out from his hiding spot from around the doorway, slowly stepping into the nursery where he saw you in the armchair, your nose and lips brushing across the baby’s face, now relaxed and void of any distress as his tired eyes slowly blinked up at you. Trusting you.

I wish I had this. I wish I had you when I was little. Telling me all the terrible things wont get me.

“You want me to feed him?” Pope asked, trying to keep his voice low as possible as he watched you yawn.

Despite both of you taking on shared night feeds, Pope knew you were tired, he knew you were still adapting to life post pregnancy, mentally and physically. The toils of motherhood, despite everything, wasn’t lost on Pope.

“If you want, he seems calmer now” You said, taking the bottle from Pope.

Pope nodded and crouched down to help transfer the baby into his arms. He looked dwarfed in Pope’s enormous arms, but that only reassured you that he was safe in them. To Pope, sometimes he feared his strength when holding his son, that something so delicate and fragile lay within his grasp. His hands that had inflicted so much violence and brutality, now used to comfort a baby. His baby.

“You got him?” You quietly asked as you got up and out the chair, freeing it up if Pope wanted it.

“Got him” Pope nodded and slowly rocked the baby whilst he moved around his arms so he could take the bottle of formula from you. “Should go back to bed. Get some sleep.” Pope softly said.

“Y’sure?” You asked as your fingers carefully pressed onto Pope’s forearm to get a final look at your son.

“M’sure” he said, his eyes lingering on your beautiful, sleepy features. “I got this.”

You then looked from the baby and up at Pope, a soft and lazy smile spreading across your face. You didn’t say anything, you just leaned up onto your tip toes and cupped Pope’s cheek to bring him down a tad to kiss him. Pope felt his heart squeeze at the situation; both of you, together with your little one sandwiched safely between you. It was made all the better when your lips left his and went to kiss the baby’s fuzzy pink forehead, as if taking your combined kiss and transferring it to the little one.

“I’ll take tomorrow night’s feeding duty.” you said as you brushed a hand across the baby’s hairline, and the other down Pope’s bicep before turning and heading back to bed.

No you won’t, not if I can help it. Pope smirked crookedly.

He waited and listened carefully for the telltale sounds of you moving into the bedroom, the duvet shuffling as you got comfy…then silence. The sound of his son languidly suckling his formula, his breathing, his little snuffles of content, was all Pope focused on now. He went to the armchair where he slowly lowered himself with the baby into the seat.

“Y’know…you’re a lucky guy” Pope whispered as he adjusted the bottle to help the baby get more. “My mom wasn’t like yours…you got it made with her…n’so did I.” Pope said, glancing up from the baby and out into the hallway where you had left.

“She’s right though” Pope said as he watched the last quarter of formula leave the bottle. “Nothin bad is ever gonna happen to you, or Mom…not whilst Im here.”

The baby let go of the bottle, his lips and gums milky and messy, to which Pope grabbed a nearby linen and deftly wiped the mess away. That was what he was good at, making the mess go away. Making the scary things go away.

After a thorough burping session, Pope delicately placed the baby back down into his cot, resting his little head against the soft mattress. Pope hung over the cot for several minutes, watching his baby settle back to sleep. He briefly hovered his pinky finger under the baby’s nose to give him peace of mind that he was breathing and safe.

“Daddy will keep the monsters away” He said, leaning down to kiss the baby’s head.

“Night lil guy” He whispered as he straightened up, looked over the baby one last time, then turned around to quietly creep out the nursery and back to you.

[jacksbrownie]

omg this gave me so much joy😭💗

[transmascmarypoppins]

why is this post completely broken in every way imaginable

[cecilsrandomeverything]

Broken notes… deactivated account… removed image….

Finally, we have them all.

[spacefinch]

In addition: OP’s name is just… gone. No “[insert username]-deactivated[insert a bunch of numbers]” as is the standard for deactivated blogs.

Just the world “deactivated.” Look upon their post, ye mighty, and despair.

[chatblancofficial]

It’ll be almost impossible to find this post unless it wanders across your dash.

[huewrite]

It wandered across mine. I shall help it travel forward.

[gossamermouse]

this is not a place of honor

[jackviator]

[dinosaurana]

Oh hey post of Ozymandius, good to see you again standing on your feet in a desert where no one remembers you

[secondbeatsongs]

this is what it looks like in your activity, by the way, if this is your top post

[pope-codys]

DONE - jack abbot x reader

pairing: jack abbot x reader

song: DONE by the band perry

warnings: lowkey unhinged reader, chivalrous jack abbot, humor, pitt after hours

requested by: @jacksbrownie

authors note: this one was really fun to figure out. this fic was requested from my birthday event! the fic is inspired by the song that was chosen

"Hey Dr. Abbot?" Jack glanced up briefly from his computer to let you know he was listening to you before he went back to charting. "Could I ask a favour?" Jack signed the chart and logged out of the station, turning his full attention to you. He immediately picked up on your nervous demeanor and extended a hand to your shoulder to usher you over towards the wall for a slightly more private conversation.

"What's up?"

"I was wondering if you'd accompany me to a meet up with my ex boyfriend at a bar tonight? He's giving me back my stuff and I wanted some backup." You explained. Jack crossed his arms over his chest.

"You worried he's going to make a scene?"

"I'm a little concerned that he won't be civil and just hand my stuff over, yes." You stepped a little closer when some nurses passed by, walking in for their night shift. "You wouldn't need to say anything, just stand behind me all big and imposing like you're doing now." You said, gesturing at Jacks stance.

"I can do that. You meeting him now?" You nodded in response to Jacks question so he gave you instructions of where to meet him outside after you grabbed your stuff and he grabbed his truck. As you pulled your backpack from your locker you thanked any entity that could hear you that Robby was sick and Jack had to cover the day shift for him. If Jack hadn't been here and your ex had texted you'd have likely had to enlist the help of a group of residents to intimidate him and you didn't really want to make your relationship drama known to everyone.

Jack picked you up where he told you he would and you gave him directions to the bar. As you travelled through the city you told Jack some more information about your ex and your past relationship. You and your ex hadn't been together very long, just a few months, which was due to the way your ex treated you. His confidence transformed into arrogance, always walking around like he was better than you and talking down to you. By the end you felt like you were being squashed under his thumb and you got out of that relationship as fast as you could.

Jack listened dutifully to your explanation, his hands tightening on the steering wheel as you went on about how horribly your ex treated you. Jack took a deep breath to settle the anger brewing in his chest as he parked the car outside the bar. Jack stuck close to you as you both entered the establishment, his body brushing yours as he held the door for you and surveyed the patrons scattered around inside. You pointed out your ex, a tall man nursing a beer in a booth with a small garbage bag at his feet. Your ex looked up as you and Jack approached, Jacks face stern.

"He your new boyfriend?" Your ex asked, his voice dripping with condescension. Something about seeing your exes face and the sneer on his lips and the way he talked down to you even now had a fire growing inside you that you hadn't experienced before. You didn't fight with him during your relationship, mostly due to how much bigger and stronger he was than you, but here in this public space with Jack standing behind you like a bodyguard had you feeling brave.

You were going to put this man his place.

"So what if he is?" You said, your tone angry. "That's none of your business. I'm just here to get my stuff." Your ex stared for a second before kicking the bag at his feet, indicating that it's where your stuff was.

"You couldn't even bother to put them in a box? I guess I shouldn't be surprised that you couldn't muster up any effort, that's pretty typical for you." Your ex stood from the booth and you felt Jack move a fraction closer to you, his chest brushing your jacket.

"I'm here, aren't I?" Your ex grabbed the bag off the floor with the least amount of energy possible and you scoffed.

"Thanks for the bare minimum." You said snidely. Your exes eyes grew wide at your curt attitude since it was something he'd never experienced from you. You liked the dumb expression on his face, caught off guard by you. He was playing with dynamite, insulting you like that, he really shouldn't be so surprised you were blowing up in his face.

"Woah, where was this chick while we were dating?"

"I was trying to be good and nice because that's what my mother taught me but she's clearly never met someone so awful as you." You snatched the bag out of his hand and levelled him with a furious look. "I'm through with you, you pathetic loser. I don't want anything else from you, we're done." Your ex stood taller as his eyebrows shot to his hairline.

"Pathetic?"

"Yeah!" You shouted, jabbing him the chest with your finger. "Pathetic! And insecure!" You continued to hurl insults at him, even as Jack stepped in to remove you from the volatile situation that was rapidly developing. Jack quickly wrapped his arms around your waist and lifted you up off your feet to carry you out of the bar.

"Delete my number!" You yelled back at your ex who stood dumbly by the booth as the door to the bar shut behind you and Jack. Jack carried you all the way to his truck and set you down finally.

"Are you okay?" He asked, his eyes giving you a once over as you turned to face him.

"I feel fantastic!" You exclaimed, smiling ear to ear. You felt so confident and energized in that moment you could have ran a marathon. "Thanks for the backup Dr. Abbot, you're the best." You gave his shoulder an appreciative punch and he stared at you in disbelief for a moment before chuckling at your attitude.

"No problem kid. How about I treat you to a victory dinner?" He suggested, his hands on his hips. You nodded in agreement, feeling lighter than you had an hour ago.

dividers by @ cursed-carmine

*my taglist is on hold!*

[pope-codys]

Happy birthday month Addie!! 💕💕 sending you all the good vibes in the universe 🧚‍♀️ You seem like such a sweet person and I hope your birthday's just as sweet 🎂

For the celebration, dear chef, may this humble customer please order an option 2 with Jack Abbot (sorry I can't pick) and perhaps Charlie Reid x secretary!reader for the Main course??

Thank you!💗

thank you for your order! you can find your appetizer here - DONE

and your main here:

"Oh, sir I can't afford anything in this store." You said in a hushed whisper, hoping to not alert the sale associates. You'd foolishly entered this shop before, enticed by the window display, and quickly learned these clothes were out of your tax bracket. Thinking about the price tags now sent shivers through you, like you body was having an allergic reaction to the space. Charlies hand on your lower back was firm and insistent however, guiding you further into the store until you were noticed by a sales woman who approached with a smile plastered on her face. You felt more like she was baring her teeth like an animal warning you off. "Hello, are we looking for anything specific today?" The sales woman asked, her tone cheerful and inviting. "My girl needs a new wardrobe." The familiarity in which your boss said 'my girl' had the tips of your ears burning and your mouth going dry. Charlie fished his credit card out of his pocket and flashed it at the sale associate like he would his badge, showing off his authority and importance. You watched with fascination as the sight of the credit card transformed the associate completely, her eyes growing alight with a joy and greedy hunger as her back straightened to attention. "I see, we're happy to help. Perhaps we can start with shirts?" Charlie pushed you forward gently, like a sacrificial offering, and the sales woman took the reins of the shopping trip, guiding you over to the blouses. You looked back helplessly at Charlie but all he did was smile in that devilish way he did that made your knees shake. Charlie sat down comfortably on the brown leather couch in the middle of the store and relaxed back into it, his ankles crossing on the coffee table and one arm going over the back of the couch as he settled in to watch you try everything on.

[jacksbrownie]

gsgrsxtr not Charlie paying for your whole wardrobe

[thefictionalmanswhxre]

hi you!! this is really weird but i got the idea from a movie i watched. so Brendon and reader have been married for sometime, they both work in the hospital and it’s been a rough few months so they’ve been distant…in bed you know, like they don’t do that at all and reader feels guilty and thinks that if they don’t sleep together again he’ll cheat on her if he doesn’t already (of course he’s not)

𑣲 𝘰𝘰𝘰𝘰𝘩 𝘪 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬, 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵 𝘸/ 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳. 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢

𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝑫𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝑳𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝑴𝒆

warnings! 𝘣𝘪𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵/𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵, 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘦𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘧𝘢𝘣, 𝘧𝘦𝘮 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘴, 𝘯𝘰 𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝘸𝘤: 𝟏.𝟖𝑲+

ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ⛆ ﾟ⋆ ﾟ⛆ ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ⛆ ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ⛆ ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ⛆ ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ⛆ ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ⛆ ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ⛆

Your day goes by in a haze. Work was the same as always but you’re distracted.

You’ve been distracted a lot recently.

The last few months have felt heavy. Not only has work been overwhelming but your husband, Brendon, well, that’s been the heaviest part.

Between both of your jobs becoming busier, you both haven’t had much time together.

You both used to have ample time in a week to meet up for lunch, go explore downtown, go out to dinners, have date nights, and everything in between. But lately these things have become dry, especially in the bedroom. 

During your five years of marriage, this has never been a problem. Not to this extent.

You didn’t think much of it until it had stopped completely. Some days you were too tired or other days Brendon was tired too or busy working and not home as much. 

The few times you had been eager to be under him, it never made it past a heavy makeout and some groping. 

You acknowledged it had been a combination of you both not being up to it but then your mind began to wander.

Recently you had been trying to get things back to how they were only to have your advances turned down. Brendon either acted oblivious, was asleep before anything happened or ended up working late.

You thought it had been a mutual disinterest at the time but now?

 You’re not so sure.

Was it you?

Maybe he was bored of you?

He did spend a lot of time at the hospital these last few months. And again you guys hadn't had sex in maybe a month or two?

No, no Brendon wouldn’t do that.

Right?

Maybe you could really initiate it. Buy new lingerie, get your nails and hair done.

That could work.

Hopefully it did.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The next day is your day off and you decide to put your plan into action.

You get your hair refreshed and styled first. Then you go to the nail salon and pick out his favorite color.

Perfect.

Your last stop was a lavish lingerie store in downtown Pittsburgh. The selection was a bit overwhelming but then you find a winning piece.

It accentuated your breasts and made your ass look fantastic. A bonus was that it matched the color of your nails.

He wouldn’t be able to resist.

Once you’re home you fix your hair a bit and apply a light makeup before changing into the lacy material.

—-

About thirty minutes later you hear the front door unlock from your spot on the bed. You adjust your hair and sit on the edge of the bed, leaning back on your hands.

Heavy footsteps make their way down the hall towards the bedroom.

Brendon steps through the doorway, scrubs in disarray and a slight frown on his face.

“Hey baby” you say gently.

He briefly looks up as he drops his bag by the dresser.

“Hey.”

You’re taken back a bit.

Hey?

Just hey?

You knew things had been a bit rough these last few months but this is the most distant he's ever seemed.

Like he just acknowledged a roommate and not his wife.

You don’t let the dry greeting deter you.

You stand up and walk up to him.

Running your hand up his bicep and the other up on his shoulder.

“Everything okay Bren?”

He huffs a bit sarcastically “Is it ever?”

Ouch.

You bring your hand from his bicep to his face.

“Maybe I could help you relax, hmm?”

You see a ghost of a grin but as soon as it’s there, it’s gone.

“That’s nice but not tonight.”

He gently moves your hands off of him and walks around you to the walk-in closet.

You stand in the same spot for a moment. Your heart drops into your stomach and a chill runs down your spine.

What. Just. Happened.

Is this it?

Does he not find you attractive anymore?

Is he….

Is he gonna leave you?

You hold back the tears and make your way to the ensuite bathroom and lock the door.

Gripping the counter and leaning against it, you look into the mirror.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

One tear falls, and then another. 

Then another until you can’t stop them from falling.

You hold both hands over your mouth to quiet the sobs that rack your body.

You back up until you meet the wall and slide down.

Your chest heaves from the sobs and agonizing pain in your heart.

He’s gonna leave me.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Brendon cracks his neck as he walks back out from the closet, scrubs discarded and now changed into fresh pajamas.

He sees your side of the bed empty but then sees the bathroom door closed and hears the shower running.

He lets out a sigh and gets into bed as he waits for you. All he wants is to get some rest and have you cuddled up against him. 

Brendon knew things had been a bit strained lately and he felt a bit guilty for not being as present in your relationship like usual but things were starting to get better at work and he hoped you guys could get back to normal now. 

Today has been rough like the last few months but things would change come his next shift.

He just needed to recuperate from today and then he’d have a good talk with you and apologize. Maybe take you out for dinner and a movie.

He smiles at the thought.

——

It’s been over an hour before Brendon still sees you’re not in bed.

He goes up to the bathroom door and presses his ear against it.

The shower is still on.

Weird.

He can’t hear anything else.

“Sweetheart,” he knocks lightly “you good in there?”

No response.

“Baby?” He grabs the door handle to open it but he finds it locked.

Panic starts to seep into his veins.

“Baby please open the door.”

He’s still met with silence.

Brendon’s heart starts to race as he reaches a hand up on the top of the door frame and grabs the spare key sitting there for emergencies.

Once he has the door open he looks around and then towards the shower.

His blood runs cold.

“Sweetheart!”

He runs to the shower where your naked form is sitting, slumped inside against the wall.

He practically rips the glass door off its hinges as he gets into the shower still fully clothed.

On his knees he grabs you by the shoulders and turns your face towards his.

He’s met with puffy, red rimmed eyes staring back at him.

“Hey, hey what’s wrong baby? Are you hurt? Did you fall?”

His fingers press gently but quickly around your head looking for any blood, bumps or injuries.

You slowly shake your head.

“M’fine” you mumble.

He furrows his eyebrows at your quiet words.

“You’re gonna have to do a lot better than that to convince me. C’mon let’s get you out of here. It’s freezing.”

He scoops up your cold body and sits you on the counter by the sink.

He grabs your favorite fluffy towel and wraps it around you, rubbing his hands up and down your arms to help warm you up.

His heart breaks at your sad demeanor.

“Baby,” he lifts your chin up to look at him “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Tears build in your eyes and your chin trembles.

“Please don’t leave me.”

Then the tears fall as you lean your head into his shoulder.

Sobs rack your body and Brendon holds you, tears building in his eyes.

“Leave you?” He asks confused

“Why on earth would I do that?”

“Y-You don’t want m-me anymore.” You manage to say between the tears.

“What?” he leans you back and gently holds your face in his hands.

“Why wouldn’t I want my wife?”

“You’ve b-been distant. I th-thought maybe we could just have s-some fun tonight but then you didn’t want me a-and I’m scared you don’t want m-me at all. That you want someone else..”

The words completely shattered Brendon’s heart.

Had he really withdrawn from you that much that you felt he didn’t love you anymore?

That you thought he’d leave you? 

For someone else?

Fuck.

He had to fix this, quick.

“Sweetheart, look at me.”

Your tired eyes meet his.

“First, hear me and hear me clearly. I’m never leaving you. I fucking love you. So damn much.”

He takes a deep breath.

“Second, I’ve not been honest these last few months. Gloria has been making big cuts. Letting go lots of staff, including surgeons and attendings. I heard my name was up on the list of potential ones to go. It got to me and I’ve been hauling ass every fucking day for my job. I didn’t want to admit that I was scared. I’m supposed to support you and give you everything. Give you the world…I couldn’t let you down.”

A tear falls down his cheek and without thinking you reach up and wipe it away.

“Lastly, I’m so fucking sorry. I’m sorry I let all of that affect our marriage and make you think I didn’t love you. That I’d leave you. I swore in my vows I’d love you forever and I meant that. Every word.”

You sniffle and take a shaky breath.

“Then why’d you turn me down tonight?”

“I was so upset earlier over everything. I found out I’m for sure not getting let go but I was angry. Angry my name was even brought up for it to begin with. I didn’t want to take that out on you in any form, especially sex. But I think I already did with the lack of it over these last few months. Which again I’m sorry. I just was so overwhelmed with everything and didn’t want to force things and fake it with you. I never want that for us.”

He closes his eyes, willing himself not to cry in front of you.

Then he feels you wrap yourself around him.

“Brendon. I love you. You could never let me down. Even if you did lose your job, I wouldn’t think less of you, be disappointed in you or love you any less. I know that stuff can be scary but next time please just talk to me. This is a marriage. I’m here for you as much as you’re here for me. I can’t support you and be there for you if you don’t let me in. If you’re not in the mood for a conversation or sex or anything, just tell me. I’ll always understand. But I really thought you were gonna leave.”

He shakes his head rapidly.

“God no, baby. Never happening.”

“Good. Because I don’t think I’d survive it.”

He grabs your face and kisses you slowly.

“Also I know I didn’t say it earlier but you did look hot as hell. I’m sorry I ruined that for you.”

You chuckle a bit.

“You can make it up to me later Bren. Right now I just want to get in bed and cuddle my husband.”

He smiles brightly at you.

“For my wife? Anything.”

[fanficwritinggirl]

{The Sound Of Home - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}

Comment to be added to tag list.

The phone rang at 8:03.

You had been pretending not to stare at it since 7:45.

The kettle had boiled and gone quiet. The mug beside it sat untouched, tea darkening slowly because you had forgotten the milk. There was a half-folded basket of laundry on the sofa, a stack of baby books on the coffee table, and three different paint samples drying in uneven squares on the nursery wall upstairs.

Soft green.

Softer green.

Green that looked nice in the tin and alarming on plaster.

Andrew had chosen green.

Not in a bossy way. Not in the way people chose things when they expected to be listened to.

He had suggested it like he was afraid the wanting itself might be too much.

Soft. Like trees.

So now there were paint samples on the wall and one of his old flannels hanging over the back of a chair in the bedroom because you had worn it that morning and couldn't bring yourself to put it in the wash yet.

The phone rang again.

You grabbed it too fast.

"Hello?"

A small pause.

Then the automated voice came on.

You have a prepaid call from an inmate at—

You closed your eyes.

You hated that voice.

You hated the pause before his name. Hated the way it made something private sound like paperwork.

—Andrew Cody.

Your hand tightened around the phone.

To accept this call, press one.

You pressed one before the recording finished.

There was a click.

A distant shuffle.

Then his voice.

"Hey."

Your whole body softened.

It embarrassed you sometimes, how quickly it happened. One word from him and the house changed shape around you. It stopped being empty. Stopped being too quiet. Stopped being a place you were trying to survive alone.

"Hey," you said.

"You okay?"

You smiled despite yourself and leaned back against the kitchen counter. "That's your opener every time."

"Answer it every time."

"I'm okay."

"You sure?"

"Andrew."

"What?"

"You got two words into this call before interrogating me."

"I said hey first."

You laughed softly.

There was a beat of silence on his end.

You knew that silence.

He was listening to the laugh. Holding onto it. Saving it for later.

Your smile faded a little.

"I miss you," you said.

The words came out before you could decide whether they were too heavy for the first minute.

Andrew was quiet.

Behind him, you could hear voices. The scrape of a chair. Someone coughing. The prison had a sound to it, even over the phone. Hard edges. Men trying to sound bigger than they felt. Doors in the distance. Guards talking like no one around them was human enough to be gentle with.

Then Andrew said, "I miss you too."

He did not say it easily.

That made it mean more.

You looked around the kitchen. At the tea. At the laundry. At the little grocery list magneted to the fridge.

Milk.

Crackers.

Prenatal vitamins.

Paint tape.

Your eyes burned suddenly.

"I painted samples today," you said quickly, because if you sat inside the missing too long, you would crack open.

"For the room?"

"Yeah."

"The green?"

"The greens. Plural. Because apparently there are four thousand versions of soft green."

Andrew was quiet for a second.

Then, very seriously, "Don't pick the alarming one."

A startled laugh jumped out of you.

You pressed a hand over your mouth.

"What?" he asked.

"How do you know one of them is alarming?"

"You said it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like one of them made you mad."

You looked toward the stairs. "It looks like soup."

"Soup?"

"Bad soup."

"Don't pick bad soup."

"I wasn't planning on it."

"Good."

You smiled down at the floor.

For a minute, it almost felt normal.

Almost.

Like he was just somewhere else. At the store. In another room. On his way home.

Not wearing prison clothes. Not standing under fluorescent lights with a time limit ticking down above him. Not trapped somewhere you couldn't reach.

You swallowed.

"I wish you could see them."

"I will."

"The paint?"

"Pictures."

"They'll let you have pictures?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"If they think green walls are a security threat."

You laughed again, but it hurt this time.

Andrew heard it.

Of course he did.

"Baby."

Your face crumpled a little.

"I'm okay," you said, even though your voice had already betrayed you.

"No, you're not."

"I am."

"Don't do that."

You closed your eyes.

His voice had gone low. Not angry. Not sharp. Just Andrew. Trying to get to the truth because anything else made him feel too far away to help.

"I'm tired," you admitted.

"How tired?"

"Just normal pregnant tired."

"How tired?" he repeated.

You sighed and rubbed at your forehead. "The kind where I cried because I dropped a spoon earlier."

Silence.

Then, carefully, "Did it break?"

You blinked.

Then you laughed.

"No, Andrew. The spoon did not break."

"Then why'd you cry?"

"I don't know. Because it fell."

"That's it?"

"Yes."

"On the floor?"

"That's where spoons usually go when dropped."

"You're being mean."

"I'm pregnant."

"That's not a reason."

"It is currently my reason for everything."

He made a small sound, almost amused.

You loved that sound.

You missed it with your whole body.

"I would've picked it up," he said.

The words were simple.

Too simple.

That was why they landed so hard.

You looked at the floor where the spoon had fallen hours earlier. You had picked it up yourself. Of course you had. You were capable of picking up a spoon. You were capable of laundry and appointments and driving yourself to the store when crackers ran out.

But you were tired of being capable alone.

"I know," you whispered.

Andrew went quiet.

You could hear him breathing.

"I should be there," he said.

You turned and leaned both elbows on the counter, lowering your head. "I know."

"I should've been there to pick up the spoon."

A tear slipped down your cheek.

"It was a very dramatic spoon."

"Still."

You laughed wetly.

He didn't.

"I think about it," he said.

You stilled.

"What?"

"All of it."

Your fingers tightened around the phone.

"What do you think about?"

He didn't answer right away.

When he did, his voice was quieter.

"You in the kitchen. You going upstairs too slow because you're tired. You carrying laundry when you shouldn't. You trying to reach things from the top shelf even though I told you not to do that before."

You smiled through tears. "I'm not an invalid."

"You're short."

"I am average height."

"You climb counters."

"I do not climb counters."

"You used to."

"One time."

"Three times."

You rolled your eyes. "You remember that?"

"I remember everything you do that almost kills me."

"That did not almost kill you."

"It did."

"You're ridiculous."

"You're carrying my baby and climbing counters."

"I haven't climbed a counter since before the baby existed."

"You better not."

There was something in his voice. Humor, yes, but fear underneath it. Always fear. Andrew's love came with sharp edges because the world had taught him softness was something you protected with your teeth.

"I'm being careful," you said.

"Promise?"

"I promise."

He exhaled.

You let the silence settle for a second.

Then you looked toward the living room, where a little paper bag sat on the coffee table.

"I bought something today," you said.

"For you?"

"For the baby."

"What?"

You walked into the living room, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder, and picked up the bag. "A onesie."

Andrew was silent.

"It's tiny," you said, pulling it out. "Like, stupid tiny. I don't understand how anything human fits in this."

"What color?"

"Cream."

He made a small approving sound.

"It has ducks on it."

Another pause.

Then, "Ducks?"

"Tiny yellow ducks."

"Why ducks?"

"Because it was cute."

"Babies like ducks?"

"I don't know, Andrew. The baby is currently the size of an avocado. They don't have strong opinions yet."

He was quiet for a second.

"The size of an avocado?"

You smiled softly.

"Yeah. This week, apparently."

"An avocado."

"Mm-hmm."

He seemed to sit with that.

You could almost see him. Head slightly bowed. Brow furrowed. Trying to imagine it. Trying to make the baby real through fruit comparisons and scan photos and your voice describing things he couldn't touch.

"That's bigger," he said.

"Yeah."

"Than twelve weeks."

"Yes."

"How many now?"

"Sixteen."

He breathed out.

"Sixteen," he repeated.

"Four months."

"Four months," he said, quieter.

The background noise on his end grew louder for a moment. Someone shouted something. A guard barked back. The phone crackled.

You gripped the onesie in your hand.

"Is it bad there tonight?"

"No."

"Andrew."

"It's just loud."

"You safe?"

A pause.

Then, softer, "Yeah."

You hated that you had to ask.

You hated that safe was relative.

You hated that your baby's father was in a place where you had to listen for danger in the space between his words.

"Are you really?" you asked.

"I'm okay."

You wanted to believe him.

You chose to believe him because sometimes marriage was not knowing and trusting anyway.

"Good," you whispered.

Another small silence.

Then Andrew asked, "You wearing my shirt?"

You looked down.

The flannel was upstairs, but you were wearing one of his old black T-shirts. It stretched differently over your stomach now.

"How did you know?"

"You get quiet when you are."

Your throat tightened.

"That's weirdly observant."

"It's you."

You sat down slowly on the sofa.

The laundry basket shifted beside you, little folded towels slumping against your thigh.

"I wear your clothes too much," you admitted.

"No, you don't."

"I do. It's probably unhealthy."

"It's not."

"You don't know that."

"I like it."

Your face softened.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

His voice dropped, almost too low to hear. "Makes me feel like I'm there."

You pressed the little duck onesie against your chest.

"You are," you said.

"Not enough."

"No. Not enough."

Andrew was quiet.

You had learned not to soften every truth for him. He hated lies more than pain. Pain, at least, he knew what to do with.

"But you're here in some ways," you said. "Your shirt. Your handwriting on the letters. The scan photo copy on the fridge. The green paint. The way I can't look at the top shelf without hearing you in my head telling me to get down."

"That's good."

"It's annoying."

"It's safe."

"It's bossy."

"Safe," he repeated.

You smiled faintly. "Fine."

The call timer beeped faintly in the background.

Your stomach sank.

"How long?" you asked.

"Ten."

Ten minutes.

It sounded like nothing.

It was everything.

You looked down at your stomach. One hand moved there automatically.

You had started doing that more now. Not because you could feel much yet. Sometimes there was a flutter, maybe. Or maybe it was just your body settling. Gas, the pregnancy book had said helpfully, which felt deeply unromantic.

But still.

You touched your stomach all the time.

Like reassurance.

Like a greeting.

Like proof.

Andrew's voice changed.

"You doing it?"

You blinked. "Doing what?"

"Touching your stomach."

Your eyes filled.

"How do you know these things?"

"You breathe different."

"That is unsettling."

"It's not."

"It is a little."

"I know you."

You looked down at your hand.

Then an idea came to you so suddenly it made your heart trip.

"Andrew?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you want to talk to them?"

The line went silent.

Not normal silent.

Full silent.

Even the prison noise seemed to fall back for a moment.

"To the baby?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"They can't hear me yet."

"Maybe not properly. But I can."

He didn't say anything.

You waited.

This was how it worked with him sometimes. You had to give him room to walk toward the feeling without staring too hard.

Finally, he said, "What do I say?"

"Anything."

"That's not helpful."

You smiled through tears. "Say hi."

He breathed in.

You shifted the phone from your ear and pressed it gently against your stomach.

The T-shirt was soft under your hand. His shirt. Your belly. His voice waiting on the other end of a prison phone.

For a second, all of it felt impossible.

Then you said, "Okay. You're on."

There was no sound.

You imagined him standing there, phone in hand, eyes down, shoulders tight, terrified of doing it wrong.

Then, very quietly, Andrew said, "Hey."

Your face crumpled instantly.

His voice was rough. Careful. Like he was speaking to something sleeping.

"It's me," he said.

He stopped.

You pressed the phone closer and covered your mouth with your free hand.

"I'm..." He exhaled shakily. "I'm your dad."

The sob hit before you could stop it.

Andrew heard it.

"Are you crying?"

You pulled the phone back up fast. "No."

"You are."

"I'm fine. Keep going."

"I'm not doing it if you're crying."

"They're good tears."

"You said that last time."

"And it was true then too."

He hesitated.

You pressed the phone back to your stomach.

"Keep going," you whispered.

Andrew was quiet for another second.

Then his voice came back.

"Your mom cries a lot right now."

A laugh burst out of you through the tears.

"She says it's because of you."

You gasped. "Andrew."

"She's probably right," he continued, and you could hear something softer in his voice now. Something almost brave. "But don't feel bad. She cries when spoons fall too."

You were laughing and crying at once now, which was not dignified, but dignity had left sometime around week nine.

Andrew paused.

Then he said, "She's taking care of you. She's good at that. Better than anyone."

Your laughter faded.

You looked down at your stomach, tears falling freely.

"She's stubborn," he said. "Don't get that from her."

You rolled your eyes, smiling.

"Or me," he added. "Don't get that from me either."

He went quiet again.

When he spoke next, his voice was lower.

"I'm not there right now."

Your hand tightened around the phone.

"I want to be," he said. "More than anything. But I'm not. So you listen to her, okay? Don't make her too sick. Don't make her too tired. She'll pretend she's fine when she isn't, so you gotta be easy on her."

You pressed your lips together.

"I'm gonna call," he continued. "And write. And your mom's gonna tell me things. About you. About what you need. About what she needs. And I'm gonna... I'm gonna try to be good at this before I get to hold you."

The room blurred.

You could hardly breathe.

"I love you," Andrew said.

His voice broke.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

"I love you before I know your name."

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

The whole house seemed to hold still around you.

Then you brought the phone back to your ear.

Andrew was breathing unevenly.

"You okay?" you asked gently.

He let out something almost like a laugh. "That's my question."

"Answer it every time."

He was quiet.

Then, honestly, "No."

Your heart twisted.

"Andrew."

"I'm okay," he corrected, but his voice shook. "I just..."

"I know."

"I want to touch you."

You closed your eyes.

"I know."

"I want to put my hand there."

"I know."

"I want to feel them move."

"You will."

"What if I don't?"

"You will someday."

The distinction hurt.

You both heard it.

Someday.

Not necessarily the first time. Not necessarily when the baby kicked hard enough to make you gasp. Not necessarily when your stomach changed shape under your palm and you reached instinctively for a hand that wasn't there.

Someday.

Andrew swallowed hard. "Tell me when it happens."

"I will."

"Even if it's little."

"Especially if it's little."

He breathed out.

You leaned back against the sofa cushions and looked around the living room. His boots by the door because you had never moved them. The book he had never finished on the side table. The tiny duck onesie in your lap.

"I wish you could see the house right now," you said.

"What's it look like?"

"A mess."

"Because of the laundry?"

"That and the baby books."

"You reading all of them?"

"I'm trying."

"You don't have to know everything."

"That's rich coming from you, Mr. 'Write Down Egg Hatred.'"

"That was important."

"It was not."

"You still hate eggs?"

"Yes."

"Then it was important."

You laughed softly.

"I bought one book for you," you said.

"For me?"

"Yeah. It's called something like New Dad Survival Guide."

He went very still. You could hear it somehow.

"I can't have books sent unless they come from approved places."

"I know. I checked."

"You checked?"

"Of course I checked."

There was a long pause.

"You got me a dad book?"

Your throat tightened at his voice.

Small.

Disbelieving.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because you're a dad."

He didn't answer.

You stared down at the onesie.

"Andrew?"

"I'm here."

"You okay?"

"No," he said again, and this time there was a little breath of humor in it. "You keep doing things."

"What things?"

"Making it real."

Your eyes softened.

"It is real."

"I know."

"But?"

"But sometimes in here it feels..." He stopped. "Far away."

You nodded even though he couldn't see.

"I know."

"Then you say things like dad book and baby room and ducks, and it's..." His voice thinned. "It's real again."

You looked down at your stomach.

"It's real here all the time," you whispered.

"I know."

"Sometimes that's beautiful."

He was quiet.

"And sometimes it's lonely."

You heard him inhale.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not saying that to hurt you."

"I know."

"I just need you to know."

"I want to know."

You closed your eyes.

That was the promise, wasn't it?

Not that he could fix it.

Just that he wanted to know.

There had been a time when Andrew hid from pain by making himself unreachable. He still did sometimes. But not with this. Not with you. Not with the baby.

He was reaching from inside a cage with both hands.

And God, you loved him for trying.

The call timer beeped again.

"Two minutes," he said.

You hated how calm he sounded saying it.

Like he had trained himself not to react to things being taken from him.

"Okay," you whispered.

"Put me on again."

Your breath caught. "Yeah?"

"Please."

You moved the phone back to your stomach.

Andrew didn't hesitate as long this time.

"Hey," he said again, softer. "It's me."

You smiled through tears.

"I gotta go soon. I don't want to." His voice caught. "But I'll call again. And I'll write. And your mom's gonna paint your room green, but not the soup one."

You laughed silently, pressing your hand over your mouth.

"And she bought you ducks," he said. "I don't know why. But she loves them, so you probably will too."

Your heart felt too big for your chest.

Another pause.

Then, so quietly it almost vanished into the static, he said, "Take care of her for me until I can."

Your tears slipped down onto his shirt.

"I love you," he whispered.

The line beeped.

You brought the phone back to your ear quickly.

"Andrew."

"I love you," he said, faster now. "I love you. Eat something. Lock the door. Don't carry the laundry upstairs all at once."

You let out a broken laugh. "I love you too."

"I mean it."

"I know."

"And don't pick soup green."

"I won't."

"And—"

The line clicked.

Silence.

No goodbye.

No soft ending.

Just gone.

You stood in the middle of the living room with the phone still pressed to your ear, listening to the dead line like maybe love could come back through if you waited hard enough.

It didn't.

The house settled around you.

The fridge hummed.

A car passed outside.

The baby books sat open and unread.

You lowered the phone slowly.

For a second, the emptiness rushed in so hard you had to sit forward, elbows on your knees, one hand pressed against your stomach.

Then you felt it.

Maybe.

A flutter.

So small you could have imagined it.

You froze.

Your breath caught.

There it was again.

Barely anything.

A flicker beneath your palm.

Not a kick.

Not yet.

Just a little movement, soft as a secret.

Your face crumpled.

"Oh," you whispered.

You laughed once, wet and stunned.

Then again, because of course.

Of course it happened thirty seconds after the call ended.

Of course Andrew had missed it by half a minute.

You pressed your hand more firmly to your stomach, tears falling onto his shirt.

"Your timing," you whispered, "is terrible."

The flutter came once more.

You cried then.

Not because it was sad.

Not only because it was sad.

Because Andrew had said take care of her for me until I can, and something inside you had answered.

Because there was a soft green room waiting upstairs.

Because there was a cream onesie with tiny ducks in your lap.

Because somewhere, on the other side of walls and wire and locked doors, Andrew Cody had called himself a dad and sounded like he was trying to believe he was allowed to be one.

You picked up your phone again with shaking hands.

The prison number wouldn't work if you called it back.

You knew that.

Still, you opened your messages and typed one he would not receive until later, when someone checked the system or when he called again or when the world decided to be kind for once.

You just missed it. Baby moved. Tiny flutter. I think they liked your voice.

You stared at the message.

Then added:

Not soup green. I promise.

You sent it.

Then you sat there in the quiet house, one hand over your stomach, wearing Andrew's shirt, and let yourself smile.

Not because everything was okay.

It wasn't.

But because for one brief, impossible moment, his voice had filled the room.

And the baby had moved like they knew him.

[not-neverland06]

𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨…

💿 House Tour💿

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴: 𝘛𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘴 𝘋𝘢𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩 & 𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

Well this is me but / if you have time / Do you want the house tour? / I could take you to the first, second, third floor

My house is on pretty girl avenue / My house was especially built for you / Some say it's a place where your dreams come true / My house / Could be your house too!

Overview: You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, a tale as old as time. Just like the one where they tell you about pretty, naive, broke girls getting swept off their feet by the murdering, satanic-worshipping rich man stalking them.

Oh... Do they not tell that one?

a/n: wrote this before I watched the movie and worried he would be OOC but I just finished it and yes, he’s just as psychopathic and needy as I’d hoped

wc: 12.1K

more at: Belle’s 3K Extravaganza

All good things start with something memorable. Something that gets your blood racing and adrenaline pumping. You hadn’t thought catering an old man’s party would be so titillating, but looking down at this NDA, you have a feeling your night is about to take a strange turn. 

“Just sign on the dotted line, please,” Bev tells you, pointed nail tapping boredly at the bottom of the paper. The pen hangs limply in your grip as your eyes dart from her to the form. 

Bev was doing you a favor, letting you tag along with her catering company and earn some extra cash. Things had been tight lately, bad enough that you’re worried about making rent next month. Still, as desperate as you were, entering the lion’s den of the rich and anonymous with a hefty NDA under your belt seemed beyond stupid. 

Your friend let out a huff, offering you a stern glare. “You’re not getting in that mansion without one.”

“What the hell are they gonna do in there? Eat us alive?” 

If only you knew then what you know now. 

“This is all of them?” Bev nods as she hands the richly dressed lawyer the thick stack of NDA’s. Your eyes narrow on your own, right on top with your messy signature.

Getting into the sprawling estate had been hell. The owners, some jagoffs by the name of Danforth, didn’t want the help being seen by their guests. The catering vans had to circle the mile-long driveway and backroads before Bev finally found the back entrance. And then, because of that tedious delay, you’d all had to rush the food into the mansion. 

One of you accidentally dropped a tray of some French shit you couldn’t pronounce. That had cost Bev an extra half hour as the head of staff for the estate berated her. You could still see how red her cheeks had gotten while she tried not to cry. 

You’ve barely been here an hour and already your hatred for the rich is deepening. 

A stout woman in a classic maid’s outfit walks up and down the long line of Bev’s caterers. She holds herself with the severity and posture of a military man. You’re afraid that if a hair slips out of place, she’ll make you drop and give her twenty. She comes to a sudden stop in front of you and you instinctively straighten, spine groaning as you force it into a better posture than you’ve had in a year. 

Her eyes narrow before she lets out a low huff. “Send ten out with the champagne,” she barks out an order and you hold your hand out instinctively for your tray. Bev gives the go-ahead to her assistants and they begin loading you all up with champagne worth more than your shitty apartment. 

Before you can finally escape the kitchen, the older woman stops you. “Watch yourself,” she warns. Your brows furrow in confusion but she’s already walking away, tugging at another girl’s skirt until the hem sits right. That didn’t seem like a warning that meant ‘don’t get smart with the guests.’ It felt more like you should have left before you even set foot in this dreary mansion. 

With no other choice, you shuffle in line with the others and follow the leader out the swinging kitchen door. The noise is immediate as you’re led into a large drawing room. Low chatter and rich laughter that makes your wallet quake. Women’s 4-carat diamond rings clink against champagne flutes, Rolexes flash as men sip their brandy. Each pass through the room makes you wish you had the skills to slip a ring or necklace off an unsuspecting socialite. 

You’re forced to dismiss the thought as a man whistles, snapping his fingers and motioning you closer. Your eye twitches as you bite back something rude; instead, you force a polite smile on your face, making your way over. “Took you long enough,” he gripes, rolling his eyes. 

You offer a short laugh and your smile tightens. “Did you need something, sir?” Your tray is empty, clearly tucked behind your back. Five extra seconds of patience and you would have been refilled. But you doubt anyone in this room has ever had to wait for something. 

“Yes,” he stares at you as if you’d grown a second head. “Champagne,” he drawls in a tone that actively makes you wish for a gun. 

You blink a few times, struggling to comprehend how someone could be so confidently stupid. “Apologies, sir, my tray’s empty. But the bar is just over there,” you point toward the bartender, who is quite literally five feet from the man. 

His perfectly maintained eyebrows draw in at your audacity. “Good, you have eyes. Go get me some.”

Tomorrow, you would congratulate yourself on such phenomenal self-restraint. Tonight, however, you bite your lip hard enough to hurt and force yourself to go grab some champagne. 

When you swipe the flute from the bar, it takes everything inside you not to spit in the bastard’s drink. “Here you are, sir,” you force a jovial tone to your voice. He rolls his eyes. Those thirty seconds you took must have felt like a lifetime to the poor thing. 

He waves his hand in dismissal and you can’t help the astonished scoff that leaves you. Shaking your head, you’re about to turn away when you catch him fiddling with the ring on his pinky. You might as well already be gone for all the care he pays you as you linger behind him. 

His ring pops open to reveal a compartment inside. You frown as he sprinkles powder from his ring into the drink. With a low sigh, he readjusts his tie and makes a beeline for the blonde in the center of the room.

The domineering presence that has commanded the party thus far. You’re quite certain she’s the one who hired Bev, with how easily she dismisses and beckons forth those around her, like an owner calling their dog to heel. 

The man you’d just served sidles up to her, a smarmy grin on his face as he holds out the champagne. With a low sigh, you shake your head and rush forward. The rich might all behave like a bunch of well-dressed bottom feeders, but you’re not about to allow a woman to be roofied at her own party. 

You jog up to the woman and reach out. She startles at your touch. There’s a man at her side you hadn’t noticed before. He’s on the shorter side, with salt-and-pepper curls and a tight jaw that looks like it's been itching to bite at someone all night. “You’re touching me,” she drawls and you jerk your hand back. 

Her lips curl with disgust, as if you got your poor on her. Clearing your throat uncomfortably, you glance over at the man you just served. His eyes narrow, but you don’t think he even paid enough attention to you to remember your face. 

“Excuse me, ma’am, but you’re not supposed to drink that.” You gesture toward the champagne and she pulls it back from you. 

“Good help’s hard to find these days, isn’t it?” The man laughs, eyes narrowing at you as he tries to remember how he knows your face. Jesus, these people are inhuman. 

“And why shouldn’t I drink my champagne in my home?” she demands, cutting her eyes to the man at her side. They both share a suspicious look that has you clamping up. 

“Um, well-”

“Alright,” the man at her side finally steps forward, hands outstretched like he’s about to escort you out. You’d really rather not find out how these people dispose of ‘bad’ help.

“He put something in it,” you rush out, narrowly dodging her guard dog’s hands. They both pause and the blonde brings the drink to her nose. She takes a deep whiff while the blonde man across from her goes colorless. 

She lets out a low chuckle and shakes her head. “Really, Brentley? Poison is a woman’s game; you should know better.”

Your eyes dart between the pair of them. She’s taking this a lot better than you would have. The shorter man redirects himself to the other man, ignoring you now. All three of them seem to have forgotten you were there. They began to act as if she were the one to make the discovery, icing you out of the conversation. 

It’s a blessing, you think. She seemed ready to cut off your hands for getting poverty on her silk dress. Slowly, you back away from the trio. When you’re sure no one’s paying attention, you make a beeline for the kitchen. One attempted poisoning is more than enough excitement for the night. 

Bev is surrounded by a cyclone of pans, cutlery, and splashing red sauces. Her white coat is absolutely covered in stains, and the stout woman from before is yelling at her for burning some hors d'oeuvres. You’re a horrible person for leaving her high and dry, but you need to get out of here before you discover something so bad that not even an NDA can shut you up. 

You drop your tray by the kitchen door and rip off your apron, making a run for it before anyone can spot you. If Bev asks, you’ll tell her you got sick and had to leave. She probably won’t believe you, but you doubt she’s paying much attention to who’s missing right now. 

Slipping outside, you tug out your phone. You’ll need to get an Uber out of here; the estate is over an hour out of the city. Like hell you’ll be able to make the walk in the heels they required you to wear. 

Trying to open up Uber, you frown, no bars. Great, in this sprawling billion-dollar estate, they couldn’t shell out some extra cash for a cell phone tower or something. Grumbling, you lift your phone to the sky, trying to see if you can catch a signal. You don’t pay much attention to where you go, just walking until you get enough of a connection to call a ride. 

After a few minutes, you find yourself outside of some strange shed. A bar comes to life and you let out a low noise of excitement, quickly ordering a ride. An odd noise to your right catches your attention and you shift your focus back to the shed. 

It’s wet, this noise, squishing as someone lets out a low groan. Your nose wrinkles, disgust brewing hot in your stomach as you risk a step closer to the door. Through the wooden slats, you can make out the form of a hunched man. Another low grunt and he lifts his arm, the metallic shine of a butcher’s knife catching in the dim light. You clamp your hand over your mouth, swallowing back your gasp as he slams the knife down. 

A painful squelch and then you hear the pitiful sound of an animal breathing its last breath. Are they preparing the meat for dinner now? You ask yourself. How odd, even for the rich. 

Tilting your head, curiosity overrides sense as you press closer to the wood of the shed. The man straightens and you recognize the greying auburn curls from inside the estate. This had been the little guard dog standing next to that blonde woman you’d helped. He lets out a low grunt and wipes his hands on his apron, stepping to the side. 

There’s no stopping the sharp gasp that rips through you. It wasn’t an animal he was butchering. No, it was the man who’d tried to poison the woman. His mangled body was crumpled on the floor, blood swirling down a drain in the center of the shed. His fingers twitched with the last bits of life as his body began to cool. 

You stumbled back from the shed with burning eyes, stomach turning as you tripped over yourself. 

“What are you doing out here?”

You whipped around with a gasp, barely stopping yourself from screaming. The blonde woman stood behind you, hands propped on her hips as she scrutinized your form. The shed door creaked open behind you and you went still, already feeling a predator's gaze boring into your back. 

“I was looking for a signal,” you whisper, holding up your phone. 

“Did you find it?” The man calls from behind you. You’re too terrified to turn. You can’t face a murderer, not with the body of his victim still cooling behind him. 

“Yeah,” you squeak out, nails biting into your palm as your eyes desperately search for a way out of this. 

The blonde’s head tilts and she offers a sharp smile. “You’re the maid that told me about Brentely.” Oh, of course, now they can remember a face.

“Mhm,” you hum, throat so tight you can hardly breathe. 

Her eyes narrow for a split second before she waves you off. “Run along, little rabbit.” You hesitate and she tilts her head, almost daring you to disobey. It takes a second longer before you’re booking it back toward the main section of the estate. 

“You’re just letting her leave?” The man hisses. 

“I know what she looks like, now. Besides, she did sign an NDA,” she mutters, leading him back into the shed. 

That should have been the end of it. After all, you did sign an NDA. And without much knowledge of the legal process, you just assume that you can’t tell another living soul what you witnessed. It’s not like you’re actively looking to snitch, either. The guy had clearly been a scumbag and those people were far more powerful than the justice system. 

You’d looked them up after you’d gotten home. Trying to place where you’d seen them before. Titus and Ursula Danforth, the siblings who’d hired Bev. People who could bury you if you ever tried to report them. You knew you weren’t influential enough to pose a threat to them. And you know that they understood that, too. 

So why the hell were you being followed?

Every night when you’d get home, a black town car would be parked outside your apartment. Too clean, too new, too rich for your neighborhood. You’d see it throughout the day as you went grocery shopping, as you applied for new jobs, everywhere. Those tinted windows prevented you from seeing just who was trailing you. But you knew who’d sent them. 

You were nothing to the Danforths. An insignificant little bug who’d just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Why would they waste so much time on you?

It didn’t make sense, and thinking too long about it made it harder to muster up the courage to leave the house. So, you tried to forget about them. You tried to forget about the town car parked across the street as you ran into the hardware store. But it was difficult to pretend it was a normal day when you turned the aisle and saw Titus Danforth standing at the other end. 

His hands were in his pockets as he observed the axes and picks with an upturned nose. Your eyes widened, and you caught yourself, trying to slowly back out of the aisle. But your stupid, cheap shoes squeaked against the linoleum, and his head snapped toward you. 

Your entire body froze under his empty stare. Those eyes, sharp as a blade and completely void of any emotion. It felt like staring down a shark, and you’d just chummed the waters. 

“You,” he muttered. 

You could try to make a run for it. You’d probably beat him to the door. But then what after that? He keeps following you, keeps having you tailed and you spend every waking second looking over your shoulder? Your life was shit enough already; you couldn’t give him so much power over it. 

“Mr. Danforth,” you greet. Titus felt too comfortable. Too familiar for the man stalking you. 

His head tilted at that, eyes flitting over your form as he appraised you. You’re sure he found you wanting for something. You were so far below him on the social ladder that you don’t even think there’s a rung for you to hold onto. 

He takes a step closer to you and it feels as if the air around you grows colder at his presence. You can’t bring yourself to meet him halfway, but you refuse to back down. Holding your ground, you eye him warily. 

“Have you been following me?” It’s posed as a question, but you can both hear the accusation in your tone. 

His eyes narrow, lips quirking slightly as he scoffs. “Do you think I have the time to follow everyone who sticks their nose in my business?”

“Clearly, you do.” It’s probably stupid to goad the man who could kill you right here and walk away scott free. But you’re not going to let him make you feel like you’re going crazy. “I don’t see any other reason you’d be somewhere like this,” you gesture toward the run-down store and his nose wrinkles. His disgust gives him away. 

“My sister thought it wise to let you go. You helped her; that was her returning the favor.”

“And you don’t agree?” He doesn’t have to say anything; his presence is enough of an answer. You risk a step closer, ignoring how his stare makes your hair stand on end. “You’ve been watching me, you know I haven’t done anything to earn your suspicion. I know how to keep my mouth shut.”

“Do you?” He prods, your brows furrow at the dig. 

“Sarcasm is a lot different than accusing someone of-” you stop yourself, biting your tongue before you blurt out what he’d done in the middle of the hardware store. 

His brows pique, seeming disappointed you hadn’t just proved yourself wrong. “If you didn’t think you could trust me, why’d you let me go that night?”

A spark of emotion, just the slightest bit of anger on his face, before his calm facade slips back in place. “It wasn’t my choice,” he grits out. You draw back, eyes narrowing. So, his sister calls the shots then. You wonder if she’s aware her dog has sprung his leash. 

“Look, I have enough to deal with without you making my life hell. Frankly, you’re not worth the fucking trouble it would take to report you. Just… let me be, please.”

He’s silent for a moment and you don’t know how to take that. When it gets to be too uncomfortable, you start to walk away. “You’re bold for someone who’d be so easy to erase.” 

Tensing up, you risk a glance over your shoulder, but he’s already gone. 

A few nights later, you find yourself standing outside a shitty bar. You’d spent the night making it up to Bev for ditching her by buying her cheap beer you could barely afford. Now, you’re staring down at what it would cost to order yourself a car. 

Bev had taken off with some guy she’d picked up, leaving you stranded. You rock back on your heels, bare legs growing colder the longer you stay still. “Fuck,” you hiss, shoving your phone in your purse. You wrap your jacket tighter around yourself and turn to make the trek home. 

It’s beyond stupid, walking home like this, buzzed and in skimpy bar clothes. But you don’t even have enough money in your bank to pay your water bill. Let alone afford a ride back to your apartment. 

It doesn’t take long to feel it. Your hair stands on end, gooseflesh pricks at your skin painfully. Someone’s watching you. Just behind you, just out of sight, their eyes are stuck on your back. It’s futile to try to shake off the feeling. There’s no getting rid of base instinct. You risk a glance over your shoulder and find no shadows lurking under the street lamps. 

That’s when you hear it. The sound of an engine starting. Bright headlights flood the street before you. Grimacing back from the light, you cup your hand over your eyes and glare at the car making such a scene. It shouldn’t surprise you to see the black town car, but you’re caught off guard nonetheless. 

“What the fuck?” you mutter, watching as it rolls to a stop beside you. The back window rolls down, hair that’s growing too familiar to you becomes visible. Jesus, he’s not even driving. Of course, he’s got a damn chauffeur. Why wouldn’t he?

You should honestly be concerned about the man following you. The one you’d just seen murder someone, not even a week ago. But you’re just relieved it's him and not some other freak following you. Better the evil you know…

The door doesn’t open, he doesn’t say anything, and there’s no invitation offered to get in. You’re not sure if he just wanted to taunt you with the heat you can feel wafting from the window or what. 

“Um, hi?” you mutter, still slightly buzzed. 

He lets out a sharp sigh, and then the door swings open. You leap back before it can bash into your knees, cheap heels tilting threateningly beneath you. “I don’t-”

“Get in,” his voice is short and leaves no room for questioning. Besides, you are desperate to be out of the cold. There should be far more of a fight put up, but you get into the car and close the door behind you. The driver pulls away from the curb immediately, seemingly desperate to be out of this shady neighborhood. 

You can’t exactly blame him. You hate when Bev drags you to this side of town. She always ends up ditching you by the end of the night. 

Just to have something to do, you plant your purse firmly in your lap, fiddling with the straps. You can see Titus out of the corner of your eye. His jaw is tense, as usual, gaze is fixed pointedly ahead. You’re afraid to speak. As if one wrong word might trigger him to attack. 

“Still following me, I see,” you mutter, fiddling with a string on your dress. 

He sucks in a sharp breath, and you straighten, waiting for him to bite. “Did you drag your heels from the bottom of a bargain bin?”

Your eyes widen and your head snaps toward him. “Excuse me?” But he’s not done. 

“And your dress is one thread away from being nothing more than a cheap scrap in a landfill.” Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You’re far too astonished by such a brutal callout of your accurately described bargain bin wardrobe. “So, why would you ever think it’s smart to walk through a neighborhood like that in shoes you can’t even run in?”

Rolling your eyes, you let out a sharp scoff. “Jesus, don’t try to white knight me after you’ve been stalking me for a week.” His gaze snaps toward you, and you shrug. “If it comes to it, I ditch the heels and run. I’ve been in tighter squeezes than a shady neighborhood and a cheap dress.”

Your answer seems to have pretty much the opposite effect of what you’d been hoping for as his nostrils flare and his shoulders stiffen. Thankfully, the driver’s pulling into your apartment complex. You’re about ready to throw open the door and roll out; you’ve escaped from worse dates with the same method before. 

“Your neighborhood’s disgusting,” he snipes, sniffing. 

You open the door and toss him a glare over your shoulder. “Then buy me a house, or stop following me,” you snap, slamming the door behind you. You almost wished he would actually shoot you. It’d be preferable to being followed by a domineering, judgmental shadow. 

When you open the door the next morning, instead of the paper, there’s a thick envelope on the mat. Bending over, you pick it up, honestly surprised one of your neighbors hadn’t snatched it yet. 

You’ve got one foot in your door and have barely opened the envelope before you're racing outside. You keep it tucked tight to your chest, heart racing as you storm down your stairs and to the town car parked expectantly outside. 

Rushing up, you rap your knuckles on the window, slippered foot tapping impatiently against the pavement. Slowly, the window rolls down, revealing Titus’ chauffeur, but no sign of the man himself. 

“Is he in there?” you demand, trying to get a look into the back seat. 

“No, ma’am, not today.”

Your brows furrow as your gaze snaps back to him. “He makes you come out here without him?”

The driver nods sagely, “In case you ever decide to swallow your pride and ask for a ride.” A sharp scoff escapes you and he offers a saccharine smile. “His words, ma’am.”

“Upptiy asshole,” you grumble. You pull the envelope away from your chest and flash it at him. The thick stack of hundreds inside dangles just beneath his nose. “What is this?”

His brows raise as he glances between you and the cash. “Money, I believe.”

You shoot him an unimpressed glare. “Yes, I’m aware of what money is. I want to know why it’s at my door.”

“I believe for a better pair of shoes, ma’am.”

Your lips part as your gaze drops back to the cash. Jesus, even his gift was insulting. And how much did he think a pair of shoes cost? This was two months of rent in your hand, not to mention every one of your overdue bills. 

“Yeah, well, it’s going to my water bill,” you grumble. “You can leave, I’m not going anywhere today. Nor am I ever taking his chauffeur.”

The older man simply smiles and shrugs. “I’ll be here if you need me, ma’am.” The window’s rolling back up before you can object. Thoroughly dismissed, you begin the awkward trek back up your stairs. What the hell does he even do in there all day? 

And why is Titus torturing his poor chauffeur and making him wait out there when he’s not even here?

You shake your head and grumble quietly to yourself. You never should have gone to that damn mansion. 

“Where’s Ralph?” Ursula stepped into Titus’ office with her typical demanding air. Having no care for what he’s been doing or the fact that he’s been trying to clean up her mess for the past week and a half. 

“With the girl,” he mutters, leafing through the paperwork on his desk. Ursula shakes her head, expression blank. Titus lets out a heavy sigh, “Brentley,” he reminds her. 

That had been a particularly satisfying kill. He’d been looking for ways to get rid of that pompous ass for a long time. And you’d just walked right up and handed it to him on your little silver tray. 

Ursula’s eyes narrow before recognition sparks in them. “I still don’t understand why he isn’t here,” she huffs. 

“Because I’m trying to make sure that your odd desire for mercy doesn’t go to the police.”

“Jesus, Titus, I want my driver back. Put her down if you have to.” Ursula throws her hands up with a huff and begins to storm out of his office. Titus pauses, imagines what it might be like to kill you. He’s unsure how he’d do it, now. You’re easy enough to get in a car. Maybe he’d drive you back to the estate, take you to the shed where he’d slaughtered Brentley. 

He imagines that terror in your eyes would be quite the sight to see. That brief moment right before you scream and he plunges the knife in your chest. Titus’s hands tighten around his papers before he releases a short breath, dropping them back on his desk. Something stirs in his groin that makes him stretch out his legs. 

“Unless,” Ursula’s voice calls from his door. Hadn’t she left yet? “Are you playing with your food, again?”

“What?” He snaps, having less patience for her than usual. 

“That little server from the party…” she shrugs. “Having fun playing with her, Titus?” His jaw clenches, imagining the generous donation he’d left you this morning. Pocket money for him. He’s sure it’s life-changing for a poverty-stricken thing like you. 

“Ugh,” Ursula groans in disappointment. “You always do this. Find a new toy to play with, something that will really get on father’s nerves. Then I’m cleaning up your mess. I don’t feel like having to scrape a maid off concrete again. If you’re going to play, make sure it doesn’t get in my way.”

With that, she finally leaves, the door slamming behind her. Titus stays where he is, jaw flexing as he settles his breath. She has no idea what she’s talking about. He’s never kept toys, never played with women. They played with him, and he had little care for women who thought he was something disposable. 

He doubts you’d be like that. Desperate as you are, you still manage to have a bite. Still try to fight against him. There’s something in that desperation, that gritty will to survive, that’s a hundred times more interesting than any heiress he’s had dinner with in the past year. 

He tilts his head, picturing the look on your face if he presented you with one of his penthouses. Disposable things, he occasionally visited. An entirely different life from your shitty little apartment complex. It’s difficult deciding what’s more enticing…

The light leaving your eyes, or being the reason it’s still there. 

“Oh, fuck me,” you hiss, staring out the peephole and finding an annoyingly familiar face waiting. When is this rich boy going to let you get back to your life? Passionless and boring as that life is, it’s yours. And you’d like him out of it. 

You suck in a sharp breath and throw the door open. Titus waits for you, hands folded behind his back, a suspicious tilt to his lips. “What?” you demand, eyeing him warily. 

His eyes narrow before he holds out his hand. “Take a ride with me,” he tells you. There’s no space for ‘no’ with him. It’s not something he’s ever heard or will ever accept. Despite every instinct telling you not to, you take his hand. 

You frown as he slips a key into your palm, dragging you out of your apartment. “Where’re we going?” you demand, stumbling as he storms off toward the stairs. He drags you along behind him, paying little mind to your questions or complaints. 

“Somewhere more suitable to my tastes,” he offers airily. 

It’s hard to say how you end up here. Sort of. You understand the steps easily enough. Titus stalked you, paid you, and then dumped you in a penthouse so he could stalk you in a neighborhood closer to his economic bracket. 

But there’s this grey area between all that, where you can’t quite comprehend what your life has become. You watched him murder a man, saw him and his sister cover it up. You should hold the power; you have something on him. 

Yet, he has this power over you. This sway that makes you agree to things you never would before. 

On your last cent and struggling to keep a roof over your head, you still wouldn’t let yourself rely on a man. But now, you sleep in his penthouse. You wear clothes bought with his card. And, occasionally, he visits you. For the most part, he keeps to his mansion and socialites. 

But when he’s looking for something interesting, for someone without an ulterior motive or fake personality, he comes to you. Eventually, the shininess of a new toy will wear off. You’ll dull around the edges after not having to fight to survive. The thing that’s strangely endeared him to you will be gone, and you’ll be left worse off than before. 

Because now, you don’t have your own place to run back to. 

You’re searching through job listings on the new laptop he gave you when the front door opens. “Shit,” you hiss, closing out the tabs and sliding the computer away just as he walks into the living room. 

“What was that?” He demands, eyes already narrowed in suspicion. 

“Porn,” you respond bluntly. His nostrils flare for a moment before his lips quirk. You offer a weak smile, feeling like a fool performing for nobles so far above her. Each moment with him, in the comfort of this grand place, you wonder when he’ll grow tired. When you won’t be funny enough to keep around anymore. When you’ll have to fight for scraps again. 

He unbuttons his coat and you stand, already reaching for it. He lets out a rough sigh, collapsing on the couch as you go to hang it up. What are you to him? You find yourself asking that question more than you’re comfortable with. 

When you return, he’s digging through your computer. You’re not stupid, though. You look for ways to escape him on incognito tabs. “Snoop much?” you tease, offering a tense smile. 

He closes your laptop and tosses it onto the table. Your eyes widen at the blase attitude. You could never imagine treating your valuables as if they were so… replaceable. 

“What did you do tonight?” He asks, rubbing his temple as he sinks into the cushions. 

“I already told you,” you snark. He pops open an eye, and you shrug. 

Replaceable. “Cooked some dinner, burnt it. Ordered Thai, instead.”

“I’m so sick of these fucking gatherings,” he grunts, eyes clenched shut as he shakes his head. 

Replaceable. 

He completely passes over what you’ve said, but you don’t really care. Taking a seat beside him, you’re not surprised when he grabs your waist, tugs you onto his lap. It’s routine when he visits, now. 

A doll. 

You run your fingers through his tight curls and he shudders at the gentle touch. Smiling slightly, you pull his head into your chest. He falls easily into you. Most days, he reminds you of one of those mutts used in dog-fighting rings. 

He’s got sharp teeth and a worse bite, but he seems to just be looking for an iota of normalcy. Sadly, a life lived with a silver spoon in his mouth means he has no idea what normalcy is. It’s certainly not playing house with your stay-at-home sugar baby whenever you get tired of being rich. 

Dolls break so easily. 

His arms tighten around you and you suck in a deep breath, trying to settle yourself. “What’re all these meetings about, anyway?”

“Marriage,” he answers bluntly. Your fingers still in his hair, job applications sit in the back of your mind. He lifts his head with a frown. “What’s wrong?”

Dolls are replaceable. 

Your smile tightens at the edges until it hurts. “Nothing,” you lie. “Don’t like any of the gorgeous heiresses they’ve presented you with?” you try to tease him. It comes out too strained. Too bitter to fit your role. 

Titus catches on, like a shark sniffing out blood. He leans back on the couch and you stiffly follow him. “Worried?” he taunts, and the joy that flickers through his eyes fills you with a blinding hate. He knows. 

You almost thought he was too stupid to understand what it means to struggle. To have to worry about where or when your next meal will come. But he knows what you fear, he knows how to use it against you and keep you docile. It’s fun for him, being so wholly in control of your life and your future. 

I am replaceable. 

“Not at all,” you shrug, dipping forward to press a kiss to the corner of his lips. “We both know I’m more fun than them.” You slip from his lap, smirking as you drag your hand along his shoulder, slowly making your way to the bedroom. It doesn’t take him long to follow once you’ve tugged his leash. 

“Oh.” Ursula stands at the entrance of the penthouse. Her sunglasses are still on, lips curled as she takes you in. “I was looking for Titus,” she explains, brushing past you and making her way inside. 

Your eyes narrow as the door shuts behind her. Why do you feel like she’s lying?

“Shouldn’t he be at your mansion?” You ask, heart skipping when you realize you’ve left your laptop open on the coffee table. You knew Titus wouldn’t be coming by anytime soon. You hadn’t thought to cover your tracks. 

Of course, Ursula takes after her twin. She loops through the living room, arms crossed in judgment, before her attention’s snagged by the screen. She lifts her sunglasses and peers down at it. 

If you pretend like it’s normal, maybe she won’t tell Titus. 

“Big mansion,” she mutters in response to your earlier comment. “Must’ve missed him.”

Now you know she’s lying. 

“Uh-huh,” you mutter, trailing after her. “Well, he’s not here.” Ursula ignores you, bending down and scrolling through your laptop. “Hey, do you mind-”

“Office administrator?” She questions, tongue rolling like a job title is a foreign language. 

You roll your eyes, “I forget nepo babies don’t understand the idea of employment.”

She lets out a short scoff, offering you a bitter smile. “Careful,” she warns. “I don’t like you that much.”

You offer a sharp grin, but bite your tongue. You’re more scared of her than you are of Titus. She’s had him in her claws a lot longer than you. And you doubt you mean enough for him to protect you from her. 

“Why are you looking at jobs?” She demands, eyes snagging on your half-packed suitcase. “Escaping, are we?”

You follow her gaze and shake your head. If only. “No, Titus wants to get away. Something about a property up in the mountains.”

“The Leedle Property?” She interrupts.

“I guess,” you mutter, eyes narrowing at how eagerly she jumps at the information. “Why?”

“And why are you applying to jobs if you’re not running away from my brother?” she asks, ignoring your question. 

You bite your lip, wondering how much you should actually tell her. But it doesn’t seem like she’s leaving until she’s satisfied. “I’m not an idiot. Your brother likes collecting toys, but he enjoys breaking them more.” Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t try to lie, doesn’t try to correct you. 

“This can’t last forever,” you motion toward the penthouse. “I need something I can actually rely on. Myself.”

“Why not babytrap him?”

If you had a drink, you’d choke on it. “What?” you demand, voice rising in pitch. 

Ursula shrugs. “Babytrap him, file false charges against him, stalk him. A few of the things the women in his life have tried to have a piece of my inheritance.”

“Crazy women,” you correct. “I’d rather work until I’m 90 before I babytrap a man. Especially your brother. No offense,” you quickly correct. 

Her tongue laves across her teeth as she surveys you. A part of you shudders, wondering if this is the part where the rich people cannibalize the poor to taste poverty for the first time. “The Leedle Property, then? When’s this little getaway happening?”

She completely disregards your previous line of conversation. You’re not sure if you’re grateful or more unsettled. “This weekend,” you tell her. 

“Hm,” she hums before nodding and making her way back to the door. “Make sure Titus doesn’t see those applications. I doubt he’d take kindly to his doll escaping her house.”

Your jaw clenches as the door slams shut behind her. You do not like that woman. Why the hell did she even come over?

Grumbling to yourself, you collect the rest of the clothes you plan on packing and shove them into your suitcase. No wonder Titus seems so eager to get away from his family. They’ve got the meanest bite of anyone you’ve had the displeasure of meeting. 

Titus drives you up to the estate. You’d had to bite back a joke about him knowing how to drive when he’d come to pick you up. You doubt he’d appreciate mockery during one of the few times he actually does something for himself. Besides, he seems to be in a good mood, no need to ruin that with your mouth. 

“Why the mountains?” you ask, breaking the silence for the first time during the drive. 

Titus’s eyes drift over to you before focusing back on the road. “It’s quiet, peaceful.” He reaches over, hand squeezing your thigh. “No one around for miles.”

You snort and toss him an unimpressed look. “You could say that about any of your estates. How come we’re not relaxing on a beach with a drink in our hand?”

“Don’t complain,” he chides, hand squeezing in warning. 

You shift uncomfortably, straightening in your seat. “Thank you,” you amend, “for bringing me.” He offers a hum but says nothing else. Your stomach twists as you worry you’ve just messed this trip up for yourself. 

“Hey,” a cool touch on your chin and you’re tilting your head to meet his eye. “This will be nice,” he tells you. As if there is no greater authority than him. Like nothing could ever prove him wrong. 

You yearn to move through the world with the kind of self-assured confidence a rich man has. As if the entire universe bends to his will and his alone. It must be nice, being so self-deluded. 

“Yeah,” you agree, voice empty as you offer a shallow smile. When will you get tired of me?

You hear it, a sort of clock counting down before you’re left broken on a curb somewhere. 

His hand lingers on you the rest of the ride, but you both remain quiet. Something heavy has settled between you. An amalgamation of your hesitation, his uncertainty about what to do with you. For an hour of the drive, you actually wonder if he’s just brought you out here to kill you. 

But he could have easily killed you at the penthouse. He doesn’t seem the type to need a change of scenery. At least, that’s the best you could comfort yourself. 

Eventually, he pulls up the long, winding driveway of a sprawling estate. “I thought you said this was a cabin,” you accuse, forehead practically pressed to the window. 

Titus pauses, “It is.”

Your gaze drifts back to him and you scoff. “It’s the size of a McMansion.”

Titus shrugs, “It’s rustic.”

He gets out and you wait like you’re supposed to. It takes a second before he’s at your door, opening it and offering you a hand out. He leaves your luggage in the car. You wonder if he’ll get it later or if there are little servants here to do that for him. 

“You know,” it's an effort to keep your jaw off the ground as you take in his second home. “I’m going to need a house tour, so I don’t get lost in here this week.”

Titus lets out a small huff of laughter, arm winding around your waist as he leads you up the front steps. “Don’t worry, I’ll show you all the hidden rooms.” He opens the front door as you shoot him a wide-eyed stare. 

“Hidden rooms-”

“There you are!” A sharp voice interrupts you, cold and cruel. A blonde monster stands in the foyer. (Cabins definitely don’t have foyers, by the way. Something to be addressed later.) “I was starting to worry you would never show up, brother.”

Ursula stands holding a champagne flute, dressed to the nines, and you suddenly realize there are a dozen other well-dressed people all around her. Certainly better looking than your worn-down jeans and baggy sweater. They all sip their drinks and fiddle with their diamonds, gaze scrutinizing you. 

You shudder, freezing in the doorway as you realize this is an ambush. Women your age and younger all stand in a circle to the right of the door. Each dressed better than the last. Not one of them pays attention to you; all eyes are on Titus. 

“Ursula?” Titus grits out, eyes roaming the room with fury burning in them. “What are you doing?” 

She walks forward and holds out her hand. Suddenly, you’re alone, Titus following after his sister as she leads him into an adjacent room. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what's happening. You’d let it slip to Ursula where your getaway was going to be, and she’d set this up. 

An ambush of socialites and heiresses, far better suited for her brother than some scrappy little piece of trash like you. The women’s parents were all eyeing you with disgust. Unable to comprehend how you captured Titus’s attention when their daughters failed. 

You wind your arms tight around yourself, taking a hesitant step back. Maybe you could just steal his car and make a run for it. 

“Oh,” your back slams into someone’s chest and you falter. “I’m sorry,” you mutter, already turning around. 

An older man with cold eyes glares down at you. Shivers rack up your spine, gooseflesh pinches at you. The Senior Danforth, you would bet everything. Those cold, emotionless eyes are just like his son’s. 

“Sir,” you greet, taking another step back. 

His eyes narrow, and he lets out a low huff of disappointment. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand my son.”

You offer an awkward chuckle, knowing you’re being insulted straight to your face. “Does any parent?”

“Are you being smart with me?”

“I-”

“Father,” a voice interrupts. You sink back in relief, practically hiding behind Titus as he comes up behind you. “Ursula’s just explained the mix-up.” His eyes dart over to you and you feel like you’re missing something crucial. “I wish you had told me your plan,” he grits out, clearly struggling to stay polite. 

His father scoffs, not sparing you another glance. “Why? So you could run away with your little paramour?” 

Your brows turn in, the way he says it makes it sound like a slur. You must be nothing to this man. Honestly, he looks at you and probably just sees a little roach to crush under his heel. Is this why Titus is with you? There’s clearly no love lost between him and his father. Maybe you’re his rebellion. 

“Of course not,” Titus hisses. “You know how deeply I respect our traditions,” again, another sly look over at you. What the fuck were they talking about?

You glance over your shoulder and catch a few people just as they rip their stares away. Their voices remain hushed, too low for you to make out any hints of what might be happening. Slowly, you step back from Titus. He’s too absorbed by his father to pay much attention. 

You make it all the way back to the car, thinking you’ve successfully escaped, before you hear footsteps rushing to catch up. “What are you doing?” Titus demands. 

“What do you think?” You whip around with a scoff and he draws back. “I know what I am to you, Titus. I’m not something permanent or anyone worth a damn. But that doesn’t mean I have to stay here and be insulted while you cozy up with some heiress.”

“Is that what you think?” He asks, head tilting curiously. 

“It’s what I know. And it’s not like you’ve proved me wrong.”

Titus smirks and that little quirk to his lips is infuriating. “And letting you stay rent-free at my penthouse doesn’t prove you wrong? Providing you with any creature comfort you might want or need doesn’t prove that?”

You lick your lips and let out a sharp sigh. “No. Because I know you, this is your game, Titus. So, just let me go home, alright?” You reach for the door handle, but it doesn’t budge. “Titus,” you grit out, yanking on the car door. 

“You’re not leaving,” he tells you. 

“Seriously, Titus, I don’t want to be here.” His lips flatten, and you draw back. For a moment, he almost looks sorry, and you think that’s more terrifying than any anger you’ve ever gotten from him. “What’s going-”

An arm wrapped around your back, a cloth pressed to your nose. One whiff of that sickly sweet scent and you were going limp. 

Sharp, pungent, someone slips something under your nose strong enough to shock you back to life. You suck in a sharp gasp, more of the smell burning in your lungs. Your eyes open, but your vision remains dark. Something burns around your wrists, they’ve tied your hands behind your back. 

“What’s- what’s happening?” Laughter to your left, chilling and shrill. 

“Take it off,” you vaguely recognize the voice of Titus’s father as a mask is ripped from your eyes. The light floods into your vision and you grimace, head pounding from whatever they’d used to knock you out. When your eyes relax, you realize you’re in a basement of some sort. The walls are all dark brick, the floors a black tile that looks like it’d be easy to clean blood off of. 

There’s a circle formed before you. The guests from upstairs are all staring at you now. Except the girls are dressed in white gowns and slips. While their parents all don black cloaks. 

“Oh fuck me,” you hiss, looking down at yourself. You’ve been changed into a matching white dress with the rest of the women. “I knew you assholes sacrificed people," you snap, glaring through the crowd. You’re searching for one man, but they’ve all got these terrifying goat skull masks on. 

Still, you think you recognize that haunting look in Titus’s eyes by now as your gaze stops on a man to your right. 

“The eloquent language of the working class,” someone titters off to your left. 

“Forgive the French,” you bite out. “But at the very least, we don’t fucking eat people.”

“Enough!” Your shoulders jump as Titus’s father descends the dais he’d been standing on. “No one is getting eaten or sacrificed. All this is… is an annual hunt.”

The way he says it makes you wish you were being ritually sacrificed. A maid strolls through the crowd, a covered cart in her hand that she pushes to the middle of the circle. You almost call out for help, but their employees are just as fucked as the rest of them. 

“A hunt?” You whisper, eyes being ripped to the side by one of the women in a white gown. Her glare is boring into you, malice and hatred bubbling over in frothing animosity. You’d never even said one word to her, and she looks ready to rip your throat out and eat your heart. 

“As our guest to this tradition,” the Senior Danforth offers a chilling grin. “I allow you the first pick.”

“We had a deal-” A man steps forth to object, but Titus’s father holds up his hand, silencing him without even looking away from you. Swallowing thickly, you step forward, hands still bound behind your back with rope. The Senior Danforth rips the sheet off the cart with a gusto better suited for a magician. Two servants appear behind you and roughly cut the rope away. 

Beneath are a dozen different weapons. Glocks, shotguns, hunting knives, throwing stars, even a bow and arrows. “Oh, we’re actually hunting?” You offer him a confused stare. If only one fucking person in this room would give it to you straight rather than playing at these confusing mind games. 

“Not game,” someone answers and you go still. Titus, that’s his voice. His father shoots him a reproachful glare and your former paramour goes quiet.  

“When an eldest son is viable for marriage and deigns to choose outside of his… circle. A hunt is ordered by the families of the poor girls jilted. The last one standing earns his hand.”

“Marriage,” you tumble over your words. Reeling from figuring out you’re being hunted and that this is all for some man. “I’m not even his girlfriend. I mean, this is one big mistake. I don’t want to marry him at all!”

“Ouch,” someone laughs behind you. 

“I’m afraid the hunt has already started,” Titus’s father motions behind him. On a marble slab behind the dais is a goat’s corpse, its throat slit and blood dribbling into an engraved sigil on the floor. “Unless you’re willing to forfeit?”

“Ye-”

“No!” A sharp voice interrupts. You turn and see Titus, his mask discarded as he stares past you at his father. “A forfeit is automatic disqualification.”

“Okay…”

“Death,” he snaps bluntly when you fail to pick up the hint. 

“Fucker,” you hiss, glaring over at his father. 

“Enough,” Titus steps back into place as his father motions him away. “Pick your weapon before I pick for you.”

This is fucking insane. They’re asking you to pick your weapon to murder other women. Half of whom look a decade younger than you. God, are you really about to murder child brides?

Someone laughs at your side and you glance over to see one of the young women whispering to her mother. Their eyes are sharp as they observe you, devoid of humor. You’re nothing to them. Not human, not prey, just an obstacle in their way. 

Your eyes drift back to the cart. Your hand inches toward a revolver. You know how to shoot and you’ve got a decent aim. But you hesitate, there are eyes boring into the back of your head. Burning and urging you away from the revolver. Guns run out of bullets, but that hunting knife with the long, curved blade seems far more reliable. 

Your hand wraps around the leather-bound handle. And Titus’s father hums. “Interesting,” he mutters. You pull back, the knife tucked to your chest as a maid directs you back into the circle. The other women step up, the majority going for bows or guns. Did you just get yourself killed?

When the last one has chosen, a girl barely older than twenty, the Senior Danforth claps his hands with a mirthful smile. “With each bell tolled, we are one step closer to a most beneficial union. Take them to their release points.”

Your arms are snatched up by two servants as they march you out of the basement. The majority of the women are split up, taken to different sections of the estate to lessen the chances of a quick, boring game. But while they’re directed outside, you’re led up the stairs to a bedroom. “What’re you doing?” You demand, eyes wide as the servants deposit you in the center of the room. 

One of the maids giggles, pressing a finger to her lips as she runs from the room. “What?” You hiss, bewildered as you try to come to terms with everything that’s happened. 

But life doesn't feel like letting you get comfortable in this new reality. “Make this quick, Titus, I don’t want to be accused of cheating.” Ursula’s voice, bored and cold as usual. Her steps are growing closer to this room. 

You suck in a sharp breath, eyes darting around for somewhere to hide. There’s an old wooden wardrobe, just big enough for you to slip in. You rush toward it, throwing yourself inside just as the bedroom door creaks open. 

Titus lets out a low groan and you press your eye to the crack of the wardrobe. “I told them to bring her here.”

“I told you we should have fired those two years ago, they’re fucking worthless.” Ursula has a revolver in her hands, similar to the one that you’d rejected. On Titus’s shoulder is what looks like a large hammer. The type you’d see at historical sites beside blacksmithing forges, not held casually.  

“Where do you think they left her?” Titus glances around the room, his eyes hesitate over the wardrobe. You jump back from the crack in the door, clamping your hand over your mouth so he can’t hear you breathe. 

“Who knows? Let’s just make this quick,” Ursula checks her revolver, loading in bullets before sending Titus a sharp smirk. 

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” he sighs, following her out of the room. You wait until the bedroom door closes to slip out of the wardrobe. Your heart is slamming against your ribs, blood thrumming with adrenaline as you let out a shaky breath. 

It’s not like you and Titus were some grand love story. Your relationship lies within transactional boundaries. And you’ve known…. You knew! That this would always end badly for you. Titus likes to break his toys; you just hadn’t thought he would go so far as to drag you into a fucking satanic cult. 

Your throat clenches tight as your chest quakes; it’s hard to get your breath as reality slowly dawns on you. The knife is clutched so tightly in your chest, one trip and you’ll end up offing yourself. Slowly, you creep toward the bedroom door. 

Maybe you’d be better off hiding in here. Your hand hovers over the doorknob as you think of something Titus had said to you. “I’ll give you a tour of the hidden rooms.”

Your eyes track over every crevice of the room you’re standing in. There are at least three spots you see that might be a secret door or hidden passageway. Nowhere is safe.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re throwing open the bedroom door and peeking into the hall. The stupid dress they’d put you in trips up your feet as you step outside. The door closes softly behind you as you kneel, taking your knife and cutting into the hem. 

“There you are.”

Your head snaps up, blood draining from your face as you see Ursula standing at the end of the hall. “Titus,” she calls, eyes alight with the joy of the hunt. 

You step from the tattered remains of your gossamer skirt, bare feet tripping along the waxed marble. Titus turns the corner, that hammer still on his shoulder. “There you are,” his lips quirk and Ursula cocks her revolver.  You take a step back and Titus’s eyes narrow. “Don’t,” he warns. 

But you’re already turning, feet slapping against the floor as you make a run for it. You can hear them curse behind you, Ursula’s annoyed sigh as you turn the corner. 

You come to a short stop, body freezing as you see another woman in a white slip. She’s apparently ditched the dress, same as you. Her eyes widen as they land on you, lighting up with a challenge. “No, no, no, wait!” You let out a shrill scream as she lifts her gun, shooting wildly. 

“Jesus,” you drop to the ground, hands covering your head as a vase shatters behind you. 

“Shit,” she whines, stomping her foot as she goes to reload. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snap, surging to your feet and storming toward her. Your hand lashes out, sending the gun clattering to the floor. She lunges for you, hands outstretched toward your neck. On instinct, your hands fly out. Both of them. 

The knife you’d forgotten about plunges into her gut and she lets out a rattling groan. “Oh, oh no,” you whisper, eyes bugging out as blood begins to pool down your arm. “Oh I didn’t mean it,” you whisper, lowering yourself as her body goes limp in your arms. Slowly, you let her drop to the floor, the knife making a schlick noise as it slips from her stomach. 

“What did I do?” Tears are welling in your eyes. It doesn’t matter that she was actively trying to kill you. Or that she would have gotten you first if you hadn’t been faster. You just killed someone. Just took a life like it was nothing. 

“I wasn’t sure you had it in you.” With a gasp, you leap to your feet. Titus stands behind you, head tilted as he takes in the dead body. “Congratulations.” Barely a moment later, you hear it, the bell tolling somewhere off in the distance. Your eyes drop to the dead body at your feet. 

“How do they know?” Titus smirks and you have a feeling you won’t be made privy to family secrets unless you survive the night. 

He opens his mouth, but the bell tolls once more, and then again. Two more girls, dead. “Only eight left,” he grins. He takes a step closer, and you stumble back, knife pointed at his chest.  

He glances between you and the knife with astonished surprise. “What are you gonna do with that?” His voice is low, disarmingly calm as he holds out his hand. The knife trembles in your grip, faltering slightly as he takes your wrist in his hand. 

A sharp breath rips from you as he tugs you into his chest. The knife picks against his shirt, tearing at a thread, but you bend your wrist. Stopping yourself before you really hurt him. He tuts, disappointed by such a weak display of mercy. “You’re not going to make it much longer if you can’t go in for the kill.”

“I don’t want to,” you whisper, biting your tongue so the tears in your eyes don’t spill over. His gaze tracks the way your lashes flutter, a cruel smirk pulling at his lips. 

“Do you want to live?”

You’re silent for a moment, the blood of that woman cooling on your hand. His thumb sweeps through it, admiring how it paints your skin. “Yes,” you finally choke out. As selfish as it is, you want to live. And if that means killing a few spoiled heiresses before they get you...

You’ve survived tighter squeezes in worse dresses. 

“Good,” he practically coos, his voice a low purr, lulling you into this false sense of security where he isn’t the same man who’d gotten you in this situation to begin with. “Because I don’t want any of these other women. I want you, which means you need to live.” This cadence of his voice is the same tone he uses when he coaxes you into his bed. 

He likes this. 

You shouldn’t be surprised. You met the man because you caught him murdering someone. Still, there’s a dead body cooling at your feet and you can feel the weight of his want pressing into your hip. 

“Why did you do this?” You hiss out, finally asking the question that’s haunted you since the game began. “Why-“ your voice breaks and you clamp your mouth shut. You can’t let him see you cry. He’d like it too much. 

His hand comes up, gently cupping your cheek as he pulls you impossibly closer. “Wasn’t the plan,” he mutters, eyes stuck to your lips. “My family thought it was about time I settled down. They wanted to make sure I chose the right woman.”

“They don’t want me, Titus.” And until a few minutes ago, you hadn’t thought he wanted you either. 

His eyes narrow as his grip on you tightens. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels like you’re one bad move away from making him bite. “I don’t care what they want. I want you. Which means you’re getting through this, alive. I’m not calling another woman Mrs. Danforth, do you understand me?”

Even if you didn’t want to survive… even if you weren’t already the type of person who claws and scratches and doesn’t care who she hurts to keep living, you wouldn’t have a choice. He’s not giving you an option; he’s threatening you. Making sure you’ve got it through your thick skull that, no matter what, there is no escaping him. 

“What do I do?” You whisper, lips nearly brushing his with how close he stands. He sucks in a deep breath before slowly releasing you. It’s an effort not to stumble over the corpse as you put some space between the two of you. 

“Stay hidden,” he instructs. “I’ll take care of the others.”

Your brows furrow as you fiddle with the torn edge of your dress. “Won’t that count as cheating?”

“It will.” Your shoulders jump to your ears as Ursula’s voice echoes down the hallway. You turn to see her striding toward you. There’s blood splattered against her silk blouse and an angry red welt on her cheek. “But if you think the others aren’t out here sniping the competition, you’re not as smart as I gave you credit for.”

Another toll of the bell in the distance. The numbers are dwindling faster than expected. “As for what you should do,” her brows raise and she offers you a cruel smile. “Run, rabbit, before someone else finds you.”

You want to ask them where the hell you’re meant to go, but footsteps are approaching from the other end of the hall. Titus spares you one last look before heading toward them, dragging his hammer from his shoulder. You swallow roughly, giving the dead woman one last look before you take off at a run. 

You’d thought the best place to hide would be in plain sight. Skulking around the estate while everyone searched for the girls outside seemed smart. Until the rain came, it began washing everyone inside, hunters and prey alike. One girl had found you hiding near the kitchen as she came back in from the storm. 

It was only because the floor beneath her was soaking wet that you managed to get a good shove in. Just enough to have her slip and knock her head against the tile. After that, what happened feels like a blur. You know she’s dead, that her blood coats the front of your dress. The bell had tolled, but you don’t remember it. 

It seems wrong, not remembering your own kill. Like you’re not honoring her death properly. But she’d had a shotgun pointed at your chest, so it’s a little harder to find any sympathy. Unfortunately, her screaming had drawn attention to you. 

You had to run out of the estate, into the pouring rain and raging winds. It battered your body, turned your white dress sheer as you tried to find cover in the woods bordering the estate. You briefly considered trying to find the road, but you doubt you’d have much luck in these conditions. 

The bell tolls in the distance. If you’re keeping count right, that means there are only two other girls. You grimace, chin tucked to your chest as the rain howls around you. Your hair is soaked, stuck to your cheeks as you try to wipe the water from your eyes. You have no idea where the sudden storm came from, but you can hardly see a foot in front of you. 

If the other women find you before you find them, you’re screwed. You won’t even have the time to be scared before they pounce. Shivering, you shove your hair off your face and push away from the tree you’d been resting on. 

You try to keep low to the ground, using the underbrush as cover as you skulk through the forest. Somehow, through the sound of your own footsteps and the rain hitting the foliage, you manage to make out strange noises. It reminds you of the night you first met Titus, the last time you’d tasted normalcy. 

It was the same noise the man he’d killed made right as he died. Peering around the tree you’re cowering behind, you see her. The last woman, shoulders heaving as she stands over the body of another. You flinch as the bell tolls and huddle down as she slowly surveys the area around her. 

Recognition flares in your mind, and you feel your chest tighten. This is the same woman who’d looked ready to rip you apart in the estate. Of course, the most vicious bitch had to be the last one standing. 

The only advantage you have right now is that she doesn’t know where you are. Knife in hand, you slowly creep your way out from behind the tree. Her back stays turned toward you, head tilting as she tries to get a better view through the rain. 

You hold your breath, not making a noise. Not even as you lunge at her, arms wrapping around her neck as you both hurtle toward the forest floor. She lets out a low grunt, growling as you sit on top of her, struggling to pin her flailing limbs down. 

One well-thrown elbow and you’re rolling off her, curling into yourself as you try to catch your breath. She’d managed to catch you right in the diaphragm. The impact gives her just enough time to right herself. Both of your dresses are stained with mud and blood. And as the rain continues to pour, you only grow filthier. 

Nails tear through skin, hands slip and drag along wet flesh as you grapple on the floor. Your knife is kicked away, and her gun is buried somewhere in the dirt. You’re left with nothing but physical strength and pure terror. 

She gets her hand tangled in your hair and uses the leverage to slam your head into the ground. Your vision goes dark as your ears ring, pain throbbing through your skull. You lash out violently, nails catching her cheek. You dig in, dragging down until you feel her flesh building beneath your nails. 

She lets out a gasping cry of pain, batting your hand away. She manages to turn you over, with a tight grip, she’s quick to find your neck. Your legs kick violently beneath her, hips bucking as you quickly lose your breath. 

She’s pinning you down, lips pulled back around sharp teeth in a growl. Her hands are wrapped around your throat, squeezing the life from your lungs. And, still, you have an advantage over her. 

You’re used to living off scraps, used to having to fight for what you want. You didn’t grow up with everything handed to you on a silver platter. She never had to fight to live or to get what she wanted. That desperate drive to keep going and never stop isn’t anywhere in her. She just wants to win. Just wants another trophy on her mantle. 

Your legs slowly stop kicking as your hand gropes blindly through the mud. Your vision is beginning to go, the world greying at the edges as your nails catch on something sharp. She doesn’t pay you any mind, grinning as she digs her thumbs into the hollow of your throat. 

Blindly, you grab the rock and throw it into the side of her temple. She lets out an odd noise, grip loosening as she tilts to the side. You don’t waste time catching your breath. Lunging forward, you knock her onto her back and raise the rock high above your head. Her eyes widen as you bring it down against her skull. 

There’s a sick crack and then her eyes are shutting. But the bell still hasn’t tolled. You bring your hand down again and again and again. Until the crack turns into a soft squish and there’s blood weeping from the mangled mess that used to be her face. You don’t stop until that bell rings, until you get to feel the finality of the night in your bones. 

Your hand hovers above your head, the bell tolls through the night air. Slowly, the rock tumbles from your grasp as you struggle to your feet. The rain eases up, harsh battering becoming a gentle mist as the clouds above you part. 

Your hair hangs in matted tangles around your face, your entire body is covered in mud and blood. The dress you wear is in tatters, thin straps barely clinging to your shoulders. Heavy boots snap against the branches behind you. 

You hardly even flinch, just briefly glancing over your shoulder. All those from the basement have returned, black cloaks on and skull masks donned. You hear them whispering, betting with one another about which of their daughter’s survived the night. 

Scraping your hand across your cheek, you attempt to rid yourself of some of the grime coating your skin. It barely puts a dent in it. With a sigh, you resign yourself to your fate, slowly turning. 

You can tell from the gasps rippling through the crowd that they’d already forgotten about you. You were never a threat to them, just the inciting incident to get their daughters into the right family. 

A part of you almost wants to taunt them. To ask what good their deal with the devil did? Because you’re still alive and their daughter’s aren’t. But you’re too tired and too beaten to do anything but keep standing. 

The Senior Danforth stands at the front, hands tucked behind his back. “Interesting,” he muses, eyes narrowing.

First. 

“I knew you were scrappy, but this is something else,” Ursula chuckles at her father’s side, admiring the mangled corpse at your feet.

Second. 

Titus steps from the crowd, followed by a man in an elaborate cloak with a veil over his head. “You all know the deal,” he calls to the others. He holds a hand out to you and you stare down at it.

He could be third, he could be last, but maybe you’ll keep him around. 

“What?” you croak, throat destroyed from what that woman had done to you. 

“Your prize,” Ursula drawls. Oh, right, the whole reason for this fucking hunt. Marrying Titus, being a Danforth, signing away your soul. 

“And if I say no?”

“You’d be forfeiting,” Titus tells you, a quirk to his lips. He already knows your answer. You didn’t make it this far just to give up now. You didn’t claw your way back from hell just to throw it all away at the end. 

Slowly, you take his hand in yours. The satanic priest beside him steps toward the corpse of the last woman. He dips his thumb into what's left of her skull and approaches you both. The warmth of her blood dribbles down your forehead as the priest etches a sigil into your skin. He doesn’t do the same for Titus. 

Your mind loses focus as he begins to speak. The vows you make certainly aren’t those of holy matrimony, but you can hardly pay attention. You think about how with Titus on your arm, his leash will be passed hands. 

Ursula, you’re sure, will try to get cozy with you. Make sure her guard dog never strays too far. It shouldn’t be hard to get Titus to turn on her. Family has so little meaning to these monsters. But first, you’ll want him to take out the patron of the family. The smug bastard who’d dragged you into this hell simply because he couldn’t stand his son dating someone so… cheap. 

Then, you’ll go after the others. All the soulless bastards who sent their daughters to die and didn’t bat an eye. If you have to marry into this, bring children into this world, then you’re going to make sure there’s no competition left for them to fight. 

“I do,” Titus echoes the priest’s words and stares expectantly at you. 

Thunder rolls in the sky behind you. “I do,” you whisper. Lightning flashes and for a moment, there are horns curling above Titus’s head. They’re gone as quick as they came, then he’s tugging you into a harsh kiss, another’s blood smearing between your lips as your unholy union’s sealed. 

This is your world now, and you’re not some trampy little paramour anymore. You’re Mrs. Danforth. And you’re going to make every one of these fuckers pay for ever letting you grasp the power you’d fought for your entire life. 

𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘛𝘰𝘶𝘳

𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳                 ♥︎

⇄              ◁◁  I I  ▷▷          ↻

⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵

💿 Some say it's a place where your dreams come true 💿

end. — I do not own the characters or the movie Ready or Not (2), but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2026. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[jacksbrownie]

Holy fucking hell this is...WOEEWWWWA

[beccasdoll]

jack abbot x shy!reader

summary: a collection of their first times together. connected to my other shy!reader fic, but can be read as a standalone!

content: explicit 18+ MDNI. smut, oral (f receiving), tad of dry humping, unprotected p in v. brief mention of sexual assault (a patient, not reader), reader is a SANE.

wc: 8.9k

notes: thank u for the love on my first fic!! i thought id write a lil extra fic of this dynamic bc i also adore them.

masterlists

First Date

Jack is a traditional man, you’ve come to realise.

After the kiss, the invisible boundary stopping him from taking care of you the way he wanted had been broken, and he promises to care for you to the fullest extent, for as long as you’d let him.

Your schedules never seemed to align to both have a day off, and Jack was getting antsy at the prospect that he had kissed you days ago, but couldn’t take his girl out for a date. 

A particularly stressful case one evening broke his patience. 

An MVC trauma case had rolled in just before his shift was about to end, the man was in his late-thirties and the crash seemed to have paralysed his lower limbs. He worked to treat the most imminent problems, but Jack could tell the man knew what had happened to his legs, and was grieving silently. 

Not long after he’s finished treating the man, a tall, blonde woman rushes into the trauma room just as Jack was about to exit, and the look on her face was fear followed by complete devastation. He watches her sob as she rounds the table to sit next to her partner, moving strands of hair away from his face so she can lean in and press her forehead against his.

Jack stands off to the side watching the scene unfolds, and his breath hitches as he hears the couples’ cries, their pleas of love for one another, the fear that she had almost lost him; lost him before they could finally get married, he overhears. 

The woman promises that nothing could ever change the love she has for him, begging to scrap the big, fancy wedding they’d planned, wanting to elope, not bearing to waste another day of not being married to him.

Something twists low in his chest, patience wearing thin and excuses himself from the room, desperately needing to find you.

He couldn’t wait.

Jack’s shoulders are tight when he exits the trauma room, shaking his head and searching for you, hoping you hadn’t left for the day.

───

You’re zipping your bag up where it rests on your chair, when a low, familiar voice startles you from behind. 

“What are you doing right now?” 

“Uh, going home and sleeping. You should try it sometime, y’know–” You begin to tease back, turning to look at him, but his face is serious, tight, making you falter. You’re about to ask what had happened, never having seen him so disturbed.

He speaks before you can ask, shaking his head and commanding,

“No. C’mon, we’re grabbing food.” His voice is gravelly as he grabs your bag, slinging it over his shoulder, before picking up your coat holding it out for you to slip into it. Your heart warms at the sweet, domestic gesture. Nervously, and heavily blushing, you turn, and let him drape you in the coat. You move to take the bag from Jack, but he shakes his head, holding it tighter. 

“Let’s go.” His voice is low, and you feel his hand rest on the small of your back, guiding you to the exit. You almost just let yourself fall into the comfort of allowing Jack to take over, enjoying not having to think for once.

“Jack– hold on.” You say a little flabbergasted. Shen and Lena give you both an amused look as you pass, clearly they seem to know what’s going on whilst you’re left in the dark.

“We’re exhausted, I look a mess right now– we just finished a 12 hour shift!” You try and reason with him as he hurriedly leads you to his truck. 

“So?” He gives you a look that implies what you said has no grounds for protest, whatsoever.

You scoff, completely taken aback, and swivel to face him once you reach his truck, searching his face for an inkling of an idea as to what’s up with him.

“Jack–” You try, but he just leans past you, and opens the truck door for you, nodding his head signalling for you to hop in. 

“First of all. You ain’t a mess, sweetheart.” He says, almost offended by the notion. 

Once you’ve climbed into the seat, you watch as he reaches for the seatbelt and buckles you in, and before pulling away, he rests his forehead on yours and whispers, “You looking fuckin’ amazing all the time.” 

You can't help but let out a flustered whine at his praise, blush covering your face as you meet his intense stare. His expression begins to soften once he looks you over, realising you’re finally here with him. He softly brushes a strand of hair away from your face.

“Diner food okay, doll?”

───

You feel the car come to a stop across the street from a 24/7 diner downtown, it’s cutesy, it has a retro feel to it. You go to open the door, but his hand gently catches your wrist mid-movement. 

“Ah ah. Stay.” He commands with a soft-but-stern tone, willing you to obey. 

You smile to yourself as you watch him round the hood of the truck, you’ve never received this kind of princess treatment, and your heart clenches. You thrum with anxiety as you wait for him to open your door, begging yourself to not make a fool of yourself and somehow faceplanting out of the truck.

Checking that no cars are passing, he opens the door and holds his hand out for you to take. You can’t stop your smile from growing or the heat covering your face, utterly touched by his gentlemanly gestures. 

“You don’t have to do all this, you know?” Your voice is quiet, but slightly teasing as you hop out of the truck, holding his hand. “I already like you.” 

Jack sighs when looks down at you, wrapping an arm around you to rest on your hip before moving you to the inner side of the sidewalk, away from the road. 

“I ain’t doing this to impress ya.” He grumbles out, bringing his lips to your temple. “It’s how you deserve to be treated, honey.”

You’re speechless. 

He needs to stop making you blush, you’re already flustered and overwhelmed by all of his actions within the short span of time you’ve left the ER, and the date has barely begun. 

You’re barely able to focus or think straight, which is why when you reach the doors to the diner, you mistakenly make a move to open the door, and Jack almost hangs his head in soft frustration

“Sweetheart, c’mon.” He says in disbelief. You look up at him with a confused expression, watching as he enters your space, and opens the door for you. God, he’s so traditional. Your grin is wide as you stare at him, unable to keep it off your face as you enter the Diner.

You let him order first, as you stare up at the menu above the counter. You’d heard him order a savory dish, something with eggs. It’s healthy, and though you’d wanted something sweet like pancakes you start overthinking, not wanting to look unhealthy or childish in front of Jack, completely baseless worries. 

He turns to look at you, seeing your brows are furrowed and a worried look paints your face as you’re trying to decide. He reaches back, squeezing your hand tilting his head. “Honey, get whatever ya want, yeah?” 

Your smile is tight and shy again when you order the pancakes, nerves wracking your body for no good reason, just another moment anxiety seems to spike randomly.

“Will that be separate or together?” The cashier asks about payment whilst finishing up the order, and both you and Jack speak at the same time.

“Separate–”

“Together.”

His tone is final as he looks at you with an incredulous expression that you even tried to offer to pay on your first date. You begin to shake your head, feeling guilty about making him pay for you, but he taps his card and gives you a stern look.

While you’re waiting for the food he wraps you in his arms and whispers into your hair.

“Let me take care of you. Please.” His voice is gentle but pleading.

Your heart clenches as you look up at him from where you’re wrapped around him, face touching his chest. Vulnerability flickers in your eyes, unsure if you should admit to Jack just yet, how hard it is for you to let go and be cared for. 

But he just smiles, patting your hair, and silently, you think he already knows.

Grabbing your food, you look for a place to sit, but you notice Jack is… walking out? You frown again, catching up to him with confusion painting your face. Did he not want to eat together? Had you completely misinterpreted this as a date? Maybe he just wanted to grab food before going home.

He snorts at the confusion, back tracking a little and cupping your face with one hand, a thumb stroking back and forth across your cheek. 

“You think I was gonna take ya to a diner for our first date?” He croons, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Jesus, kid, who have you been hanging around with before me?”

───

What you hadn’t expected was for him to bring you to a remote spot that overlooked the city. It was still early in the morning, a fresh spring fog coating the city from above as you sat on a bench and had breakfast.

You’re too in your own head, you know this. But you can’t stop. You’re painfully aware that this is a date, you want to act the right way, say the right things, be charming, be funny. But it inevitably leads to complete silence from you and jumpy eyes darting around focusing on anywhere but him.

Sighing, he sets his takeout container on the bench beside him, before scooting closer to you. 

“Hey, what’cha worrying about over there?” He nudges his knee with yours. He meets your eyes and finds insecurity and so much shyness. He tilts your head up using his fingers on your chin, making sure you really hear him when he speaks.

“You still get me so nervous.” You breathe out shakily, laughing a little at the prospect knowing he’d already kissed you stupid days ago.

“You got no one to impress, yeah? S’just me.” He teases a little, recalling your words from earlier. 

“Plus, I already got a taste of those lips, doll.” This raises a shy laugh from you and you groan while you nudge his knee back playfully, clearly calming down. He has a way of easing you, making you comfortable around him like no one ever has. You lean your head down against his shoulder, bringing your hand to trace patterns on his scrubs. 

In the comfortable lull between you both, you break the silence.

“What happened today? Why were you so… worked up?” You ask cautiously, not wanting to break the serenity of the moment by bringing up negative emotions.

Jack pauses, you feel him tense beside you. But he places a hand on your thigh and rubs his thumb back and forth comfortingly, searching for the right words.

“I just… didn’t wanna waste any time.” He admits softly, breathing out a sigh of relief.

“I know what I want, and we’ll go as slow as you want– but I’m not waiting around to miss key moments with you.” He leans down to where you rest on his shoulder and places a gentle kiss on your forehead, lingering there for a moment after his admission. 

Your breath hitches at his intensity, realising how serious he is, that he really wants this, wants you.

“Now,” he pauses, using his hand to lift your head off his shoulder. “I’ve been dreamin’ about kissing you again for days.” His rough voice whispers, searching your eyes for permission, any indication you want this as much as he does.

You don’t give him time to find it.

Immediately, you lean in and crash your lips to his, faster and passionate than your first. 

Jack is genuinely taken aback by your little show of confidence, and he makes a surprised whine at feeling your lips again. 

You pull back, wide eyed and shocked at what you had done. “Fuck–”

He growls at you having broken the kiss. You don’t get time to sit with embarrassment at how desperately you’d kissed him, you notice how blown out his pupils are and he immediately cups your face bringing you back in. 

He had so effortlessly taken over, comforting you and pleasing you with one kiss that your worries dissipate, your body relaxes into him, and you let yourself feel it.

For the second time, Jack had kissed you stupid.

First Personality Shifts

Slowly, but surely, Jack was getting you to come out of your shell. He was discovering parts of you he hadn’t known existed, and loved it.

He was encouraging you to grow, to flourish, which is how he discovered how sassy you could get. 

The night shift were working overtime, wrapping up cases here and there, during a particularly brutal shift. You’d been working around 15 hours now, exhausted but powering through.

You and Emma, a day shift nurse, were assisting a trauma case led by Jack and Dr. Robby, much to the dismay of Shen and Ellis. It was a particularly tricky case, you’d all been in that room for ages, holding your breath during a risky procedure as the room stays silent. 

After a while, you watch Jack and Robby step back from the patient, letting out a breath of relief before Robby raises his thumbs, signalling everything went perfectly. You see them smile, their eyes crinkling from under the mask.

Small cheers and laughs filter through the room, the tension easing out.

“You’ve still got it, man.” Jack praises Robby. 

Robby almost looks reluctant to accept the approval. 

“Nah man, that’s all you.” Robby retorts, his hand patting Jack’s back whilst Robby went to leave the room.

“Take the compliment, Robby.” Jack raises his voice to reach where Robby was leaving the room, knowing how his friend gets. Robby pauses in the doorway turning to face Jack.

“No, seriously, brother. Everyone could learn a thing or two from you.” Robby says loudly enough so his residents can hear, making it a point.

You hear them go back and forth for a while, your brain is finally slowing down from exhaustion, they do this all the goddamn time, which is why you don’t even process it when you blurt out your next sentence.

“Careful, Jack’s ego is inflated enough as is.” Your voice is somewhat quiet, you really meant it for just Robby and Jack. 

The room erupts in small giggles, Robby’s eyebrows lifting in surprise and smirking at Jack. He can’t help but let out a laugh.

“Oof, damn girl.” You hear Ellis joke from behind you.

Your wide eyes shoot up to meet Jack’s, your tired brain catching up and afraid you’d offended him. But he’s stood there, completely still, and grinning so hard. He almost looks proud. 

Jack didn’t think he could fall for you any harder. 

He was wrong.

───

You had finally gotten comfortable enough to ask for his comfort.

Before you met Jack, you couldn’t imagine asking for help for the littlest of things, afraid of inconveniencing people. Jack had reassured you, time and again, that he wants to be the person you go to when you need help. 

So you do.

At first, it was adorable for Jack trying to get you to ask for help. Being a slight tease about it, encouraging you to use your words.

You’d had a rough shift, you weren’t meant to be going to Jack’s place after work, but god did you need him today more than ever.

You’d been in the room for a few trauma cases, neither of which had ended with the patients pulling through, one being a pediatric case. You’d also opted to do an evidence collection for a sexual assault patient, knowing how busy Lena had been tonight, the floor needing her more than ever, so you’d taken over for her.

Safe to say, by the end of the night, you were a wreck. You felt on the verge of tears for hours, like the littlest thing could set you off. You were emotionally depleted, you wanted to just switch off, and you knew Jack could help.

So you approached him quietly, anxiously, your hands fidgeting. He was grabbing his bag out of his locker, so you slid in next to him, your back against the lockers next to him searching his face, checking if he’s too tired, because you wouldn’t want to be a burden.

“Hey, baby.” He smiles at your appearance next to him, glancing over at you. 

“Everything okay?” He says gently after noticing your stature. He can tell you’re anxious. He pauses from where he’s gathering his stuff in his lockers, turning to face you fully now. You’re staring into his eyes, you’re hesitant.

“Talk to me.” He commands gently, his hand coming to yours to break apart your nervous fidgeting.

You swallow the lump in your throat, asking for help always ended with tears for you and you didn’t want to cry. Not here, not now.

“Jack.” You just whine, silently begging that he’d understand what you need without you having to vocalise it. Your eyes water slightly, needing his comfort desperately.

“C’mon, baby, use your words.” He coaxes, his hand cupping your cheek. “You can do it.” His thumb brushes back and forth across the apple of your cheek, catching any tears if they fell.

“I need you.” Your voice is shaky, broken. It’s all you can manage without completely breaking down at work.

“Yeah?” His voice is so gentle, like he’s trying not to spook you, but a smirk tugs at his lips. “Atta girl.” His praise causes an involuntary, but quiet whine to leave you. 

He’ll stop the teasing for tonight, he sees how much you need him and the fact you had even verbalised your need for him was progress. He’s so proud of you.

“You need me, baby? C’mere.” He opens his arms for you, beckoning you into his hold. You’re a little embarrassed as you hug him, worried someone will find you like this, all vulnerable and mushy. 

“You did so good, baby, asking me for help.” He strokes your hair, comforting you. “C’mon. I’ll bring you home.” 

A protesting whine escapes you before you realise, the idea of him dropping you home alone upsetting you. You had just said you needed him, hadn’t you?

“Hey, hey.” He says quickly, needing to settle you down before you get more upset. “I meant home. Our home. You’re mine, baby. Imma take care of you now.”

───

However, one particular night, he uncovered an unexpected, but one of his favourite sides of you.

It’d been a rare evening where most of the night shift were off for the day, well at least those fun enough to drink with.

You and Jack hadn’t even bothered to try and hide your relationship around your coworkers, they knew too much. It wasn’t much of a problem anyways, not that either of you were overly affectionate at work. 

Lena supported you, but continued to encourage you to err on the side of caution, worried you’ll get hurt. Shen, however, lived for teasing you both. 

With a few drinks in your bloodstream, you had shuffled closer to Jack within the booth, searching for his touch. Shen, sitting opposite you both kept giving you knowing looks. It’d started with your thigh against his under the table, a gentle, grounding presence. But drink after drink, it hadn’t been enough. You wrap your arms around his forearm, your head on his shoulder now.

You’re definitely feeling the drinks, tipsy if not drunk, and you’re practically all over Jack. It's like you wanted to crawl into his skin. He’s definitely enjoying how clingy you’re being tonight. He leaves soft kisses in your hair from time-to-time, not trying to go full on PDA in front of his friends. But you were making it very hard for him to keep his cool. 

The drinks get to your head, making you both loose-lipped and a little sleepy. 

Your eyes fall to his hands. His fingers idly trace around the condensation on his glass as he politely listens to a story Ellis is telling. Truthfully, you hadn’t been clocked into the conversation for a while now, Jack occupying so much space in your mind. Jack. Jack. Jack.

His hands just looked so good. They were so big and veiny, and his fingers were so thick. You don’t know what had gotten into you, but you were so incredibly entranced by his hands. 

Without thinking, you slide your hand that rested on his bicep, down his arm until it landed on his hand, gently pulling it away from his glass. He lets you, doesn’t even look down to see what you’re doing, assuming you wanna hold his hand. But you just turn his hand over, palm facing up, and reject his attempt at intertwining your hands together.

You let out a small, short whine in protest. Keeping his hand laying flat on the table while you take your nails and gently trace your fingers in his palm, up his fingers and back down. They were so worn, tough. Nothing like your soft hands.

This touch from you makes him shiver, goosebumps erupting all over his skin. He glances down at your face, your eyes are glazed over and you seem completely infatuated by his hand. He watches you turn over his hand again, and you begin to trace his veins, like you’re completely hypnotised.

His breath comes out shakily, now completely zoned out of Ellis’ conversation. 

“What’ya doing, honey?” He whispers quietly into your hair, ensuring no one else can hear him.

You peek up at him from where you rest on his shoulder. God, you’re drunk. He’s so beautiful.

“Your hands are realllyyyy hot.” You blurt out, drunkenly as you continue to toy with his hands. By the power of the universe, the table had erupted into laughter at Ellis’ story at the same time you’d blurted that out, such that no one heard.

He stills at your comment and almost barks out a laugh. He holds it in, not wanting you to get all shy on him. Not when his shy girl has gotten so confident. 

“Is that so, baby?” He practically growls into your ear, lifting a drink to hide his smirk.

“Mhmmm.” You hum in affirmation. Your focus shifts from his arm to wrapping both hands around his bicep, it flexes slightly as he brings his drink to his lips. “Y’r arms too. Soooo big. Wanna bite ‘em.”

He genuinely chokes on his drink at that, something possessive stirring in his chest. His shy, sweet girl, completely fawning over Jack. 

He blinks around, making sure no one heard what you said, he couldn’t stand the thought of someone else hearing your desired rambles for him. Looking up, he notices Shen’s cocky smirk as he glances between the two of you. Jack’s about to tell him to mind his own business, but you beat him to it, by doubling down.

“Like it's unfairrrrr.” You mumble into his bicep.

“Unfair?” Jack asks, confused.

“How are you sooo– ugh!” 

He tilts your chin to look at him, wanting to know where all this flattery is coming from, and you have a lovestruck tired expression.

You pout as you take him in, his curls, his scruff, his face. 

Oh.

Something more present and aware flashes in your eyes the longer you stare at him, like you’re realising you spoke the words out loud. Your eyes widen slowly, mortified, and heat rushes to your face as you stare at him silently, replaying everything you just said. In public.

You dart your face around the table and make eye contact with Shen who's laughing under his breath. Oh fuck. You probably just embarrassed Jack and yourself.

You detach from him so quickly it gives him whiplash.

“Oh my god, I’m so–” Your voice is incredibly apologetic, horrified, and you won't even look at him in the face.

“No, hey. none of that.” Jack’s voice is firm. He brings his hands to cup your face, making you look into his eyes. “I like you like this, cheeky, confident.” 

You want to be happy at his words, but you can’t help but feel guilt and nausea stir in your stomach. Your drunk brain is making it very hard to think straight. You bite your lip anxiously.

“Do you…” You hesitate, looking into his eyes. “Do you wish I was more like that?” You have to ask. Maybe sober you wouldn’t feel so insecure, but you’re tired and your mouth is still feeling braver than your brain. 

“God, no, honey–” He pauses trying to find the right words, his thumb absentmindedly stroking your cheek. “I mean– Don’t apologise for this. I want you, every version of you.” His tone is pleading. You calm down a little at his words, feeling silly at how quick your mind jumped to the worst case.

“Want you even when you’re drunk outta your mind and thirsting over me like this–” He teases which gets cut off by a groan from you. You can’t help but smile as you hide your face into his neck again.

First Time

You’d been dating Jack for a little while now, but you still hadn’t had your first time together. Jack waited for your signal, he wouldn’t push, he’d wait until you were comfortable enough to be with him.

Which you were. You wanted to be intimate with Jack for so long, but there’s a nagging feeling at the back of your brain, stopping you from initiating.

Your past relationships, as Jack had slowly realised, weren’t exactly the best. You weren’t ever cared for like you are with Jack, which extended to sex. Sex had never really been about you and your partner, it’d always been about his pleasure, his needs. 

And now you’re with the most perfect guy, you don’t know how to navigate being intimate in a way that isn’t focused only on him. 

This thought was really getting to you one evening. You and Jack were at his place, just having finished dinner, and now you sit on the couch with your legs in his lap as you absentmindedly watch TV. His hand is giving you gentle strokes up and down your leg, and you can’t stop thinking about needing to warn him about your relationship with sex.

“Jack?” You ask gently. He doesn’t look over, he continues stroking your leg whilst humming in response.

You bite your lip anxiously.

“Um– I need to tell you something.” Jack’s hand falters his motions on your leg and he turns his head quickly, concern flashing on his features. Your tone, so nervous and anxious, had worried him, his chest twisting.

“Baby, what’s going on?” He coos, but he’s definitely on edge.

“It’s nothing, really. Um–” You pause, realising you hadn’t thought about a way to approach this with him. “I just really wanna have sex with you–” You blurt out. 

Oh for fuck’s sake. You wince and close your eyes in embarrassment. That’s definitely not the right way to do this

Jack’s face is even more confused, amusement flashing his features.

“Right. Baby, I’ve been waiting for you…” He reminds you gently. 

“No, no, I know.” You huff frustrated. “I– it’s about that. I just– fuck.” Your frustration builds at yourself for not being able to articulate your words well.

Jack sits up now, sensing your discomfort. He brings you closer to him, leaning on his shoulder now.

“Honey, focus, you’re okay. You can tell me anything.” His voice is immediately grounding. You breathe out shakily.

Silence hangs between you both, before you finally admit it.

“I can’t finish during sex.”

Silence continues to permeate the room. You’re so mortified. You don’t turn to look at his face. You can’t.

“You mean– you haven’t or you can’t?” His voice is gentle, a hand coming to stroke your hair. He’s definitely suspicious of your confession.

“I dunno… both, I guess. I’m not saying this to make it a challenge– people have done that before and it just makes it worse. I’m just warning you beforehand my body is wired differently and I don’t want you to feel bad if you can’t make it happen–”

“Oh, honey, is this why you’ve been hesitant to have sex?” He asks softly, interrupting your rambling.

You just hum in affirmation, embarrassed. 

Jack mulls over your words, he won’t argue and tell you he will make you finish but he seriously thinks this is a product of your previous boyfriends being inattentive and careless with you. Anger twists in his chest thinking about you thinking you’re somehow inadequate when it was your boyfriends who just took and took. 

“Listen to me, baby.” He tilts your face to look at him now. “I don’t care about that y’hear me?” He watches your expression falter, eyes full of vulnerability.

“If you can’t? Fine. I don’t want you any less, I just wanna make you feel loved, baby.” He can tell you’re still hesitant, but you nod. 

You smile shyly and cuddle into his side, resting your head on his lap as he plays with your hair. 

The days following your conversation you think over his words more, and a few days later, you tell him you wanna do it– be with him. 

He checks in multiple times throughout the day, making sure you’re okay, that you’re absolutely sure. But you also notice how much more often his touches linger. You can’t tell if it’s intentional or not, but you can’t stop thinking about him. Everything about him that day is so much more gentle and careful with you. 

That evening, when he leads you onto the couch your body is thrumming with anxiety. You know what's about to happen, he knows. Why are you so scared? You’ve never been more tense, more afraid of something going wrong. This is the man you love. 

When you both sit on the couch, cuddling like you always do, he doesn’t make a move. Maybe he’s waiting for you. Your leg shakes as you try to figure out what’s meant to happen, what you’re supposed to do. 

Before you can overthink it, you drape yourself over his lap and crash your lips to kiss, a hungry desperate kiss. 

He returns it, a grunt of surprise before melting into it. Hands coming to gently rest on your face. The kiss is almost rough, your tongue intertwining with his. You can do this, you can make him feel good. Your brain already slips into making sure he’s pleased, unable to shake the habit from the past.

You move against his lap, and he groans in pleasure. The noise he makes thrills you, wanting to hear it again, you’ve never heard him like this. You try to grind again but he pulls away breathless, shaking his head.

“Baby, slow down.” He practically laughs caressing your cheek. He can’t lose his cool already, not when he plans to make you feel good.

Fuck.

Shame floods your chest and your cheeks heat, climbing off of him and curl up next to him. You somehow messed this up, you want the couch to open and swallow you up.

“Oh, my sweet girl. C’mere.” He coos, turning to face you. He realises how his words may have come across like a rejection, and that’s the last thing he wants you to think.

“I don’t wanna rush this” He places a hand on your thigh, dipping his head trying to find your eyes. He can tell how nervous you are, how much you’re overthinking this. “Lemme take over, yeah?” He asks softly. 

You meekly lift your head to meet his eyes before nodding. His eyes are blown out, he looks hungry. But there's an edge of restraint, he's holding back.

You don’t even have time to feel guilty before he cups your face and brings your lips to his again, slow, passionate. 

He leans forward, crowding you back against the couch until he’s lying over you. Your heart jumps at the closeness, the position you’re in.

You become breathless, almost gasping for air between each kiss. 

Jack moves from your lips, placing sweet kisses down your jaw. Your body erupts in goosebumps, you’re practically shivering at the contact. You don’t even register your hand lifting to comb through his hair, pulling him down onto your jaw for more.

You feel his lips twitch into a smirk.

“That feel good, baby?” He rasps. The low grumble of his voice has you bucking your hips into him, desperate for him. You get completely lost in his kisses–

“Words, baby.” He commands pulling away to look into your eyes. He smirks smugly as he sees how wrecked he’s made you with just his kisses.

You blink processing his request, breathless and annoyed he’s stopped kissing you.

“Yeah– please, Jack. Don’t st– ah!” You’re cut off by his lips attaching to a sensitive spot on your neck, just below your ear. You whine as he sucks on your skin, for sure leaving a mark. Your body shivers again with the thought of him marking you that you involuntarily tug at his hair, which provokes a growl from Jack.

He detaches from your neck breathlessly dipping his head like you’ve just wrecked him with a simple tug.

“Do that again.” He commands low, before hungrily returning to your neck sucking more spots over and over.

A surge of confidence fills you knowing you have the capacity to make him feel just as wrecked as he does you. You continue to rake your hands through his curls, tugging occasionally loving his whines, as he sucks spots lower and lower down your collarbone and chest. 

His hand trails under your shirt, his cold hand making contact with your tummy and you tense involuntarily. He pauses looking up from where his head rests on your chest.

“You need to slow down?” His tone is so soft, gentle, it almost makes you cry.

“Nononon– please keep going,” you almost beg “Your hand was just cold.” You laugh embarrassed while stroking his hair.

He smirks at your neediness trying not to tease you more. 

He holds eye contact while his hands trail up your torso, goosebumps erupting throughout your body once again. You get flustered as he stares so intensely and you try to look away.

“Eyes on me.” He coos, bringing his fingers to tilt your head back to face him. Heat rushes in your face, your body practically shakes with anticipation. 

He lifts your top off so slowly, that you almost just beg for him to hurry up, for him to touch you. His hand slowly slides up from your hips up to your breasts, a hand coming to cup you over your bra as he returns to sucking spots at your collarbone. You get lost in the sensation once more, not noticing his other hand working at removing your bra. Once you peel it off he just stares. You almost go to hide, feeling self-conscious under his stare.

“So fuckin’ pretty.” He groans before directly leaning down and taking a nipple into his mouth.

Your hands grip the couch roughly and your back arches into him involuntarily.

“Fuck– ohmygod–” you whine at the sensation of his tongue swirling your nipples. You feel jack smirk against your breast, cocky fucker, before returning to suck on them hard. 

You don’t think you’ve ever felt this good, you had no idea kisses and touches like this could wreck you.  

His teeth unexpectedly grazes your nipple and you moan. Your body shakes with overwhelm, you bring your hands to cup jacks face needing him to pause. 

His lips detach from your nipple and his pupils are black. He looks like a man starved. He tries to go back to sucking but you hold his face steady.

“Need– fuck– need a break, feels too good.” You pant. 

Jack blinks and his cocky smirk returns.

“Oh yeah?” He rasps, with a mock condescending tone. 

You want to even the playing field a bit so you paw at his shirt, needing him to take it off, which he complies by ripping it clean off so quickly you barely register it. He leans down to capture your lips again, but you push your body upwards into his to manoeuvre you both into sitting position. You’re on top of him now, your turn to wreck him. 

His eyes narrow and smiles at your little show of dominance, and he’ll let you think you have the upper hand, for now. 

You lean down to return the kisses he gave you. You test out his sensitive spots, kissing and sucking spots along his neck whilst raking your nails along his biceps, his back, his chest. 

His breathing is shallow and you hear him whine. 

Bingo.

You continue sucking in that spot on his neck, one hand tugging in his hair and another raking nails on his bicep. You love the sound of him falling apart. 

You feel his hips involuntarily buck into your and you know you have him under your finger. It’s your turn to smirk against his neck, peppering small kisses up his jaw before locking eyes with him and grinding down straight into his lap. 

His hands jolt to your waist, not roughly, but a firm presence. He holds you down as he groans loudly, coming to rest his head on your chest. You try to move again but his hands on your waists prevent it, and he sounds destroyed. 

Your smug, cocky victory is short lived. 

His hands are on your thighs in an instant and you’re suddenly jolted upwards, your legs wrap around his torso as you let out a startled yelp. He’s carrying you. 

“You’re a fuckin’ tease, baby.” He murmurs into your neck as he carries you towards his bedroom.

You’re plopped down onto his bed and you bounce a little. You don’t even get time to speak before he’s on you again, his kisses desperate.

His hands paw at your bottoms, sliding them off in one quick go before he cups your panties.

“You enjoy almost getting me to blow my load in my pants, hmmm?” He teases feeling how wet you are already. “Making me feel like a fucking teenager again–” He growls before latching onto your breast again.

His hand slides your panties off as he sucks you, and it all feels too good you whine as you paw at his belt, wanting him to take his pants off too, to be on equal playing ground.

Groaning, he reluctantly detaches again before quickly working at his belt. The sound of the clink and him sliding it through the loops has your stomach flipping as you breathlessly stare at him from the bed. 

As soon as they’re off he’s on you again, his fingers coming to your clit, spreading the wetness from your folds up and making small circles. You jolt a little at the feeling, not expecting his touch there.

“Jack– fuck– what’r you doing? You don’t have to–” You begin to tell him to not waste his time on you, you already know you won't be able to cum.

“M’working you up, baby.” He coos, not slowing his motions. “No pressure to finish, yeah? Just wanna make sure it doesn’t hurt.” 

You hesitate, staring into his eyes and you realise he’s being sincere. You swallow a lump in your throat, feeling extra vulnerable at the lengths of care you feel he’s taking for you. You nod before falling back against the bed, just letting yourself enjoy the feeling of his touches.

You feel the way his fingers move slow circles against your clit, how they adjust every time your breath hitches, as he’s searching for the right tempo and pressure to make you feel good. 

You can hear how wet you are, you almost feel embarrassed how his fingers glide through your folds so easily. He continues to pepper gentle kisses down your neck as his fingers stroke you, they move lower and lower until they reach your entrance.

You gasp as he pushes his fingers inside you, feeling full.

You let out small whines of pleasure as he thrusts his fingers inside you. He shushes you by placing his soft lips to yours, continuing to mumble sweet words.

“Just let go for me, baby.”

“Thaaaats it.”

“Rub your clit for me.”

You reach down to add pressure to your clit and immediately jolt at the feeling. It feels different. The pressure from his fingers inside you, curling upwards and continuously thrusting at a consistent pace is getting to you. 

Your lower stomach twists, he sucks on your neck as he rubs against the spongy spot inside you, you realise the pressure feels good. That the way you’re rubbing yourself as he thrusts into you while whispering is working. You try so hard to keep it there. Keep rubbing. Keep focused on the feeling. Focusing on his words–

It disappears. 

“Fuck!” You huff frustrated, tears welling in your eyes. He pulls his fingers out immediately, worried he’s hurt you and you curl up into yourself. “I can’t do it.” Your voice is wobbly as you berate yourself, wiping a tear off your face.

“Hey, easy, baby.” He soothes by rubbing a hand on your back. His heart clenches at the sight of your teary eyes.

“M’sorry, Jack,” you sniffle. “You spent so much time on me and I couldn’t–”

“No. Hey.” He stops you, firmly. “No apologies. M’not mad, not upset.” He coos, moving your hair away from your face.

“I did all of that because I wanted to. You didn’t ruin anything, y’hear me?” He cups your face making you look into his eyes.

You nod shyly, but you’re still feeling low about it, he can tell.

“Jack– It’s okay if you wanna just fuck me now. M’ready. I want it too.” You whisper looking up into his eyes, still on the verge of tears.

He’s shaking his head before you even finish your sentence.

“No.” His tone is final.

He has an inkling that you’re in your own head too much, putting too much pressure on yourself to perform even when he told you there’s no expectations. He can feel your frustration, just wanting to fix this for you. An idea lands in his head.

“I’m not done with you.” He says gently whilst moving down your body again. “If you’ll let me, I wanna try something else, yeah?” 

“But–” You begin to protest, feeling guilty he has to try so hard on you.

“It’s for me. Not for you. Humour me, okay?” He asks so politely, you don’t wanna deprive him of something he enjoys. So you nod. 

“Lay back for me completely, baby.” You oblige, breathing heavily. 

 You feel his fingers in your folds again, they linger on your clit before he gently thrusts them back inside you. You lie back, continuing to feel the pressure but you can’t shake the guilt.

You feel his hot breath ghost over your mound. You jerk your head up, he’s staring directly at you before he places his lips directly on your clit and sucks. 

Your body jolts, arching your back off the bed, your hand landing in his hair once more. You were not expecting this.

“Jack– ohgod.” You breathe as he simultaneously works his fingers inside you and tongues your clit. He smirks at your reaction.

“That feel good?” He’s cocky, but he’s also checking in on you. You nod fervently and guide his head back down. He obliges wordlessly and gets back to working your clit. You’ve never been made to finish with someone else's fingers, but no one has ever tried this. 

He hears your small whines and it takes all the restraint in his body to keep focused on you, as much as he wants to just take his cock and slide it inside you, to watch your eyes widen as he fills you up, he wants you to feel good. 

You feel the familiar pressure build in your lower stomach. 

You start squirming, your lower half somehow both chasing his mouth but trying to get away from it. You’re getting overwhelmed, your body experiencing too much at once, and this is where you usually tap out, where it dissipates.

Jack senses it. He feels you clenching around his fingers. Feels your whines becoming more high pitched and breathless. He doesn’t want you to think too much about finishing, can’t have you waiting for the build because it’s gonna drive it away.

He doesn’t change his pace, his fingers continue thrusting, and his tongue doesn’t speed up on your clit, he keeps everything consistent.

“Jack–” You whine, feeling overwhelmed but knowing it’s not going to work, edging towards overstimulation.

He glances up to meet your eyes but doesn’t stop his motions, searching your face. He can see you’re wrecked. He’s desperate for you to fall off the edge, you’re right there. 

So he distracts you.

In one smooth motion, he removes his mouth. You almost whine in sadness before he replaces them with his fingers, eliciting a stronger reaction from you, and he says, in the most casual tone:

“You finish your charting?” 

What?

“My– Jack– what?” You huff out breathlessly but he doesn’t slow his fingers from toying with your clit and thrusting inside you

You try to answer his question, racking your brain.

But you can’t think.

It feels too good.

Your mind goes completely blank.

And you let go.

You fall apart completely. You clench around his fingers and your legs shake involuntarily.

“Fuck–!” You moan loudly. Jack continues to work you through your orgasm, not stopping for a minute.

He pulls the pleasure from your body, the only thing you register is the waves of pleasure crashing down on your body. Your back is arched off the bed and your eyes are squeezed shut as Jack manages the impossible.

You didn’t know it could feel this good.

You finally start squirming trying to get away, and he eases his fingers out of you. You’re practically shaking, breaths coming out heavily as you lay on the bed completely destroyed.

You feel him slide up the bed, tucking himself under you so your head rests in his lap and he just strokes your head, moving strands of hair out of your face from where they’ve stuck to you as you’ve gotten sweaty. 

You slowly calm down, coming back to yourself and shyly open your eyes. He’s already staring down at you, smiling so wide. 

Despite yourself, you blush. Like he hadn’t just made you completely fall apart.

“My sweet girl.” He coos, stroking your cheek.

You try to hide your face in your arms, feeling impossibly shy at his words.

“Oh, c’mere, baby.” He coaxes you out of hiding. “Y’getting all shy? After I just made you cum so hard?” He teases gently and you groan, turning around to sit in his lap, resting your head in his neck.

“Jaaaaack.” You whine.

“Okay, I hear ya, baby. No more teasin’,” he rubs a hand down your back, then his tone gets impossible quiet, like you’ve never heard before. “That was okay, right, sweetheart?” His puppy dog eyes meet yours.

You can’t help but laugh. 

“Okay?” You scoff.

“Jack, that was– everything.” You tell him, kissing his cheek. 

He settles down a little after that, the brief shyness leaving him. 

“My turn, please.” You beg whilst reaching down to his crotch where you can feel the erection poking through from where you’re sat above him.

He grabs your wrists as you touch the waist band of his shorts, stopping you, you frown.

“Darlin’, believe me. Any other night, absolutely,” He pauses stroking your cheek. “But I need you so bad right now, need to be inside you.”

“Oh.” You whisper, a shy smile coating your face as you realise how wrecked he is. Rising from his lap and allowing him to remove his boxers, you settle back down onto the bed. He’s on top of you in an instant. “Jack– I can get on top, wanna ride you.” You say shyly.

“Fucccck,” he groans. “Baby, I want that, but I’m not gonna last. Next time. Let me feel you this way. Please.” He begs while positioning himself between your legs.

You wrap your legs around him as the tip of his cock slides through your folds. Your breath hitches when it nudges against your clit, the feel of your wet folds sliding against his cock makes it twitch against you, and he lets out a low groan at the feeling. Jack repeats the motion a few times before bringing the tip to your entrance.

You instinctively brace, knowing how painful it always is. Jack sees this, leaning down to kiss your neck and calming you down, relaxing you.

“S’okay, relax.” He coos before dipping his head into your neck, and pushing in.

He pushes in slowly, so slowly he’s losing his restraint. 

But it doesn’t hurt. 

He’d worked you open so well, kept you so relaxed, you just feel full.

You moan as he bottoms out, a hand tugging at his curls and the other gripping his bicep. You nod fervently,

“You can move, please, move–” You don’t even finish your begs, your permission is all he needs to start letting go and thrusting into you.

You swear you’ve never felt so good in your life, the level of intimacy is unmatched.

“Fuck, baby, you feel so good.” He whines 

His eyes meet yours as he thrusts, and as always his stare is intense. His pupils are blown and he looks destroyed. 

He fits so perfectly inside you, you’re so full, you can’t help but moan. 

You’re clenching around him so perfectly, your breasts bouncing with every thrust and he can’t take his eyes off you.

“You’re doing so good f’me.” He praises even though he looks like he’s on the edge. 

Holding himself up on one arm to continue his movements, he brings a second to your clit.

You don’t expect his touch once more, so lost in how full you feel, how heavenly it all is, that you hadn’t realised how close you were again, and his simple touch pulls a second orgasm from you.

You fall apart even more, gripping his hair, nails leaving marks on his bicep as you shake around him, clenching. 

That’s all he needs to finish.

Your beautiful moans, the way you don’t break eye contact, the feel of you coming undone on his cock, he’s gone.

His thrusts stagger, becoming more desperate and frantic, his hold on your waist tightens as he grips onto you bringing you down onto his cock. His head lulls next to your head, hot breath in your ear as he groans, his seed spilling inside you. 

He’s completely wrecked, his last few after-orgasm thrusts jolt you, overstimulating. He lets his body go and completely crashes down onto you like a weighted blanket, leaving sloppy kisses down your neck.

You’re both breathing so heavily, he’s still inside you as your aftershocks move through you, clenching involuntarily, but he seems to enjoy the feeling even as sensitive as he is.

“Y’were perfect for me, baby.” He whispers into your ear. 

Your heart clenches at his words, how soft he’d been with you the whole time. He was so caring, so focused on you, praising you throughout the whole thing, he never took, he just kept giving and giving. He made sure it didn’t hurt. You realise that you’ve been accepting subpar treatment your whole life and just brushing it off.

In your post-orgasmic blank brain, you can’t process the emotions and a few silent tears spill from your eyes at the complete overwhelm of emotions.

Your sniffles are what alert Jack, finally lifting his head to meet your eyes. His heart drops into his stomach, panic flooding him.

“Hey, hey, talk to me.” His tone is so soft you feel guilty for worrying him. He moves to pull out, but you’re not thinking straight and you lock your legs around him, not wanting him to leave.

You just reach around and koala-bear hug him. He settles a little knowing he hasn’t hurt you, that you still wanted him touching you.

“Gotta talk to me, baby.” He pleads, cupping your face.

You’re not silent for much longer, calming down enough to stop his worry.

“You– felt so good.” Your voice is high pitched, almost shy. “You cared for me.” You sniffle.

Jack’s heart practically breaks.

“Oh, baby.” He coos, bringing you into his chest. Peppering many kisses into your hair. “M’always gonna take care of you.” He says so gently you can’t help but let out another tear, but you’re smiling now.

“I love you.” You whisper, eyes full of tears, him still inside you. 

He breathes out a sigh of relief.

“Baby you got no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that.” He kisses you, soft, passionately.

“I love you too.”

[jacksbrownie]

'tis........ TOO SWEET.... I FEAR

[voidsagent]

For the just fluff june requests Inspired by last nights spontaneous torrential downpour: Jack and Reader get absolutely drenched while they are on a picnic date. They quickly go home to warm up. :)

ahh !! this is so so cute !! i did end up changing a little bit/taking more liberty with it, but i hope you still like it !! <3

Caught In The Rain - jack abbot x reader

Pairings: jack abbot x nurse!reader

Summary: jack takes a big leap after you both get stuck in a surprise rain storm.

Warnings: none really; TONS of fluff, age-gap, pre-relationship, mentions of the ED, soft jack, mutual pinning, & medical inaccuracies.

Word Count: 1k+

Author’s Note: the first fic of just fluff june is here !! i’m loving all the requests i’m getting, & i can’t wait to share more of them with you !! i hope you all love these as much i do !! <3

“Jesus christ, Jack!”, You yelp, feet splashing aggressively in the puddles below you as you follow his lead, moving as quickly as you could.

Jack was speed walking ahead of you—careful not to slip from his prosthesis, hand firmly on your elbow as he pulled you along with him.

The rain had come out of nowhere; one second the park was calm and breezy, the next you were drenched. You’d been sitting under a tree across the street to get as far away from the ED as possible during your break, allowing yourself to clear your head.

Jack was just coming in for his shift, camo backpack slung over his shoulder—one hand grasping the strap. His scrubs were mismatched; dark navy blue pants, a black top and dark brown undershirt—he looked like the epitome of an attending running on pure fumes.

But still, he had that crooked half smile at the corner of his lips when he saw you—stopping in his tracks when he was close enough.

“You planning to escape?”, He asked, voice teasing.

You looked at him; “You gonna tell on me if I am?”

He looked around before raising his hands in fake surrender; “I didn’t see a thing.”

His eyes flicked towards the ground once before trailing back up to you; “Although I think we’d be pretty lost without you, just saying.”

There it was; one of Jack’s little flirty comments slipping out so easily.

“That so?”, You huff; “Big strong attending can’t handle the ED if i’m not there?”

“God no.”

He laughs softly, smirk still lingering. He steps closer, close enough you can feel his warmth but not enough that you’re touching. You look up behind your sunglasses at Jack looking down at you.

“Need your favorite nurse fix, cowboy?”, You tease.

The lilt in your voice makes his ears and neck burn red.

“Who said you were my favorite?”, His squeezes his fists at his side; “But yeah…maybe I do.”

A silence settles between you as a cool breeze floats around you.

“Your shift start yet?”, You ask him.

Jack checks his watch; “Fifteen minutes, yet.”

You nod, patting the ground next to you; smoothing the top of the blanket you’re sitting on. You can see Jack hesitate—eyes drifting towards the bright red sign above the entrance to your shared work; his feet always pulling him to the ED.

“Jack”, You say.

He turns back towards you.

“Sit. They’ll live for a few minutes without you.”

He grunts as he lowers himself to the ground, palms flat against the ground behind him—letting his hands support him as he situates himself. You can see him shift a little, tugging at the leg of his scrub pants.

“Your leg ok?”, You ask.

He grunts; “Been better, been worse. I’ll live.”

“Jack—“

“I’ll be ok, sweetheart. Don’t you worry about me”, Jack says, offering you a small crooked smile.

Silence surrounds you, his shoulder brushes yours. His body stays awkwardly straight; like he’s holding himself back from leaning in more.

A few minutes of comfortable silence pass before he reaches out to thumb the fabric at the bottom of your scrub top; a new soft yellow that was way too bright for the emergency department—much like Jack thought you were.

Jack always saw you as sunshine, especially now; here with your bright smile and hair clipped back in a claw clip that matched your scrubs. The way sun rays seemed to emanate from your face as the sky slowly started to darken around you.

“This new?”, Jack asked softly.

“Mhm”, You answer with a soft hum.

Jack’s quiet for a moment, pointer finger and thumb rubbing at the buttery material between his fingers; “I like them…’Looks good on you.”

The butterflies in your stomach stir.

“Everything looks good on you”, He adds; “…Hard not to when you’re so pretty.”

You feel your face heat up immediately, shyly hiding your smile in the crook of your arm.

Jack reaches over and gently pulls your face towards him by your chin, the same calloused fingers he’d just been holding the fabric of your scrubs with—now soothing against your soft skin.

“Hey”, Jack says softly when you finally look at him; “None of that. Don’t go hiding on me now, sweetheart.”

The nickname flowed through your ears and went straight to your heart; beating loud and hard against your ribcage. The sky around you grows darker.

Jack’s eyes are roaming your face now, tension buzzing between you like electricity.

A breath leaves your mouth, getting stuck in your throat halfway before fully escaping. Your eyes tracing Jack’s face; rugged and handsome with years of experience behind him. Permanently exhausted but still so beautiful.

Just when you think he’s going to close the gap between you, that’s when the sky opened up; rain pouring down on you.

Now here you were, running after him—his hand had found your elbow, skin burning with the touch. His quick steps still balanced so he doesn’t slip as he leads you both across the road and closer to the ambulance bay.

Despite the sudden cool air that came with the rain; your skin is on fire when Jack finally pulls you under the safety of the concrete canopy at the hospital entrance. Your wide eyes flick around, watching the rain plummeting from the sky around you. But Jack’s eyes only find you.

His hands are still on your elbow, one sliding down to rest steadily on your waist. Somehow, his hands are still warm despite being wet.

You flick your gaze back to Jack; really looking at him now. He’s drenched, probably soaked to the bone. His hair’s darker now, the familiar light grey curls taking on an almost black hue. Water drips down his flushed face and the curls at his nape. His tongue pokes out to lick his lips once, eyes never leaving your face. His pupils so blown there’s almost no hazel of his iris’ left; just black.

“You ok?”, He asks, breathless and chest heaving.

You don’t have words to answer him, every answer or quick wit remark you’d normally have had flown out of your brain the second he touched you—the second he looked at you with those blissed out eyes. He ducks his head to meet your gaze when you don’t answer, tucking a strand of wet hair that had fallen loose back behind your ear.

“Hey…”, He says softly.

You shiver at his touch.

“You cold?”, His brows are furrowed now.

“No”, you say, looking up at him—lip between your bottom teeth; head shaking softly.

“You sure?”

He pulls you closer, his eyes flicking from your face down to where his hand is still resting on your waist; then back.

You nod. Still nothing coherent to say coming to your head.

“You’re shaking”, His voice comes soft and laced with concern he can’t quite hide.

“I— I’m ok, I just-“

“Just what, sweetheart?”

Your heart thuds louder, mouth dry and breathing shallow.

“It’s just…you”, You rasp out.

Jack doesn’t falter, but you don’t miss the small twitch at the corner of his mouth; “Me?”

You nod again.

“What about me, honey?”

“You’re here.”

The words mean more than just his presence, than just this very moment. Months of tension and charged moments lingering in the damp air between you.

“Yeah”, he says, holding your chin between his fingers again; “I am….that ok?”

You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and comforting. His face is inches from yours now, foreheads almost touching. You can only nod; words gone again at being so close to him.

He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth; “Can I kiss you?”

The words hit you like a freight train, goosebumps erupting over your skin. You nod before you can stop yourself.

Jack brushes his nose against yours; “I’m gonna need words this time, sweetheart.”

“Yes”, you say; “Yes, please.”

Jack moves closer, pulling you flush against him; open mouth hovering mere centimeters from your own. Warmth fans your face.

Then he finally lets his lips meet yours. It’s soft at first, tentative and slow—like he’s learning you. Then it speeds up, his mouth opening a bit more now to slip his tongue through his lips; swiping against your mouth—asking to be let it.

You gladly accept, parting your lips to grant him access. Your tongues dance together, not quite fighting for dominance—but more pulling you closer. Your fingers find the back of Jack’s head, running them through the short curls there. Jack lets out a low groan, rumbling up through his chest.

You swallow the noise, pushing your lips harder against his—sighing when he pulls you even closer.

When you finally pull apart—lungs burning; Jack rests his forehead against yours. Nothing but the sound of your mixed breaths surrounds you, a soft laugh leaving his lips.

“You have no idea”, He smiles; “How long i’ve been wanting to do that.”

Still dazed, you shake your head; “Oh believe me, I do.”

Jack finds your eyes again, tucking strands that still stick to your face behind your ears again—pulling you close as he cups your face.

You lean up to kiss him again, but his lips find your forehead instead—soft and lingering against your dewy skin.

“Let me take you out after work, a real date”, He says softly; “I’ll pick you up, take you somewhere nice; let me treat you like you deserve.”

You feel your heart melt into a puddle in your chest, leaking down and mixing with the rain puddles around you. You’ve both finally started to dry, clothes barely damp now.

“Ok”, you breathe; “But only if you wear that dress shirt I like, the one from the conference we went to?”

Jack laughs softly against your skin, pressing another kiss to your temple; “Done, sweetheart.”

He lets himself linger there for a moment, swaying you both gently before he pulls away—hesitant like he’s using up all his restraint.

“We better get inside…”, He says.

You groan; “Yeah. My break is definitely over, and you’re late Doctor Abbot.”

His cheeks flush a little at his name leaving your lips, but he just tucks you under his arm—hand hovering at your back; “Cmon, trouble. The Pitt needs our best nurse.”

Inside, you go your separate ways. Jack’s touch lingering on your arm as you jump back into the chaos. He passes the hub, heading to drop off the bag still slung over his shoulder—smile etched on his face.

“You’re tracking water into my ED, Abbot”, Dana says; “And you’re gonna scare the med students with that smile.”

Jack shakes his head; “Sue me, i’m in a good mood.”

Dana takes the glasses off of her face, giving Jack a full once over; “You know something we don’t?”

Jack laughs softly, mouth twitching as he turns to the staff room door; hovering against it. His eyes find yours for a small second across the floor, heat climbing up both of your necks.

“Maybe I do.”

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