corazón astral

30 something and tired. ace. obsessed with old men.

[barnesonfilm]

tears run down my thighs

★ summary: jack abbot is sexually repressed, at least that’s what his therapist says anyways. he heeds her advice and decides to walk into a strip club where he meets you.

★ pairing: jack abbot x stripper!reader

★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, sex work, dry humping, oral m receiving, fingering, cum eating, overstimulation, dirty talk, jack abbot has a dirty fucking mouth, praise kink

★ word count: 5.9k

★ notes: this is heavily inspired by my clark fic… hehehehehehehe

His therapist said it plainly, scribbling it down passively aggressively in her notepad. He was sexually repressed. He was nearly 50 years old and hadn’t had a sex drive in almost a decade. That’s not to say his dick was broken; he was painfully aware that it still worked. He just had no desire to use it over the past few years. He had no time to feel desire. He supposed that’s what working in emergency medicine would do to you. If he wasn’t working well over his scheduled hours, he was in the field under active fire. Constant adrenaline rushes and life-or-death situations left little room to think of anything else. He was worried he’d fried the neurons in his brain responsible for desire.

Lately, however, he’d found himself sitting in the dark of his apartment, noticing the stillness for the first time in years. He was lonely, not that he’d admit it to anyone publicly. Let alone to any of his friends, so instead he confided in his therapist. A nice older lady, with no energy to deal with any of his self-pity. He tried the dating apps, the more than sketchy websites, and he even tried mingling at a bar downtown to no avail. He tried porn, he tried those books he used to tease his late wife about, hell, he even tried buying sex toys online. Nothing worked. Nothing made him feel that want like he used to. When his body was younger, before he lost so much of himself.

Now it wasn't that Jack Abbot didn’t have the means to fix this issue. For that, he was brutally aware. His rugged good looks and quarter of a million dollar salary alone should have gotten him at least a date. His main problem was that he didn’t try, not really. He never took days off, accruing over 60 days of PTO before Gloria forced him out of the hospital for a week to avoid litigation over labor laws. He was a workaholic, with no real desire for change in his life. Once again, words from his therapist.

Today was another session, his therapist scribbling down in the notebook as if her life depended on it. It was all mundane until she paused. “Have you ever considered going to a strip club?”

He paused, hands freezing on his thighs. “I’m sorry, what?”

He had heard her, quite clearly, actually. Too shocked to let the words absorb into his brain. She repeated herself slowly, “It’s a very common place for men your age to go. It’s legal, low risk. Get some ones and see if it brings you back to your glory days as a young cadet. At the very least, you’ll have a story to tell me next week.”

So here he was, sitting in the parking lot of the Pink Pony. He changed his outfit twice before leaving, two different variations of the same black t-shirt and jeans. He had over $1000 in various bills shoved haphazardly into his wallet and pockets. Too nervous to undertip, feeling like he had to overpay to apologize for being a pervy old man.

The parking lot was quiet for an unassuming Thursday night; he’d taken a few days off for the affair. If nothing went his way, at least he had time to sulk in his pity before walking back into work on Monday.

He walked in awkwardly, shifting his weight consciously to his prosthetic, attempting to walk normally despite the years-long shift in his hips. He felt like he was crawling out of his skin. Men sat in the corners, dollar bills lazily thrown as girls twirled around on the stages. Half-dressed waitresses carrying overpriced bottles waved at him as he slipped into the bar. He got a whisky on the rocks and slipped into his own corner. He sank into the worn velvet chair, his back to the wall and a small stage in front of him. Secluded enough, and he was able to see all the exits. Old habits die hard.

Meanwhile, you were lounging in the back room, silk robe over your shoulders, while you fumbled around with your curlers. Nursing a lukewarm Diet Coke while music blared from the main stages. You weren’t even supposed to work tonight, prompting you to take a shift for a friend who caught a nasty case of the flu. Getting a master's degree wasn’t cheap, so you were perfectly fine with the extra hours.

“Y/n,” A coworker yelled, “Can I borrow that green set of yours?”

You shrugged lazily, “Don’t care, just wash it and return it. S’in my locker.” You hummed, coating your lips in a little too much lip gloss, adding a little too much highlighter to your face. This was one of your favorite things about your job: sitting in an overpriced fur-lined chair surrounded by girls who only uplifted each other. It all started as a small gig in undergrad, just to make extra money. Years later, you were still here, settling into the night shift like it was your home away from him.

“Oh, bitch.” Your coworker Ani squealed, barreling into the dressing room like her heels were on fire. “Y/n.”

You twirled around, urging the frantic girl to spit her words out. “Ani, where’s the fire?”

“Hot ass old man in front of stage F, wouldn’t even look me in the eyes but slid $150 across the stage.” She giggled, sitting next to you, your shoulders brushing.

Ani was your oldest friend here, and one of your closest friends outside of work. She kept you on your toes, but you always looked out for each other.

“How old?” You pry, lips pursed.

“Old enough to be your father.” There was an evil glint in her eyes.

You let out an over-dramatic moan, “Oh, you know me so well.”

“Right?” She yelled, grabbing your shoulder to pull you to the curtain. Both of your heads poked out, your eyes immediately finding the man. His body language was stiff, clutching his sweating whisky like a lifeline. She wasn't wrong; he was hot. In a rugged, soldier way. Exactly the type of customer you loved. So what you had stereotypical daddy issues, didn’t everyone?

“Oh, Ani,” You sighed, “I could kiss you on the lips.”

She let out a giggle, clearly proud of herself. “Consider us even for you giving me the Russian last week.”

Then her hands were on your shoulders, pushing you back into the room. “Wear that sexy little black number, and the clear glitter heels.” She ordered, tossing your clothes, ordering you around.

The two of you fell into heaps of giggles, ignoring the side eyes of the other girls as she helped dress you. Too much makeup and very little clothing later, you were shining, ready to slip out there.

“You’re gonna kill that old man.” She hummed, bouncing one of your curls between her long nails. “Make me proud, mama.”

With a playful slap on your ass, you were off, slipping into the main area as if you belonged there. Which you did, it was years of working here and owning the stages. Your heels clicked loudly against the tiny stage, hair bouncing down your back with each dramatic sway of your hips.

One hand wrapped around the pole, casual as anything, like it was an extension of you rather than something to perform with. You circled it once, twice, dragging it out, letting the music sway your movements. Your gaze skimmed the room like you were choosing, like you were deciding who deserved your attention. As if he wasn’t your target already.

When your eyes did find him, you couldn’t help the ridiculous smirk that fell on your lips. His honey brown eyes were dark, locked on yours. With your free hand, you sent him a sultry wave before the lights dimmed. The colored spotlights hit your skin as you brought your legs up around the pole. Twisting and gliding around in your natural habitat. When your back hit the pole, hands up and gliding down it, you watched him watch you.

His watchful eyes are heavy with every shake of your body, every gentle caress of your own skin. You arched your back, letting the pole support your weight as your head tilted back, hair cascading over your shoulders, your chest fully on display. He let himself pretend for just a moment that this was for him and him only. He felt an unfamiliar feeling in his gut, a warmness growing there. A feeling he had longed forgotten, forcing itself through his body the longer he watched you.

You slid down the pole, landing on the cool floor in a split. The song is slowly coming to an end, allowing yourself to change the pace. You let yourself fall on your elbows, pulling yourself up so you were crawling across on your hands and knees. This time, you made sure to keep eye contact with the man, stalking him as prey. Hips rolling with each crawl. He lifted a hand, brandishing a handful of bills very respectfully on the corner of the stage. Once you were close, you grabbed the bills, holding them up in between your perfectly manicured nails.

“This for me?” You asked, a faux dumb look plastered on your face. Just to see him squirm in his chair, which he did.

He nodded slowly, adjusting himself. His body leaning forward, watered-down whisky long abandoned on the table. “More where that came from.” He spoke, voice gruff and quiet over the music.

“Really?” You put a hand on your chest, slipping the bills into the thin string of your top. “I’m honored, baby.”

He pretended his cock didn’t stir at your voice, and your eyes, and your tits that were practically spilling out of the lace number you had on. He cursed his therapist, he cursed his body, and secondly, he cursed you because he knew you had ruined him from the moment you walked out on stage. He was going to have to go back to therapy and tell her that he came in his pants at the first girl to give him attention.

Your legs swung off the platform, heels hitting the floor with practiced precision as you sauntered over to him.

“You got a name, ‘Mr. More where that came from?” You growled playfully, letting your hands fall on the armrests, your body above him tits mere inches away from his face. You held all the power in this interaction, and it had his palms sweaty.

“You can call me Jack.” He spoke, his own voice sounding foreign to him.

“Jack.” You purred, letting your body settle between his spread legs. “Can I have a seat?” You asked sweetly, pointing towards his very welcoming lap.

“F-fuck, yeah.” He stumbled, leaning back just enough for you to swing your legs over his. You were perched on his lap gently, barely putting any weight on him. The doctor in him took a beat to notice your core strength, the way you moved expertly against him.

“So Jack,” You hummed, content on letting your hands rest lazily on his shoulders. ”What do you do for work?”

“M’a doctor.” He managed to stumble out, making a small laugh escape your lips. He was sure you didn’t believe him; your whole job consisted of men lying to you. Everyone was a CEO, a doctor, a lawyer, anything to impress the pretty girl in front of them.

“Yeah?” You giggled, a small accent slipping out. “You know, doctor, I’ve been having a serious problem lately.”

With your perfectly glossed lips in a pout, and your voice purring in his ear, he would have done anything you said. “Hm?” Was all he could get out, still tongue-tied by the fact that you were on top of him.

“These tits,” You sighed, grabbing your chest with both of your hands, “Are just sooo heavy. I really need someone to help hold them.”

”Doctor’s orders, huh?” He couldn’t help but laugh.

You nodded, letting your hands fall to the sides of the chair again. “Don’t be shy, I don’t bite.”

“What if I do?” Jack said, his eyes surprising both you and himself. His confidence is growing, slowly but surely.

“I might like that.” You recovered coolly, slipping back into your persona. “Come on, you can touch.”

His hand moved up, twitching ever so slightly but never moving closer to you. He looked nervous, his eyes practically scouring the room as if someone would catch him somehow breaking the law. You noticed, because of course you did.

“Hey, we can slip into a private room if you want a dance-“ Before you could even finish, he was slipping a few more bills into the bottom string of your thong.

To your credit, you didn’t let the flicker of surprise show on your face, even as the bills slid against your skin and his voice settled low and certain in your ear. “I’d prefer that, sweetheart.”

You smiled at that, something pleased and almost fond tugging at the corner of your mouth before you caught it and smoothed it back into something more seductive. His lap missed your presence when you sat up, holding your hand out for him. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

He stood a second later, slower than you, but following all the same. His hand was in yours, ignoring all the stares as you guided him into the back rooms. You said something quietly to one of the girls before a thick curtain was opened, revealing a private area. There was a plush couch, a few chairs, and a pole in the middle. The music was quieter, the lights dimmer. There was a faint neon pink glow, making his eyes adjust for a few moments.

“Take a seat wherever you’re comfortable.” You smiled, closing the curtain behind you two. The floor-to-ceiling fabric seemed to dull more sound than he thought, the music almost barely audible. He sank into the middle of the couch, adjusting his legs awkwardly while you frolicked around the room.

“This your room?” He asked, a small bluetooth speaker crackling in the corner.

“On most days,” You smiled, smooth rock music echoing throughout the room now, “Hope this is okay, you don’t strike me as the EDM pop type.”

He shook his head, “No, I am not.”

He barely had time to settle before you were moving again, letting your hands grip the pole as you walked by.

“Few rules,” You pointed towards the sign on the wall, “At any point you want to stop, let me know, if there’s something you’d like to ask nicely and I’ll work with you, no touching new places without asking, and tip well.”

“Yes, m’am.” He gave you a mock salute, your hips swaying to the beat. You inched closer and closer until you were close enough to touch. He was still tense as ever, even as you all but crawled into his lap again. The only time he touched you was to slip a few more bills into your thong, this time while your ass was in his face.

You spun around after another song had ended, “New rule,” You hummed, “Relax.”

”I am relaxed.” He lied, his shoulders were so tense they were beginning to ache, and his cock was so hard he was worried he was going to pass out from all the blood rushing between his legs. It didn’t help that you kept ending up hovering above his lap. You hadn’t once looked at the tent in his pants, another occupational hazard he assumed.

“You’re a bad liar,” You pressed your palms against his shoulders, “Relax,” you murmured again, softer this time, your voice losing some of that performative edge.

There was a quiet huff of breath from him, something almost like a laugh, but it didn’t quite make it all the way out. Not when you started to move.

A slow roll of your hips, controlled and measured, more about the rhythm than anything else, your body finding the beat and settling into it like second nature. You didn’t drop onto him right away, didn’t give him that friction yet; you let the anticipation build, let him watch the way your body moved just inches from his, the way your hands slid from his shoulders to the back of the couch, bracketing him in without touching.

His hands still hovered awkwardly at his sides for a second, like he didn’t know where they belonged, like he was afraid of getting it wrong.

“Do you wanna touch me?” You ask softly, in that new gentle tone you had reserved for him.

“More than anything in the world.” He admitted.

You placed his hand at your waist, right where the curve dipped in, where he could feel the heat of your skin beneath the thin fabric. “You can touch. That’s kind of the point.”

His fingers flexed there, tentative at first, like he was expecting you to pull away. As if this were a dream he’d get rudely woken up from. Instead, you moved closer, finally letting your hips settle on his lap. Pressing directly down on the bulge in his pants. At the contact, his fingers squeezed tightly at the flesh, mostly out of instinct. His hands were large and rough. His touch had you arching against him slightly, a shit-eating grin on your lips.

His other hand joined the other side of your hip, steadying you on top of him. You leaned forward just slightly, enough that your chest brushed his, your face close to his now, close enough that he could see the detail in your makeup, the gloss on your lips, the way your eyes held his with a kind of quiet confidence that didn’t waver.

”There you go, doctor.” You whispered, that nickname sticking much to his chagrin. He doesn't know why he was lying to himself, not when you could feel each jump of his cock.

He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking between your body and your mouth like he couldn’t quite decide where to land, like he was trying to take in too much all at once and failing. The friction was enough to make the room feel hot, tension building between each perfected roll of your hips.

One specific roll had a curse leaving his mouth, “Fuck.” He grunted, his eyes falling shut.

Your stomach burned, his voice going directly between your thighs. “D-does this feel good?”

He nodded, not even able to get a word out. “Can I move?” He asked, more confident, his hands guiding up to your chest before you could even finish your nod.

”Please.” You breathed out, nearly moaning at the first squeeze of your tits in his palm. His thumb brushes against your hardened buds, squeezing them between his forefinger.

You feel the shift in him, his movements more sure, his face more relaxed. Between his cock heavy between your legs, and his rough hands, you nearly forget you’re the one in charge for a moment. You try not to think about what he looks like underneath his dark, tactile daywear, what he sounds like when he cums, how large his fingers would feel slipping inside of you, or his cock, heavy and thick.

It takes you a second to catch your breath, settling back into the reality of the situation. “Permission to say something uncouth?” He asks, the word choice making you smile dopey at him.

“Always.”

“You have the most gorgeous tits I’ve ever seen.” He said, palms still heavy over the fabric of your top. “How much to get this little top off?”

Fuck, you are so fucked. Because if he looked at you with those respectful brown eyes again, you’d probably fuck him right here if he asked with that much kindness dripping in his voice.

“All you had to do was ask,” You admitted, “Go ahead, take it off me.”

With ease, he slips the knot in the back open, throwing the strings across the room as if it personally offended him.

“Fuck, I was right.” His other hand came up, both hands squeezing your tits.

Your hips stilled momentarily, letting your head fall back, watching him through half-lidded eyes.

“You like what you see, doctor?” You pant, steadying your hips again. Letting the now damp spot on your bottom rub against his bulge again.

“You’re like a dream.” He sighed, moving his hands down your stomach back to your hips. Helping you grind against him, the pleasure makes his toes curl.

“You-“ he cuts himself off, breath catching, jaw tightening before he tries again, quieter this time. “You might need to slow down.”

“Yeah?” You tease, the delicious drag of your clit making your own breath heavy, “Why?”

“You know why.” He grunted, gripping your hips tighter, stilling you on top of him.

You slow down, “What if I wanted to make you cum?”

The words leaving your mouth made both of you tense; the song changing left an awkward beat of silence.

“I’m sorry,” You cringed, “Was that too much? You’re just really-“

“Really, what?” He smiled, amusement in his eyes.

You faltered, not liking how you lost control of the situation. “You know, my friend told me you were here,” you admitted, “Sexy older man, looks slightly traumatized. I’ve wanted to jump your bones from the moment I saw you.”

“She knows your type, huh?”

You nod, “And you doctor, are making me wanna break all my rules.”

“What are those rules?” He hummed, letting his palm spread, gripping your ass gently.

“Not wanting to fuck my clients,” You jutted your bottom lip out, “That’s a big one.”

“Don’t I feel special.” He grinned, his cock still twitching in his pants at the sight of you. “S’been a while for me sweetheart.”

You made a sound between a scoff and a laugh, waiting for him to make a joke. Instead he just kept his smile locked on you, his hands warming your flesh.

You click your tongue against your teeth, “Well, that can’t do.”

Before he can reply, you’re sliding down his body. Letting your knees fall to the floor, leaving you between his spread legs. His eyes flare, with something dark and dangerous. You rest your cheek on his upper thigh, your lips so close to the ever prominent bulge in his pants.

“This okay?” You asked sweetly, your hands coming up to grip his thighs.

“Y-yeah, god yeah,” He sighed, lips parting in disbelief, “Are you sure-“

You shush him letting your hand fall on his knee, and he flinches. His whole body twinging underneath your touch, as if he was just pulled harshly back into reality.

You pause, it very clearly doesn’t feel like a knee, but you keep your face blank, looking up at him through your lashes. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what you were touching; it was common, especially among soldiers. You’d know, considering your field of study.

“Did I hurt you?” You asked sweetly.

He shook his head, “I just, uh. I don’t have, there’s a- “

You pause, “I don’t care what happened, just wanna make sure I'm not hurting you. Would you like me to move my hand?”

“If you want to move it, I wouldn’t be offended.” He stutters, tensing up again.

You don’t move your hand; instead, you continue pulling his pants down with the other. “When was the last time you got your cock sucked, doctor?”

“If I said over 10 years, is that embarrassing?” He breathes out, his hands fisted by his sides.

“Not at all.” Your mouth is watering as his heavy cock slips out of his boxers. Just like you thought, he’s thick and large. “If you need me to stop, please tell me.”

“Y-yes, whatever you want.” He nearly whimpers.

You lean forward, wrapping your lips around his red tip. Swirling your tongue around it, before slowly bobbing your mouth around him. He tasted salty and warm as you moaned around him.

This was heaven; Jack had surely died and gone to heaven.

His cock twitched in your mouth with each bob, the small patch of salt and pepper hair tickling at your nose each time he prodded the back of your throat.

“Oh, hell.” He grunted, one of his hands coming to gently push your hair back from your face. Your eyes fluttered shut, your hands wrapping around the little bit you couldn’t fit in your mouth with each thrust. You ignored the tears threatening to leak from your eyes, your cheeks hollowing, your tongue pulling elicit sounds from the back of the older man's throat.

“Let me see those gorgeous eyes, yeah, eyes on me.” He cooed, his hand holding your hair in a makeshift ponytail.

You obliged, opening your watery eyes to look up at him. “Gonna let me fuck that mouth of yours?”

Jack had a filthy mouth, and with each low command he whispered to you, your thighs were rubbing together, attempting to get the smallest bit of relief. You nodded, relaxing your jaw around his thick cock. He braced himself, guiding your head up and down on his length slowly. Each thrust hits the back of your throat.

It was messy, the squelching sound of him fucking up into you nearly overpowered the slow speaker still playing in the corner of the room. The small moans and whimpers of praise that left his mouth were music to your ears.

“Breathe.” He ordered, noticing just how red your cheeks were getting from the intrusion. You ignored him, trying to breathe through your nose, continuing to flick your tongue against the bulging vein on his cock. He shivered at the feeling, but his concern outweighed it.

“Off,” He pulled at your hair, “Now.”

Your lips trailed up with a pop, a string of spit hanging off your wet lips connecting to his tip. Your makeup was a mess, eyes sparkling as you took a few heavy breaths.

“Sorry,” You breathed out, licking his tip once more. “This fucking cock. What a travesty, no one's been sucking it for the last 10 years.”

“You okay?” He asked, his fingers pressing against your carotid. No doubt checking your racing heart rate, making sure you weren’t about to have a coronary.

“M’ okay.” You mumbled, wrapping your lips around him again with a moan.

“Good girl.” He praised, gently pushing your head back down on him. With each wet, messy gargle of him fucking into your throat, he was willing himself not to cum. “You listen so well, don’t you?”

You nodded with him in your mouth, making his eyes roll back. You knew he was close, you could tell by how tight his balls were, or by the frantic pulling of your hair.

“F-fuck,” He cried out, his hips thrusting up into your throat causing you to gag around him, “I’m gonna cum. Gonna fucking cum.”

You didn’t stop your movements, moaning around him in response as you felt him twitch once before he cums directly down your throat.

His head is thrown back in the couch cushions, his muscles peaking through the too-tight t-shirt he wore with each heavy breath as he came down.

You slowly pulled your mouth off of him with a pop, using your thumb to pick up the little bit of cum that had dripped down your chin. His eyes were glazed, his lips wet and red from biting down on them.

“Open,” He demanded, moving his hand from your hair to your chin. He helped you relax your jaw, showing your tongue out to him showing him not a drop was wasted. “Fuck, you’re unreal.”

You were giggly, cockdrunk off that alone. You helped him pull his pants back up with gentle hands, slipping back into his lap as if you belonged there.

“How was your first blowjob in over a decade?” You teased, your legs outstretched on the couch cushions while you sat perched on his leg.

He pinched your bare leg lightly, “Little minx. You know exactly how dangerous that mouth is.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, ready to swing off his lap and prepare to part ways. Instead, he grabbed your hips, keeping you exactly where you were.

“Wait,” He whispered, “You can say no, but it’s very rude not to offer to make a lady cum. Especially after she just gave you the best blowjob of your life.”

You froze, brows flying up your forehead. “You wanna make, me? Cum?” You asked, as if it were such an unbelievable request.

He nodded casually, as if he was asking about the weather. “I didn’t even need the blowjob, don’t get me wrong I enjoyed it so fucking much, but I’d have just as much fun getting to taste your sweet little cunt. What an honor would it be to make you cum, over and over….”

Your chest flushes, legs nearly trembling at the words he was whispering in your ear. Where the fuck did this man come from?

His hand moved to your thigh, fingers tapping on the skin.

“Fuck,” Unable to keep the whine from escaping you, “Y-yeah. Touch me, please.”

That’s all Jack needed, gently positioning you facing away from him. Your back pressed against his chest, your legs spread against his.

His lips dragged gently against your neck, his breath hot with each word he spoke. “I knew these little panties would be soaked for me.” His fingertips trailed against the now-soaked fabric, pressing just enough to make you mewl against him.

“You’re so fucking hot, hard not to.” You panted.

He chuckled, pulling the fabric aside so he could glide his fingers against your wet folds. He moaned louder than you did at the contact, his rough fingertips finding your clit expertly.

“There you go,” He cooed, rubbing steady circles on the twitching bud. Your legs were all but trembling now, chest rising with each stroke.

After a while, you were aching, throbbing for more. “P-please-“ You begged, not even sure what you were begging for.

“Hmm?”

“Please, wanna feel you.” You cried, gasping in relief when his thick softy slipped into your entrance, with very little resistance.

“There you go, good girl using her words.” He praised, rewarding you with his fingers pressing deep inside of you. Reaching places your fingers couldn’t even think of touching.

He could feel the effect his words had on you, each gentle praise had you squeezing around him. Even as he slipped in another finger, stretching you out around him.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” He tutted, “Me in control?”

You nodded, eyes rolling into the back of your head. Those large fingers you spent the past hour imagining felt even better than you could have thought. He was so deep, his fingers curling with each rock of your hips.

“Knew it.” Was all he said, as his spare hand wrapped around your throat gently. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t even attempt to hold on. Just kept his hand there, forcing you into his hold.

You lost your ability to think, too lost in his strong hold as he curled and scissored his fingers inside you. “J-jack.”

“That’s my name, sweetheart.” He mocked playfully, his thumb moving to rub at your oversensitive clit. That’s all it took for you to come apart against him, crying out his name.

He didn’t stop, his hands continuing their movements.

“Too much,” You whined, your fingernails digging into his thigh as he kept going. The lewd sounds of his fingers slipping in and out of your soaked cunt had your head spinning.

“I don’t think so, I think you can take one more.”

You nearly laughed, delirious, “God, you’re so fucking hot.”

“So are you baby, being so good for me.” He sighed, “Perfect fucking pussy, and she wants to cum again for me? Doesn't she?”

You nodded frantically, feeling his fingers curl even deeper pressing against your sweetspot with each movement.

“You wanna cum again so bad, I can feel it.”

You hated how right he was, how your hips were jerking into him. You were already so close to cumming again, off his words alone.

“Right there,” You gasped, “Don’t stop.”

“Never,” He pressed a kiss to your neck, feeling your cunt suckle in his fingers greedily. You came wordlessly, nothing but pitiful moans leaving you. His hand was soaked, your release dripping down his palm as he stroked you through your second orgasm of the night.

You were breathless, panting miserably.

“Fuck.” You cried out, your head falling back into his shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve come that hard in years.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, sweetheart.” He hummed, gently slipping his fingers out of you.

“M’not lying.” You shake your head, "Would never lie to a man about that.”

“What losers have you been sleeping with?” He frowns. “A real man makes sure his girl cums at least twice before he even thinks about himself.”

A shiver runs down your spine as he continues, “I’d take good care of you, you know?”

You nearly moan, “Really?”

“Hm,” He nods, his palm spread wide on your bare thigh. “Would buy you whatever you want, make you cum so hard every night until you forget your name. You’d never have to entertain these losers here again.”

He’s not the first man to claim he can swoop in and be your knight and shining armor, but he is the first man to make you believe that he means it.

“What if we start with dinner?” You smile, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. It was humorous that both of you had made each other cum, without even kissing. It was ridiculous, completely unorthodox, borderline unethical, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Not when his soft, honey brown eyes were looking at you like you hung the moon.

“I think I'd like that, sweetheart. Give me a chance to treat you right.” He smiled, smoothing down your hair with his free hand.

You exchanged numbers and even texted him first. Promising him again, this wasn’t something you normally did. You offered to walk him out, but he declined, pressing one last kiss to your lips, pretending not to see the very large stack of cash he slipped on your side table.

“I’ll be expecting your call.” He smirked before he slipped through the curtain.

“A text! Who calls anymore old man?” You teased, walking him slink down the hall. You waited for a beat, watching his bow-legged sway as he walked out the door.

It was only seconds later that a head popped out of the room across from yours, Ani’s eyes wide. “Bitch! What happened?”

“-Why did you stop-“ A man’s voice rang out behind her, only making her slam the curtain shut.

All you could do was squeal at your friend, pressing your hand to your beating chest.

Jack Abbot walked out of the club to the crisp morning air, and a pep in his step that wasn’t there a few hours ago. He feels 10 years younger and has a weird sense of hope in his chest. Your number sits heavy in his phone, the smell of your perfume on his shirt, and your touch is still on his skin. The entire drive back home, he has a dopey smile on his face, and all he can think about is which fruit basket to buy his therapist as a thank-you.

[madprincessinabox]

So I think my type is just "bearded suicidal men named Michael" 🤷🏻‍♀️

[madprincessinabox]

My new type is hot bearded men who ride motorcycles

[madprincessinabox]

adding men who were traumatized by one of their parents and as a consequence of not getting the help they needed they ended up serving jail time

I just realized they ended up in the same way 🕊️

[madprincessinabox]

So I think my type is just "bearded suicidal men named Michael" 🤷🏻‍♀️

[madprincessinabox]

My new type is hot bearded men who ride motorcycles

[madprincessinabox]

The Season 3 production of The Pitt started, Richard Gadd shared BTS pictures from Half Man, there are new pictures of the cast of The Bear. I'm so happy to be alive!

[bullet-prooflove]

The Photo Lab: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader (P*rnstar AU)

AN: The porn landscape in 1998 was mainly magazines/VHS/DVDs/CD Roms. Websites were bludgeoning things where you had to physically call up on the phone and give your credit card details to a person in order to subscribe. You were then given a code to have access to an array of pictures and the ability to download movies – these were often low quality so people would order CD Roms. Fan clubs were managed by production companies/management teams to retain fanbases and provided exclusive content/merch like glossy signed images of the porn star through the mail, along with merch catalogues, etc. This fic is reflective of that time.

Summary: Jack and Robby review the photographs from your audition on the casting couch.

Companion piece to:

The Casting Couch - Your first foray into porn starts on a casting couch with Michael “Robby” Robinavitch behind the camera.

Pornstar!Robby Headcannons

Robby’s in the photo lab when Jack seeks him out. The studio have one on site so they can process their own images without having to pay out of the nose for the development of pornographic materials, it’s also a way of protecting their own exclusivity as things tend to go missing when they use outsiders for shit like this.

“She’s a natural.” Jack says hovering over his shoulder in a navy-blue robe. The scent of baby oil clings to his skin, rose, jasmine and a gentle touch of vanilla, His chest still glistens with it, those fine grey hairs glimmering in the dim light. “She’s gonna go far with a personality like that.”

Jack’s right.

The photographs… they’re almost as good as the real thing.

They’re naughty, salacious, the type of thing the fan club will go absolutely wild for if you decide to sign with them.

“Yeah.” Robby responds, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans back in his roller chair. “She’s something special alright.”

 “You think she’ll do ok with the screen test?” Jack questions, snatching up the second chair that occupied the lab and guiding it alongside Robby’s. He drops down into it, groaning as he removes the prosthetic leg, setting it alongside the computer tower. It’s been a long day for him, directing in the afternoon, performing this evening. Dana’s been warning him about pushing himself too hard but Jack, he likes to keep busy.

“I think when you have that much raw chemistry with the camera it doesn’t matter if you have a partner or not.” Robby says, his gaze still focused on the photographs. It’s that cute one he’s fixated on, the one with you glancing over your shoulder like he’s the only man in the world as you slide those jeans down your thighs revealing that peach of an ass. That sort of intimacy, that connection to the audience… it’s rare, something you can’t practice or teach. “We can start her off small, film a hand job first, get her used to preforming in front of the camera.”

The amount of people on set, the way they move around a scene, it can be quite intimidating when you’re new to the industry. It’s hard to stay focused on your partner when you have a boom mic hovering over your head and a camera person up close and personal with your pussy.

“Might be able to run a ‘firsts’ series.” Jack says, his chin coming to rest on his palm as he takes over the mouse and scrolls through the images. “She’s too old for the whole virginity thing, but ‘Honey’s first porn film’ would play with our audiences. Start with someone teaching her to give a handjob on the casting couch to getting fucked over the back of it. If she’s into girl on girl, that’s another first, same with anal and BDSM. We can take them through the journey of corrupting her, it’ll probably generate some fresh revenue in those areas as a large portion of fans will be following her instead of being genre specific.”

It’s a good plan, and something they’ve not done before in his studio which means it’ll be fresh content. Usually the actresses they take on skew more in their early twenties so their first introduction to the scene is ‘The Baby Sitter’ or ‘Daddy’s Best Friend.’ They have an opportunity with you as an older actress, to try something new with someone who’s a lot more emotionally mature.

“We could probably send pictures of the handjob out to the fanclub as a taster, a freebie to get interest going. Not her hand actually wrapped around it” – because their fans don’t want pictures of other man’s dicks unless they’re signed up to the M/M stuff – “but the aftermath, those tits covered in cum… they’ll be jamming the phone lines to get a copy of the video.”

“We’re thinking of pairing her with you or Jesse for the screen test-” Jack shakes his head, cutting Robby off.

“I think it should be you.” He states, tilting his face towards the photographer. “In all of these pictures… it’s clear she’s not looking at the camera, she’s looking at you. That kind of connection, it would really sell this series, elevate it.”

There’s silence for a second, the cogs in Robby’s brain turning and then…

“Dana told you about the woody, didn’t she?” Robby sighs, tilting his head back towards the ceiling as he lets out groan. “It was one time…”

“It was the first time.” Jack points out with a knowing look. “The first time you’ve got hard in front of anyone else since Driscoll and that’s a big deal.”

What happened with Driscoll and his old studio… it fucked him up in more ways than he’d like to admit. Seeing that man behind the scenes at his shoots, after everything he’d done to him… he hadn’t been able to perform… for anyone… not even in private. His fall from grace had been humiliating, soul destroying and it had broken something fundamentally inside of him.

“It was probably a fluke.” He mutters, his cheek coming to rest on his knuckles as he sets his elbow on the desk, watching Jack continue to scroll through the pictures. Your face skims by, that smile that seemed to unlock something in his chest when he was photographing you. It felt like you were the sun, and he was just a flower bending basking in your glow. “You should do the screen test, we can save Jesse for some of the kinkier stuff later, teaching her how to play with piercings and that shit.”

The thought of you learning what to do with a Prince Albert, giving all your attention to the tip of a dick, licking over that barbell, it has him stirring his pants again.

“Hm.” Jack says knowingly, his gaze straying to the bulge in Robby’s trousers, the one he’s trying so badly to hide. “Yeah… you and her, it must be a fluke.”

Like My Work? - Tip your friendly fan fic writer here!

[opulentpeony]

goner - sugar daddy!titus x sugar baby!reader

word count: 5.1k warnings: dead dove: do not eat, rape/non-con, sex work, fem!reader, he calls you “princess” and you call him “daddy” (bc i said so!), stalking, kidnapping, captivity, unprotected sex, forced orgasms, fingerfucking, outdoor sex, breeding kink, squirting, hairpulling, fear play, possessive behavior, age gap, size difference, they fuck in a pool (yep that’s the fic!)  summary: when you stop returning his calls and texts after an argument, titus has no choice but to use everything in his power to get you back…because he needs to remind you who you belong to. 

a/n: I wrote this on a whim on no sleep, after back to back shifts at work because I wanted to get railed by a very mad man so uh don't expect art LMAO lowkey just wanted to write a fight...I aint gonna lie, I was in the mood to write out an argument and then self-indulgent sex after. oop!

hope it's a sick read ♡ 

It's been three days since you blew up in Titus's face. 

Three days and you still haven't answered any of his texts. 

He's starting to get fucking angry. 

Titus: I pay you to answer me. Pick up your fucking phone. 

Titus: I pay for your fucking phone plan. Answer your damn phone. 

Titus: Do not make me come over there. 

Little does he know, you tossed that phone the day of your argument. So when he tracks it and finds it in a bush a few blocks away from the hotel you stormed out of, he knows you're gone. 

You've left him completely. 

Because you aren't in the house he bought you. 

The car he got you is left on the street with parking tickets piling up. 

You haven't bought a thing on any of the credit cards he has given you. 

To make matters worse, nothing of yours remains. 

It's like you wiped the earth of your existence. 

The bed doesn't smell like you. None of your soaps are in the bathroom. You took every ugly mug that you brought from your shitty little studio from when you first met Titus. 

All that is left is a hollow shell of what was once a lived in, vibrant home…

A place Titus loved to go to, to be with you in your element. 

The warmth he can never get back.

Because he has no fucking idea where you went. 

And it's all his fault. 

He knows that. 

But he can't possibly live without you. 

Not when he has grown so used to the comfort you provide him.

Why else would he spend copious amounts of money to keep you by his side?

But you don't want his money anymore.

You want nothing to do with him.

And so, you're gone. 

After a certain while, you didn't need his money anymore. You had plenty of it. That's just what happens when you never have to pay a bill while still getting paid. You were sitting on a giant pile of money that you never needed to use. 

That you plan on living the rest of your life with. 

Titus probably never thought that you had a plan in place for the day you were done with him. Maybe that was his ego or his trust that you and him had something more than just a transactional relationship.

You believed, for a moment, that it could be possible. That you could be more than just the person he pays to be available to him whenever he wants you to be. That you could mean something deeper. 

But then he said the stupidest fucking thing you've ever heard in your life. 

“I'm getting married.” He tells you as you're stepping into the hotel room with him.  

“Alright.” You respond with a curt nod, not phased by his words at all. “I'll pack my things and go then.” 

“What? Why?” Titus is confused. 

You look at him, just as confused. “What do you mean “why”? You're getting married. You don't need me anymore.” 

“Of course I need you.” He steps up to you, his hands going up to cup your face. “She's just my wife. You'll always be my princess.” 

You scoff, pulling his hands off of you. “In case you forgot our agreement, I told you that the moment you got in any kind of serious relationship, this would end. I'm not looking to be tangled in a mess.” 

“You can't be serious.” He knows that's what he agreed to, but that was years ago. 

Surely you aren't holding him to that when the two of you have done so much together…right? 

But you do. “I am serious. Your wife deserves your undivided attention.”

Though, you really only said that because it's what you deserve. And the thought of him going home to someone else sinks your heart into your stomach.

You'd rather not play that game. You'd rather just remove yourself entirely. 

Even if it means giving him up. 

“She's barely my wife. It's an arranged marriage.” 

“That doesn't change our agreement.” 

“Fuck the agreement.” Titus pulls out his phone, logging into his bank app. “Name a number and I'll pay it.” 

You stare at him, baffled. “There's no number you can pay that'll make me change the one boundary I established, Titus. I told you from the very beginning that the moment you had anyone else, I would be done.”

“But I don't care about her.”

“You don't care about me either.” You say back to him, clear as day. “Because if you did, you wouldn't throw money at me in a poor attempt to sway me. You would understand where I'm coming from, if you really cared.”

But you know he doesn't care about anyone except himself. 

That is made very apparent when he goes, “you aren't allowed to just leave me because I'm getting married.”

“I'm not allowed?” You let out a laugh at that. “Okay, watch me.”

So, you do. You walk right out of that hotel room. You toss the phone he gave you into a bush a few blocks away. You pay for a cab back to the house he bought for you to stay in. Then, you packed all your shit into a storage locker, paid it off for the next five years and then left. 

“She didn't leave a phone number? A forwarding address? Anything?” Titus asks the private investigator who found your storage locker.

“Nope. Got it all on tape. Just said she'd come back for her stuff in five years and paid extra to not have any questions asked.”

Because five years was the amount of time you believed it would take for Titus to forget all about you. 

You could live without your stuff for five years. You don't mind waiting. It was better than to be tied down to a married man. 

You weren't inexperienced when it came to the world of being a sugar baby. Titus is not your first sugar daddy. But he was the first you made your strict agreement with. Because you had dealt with it enough times before.

It gets way too messy when there's a significant other or a family involved. And you knew Titus wanted to have children eventually. 

You were not going to be the other woman that would inevitably haunt those children and their mother. You refuse to be the boogeyman that instills distrust in his family unit.

Even if Titus has never been a very honest man to begin with. But still, you had your moral boundaries. This was one of them, established through enough experience of how poorly it ends. 

You've barely made it out unscathed those first few times.

You surely wouldn't make it out of this one without breaking your own heart.

Because, as much as you hate admitting it to yourself, you felt something for Titus. It may have just been a strange sense of companionship but…you liked spending time with him. It wasn't like the others before him. 

Though, it helps a lot that he's incredibly handsome for an older man and takes very good care of himself. You can thank money for that but also his drive to make sure he could keep up with you in many different ways. 

It's strange to think you'll miss having sex with him. It's supposed to be work, technically. It has always been work for you, since you were eighteen and struggling to take care of yourself. 

But with him, it felt…different. 

You didn't like that it felt different. But you were paid not to think too deeply about it. 

It was hard not to when Titus confided in you that he was a virgin when he first hired you. And that since that moment, he has grown to get to know your body better than you do. He reveled in making you cum because it was something he never thought he'd ever get good at. The moment he did, he made sure never to stop. 

You figured it was mostly to stroke his ego. You thought it was because he got off on knowing he could make you unravel so easily now. 

Because it would be foolish for you to think otherwise. 

So, the thought of him having real feelings for you never crossed your mind. 

You assumed now that he had ample skill in his repertoire, he could easily find someone else to spoil if that's what he wanted. He didn't need you anymore. He never did.

That's what you think, at least. 

That isn't the truth, though.

The truth is that every day since you left him, he has been obsessively searching for you. 

Titus calls off his own wedding, telling his father to fuck off and threatens to kill anyone who attempts to marry him. That rumor spreads and it's enough to obliterate any prospects in that regard. 

He will not lose you again. He will not give you a reason to say no to him, to leave him again. 

But first, he has to find you. 

And that proves to be impossible. 

You leave no trace, besides a one-way ticket to Europe. You could be anywhere on the continent, on several different continents. That's something you did on purpose.

You figured Titus would try looking for you for a while. You thought maybe for a year or two, though you tried not to let your ego get in the way. You doubted you were all that special to him but you still remained as hidden as you could be, moving countries every few months, paying only in cash, stashing money all over the place to come back to. 

You were a ghost. And Titus hated how no matter how much money he spent, no one he hired could find you.

You never spent time in big cities. You always stayed in underdeveloped areas, places you knew had no surveillance that could ping you on facial recognition. You kept yourself busy by volunteering with local communities, which in turn fed you and housed you in most cases. 

You always left them a bit of the large lump sum you had earned from your years with Titus. 

That is what inevitably gives you away. 

“A woman matching her description has been traveling around to small towns, spending a month or two helping them with small community projects before leaving behind a large donation for anything else they might need. She's done this in several different places, all over Europe, Asia and Africa. Always moving.” One of the private investigators Titus hired explains over the phone. “It could be her.”

It is you. 

He knows it is. 

Because that's what you told him you'd do with his money if you ever were on your own. But he always said that he'd never let you go and you'd laugh, thinking it was just a joke. He was never joking. 

You were his, whether you realized it or not. You were his the moment you held him so gently when he would complain about his family, his father's abuse, his sister's intolerance, his stuck up life as someone with wealth and power. 

He was not going to risk losing his only outlet. The only person who could make him feel human. 

So, when he finds you in one of those small towns on the edge of nowhere, he pays a local to spy on you and report back to him. And he does this in each town you go to from then on. 

For five years. 

You return to the states then, having had your fun traveling around, meeting new people, enjoying the sights and sounds of different cultures and the delicious variety of cuisines. But you miss home. 

You've been away long enough. 

You no longer avoid surveillance because you assume Titus hasn't thought about you in years. You have no idea he has been watching your every movement up until now. 

That's why you're startled the moment you open your storage locker and he's inside of it. 

You blink a few times, wondering if it's just your imagination. 

But it isn't.

It is Titus. 

“What are you—” You don't see the needle in his hand. 

You just feel it when Titus stabs it into the side of your neck and you go limp immediately, falling into his arms. He holds you for a moment, breathing deep, missing the smell that only you can radiate. 

The smell of home…

You wake up so groggy. You try to remember the events that led up to this. 

Then, you remember seeing Titus. 

And then you see him, standing in the doorway, arms crossed. 

“The doctor said it would take you a few hours to wake up. You must be hungry.” He says to you like he didn't just inject you with a sedative. 

“What are you doing here?” You look around. You've never been here before. “Where am I?” 

“Let's talk over some food.” He gestures for you to follow him.

You get up from the bed, which you notice is incredibly plush compared to the ones you've been sleeping on during your travels. You also notice that you're wearing a nightgown that sits just above your ankles. And on your ankle, there is the tiniest incision mark. 

You walk out to meet up with Titus and ask, “what did you do to my ankle?”

“I put a tracking chip in it.” 

“A what.” 

“A tracking chip.” He pulls out his phone, showing the way it's pinging your location. “That way you can't go anywhere without me knowing again.” 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You run up to him, shoving at him. “Take it out!”

“No.” He states sternly back at you. “I am not losing you ever again.” 

“Losing me…” You can't believe what you're hearing. “Titus, you never had me to begin with. You bought my services. That's it. That's all we—”

“I don't believe you.” He cuts you off, his glare more menacing now. “I don't believe for a second that you didn't feel anything for me.” 

“What would I have felt for you?” You ask him, furrowing your brow. “You were my employer. You weren't—”

Titus doesn't let you get another word out. He just grabs your face and kisses you, pressing you right up against the wall of the hallway, his body flush against yours. You bite down on your own tongue to stop yourself from making a sound when his hard cock grinds right up against your bare pussy through his pants, making you very aware that you don't have any underwear on right now. Just a flimsy nightgown he could easily shred off. 

You push at his chest, trying to get him off of you, but he won't budge. He feels stronger than a few years ago. Bigger too… 

“Stop!” You tug him off of you by his hair and he hisses at you in response, snatching your wrists before pinning them above your head. “Let me go!”

“No.” He says directly into your face. “I'm not ever letting you go.”

You go to kick at him but he presses his thighs against your own, locking them in place, smothering you against the wall. 

You can't wriggle out of his grip!

“Titus—” Your attempt to speak to him is silenced once again by his lips, his tongue slipping into your mouth, his hips grinding against yours. 

You feel his free hand slide down the side of your body and with a single rough tug, your nightgown tears off completely, leaving you bare. You squirm when his hand dips between your spread legs, touching your pussy directly. 

He chuckles that eerie laugh of his against your lips, “you haven't fucked anyone in years but you can still get this wet for me?” 

How does he know… “Have you been following me? This whole time?” 

“I let you have your fun.” He grazes your clit with his fingertips, watching how you shiver in response. “Now I'm having mine.” 

You shake your head. “Stop, Titus—”

“That's not what you're supposed to call me, princess.” He leans forward, whispering against your ear, “you know what to call me.” 

“I'm not going to—” You bite down on your lip when Titus dips two fingers deep inside of you without warning. 

You're fucked now. Because he knows that if he curls his fingers just right…

You cum immediately, unable to control the release. Your orgasm hits you hard and fast and it doesn't stop, his fingers pounding into you without mercy, pressing over and over again in the exact place they need to in order to make you squirt all over his hand. 

You're gasping for air, the pleasure overwhelming after years of not feeling anything of the sort. 

It's too much—

“Stop, daddy, please stop, please.” You cry out before he can torture you anymore.

He stops, thankfully, and you breathe out strained huffs of relief, your mind feeling fuzzy from the sudden rush of pleasure. 

“Ah, so you do remember. That's my princess.” He gives you a kiss on the cheek that provides you no sense of comfort. 

Your lip quivers from fear but you swallow back your nerves to ask, “why are you doing this?” 

“Because you left me.” Titus pulls his fingers out of you, freeing you from the torment of being filled for a moment, bringing them up to his lips so he can lick them clean while you watch. “And you made me crave you for years. Now, I'm going to have my fill of what I've missed out on.” 

You turn away from him when he tries to kiss you, drawing an annoyed grunt out of him.

“You can resist me all you want. I know you'll cum either way.” He presses his lips against your neck since you won't let him kiss your lips and he nibbles at your flesh exactly the way you like it, shooting tingles all over your body. 

Another feeling you haven't felt in years…one you've been trying to forget. 

“So you fuck me.” Your eyes shift back to his and all Titus sees is a blank stare. “And then what? What is your endgame, Titus? For us to go back to the way things were?”

“Yes.” That's all he wants. 

“That isn't going to happen and you know that.” You aren't going to pretend like everything will be okay. “It's been five years. You're married. You probably have a—”

“I'm not married. And I definitely don't have a kid.” His eyes shift down to your belly then he says, “maybe I could, though. With you.” 

“What are you talking about?” He didn't get married? 

“I called off the wedding. I made sure that no one would ever want me. So trust me when I say, I am never letting you go again.” Titus doesn't want anyone but you. “You got what you wanted. My undivided attention.”

“That isn't…” You let out a sigh. “That isn't what I want.” 

“Then what do you want? Tell me and I'll give it to you. As long as you're mine.” 

“I'm not property to be owned, Titus.” You're a human being. You discovered so much about yourself over the last few years. You don't want this life anymore. 

You want to be free. 

“You can't buy me.” You tell him, remembering how he tried to all those years ago. 

“You're right.” Titus's words shock you. “I can't buy you. But I can make sure I've ruined you just as much as you have ruined me.” 

He lets go of your wrists then. And points down the hallway. 

“Run, princess.” He shrugs off his jacket and then unbuttons his white collared shirt, draping it over you. “Because the moment I catch you, I'm going to make sure your body belongs to me.” 

You blink at him, not believing his threat. But then he goes, “ten…nine…eight—”

You run right then, pulling your arms through the sleeves of his shirt so it doesn't fall off your body. You can't let him catch you but you also know you can't run far from him. He has that tracker embedded in you.

This is just a game for him. 

Because he knows he will win. 

But he loves the chase, the thrill of catching you. 

Of trapping you completely. 

You sprint outside, picking a direction to go, spotting the giant pool. You must've paused a second too long because Titus tackles you right into the water. 

You shove and kick at him but he grabs you by the waist, tugging you towards him, swimming the two of you back up. You take in a big breath of air before you continue to fight him but he shrugs off your meager attempts, completely unphased by your hands smacking him all over the place. 

“I will tie you up if you keep this up.” He snatches your wrists again but you manage to slip out of his grip because of how slippery you are while drenched in water.

You quickly swim as fast as you can to the staircase that leads out of the pool, climbing your way up to the surface, only for Titus to tug you right back towards him by your hips.

You claw at the rim of the pool, unable to get a grip on the smooth stone, your knees scraping on the step below you with every failed attempt to worm out of his grasp. 

You think you have an opportunity when his hands let go of your hips but then your body stills at the sound of his belt unbuckling and his pants unzipping. 

And you lose the chance to escape. 

Titus has you by the hips, lining his cock up, pressing the tip into you as his body weight holds you in place. You splash water at him as a poor attempt to dissuade him from pushing any further but it only eggs him on. He thrusts more of his cock inside of you, splitting you open like he always has given his size. 

You’re too familiar with the shape of him. It's like your pussy has molded to it because every time he pounds in deeper and deeper, your legs want to give out. Your body remembers how his cock feels inside of you. His body remembers the right pace and the right angle to get your knees to wobble. 

“Titus, please, stop before I—”

“You can cum, princess.” He slides his hands up your sides before drifting inwards, cupping your breasts, tugging at your hardened nipples. “Cum for your daddy.” 

You shake your head, not wanting to. But the tension building in your core is desperate to burst free. Especially when he's playing with your breasts as he pounds his cock inside of you. He knows you love this. You love the feeling of his body holding you down. 

It doesn't help that the sound of the water rippling around you is insanely erotic. Or when you look back at Titus for a brief second and see the way his thin wet undershirt clings to his upper body, showing off just how much he has worked out since you've been gone. He wanted to make sure he was fit when you came back into his life.

He prepared himself for your return. 

This is his sick, twisted way of showing devotion. 

You chew on your lip, trying your hardest not to let a sound out, but he grabs a hold of your hair and tugs, forcing your lips to release the moans you've been keeping at bay. 

Your voice echoes through the quiet estate. 

If there was anyone nearby, they'd hear the crazed sounds you're making as Titus fucks you right through your orgasm, your eyes rolling back into your head, the pleasure searing your skin with heat. 

“See what your daddy can give you?” He pulls you back by your hair so he can hover above your face, his lips brushing against yours. “I can make you feel even better than that. You know I can, princess.” 

He presses a gentle kiss against your lips and you nearly cave, your body shaking at the simple touch of his lips. 

So you have to figure out how to push him away. 

That's why you say without skipping a beat, “I'm not on birth control. If you cum inside me, you have to marry me. I'm not having a baby with a man who isn't my husband.”

Titus slows to a stop then, as you thought he would. You bite back the disappointment you feel when he pulls out of you completely, leaving you feeling so empty. You hate that you feel empty. Because you shouldn't miss him.

You shouldn't feel anything for him.

So why does your heart stop in your chest when he goes, "is that it?” 

You turn around, sitting on the step of the pool, staring up at him. Titus looks down at your puzzled expression, smirking. 

“I said, is that it?” He repeats himself, bending forward, putting his hands on either side of you. 

“I-I…” You can't find the words.

You're not sure if you believe him. 

Why would Titus marry you? 

You're…someone he paid to teach him how to have sex. You're a body he used to warm his bed. 

You're just his sugar baby, aren't you? 

“Earth to princess.” He snaps in front of your face. “Are you going to ask for anything else or can I fuck my fiancé now?” 

“Your…” You're in so much shock that when you feel his lips on yours, you don't know how to react. 

Except for lace your fingers into his hair and pull him towards you, kissing him back. 

Titus smiles against your lips, deepening the kiss, loving how eager you are now that you're all his. 

“Are you being serious?” You breathe out, nervous that this is all some ploy.

“Give me your left hand.” He demands and you listen to him without hesitation.

You watch as he pulls your ring finger into his mouth then bites down on the base, his teeth leaving an indent like a ring would. 

“I'll get you a real ring when we leave.” His eyes roam your body, basking in the way you look with just his unbuttoned shirt on, your bare body peeking out so beautifully in the center. 

“Give me your hand.” You want to do the same to him. 

Titus slips his ring finger between your lips and you bite down on the base hard before you lightly suck on his finger, swirling your tongue around the tip of it. He groans at the sight of you teasing him like you used to. 

“I'm going to fuck that mouth later.” He warns and you respond by sinking his finger further into your mouth, faking a little gag that has him pulling his hand away. “Don't fucking tempt me, princess.” 

“You're really going to say no to me sucking your cock, daddy?” Your words make him clench his jaw, much to your amusement. 

“I'm not saying no. I'm saying wait. Because I want a taste first.” 

Titus hauls your body up until you're seated on the rim of the pool, your legs dangling off the ledge. He spreads your thighs wide open, staring at your pussy, licking his lips. He hasn't done this in a long time. 

He has missed this. 

More than you will ever know. 

There's just something wonderful about your hand in his hair, your hips grinding against his face, his tongue flicking your clit until you cum. He can't get enough of it. He could spend hours right here. 

Maybe he will. 

But you start to whine for more. “Titus, can we go to a bed at least?” 

“You don't like fucking outside? There's no one here. No need to be embarrassed, princess.” He swipes his tongue over your clit again, marveling at how swollen it's gotten from his mouth playing with it. 

“I want to fuck my fiancé in bed.” You look at him with those soft eyes you put on when you want something. He always caves when you act this cute. “Please?” 

“Please what?” He wants you to address him correctly. 

“Please daddy, can we go to bed?” You purposefully dip your hand between your legs, spreading your pussy for him. “Your princess wants you to fuck a baby inside of her.” 

His jaw clicks. Then, he lets out an insane laugh. Before he pushes you onto your back on the stone ground behind you and drives his cock right into you. 

“Titus!” You shout his name as he thrusts deep inside of you, teasing that spot right up by your womb. 

“You asked for this.” He smirks, leaning down to kiss you once. “We fuck like this then we can fuck in bed.” 

You grab him by his shirt and then in one sudden, swift motion, you push him onto his back and straddle him, riding his cock. He groans under you, cursing, “fuck, I've missed this.” 

Titus always loved it when you were on top. It's a great view. Especially when you're enthusiastic about it, grinding against him, pulling him up to kiss you, your hands roaming his chest and arms. 

“Hold on.” He whispers against your lips before he hauls you up from the ground, driving his cock deeper inside of you. 

“Oh fuck.” You grab onto his back, clinging to the wet fabric of his shirt, your legs wrapped around his middle as he carries you back into the house. “Titus, this is—when did you get so strong?” 

“Do you like how strong your daddy got just so he can toss you around?” Titus gives you a cunning smile. “Remember how much you loved it when I'd throw you down and fuck you, princess?” 

He chuckles into your shoulder when he feels your pussy clenching around him. That's enough of an answer for him. 

You cum so hard when he slams you down onto the bed, ramming his cock as deep as it can go inside of you. Stars dance in your vision, your mind going hazy from how quickly your orgasms build. It only amplifies when his lips are back on yours, kissing you with so much desire in every movement. 

By the time he finally cums inside of you, you're spent, wrung out beneath him, your body shivering all over. He has always loved the look of you like this. He'd pay to see you like this everyday from now on. 

But he doesn't have to. 

Because Titus knows you want him as much as he wants you.

And if you ever forget again, he's happy to remind you who you belong to. 

a/n: you know that scene in bridgerton where anthony gets out of the lake? yeah imagine that but titus. that's literally the only reason I wrote this, so I could fantasize about what that would look like. also pool sex. very fun!

hope you enjoyed the read! ♡ 

[opulentpeony]

Captivated

Pairing: Andrew “Pope” Cody x Reader

Summary: It's been three years since an attempted robbery left your life in complete shambles. You're on an extensive regimen of suppressants that have killed your career prospects. All because your fated alpha was the man who tried to rob your house… 

And now, he's out of prison. And he will find you. You can't hide from fate. Even if you could, you certainly cannot hide from him. 

Because once Andrew “Pope” Cody has his heart set on a goal, he will do whatever means necessary to achieve it. 

Word Count: 12.4k

A/N: This fic came about because I wanted Pope to rob me. That's it. That's the fic! 

I will warn, there is extremely dubious consent (the omegaverse sort of breeds this fundamentally lol). Also, kidnapping, captivity and stockholm syndrome. Again, I'd classify this as a dark fic!

For a full list of warnings, you can check out the fic on my AO3. I never recommend going in blind but you are an adult so you do you bestie!

There is angst (because I can't help myself) and of course, porn! Hope it's a fun read ♡

You haven't taken a breath since you got the call. You can't breathe. It's so hard to breathe. 

Because how the fuck did they let him out early? 

“I'm sorry but they approved his appeal. He promised to check in weekly with a parole officer and is subjected to random suppressant checks. He will not bother you. We will make sure of it.” 

You swallow down all the pills you have to take on rotation, hoping some water will help you relax. If not, the anti-anxiety medication and the anti-depressants will surely kick in. Though, you don't think they've helped curb the fear that haunts you since that day. 

If you hadn't been able to call the police, would he have mated with you? 

You still remember the way he grabbed you, pinning you down onto the carpeted floor of that gorgeous mansion you had to sell. You can still feel the outline of his hard cock grinding against you with such fervor. 

The Codys had come to rob you. They heard from someone they had been scouting that you'd be overseas shooting a movie for a week. Usually they don't rob houses but this seemed like an easy pay day. There was ample time to figure out how to break into your house and crack your safe. 

But they weren't expecting you to come home early. 

And Andrew Cody was definitely not expecting you to be his fated mate. 

“Pope, what the fuck are you doing?” Deran scolds him with a harsh whisper. “We need to get out of here. She's home.” 

But Pope couldn't hear his brother. He couldn't hear anything over the ringing in his ears. Like an alarm bell had gone off. 

A sweet scent drifted towards him. Sweeter than anything he had ever smelt before. Enticing in a way. Cravable. Desirable. 

It filled him with a need he cannot quench. 

Not unless he buries himself deep inside of you and takes a bite out of your neck. 

But he couldn't that night. 

You had called the police. They were on their way. And you had your hands clamped around your neck, refusing to let him bite you.

But he tried anyway, his body weight holding you down, his teeth tearing through your hands, his hips rolling against yours over and over again.

The cops sedated him and threw him in prison. You have scars on the back of your hands from where he ripped at your flesh, scars that plastic surgery couldn't even properly fix. They were too damaged… 

You've been sick ever since. 

No one ever tells you how difficult it is to be an unmated omega with a fated alpha that is too deadly to be bound to. There are very few support groups for people like you. 

Most people, inevitably, give into the biological desire, as fucked up as that sounds. You have ended up the last one left on so many occasions in these support chat rooms. 

You understand why they give in. Some days, you think about it, about how much better your life would be if you just let your alpha take you. 

The medication regime is horrific. Every day, you're denying your body's instincts. You're fighting against it. You swallow pill after pill in hopes of never feeling the heat that nearly killed you. It will kill you if you don't suppress it. You'll die because your body craves its alpha too much. 

But he isn't your alpha. 

No, your alpha was supposed to be a kind person. You dreamed your whole life of your perfect alpha. The one you've been saving yourself this whole time for. 

When you remember who your alpha truly is, you ache between your legs, wetness pooling there. You immediately go to shower, washing it away. You hate that your body can't control it. 

Even after all the medication, your body still grows slick every time you remember the weight of his body on top of yours, holding you down, desperate to bite you, to mate you, to make you his for life. 

You can't give in. 

But sometimes, you do. 

Sometimes you bury your fingers inside of yourself and touch yourself to the thought of being taken. To the relief you would feel to not have to fight it anymore. 

Then, you feel disturbed at the orgasm that floods your senses. You always cum harder than you should when you think about him. 

Your doctor said it's better for you to relieve the tension. She suggested experimenting with toys and indulging in self pleasure. 

But how would she know how to treat your struggle? She's happily married to her alpha. She doesn't know what it feels like to be tied to a violent criminal.

Now, you will live in fear every day that he is out to find you. You had sold your mansion once he was sentenced to prison. You moved across the country, to ensure you wouldn't run into him when he got out. 

You were supposed to have seven more years. He was sentenced to ten years. 

How did they think it would be okay to reduce it to three? 

Maybe because the legal system finds denying the biological need to mate low priority. There are no real laws in place for things like this. It took a lot of advocacy to get the suppressant regime to be administered and policed in these kinds of cases. 

Pope only takes them because until he finds you, he has to so he doesn't die. Being apart from his omega for too long will kill him if he doesn't suppress the desire. He will stop taking them the moment you become his mate. 

All he has to do is figure out where you are. 

He will figure it out. 

You can't hide from him forever. 

Unfortunately for you, it's easier to find you than you would've hoped. He strangled the new owner of your mansion until they gave up the escrow documents, which list your mailing address. From there, he followed the trail to your current address. 

And then, he waited. 

He has grown good at being patient. Prison helped with that. He knew he wouldn't be able to take you right away. 

Sure, you'd eventually give in, but he would want you to be willing. 

To give into the mating process. 

To truly become his omega, in every way.

To look forward to being his, forever. 

So, Pope stalks you. He sees how miserable you are. You look very sick. You haven't been taking care of yourself since he has been in prison. Whatever medication regime they have you on has sucked the life out of you. 

You used to be a star actress. Now, no one would even recognize you. You've lost that sparkle. 

You barely eat. That's something Pope plans to change. You don't go outside unless you have to, like to pick up your medication. You spend most of your days curled up on your couch, watching TV shows you know you would've been perfect for. 

You're rotting away. His beautiful, precious omega is rotting away. He has to do something about that…

You turn on the news, deciding you're tired of paying attention to some melodrama. There's breaking news about a string of burglaries in the large city closest to the small town you're hiding in. You shiver every time you hear about burglaries. It's violating to get the safe space of your home robbed from you because someone decides to break in. 

Like Pope is doing right now. 

You shouldn't have kept your window wide open. But you figured you're on the third floor and the fire escape is so old. No one would be crazy enough to climb that thing to get to you.

You don't really know how crazy Pope is, especially about you. 

You don't see him coming. You aren't able to scream before his hand is over your mouth and a needle pricks the side of your neck. Pope eyes it, his cock throbbing already, his teeth aching to bite you. But he stops himself. He has plenty of suppressants. He won't take you until he is certain you want him to.

And you will want him to.

You wake up in a very soft bed. You haven't slept on a bed this comfortable since the one you had back in your mansion. You ended up selling everything you owned and bought cheap furniture so that you would be able to dump it in case you had to move quickly. It also helped with your budget to live more modestly. You weren't going to be making money anymore so you needed to stretch your remaining funds for the rest of your life. 

Where are you, though? 

And what smells so good? 

You rub your eyes, trying to get rid of the grogginess clouding your vision. That's when you feel it. An arm wrapped around your waist. Your back pressed up against someone's chest. A hard cock rubbing up on your ass.

You scream and Pope only holds you tighter, telling you, "there's no need to scream, no one will hear you.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” You claw at his arm, trying to get him off of you. “Let me go!”

“You need my pheromones.” He pulls you in closer the more you struggle. “Just lay here and breathe them in. You'll feel better.”

“I will not feel…” You close your mouth then. 

Because you don't have that lingering headache you've had for years. You don't have those body aches anymore. 

The chronic pain, it's like it has washed away…

“I won't do anything to you. Not until you're better.” He presses a kiss against the back of your neck, your body trembling in response, heat shooting to your core, desire flooding your senses.

“M-My suppressants.” You can't not take them. You have to take them.

“I've been giving them to you.” His breath is warm against your skin as he speaks. “I've been taking mine too. You won't go into heat. You'll be okay.”

“Why are you doing this?” You don't get it. He could've mated with you in your sleep. 

Arguably that would be easier than whatever the fuck this is. 

Where even are you? You don't recognize this place.

“You've been wasting away. You need me to keep you healthy. So, I'm helping you regain your strength. Once you're healthy, we can mate.” He rests his head against the back of yours, breathing in your soothing smell. “Now go back to sleep. It's the middle of the night.” 

“I don't want to mate.” 

“You will.” He says, his hand resting over your lower belly, sending another jolt to your very core. “But for right now, we rest.”

“Where are we?” You have to know. 

“Very far away.” He sighs, wishing he had sedated you for a bit longer.

Pope is exhausted. He has been making preparations all day. He just wants to sleep next to his omega. But you keep squirming in his arms and rubbing up against his cock. 

So, he slides it between your thighs, making you still. You realize then that you only have underwear on. You're dressed in just a shirt, his shirt, and some underwear. His cock slips under the fabric, rubbing right up against your folds. 

“Stop, please.” You don't want this, even if you're getting wetter from the friction. 

“I will if you go back to sleep.” He rests his cock there, not moving another inch. “You can fight me more in the morning.” 

You bite down on your lip because the tip of his cock keeps brushing against your clit and you can't believe that might be enough to make you cum. He must smell it, your arousal, because he starts to knead your stomach with his fingertips. 

“You'll feel better if you cum.” He whispers gently into your ear. “You can use me.” 

You shake your head. You will not be doing that. You refuse to grind your hips right now so that the tip of his cock will brush along your clit exactly the way you like it. You won't do it. 

You shut your eyes, trying your hardest to push the desire out of your mind. 

You'll go to sleep. Sleep is good. Sleep is easy. 

Sleep is better than cumming. 

Sleep would be better after cumming. That's what Pope feels, especially when you're trying so hard not to move that your slick is just overflowing onto his cock. And he's imagining that if it's this warm and wet just rubbing up against you, it must be incredible inside of you. 

So, he slides his hand down and you gasp, grabbing at his wrist. “What are you doing?!”

“I'm taking off your underwear. It's soaked and in the way.” 

“Don't, please.” You shake your head furiously but that doesn't stop him from tearing your underwear to shreds, making you yelp. “Andrew, stop!”

You wriggle in his hold when his cock throbs all of a sudden against your clit at the sound of his name leaving your lips. 

He growls in your ear, “you remember my name?” 

Of course you do. The name that haunts your mind. Your alpha. The man you should never want. 

He could sink into you right now. The base of his cock desperate to swell. His teeth aching to bite the smooth flesh of your neck. 

“I want you.” He drags his tongue up the length of your neck. 

“Please don't…you promised to wait. Until I was healthy.” You plead with him. 

“You won't get healthy if you keep resisting.” He grabs a hold of your hip with one hand, hooking his other arm around you to secure you in place. “I won't fuck you if you cum, okay?” 

“Okay, okay.” You nod. “I'll cum and then we sleep, okay?” 

“Good girl.” He presses a kiss against the back of your neck and then starts rolling his hips, making stars flood your vision from the sudden friction of his cock against your clit. 

You turn your head into your pillow, biting it, muffling your moans. You hate how good it feels for his warm cock to be sliding between your legs like this, rubbing every inch of your pussy over and over again. 

You feel like bursting. You are going to burst. You haven't been touched like this ever. Not since he pinned you down that night and grinded himself on you then.

You're going to cum from this. Tears well up in your eyes because you really are giving in. The pleasure is building. You want to feel good. It's been so long since you haven't felt that phantom ache all over. 

A thought swirls in your mind. About how happy you are to be next to your alpha. How at peace you feel to be loved by him. 

You shake those thoughts away. You can't let them win. You can't let him win. 

You will regain your strength and then you will find a way to leave. You will find a way to convince him to let you go. 

But until then, you pinch your eyes shut, letting the orgasm wash over you. You feel wetness pooling between your legs but it isn't from you. The ragged breaths against your ear tell you that Pope came too. And you're thankful your face is stuffed in your pillow or else he may have caught you licking your lips instinctually. 

You bite back a moan when his fingers dip between your legs, gathering up the mixture of his cum and your slick. Then, he pulls your head out of the pillow with his other hand and hovers his wet fingers at your lips. 

“Open your mouth.” He commands. “Tasting my cum will help you heal. You need the pheromones.” 

A part of your mind nearly does it without thinking but you shut it down. The smell is intoxicating, though. So sweet. You know it will taste amazing. 

“Come on. Don't make me fuck you. I just came. I won't cum again for a while. I don't want to have our first time like this.” He nudges his fingers against your lips and you finally part them, letting him sink them into your mouth. “There you go. Lick them clean.” 

You do what he says, swirling your tongue around the thickness of his fingers, memorizing the flavor of his release. He does this over and over again until there's barely that sticky feeling between your legs anymore. 

Then, he picks you up and takes you to the bathroom. He stands facing the door, letting you clean up and use the bathroom. You can't seem to wipe away all the wetness that has built up because it just keeps dripping. A side effect of the desire to mate. So you just do the best you can and flush it away. 

Then, you go to brush your teeth. You see he has laid out a toothbrush for you. The same one you had in your apartment. You brush the taste of him out of your mouth. Though, you know your mind will never forget that flavor. That's what your alpha tastes like. You spit and rinse, then look at yourself in the mirror.

Shock colors your features because…you touch your face, feeling how plump your skin is. 

You actually look like yourself again. A feeling that scares you. Because if it only took a little time with him to feel better… 

Your stomach growls loudly, surprising you. You haven't felt hungry in a long time. What's going on? Why are you feeling so much right now? 

Is it seriously because he's here? 

“I have food for you.” Pope puts his hand out for you to take. “Come on, let's eat and then go back to sleep.” 

You nearly grab his hand. The instinct to listen to your alpha is so hard to deny. You hate it, letting out a defeated sigh. 

“Why didn't you just make me your mate?” You ask him. “Why are you…doing all this?” 

“I was in prison for years.” He steps up to you, taking your hand in his. “I'm not in a rush. I want you to want me. And you will.”

Pope laces his fingers in yours and drags you out of the bathroom and into the rest of the house. 

It's a very nice house. Sleek design. Like a wealthy person's retreat. 

Because it is. The person who owns this place is currently in hospice care. Some billionaire who has so many properties that no one will notice this one being used. Especially when it's deep in the mountains and can only be gotten to by helicopter. It took him a month of prep to get the place ready for you. There's enough food and water to last you and Pope a year. He doesn't think it will take that long for you to fall for him but he wanted to have ample time in case you were more combative. 

But you aren't, much to his delight. 

You eat well, scarfing down whatever food he puts in front of you. You drink lots of water. You let him hold your hand as he takes you back to the bedroom once you've washed up again. 

You don't resist when he spoons you, holding you close to him. Pope falls asleep easily, since he's exhausted. 

You wait until you're sure he's asleep. Then, you slowly pull him off of you so you can roll out of bed. You figure there's no way to leave but you have to look anyway. 

And when you spot the blizzard raging outside, you know there's no escape. 

You walk outside, in the night, in the cold. You stare at the endless white that coats the mountainside. There's no other homes around. You don't even see a road or a car. This place doesn't have a garage. 

How the fuck did Pope find this place? 

You're trapped here… 

You go back inside, looking for the medicine cabinet. There are tons and tons of suppressants. Definitely stolen, since the labels have names of people you do not know. None of your other medications are here, though. Only suppressants. More than enough to last for months. Maybe even years.

You feel your throat close up. Is he planning on keeping you here for that long? 

You check the fridge. It's well stocked. There's a walk-in freezer. Also well stocked. 

How long has he been planning this? 

It's only been a few months since he got out. There's no way he got all this prepared that quickly and found you. 

But you're realizing now how determined he is. 

And your omega instincts are beaming. You curl into yourself, wrapping your arms around your middle, reeling at the warmth that spreads through you at the thought of how much your alpha cares about you.

Stop it! You pinch yourself back to reality. 

This is creepy. This is not loving or caring or anything of the sort. It is disturbing and fucked up that he wants to hold you captive. 

So why is your heart pounding so hard in your chest? 

Why do you like that he wants you so badly? 

You must be getting close to needing your suppressant again. You don't know what time it is. You don't even know what time zone you're in. 

For all you know, you might not even be in the country anymore…

You go back to the bedroom, where Pope is still sleeping soundly. You sit down beside him and then, against your best judgment, you shake him until his eyes open. 

“Do you know when my last dose was?” You want to keep on schedule. 

He points to the bedside table. “Open the drawer.” 

You do so and… “What the fuck?” 

There's several timers. They're your timers. The same ones you'd use to keep track of your meds. 

One of them is about to go off. 

When it does, ringing that familiar sound, Pope goes, “it's time. You should take it. Bring me one too.” 

“Why are they in the drawer?” You normally just leave them out.

“They kept jolting you awake, even with the sedation. You weren't sleeping well so I put them in there on my side so I could hear it when it went off and give you your meds before lulling you back to sleep. You needed the rest.” 

“How…long have I been here already?” 

“About a week.” 

“What?” No wonder you were so hungry… 

“You probably haven't slept that much in years. Do you want me to get the suppressants or do you know where they are?” Pope figures if you're up, you've explored the house already. And you know you can't leave. 

“I'll get them…” You get up from the bed and bring a few of the bottles back, putting them on his bedside counter so you don't have to get up each time to grab them. You pull one out and swallow it, then hand him one. He does the same. 

Though, the heat pooling at your core from looking at him doesn't seem to cease, even with the medication. Especially when you notice he's not wearing a shirt. He must've taken it off in his sleep. You notice it laying beside his pillow. 

You hate how you crave grabbing it and smelling it. He notices the way you're eyeing it so he takes it and hands it to you, tempting you horribly. 

“It'll make you feel better. You'll want to be healthy if you're going to fight me.” He gestures for you to take it. 

You do, holding it up against your face, breathing in the smell of him that fills your body with a joy you should not have… 

You want to bury yourself in his scent, your mind craving a nest. 

“Come here.” He pats his chest, urging you to lay down with him. “Let's go back to sleep before the next alarm goes off.”

You don't have it in you to refuse. You want to lay beside him. It's a biological need to do so. You can't resist it. Even if your mind is screaming to do so. 

“Promise me you won't hurt me.” You want him to promise this before you give in. 

“I won't hurt you.” He won't. Not unless you hurt him. 

But he can sense how good of an omega you want to be, from the way you curl into him so easily, burying your face against his bare chest, letting him cradle you. 

“Good girl.” He presses a kiss against your forehead, sending warmth through you from the praise. “I'm going to take very good care of you from now on.” 

And you believe him.

That's what scares you the most… 

It's been a long time since you haven't had to lift a finger. Pope does everything for you. He cooks and cleans. He manages your medication regime. He keeps you on a very tight leash when it comes to his pheromones. 

Like right now, he has you sitting on his lap on the couch, bundled under a blanket with him, moments after he worked out. Sweat glistens his skin and you curl into him, afraid of the thoughts that run through your mind. 

He smells so good. You feel like you're drowning. 

He has his hand resting on your bare thigh, since you aren't wearing any pants, pressing into your skin with his fingertips. He says skin to skin contact helps with your recovery, so he doesn't let you wear pants. 

You're lucky he lets you wear underwear…

Pope read a lot about recovery in prison. He knew you'd be sick when he got out. If he wasn't in prison and didn't have access to the kind of strict regime they curated for unmated alphas in his position, he would've been just as sick. But he kept it together for you. He couldn't waste away in there. 

His omega needed him to be ready to help. 

“You can have a taste if you want.” Pope can tell what you want by the way you're eyeing the sweat dripping down the side of his neck. 

You shake your head, lying through your teeth. “I don't want to.” 

“I could make you.” He has been doing that a lot. He knows you're resisting your own desires. He circumvents that by being the villain, by making you do the things you want to do. It gives you the permission you won't give yourself. “Do it.” 

You shake your head again, burying your face in his chest, hiding from him. “Can we just watch the movie, Andrew?” 

You know saying his name usually gets you your way. He lets out a huff but then concedes, cradling you in his arms as you both watch one of the slasher movies in the collection of DVDs Pope brought to the house. 

There's no reception or internet up here, so you and him have taken to watching movies and full length seasons of TV shows together. 

You don't want to admit how nice it is to not have to watch TV alone anymore. Though, that part might just be because he's your alpha and spending time with him fulfills something inside of you that you were lacking before. 

Once the movie is over and you've spent a good chunk of time in his presence, Pope picks you up and takes you to the bathroom with him. You've noticed that every few days, he makes you take a bath with him. You don't know why he does it, but you know today is one of those days. 

“Run the bath while I shower.” Pope wants to rinse off the grime from working out before getting into the tub with you. 

You listen, filling the water as he showers. Your eyes drift over to the steamy glass, watching him cover his body with soap. You can't help the way your heart beats so loudly in your chest or the way you get wetter between your legs looking at his naked body. 

But that might be because you know what is about to happen next. 

When he's fresh out of the shower, he gives you a knowing look. You shake your head at him, like you always do, then plead, “not today, Andrew. Can we just bathe without…” 

You let out a startled yelp when he sits you down on the edge of the tub, yanking your underwear off. You squirm when he gets on his knees in front of you, his body still dripping wet. He lays his hand over your wet pussy, gathering your slick, before he wraps it around his cock. The wet sounds fill the air as he leans his head against your thigh, jerking off to the sight of you warm and wet for him. 

He always does this. Only on the days you both bathe together. You have no idea why.

Pope doesn't touch you directly. He just makes you watch him unravel in front of you, on his knees, desperate to cum. His hot breath tickles the flesh of your thighs and you bite back a whimper when he places a kiss there. 

You want him to go further in. You want him to—

You shake your head, over and over, trying to stop yourself from falling into the trap. This is a trap. It has to be a trap. He's doing this because he expects for you one day to want him to touch you more. To want him to use his mouth to make you feel things you want so badly to feel. 

But the truth is, he's doing this because it's the only way he can trick his instincts into thinking you and him have slept together. He read about this method on one of the many online forums he browsed whenever he was allotted computer time in prison. 

There are a lot of forums written by alphas in the same position he is currently in, where they've scared away their omega on the first impression and need to win them back. Though, not many are actual criminals like him but he'll take the advice he can use. 

He does this every few days so he isn't consumed by the need to mate with you. If he didn't do this, he would be lost to his desire and it would only make things worse.

Pope wants you to want him. He knows there will come a day where you will ask him to come closer, to touch you, to be his. He just needs to make it to that day. 

He groans against the soft flesh of your thigh, cumming into his hand. He wishes he was cumming inside of you but imagining it will have to be enough for now. 

He stands up, his hand full of his cum, and you know what he's about to do. You shake your head, needing him not to make you do this, but you can't stop him.

“It'll help.” Pope coats his fingers with his own release before pressing them against your lips. “Open up.” 

You admit defeat, letting him slip his fingers into your mouth, the taste of him flooding your senses, killing you in ways you will never recover from. Like the heat that threatens to rise through every inch of your skin when you suck on his fingers and lick them clean, wishing it was his cock in your mouth instead. 

When you're done, you lift your arms, letting Pope pull your shirt off. Then, he gets into the tub first, like he always does, and pulls you in, your back against his chest. You squirm when you feel how hard his cock is, rubbing against your back. 

“Sorry.” He wraps his arms around your waist, holding you close, resting his chin on your shoulder. “I can't help it when you suck on my fingers like that.” 

“Why do you make me do that?” You turn your head to look at him, seeing how close his face is to yours. “Why don't you just get it over with?” 

“Because I don't want you to hate me forever.” Pope leans his forehead against yours, basking in how close you're letting him get to your lips. You usually never let him get this close. You always pull away before his face can touch yours. 

You notice the freckles on his cheeks, the way his skin flushes red from your proximity. You find him more beautiful every day and you hate it so much. 

“Why did you have to rob my house?” You blink back the tears that accompany your words. “Why couldn't we have met a different way?” 

“How would you have wanted us to meet?” He leans in more, testing the waters, and you don't move away. He presses the lightest kiss, a hesitant one, on your cheek. He places another lower, on your jaw, waiting for you to respond. 

You close your eyes, allowing yourself for just this moment to enjoy the feeling of his lips on your skin. Because you know he won't do any more than that. He's being cautious. You're giving him an inch. He can't get greedy. 

But he wants to be when you tell him, “I dreamed of meeting you on the beach. You smell like saltwater but you taste like freshwater. And I want more but I'm so scared, Andrew.”

“I scare you?” He cups your face with his hand and it startles him when you lean into his touch. 

“So much.” You finally open your eyes, staring into his warm hazel ones when you tell him, “please don't hurt me.” 

“I won't.” He holds you tighter. “I'll never hurt you again.” 

“Then let me go.” You beg him because you know if you stay any longer, you're going to give in. “Please, Andrew.” 

“You know I can't.” He shakes his head like you would to him. “You're everything to me. I can't lose you.” 

“You're killing me.” You choke back a sob. “I can't keep doing this.” 

“Doing what?” 

You aren't pulling away from him. You aren't trying to fight back. 

So what are you doing that's killing you? 

Resisting him…

You press your lips against his. Your heart soars when you do, pleasure coursing through you at that simple touch. You like it so much, it frightens you to your very core. 

“Don't force yourself.” Pope's words comfort you in a strange way. “I can wait until you're ready.” 

“I don't think I'll ever be ready.” You admit to him. “So please just make me kiss you.” 

“Straddle my lap.” Pope gestures for you to turn around, his voice harsh, the way you want him to be. “Don't make me force you to.” 

You straddle his lap, accidentally rubbing your pussy against his hard cock in the process. You cling onto Pope, the feeling so intense like it was when he first brought you here. He takes a deep breath against your shoulder, trying to will himself not to sink inside of you right now. 

“Look at me.” Pope lifts his head off of you, meeting your gaze. “You're going to let me kiss you, okay?” 

For once, you nod and he takes his chance, leaning in to kiss you the way he has been aching to. 

It makes you lightheaded, the heat from the bath mixed with his feverish kisses. His tongue plays with yours and you moan against him, wrapping your arms around his neck and digging your fingers into his hair. You grind your hips against him, desperate for the friction.

That's enough for him to grab you by your thighs and lift the two of you up out of the bath. His lips never leave yours as he carries you to bed, dropping you down onto the sheets, not caring how soaking wet the two of you are. 

The words you breathe out when his lips let you go for a moment fill him with such a rush, “please be gentle, Andrew.”

“I'll be so gentle.” He kisses a line down from your lips to your chest. “Just let me touch you.” 

You nod, biting down on your lip when he swirls his tongue around each of your nipples, playing with them until they're hard and aching. Heat shoots through your whole body and you crave more. 

An intoxicating smell fills Pope's senses. It gets stronger and stronger the lower he travels down your body. It engulfs his entire body the moment he's between your legs. 

Are you really letting him do this? He has dreamed of dipping his tongue inside of you, of you cumming on his face, of you so dazed from the pleasure he can give you. 

Seeking permission, Pope glances up at you, waiting for a signal. He won't move in unless you say so. But you can't say the words. 

Instead, you just sink your hand into his hair and nudge him closer to you. That's all he needs to dive in. 

Your breath catches in your throat when you feel him drag his tongue up your folds. He does this over and over again, needing to coat his tongue in your taste. He derives so much joy from the moans that leave your lips. That, and you saying his name, all airy and beautiful. 

“Andrew.” You haven't felt this kind of pleasure before. It goes straight to your head. You don't want it to end…

Pope grinds his hips against the sheets, his cock terribly hard. You're sending out signals, begging him to fuck you, but he knows you don't truly want him to. 

If he wasn't in a clear headspace, he would just take you like your body wants. 

But he just grips his cock with his hand, touching himself as he swirls his tongue around your swollen clit. He loves how wet you get when you cum, lapping it up with such vigor. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows, so you can look at him, seeing the way his hand is wrapped around his cock. 

“Come here, Andrew.” You pat the space next to you. 

Pope listens without hesitation and he has no time to react to you immediately putting his cock into your mouth, sucking and licking him like you had with his fingers. He puts his hand in your hair, gripping it tight, trying his hardest not to fuck your mouth but when he sees you dip your fingers inside of yourself, that's all he wants to do. 

He pulls you off of him and tells you, “move closer. Let me do that for you.” 

You nod, scooting yourself closer to him on your knees, before you bend back over and fill your mouth with his cock again. His hand slips back into your hair and then his other hand slides between your legs, dipping two of his fingers inside your wet pussy. You moan on his cock, gagging as he pushes himself deeper down your throat. 

He starts to fuck your mouth at the same pace as his fingers thrust into you. You drench his hand with your orgasm and he coats the back of your throat with his. You swallow it all before you pull yourself off of his cock. 

Pope pulls his fingers out of you, licking them clean, then drags you back onto his lap. He leans in, giving you a kiss on the cheek. Then a kiss on the lips, which you lean into. 

You let him deepen the kiss, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, pressing your body right up against him. He pulls you down, laying you on your side, enjoying the skin to skin contact, his hands roaming all over your body. 

You don't know how long you and Pope just lay there, bodies wrapped together, lips never parting. Long enough that you wish you hadn't fallen so far in. 

You lay your head on Pope's chest, his hands holding onto yours, examining the scars he left from trying to bite you. He lifts them to his lips, kissing them, before sighing. “I'm sorry I did this to you.”

“Just this?” You look up at him.

“I'm sorry for everything.” He scoops you into his arms, lifting you up. “I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you. I promise.” 

You can't help the desire in your soul to believe him. 

Because you want to believe him. 

Pope sets you down on the couch and comes back with some clothes for you to put on. Then, he asks what movie you want to watch while he does the laundry. You pick and he bundles you up in a blanket, lights a fire in the wood stove and turns on the TV. 

You half-watch the movie, half-watch Pope cycle between the bedroom and the laundry. He really does take care of you. He doesn't make you do anything. 

You sit there, pulling the blanket up to your nose. It still smells like Pope from earlier. You wish he was here with you. You know he will be, eventually, but you can't believe you miss him. 

Just a few touches and now you're already all his? 

You didn't realize you were so weak…

But you are. 

You are when he comes back and you immediately snuggle against him. He pulls you onto his lap, his hand resting on your thigh like he had before. Only this time, Pope slides his hand deeper, his fingertips resting over your underwear. 

You lay your head into the crook of his neck, muffling your moan when he teases your clit through the fabric. You cling onto him when he pulls your underwear off completely, wanting to touch you directly. 

“Wait, Andrew.” You say, your face hovering right in front of his. “You don't have to. You must be tired.” 

“I don't have to?” Pope chuckles, brushing his nose against yours playfully. “You have no idea how much I love touching you. Do you want me to touch you? I can stop if you don't want it.” 

“It scares me how much I want you to.” You shiver when his fingers slowly sink inside of you, curling them, looking for where it feels good. “Right there, Andrew.” 

His lips latch onto yours as his fingertips press into that spot that makes you hold onto him tighter. He loves kissing you while you cum, your airy moans so wonderful against his lips. 

“You're so beautiful.” He trails kisses down your face, his lips stopping at the base of your neck. His teeth ache to bite you and he nearly does but he pulls away at the last second, huffing out strained breaths. “Fuck, I almost…I'm sorry…”

His forehead rests on your shoulder, trying to regain his composure. You know he must be suffering because his cock is throbbing, already hard again. He's holding back for your sake. 

It feels strange, seeing him behave like this when he pinned you down the first time the two of you met. He isn't the same man he was then. 

Are you trying to convince yourself that he has changed so you can mate with him? 

Would it…be so bad if he became your mate? 

You're falling deeper than you want to. 

You need to put a stop to this for your own sake.

“Andrew.” You cup his face, looking at him, wanting him to meet your eyes when you tell him, “I promise I'll let you bite me. But only if we go back home. I don't…want to become yours here. In captivity. Please.” 

Pope would be a fool not to see this as a ruse. You are an actress, after all. 

But were you faking it this whole time to lead up to this? 

That is the part he is unsure about. His fingers are still inside of you. You're grinding against his hand unconsciously. 

You do want him. He knows that for a fact.

“My home.” Pope says, thrusting his fingers rougher inside of you, making your eyes roll back, pleasure overwhelming you. “If you want to leave now, you're coming home with me and then you're going to be all mine.”

You nod, screaming his name when he palms your clit, drawing out an orgasm that has you drenching his hand. “I want to be all yours, Andrew.” 

That draws such a low growl out of him. 

If you're fucking with him, you'll be sorry. 

But are you fucking with him? 

Is this really an act? 

Or is it real…

You're afraid to learn what the truth is.

It's odd seeing the sun after the constant snowfall for the last few weeks. You almost miss it. 

The pure white snow. The cold. 

The isolation. 

Because now that you're back in California, you are bombarded with the bright sunlight, the sound of the ocean and people playing in the sand. 

Pope lives in a house walking distance to the shoreline. His house is rather empty. He says he'll buy whatever furniture you want him to. 

Whatever will make this place home for you. 

“I don't want to meet your family.” You tell him that right away. 

You can't meet the people who planned to rob you. And it looks like you won't have to. 

“They don't even know I'm out.” They think Pope is still in prison for at least a few more years. He didn't tell them he got out early. 

“Won't they check if someone's living here?” It's a beautiful house. Surely someone will want it.

“My mother has a lot of property. This is one that she gave to me. It's in my name. She wouldn't check on it.” Pope knows Smurf won't. It's purposefully the furthest away from all her other property for a reason. 

You sit down, on the wood floor, in the center of the empty living room. Then, you lay back, staring up at the ceiling. Pope wonders what you're doing. 

You're wondering too.

You're wondering why you're imagining building a life with him here. With a child running through the hallways, shouting for you to see what they're up to. 

Could you see yourself as a mother to his child? 

Of course you can. He's your alpha. It's what you were meant for. 

And yet, there's still that fear that lingers in your heart. 

You look at the back of your hands, a clear reminder of the violent nature he's capable of. 

“Andrew, come here.” You pat the floor next to you and Pope immediately lays down beside you. He's a good listener. 

“Is everything okay?” He worries for you. You know he does. 

“I want to go to the doctor's and get some birth control. I don't want to have kids yet.” You need more time. 

“Okay.” Pope nods. He won't make you, even if it kills him inside. He yearns for you to have his child swelling in your belly. But he yearns for you much, much more. 

“Then, I need you to teach me how to shoot a gun.” You meet his eyes when you say this next part, “so that if you're ever violent with me again, I can shoot you and then myself.” 

“I won't be.” The thought of you dying hurts him so much. “I promise. I'll never do anything like that again to you.” 

“I can't trust you. I might never trust you.” You tell him honestly. “So, do this for me. And then we can mate, okay?” 

“I'm sorry you're so scared of me.” There's so much sadness in his features that your heart aches. 

“Maybe I can learn to be okay with that.” You turn your body to face him. “Can you?” 

Pope realizes then what you're asking of him. You'll never not see him as the violent man he is. So you're asking him not to pretend like he isn't. To wash away the facade he has been putting on and to show you his true colors. 

“I don't want to scare you more.” He turns onto his side, pulling you up close to him, holding onto you like you might float away. “The things I want to do, the urges I have, I don't want you to see them.” 

“Show them to me, Andrew.” You reach up to touch his face, caressing his jaw, letting him lean into your comforting touch as you tell him, “and if they're too much, you let me kill you. Okay?” 

“Only if you don't kill yourself after.” He can't let you follow him into the darkness. 

“If we mate, losing you would kill me anyways.” Rarely does an omega live long after their alpha dies. Only if they have children to live for. 

“Then if I do something that makes you want to kill me, kill me after you get pregnant. Okay?” Pope could die happily then, knowing you won't be alone. 

“Is the real you someone I'd kill?” You can't help but ask. 

“I think so.” He leans in, his words warm against your lips, “because I'm holding back how crazy I am about you.”

“Hold back for just a little longer then.” Just until you're protected. 

Then, you'll decide if who he really is deep inside deserves to live or die. 

When you go to the doctor's, they give you a daily suppressant. A high dose but much easier to juggle than the six you and Pope were taking before every few hours. Now that you're in the presence of your alpha, you don't have to suppress your instinctual desires as much.

As long as you and Pope stay close to each other, one suppressant a day is enough to keep your heat and his rut at bay. 

You opt for the birth control pill, since you're used to taking pills. You take it with your suppressant every day. 

Every weekend from then on, Pope takes you out to a cabin in the woods that you bought with some of your savings. There, he teaches you how to shoot. You learn how to shoot a handgun, then a shotgun, then an automatic rifle, then a sniper rifle. You're pretty good at it, after a lot of practice. 

You carry a gun with you at all times now. You have a license to conceal carry. Pope likes that you do. You're always safe now. 

Especially from him. 

The two of you still haven't gone all the way yet. You do let him hold you and touch you but the closest you've gotten to sex is letting him fuck your thighs. You won't have sex with him until he drops the facade. 

But Pope is too afraid to. 

He tries, once, to let you see how crazed he really is, pinning you to the bed, nearly having his way with you, but then you reached for your gun so he stopped himself, pulling away from you immediately. 

He doesn't want to die. 

But he is already dying inside. 

He wants to mate with you. His cock aches to swell. His teeth ache to bite. 

He thinks you don't know about the extra suppressant dose he takes. But you know. 

You found it while he was working out in the room you both designated for his gym. You didn't want to go to the gym with him and neither of you can be too far apart from each other or the distance could kill you, so the best compromise was to make a good set up at home for Pope to get out his pent up energy. 

He hid them in a box of cereal he knows you don't eat. Though today, you felt like snacking on something and so you grabbed it off the shelf and when you opened it, you saw a bottle of pills. 

When you looked it up, you saw posts online about how taking them with the current suppressant you and Pope are prescribed can help curb the more intense desires in an unmated alpha. 

You emptied the bottle down the sink and put it back in the cereal box, careful to place the box back exactly as Pope would. He's very particular about how he likes to organize things in the house. You can't let him figure out that you had anything to do with his missing pills. 

So, when Pope goes to take his second suppressant after his workout and sees that he has none, he panics. Because he was sure he had a good amount left before his next refill. He scrambles to get a refill sent in, calling his doctor's office. 

But when no one picks up, he remembers that today is a holiday. 

No pharmacies are even open. 

You catch the distress in his features. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He doesn't suspect you had anything to do with this, pouring himself a cold glass of water from the fridge. “I just need some water. I went a little harder than usual today.” 

“Do you want me to drive later, then?” You remind him that it's also Friday. Meaning the two of you are supposed to go to the cabin, like always. 

Pope's face goes pale at the realization that he will be stuck, alone, with you, in the woods, without the extra suppressant dose to help him stop his urge to mate with you. You'll be defenseless. 

Trapped in the middle of nowhere with him. 

Perfect prey for him. 

His thoughts are going mad already. He can't stop them, not like he usually can. He quickly searches online to see if he can take two of his other suppressants, in hopes that will help, but that high of a dose could kill him and he can't cut it in half or the reaction time will fuck up in his body.

He's fucked. 

And you act completely unaware that you've caused this turmoil inside of him. 

But you will tell him, when the time is right. 

So he can give you a reason to shoot him. 

Pope grips the steering wheel of his truck so hard the entire drive to the cabin that you worry his knuckles will burst through his skin. 

It's because being in a car with you, with the windows rolled up, is like getting hot boxed. He's drowning in your pheromones, so much so that he speeds down the highway, in hopes of getting to the cabin faster. 

But there's no escape for him.

Because you didn't bring your suppressants. Or his. 

You haven't taken your dose either. 

And you know his won't do shit for him when your heat hits. 

A part of you feels evil for what you've done. But this is the man who kidnapped you, held you captive in some secluded mansion on a mountaintop, force fed you his cum, made you want him. The same man who broke into your house, tried robbing you, tried raping you. 

You want to make him suffer. 

Then, the two of you will be even. 

Or he'll be dead. 

You haven't decided yet if you'll kill him.

It depends how much you enjoy him taking you the way you've been fantasizing about since he held you down all those years ago.

Pope fucked you up. He made you dream about him taking you against your will. 

And now, you're going to make him follow through with it. 

Whether he wants to or not.

He definitely doesn't want to, out of fear of both dying by your hand and also you hating him forever. 

You won't though. You won't hate him forever. Though, he might hate you after he finds out what you've done. But…you suspect he won't.

You're almost certain he loves you. He loves you enough to forgive you for this. 

That's why you did it. 

Because if he's going to love you, he better do it as sick in the head as you are. 

Or else, what's the point? 

You truly are his fated omega. 

He'll come to realize that soon. 

Once Pope parks the car, he gets out almost too quickly, taking in deep breaths of fresh air. He flinches when he feels your hand on his arm, gently caressing his bicep.

“Are you okay, Andrew?” You know he isn't, but you ask anyways, feigning care. “Did you get motion sick?” 

“I'm fine.” He's definitely not fine…

“Maybe we shouldn't shoot today. We can just watch a movie or something.” You tempt him with closeness. 

“I might just want to lay down. I think I have a headache.” He can't be near you but you're not letting him move. 

You reach up, touching his face. You're baiting him now, pressing your body up against his, getting on your tip toes to rest your hand over his sweaty forehead to check his temperature.

“You're burning up. Should we go home?” You look him in the eyes, at the blank stare on his face. “Andrew?” 

“Take out your gun.” He tells you, his chest rising and falling too quickly, his breaths growing ragged, his mind going fuzzy. “Do it right now.” 

“Why?” You act confused, pretending not to notice the lust in his heated gaze.

“Because if you don't shoot me right now, I'm going to rape you.” He's direct with it. He needs to scare you. He needs you to kill him.

But you don't reach for your gun.

Actually, you pull it out from behind your back then toss it aside and it rolls off the nearby ledge. Lost to the forest below.

“What the fuck are you doing!” He screams at you. “You're supposed to shoot me!”

Pope goes to grab his gun. He can't hurt you. He has to kill himself—

“Give me your gun, Andrew.” You put your hand out and Pope listens without hesitation like always, handing you his gun. 

You drop his clip onto the ground and then toss his gun aside where you tossed yours. 

He growls at you, like a wild animal. “Do you know what you've done?” 

“I know you would've shot yourself. That's why I did that.” From the shocked look on his face, you know you're right. “And I'm not going to have my alpha die on me.” 

“Your…” It's the first time you've ever called him that. Your alpha. He is your alpha. 

His mind is getting foggier. It's getting harder to concentrate. The possessive desire to take you right here after you just said that is consuming him. 

Your scent wafts all around him. So much stronger than usual. Why is it so strong? 

It's like you haven't taken your—

Pope grabs you by the neck, feeling how hot your skin is, how fast your pulse is racing in his palm. He grits his teeth. 

No, it can't be true. 

There's no way you would've risked that. 

“Where are your suppressants?” Pope asks, his grip on you shaky. 

He doesn't want to hurt you. But he also really wants to hurt you. To see you with tears streaming down your face from him biting your neck. To hear you screaming his name as he pounds his knot inside of you over and over again. 

“Didn't bring any.” You say, your eyes locked right onto his. “Didn't take one this morning either. Or my birth control.” 

“You—” It's over for him now. 

Pope has lost all sense of control. If you're breedable then there's no helping him. 

He has to take you. 

He just has to. 

“I'll give you a five second headstart.” That's all he can allot before he starts to count down.

You immediately sprint away. You don't know where you're running to. You don't know what you're doing. 

But you do know that this is everything you have wanted since Pope got out.

For him to chase you, to grab you, to force himself on you without any mercy. 

Your heart is pounding out of your chest. The smile that curves on your lips as you run is full of joy. You've never been so happy before.

The sound of his footsteps rushing up fast shoots such pleasure through you. You scream when he tackles you to the ground, pinning you down with his body. You shove at him to no avail. He will always be stronger than you.

The only thing that made the two of you equals was the threat of your gun. But he knows you can't shoot him.

His defenseless little omega, about to be consumed by her heat and her alpha.

“Stop, Andrew!” You shriek when he rips off your shirt, tossing the shredded fabric aside. 

You go to push him away but he just laughs. A menacing kind of laugh. The one he's been so desperate to hide from you. 

“You don't want me to stop.” He says all low, leaning down towards your face, his words hot against your skin. “You want to get raped by your alpha. Why didn't you just say so?” 

You shake your head, even though everything he says is exactly the truth. “I don't want this. Let's go home, Andrew. Please, let's just—”

“I dreamt of what it would be like the first time I sunk my cock inside of you.” Pope goes to unbuckle his belt, then unzips his jeans. “I imagined it would've been romantic, after you finally told me you loved me. But you never will. I get that now. So I'm going to rape you right here on the dirt. Like the animal you want me to be.” 

“No, stop!” You flip around, trying to crawl away. You make it about two feet before he yanks you towards him by your waistband. You claw at the ground as he tugs your bottoms off of you completely. 

“You say stop but you have your ass up for me.” He grabs you by the thighs, pulling you roughly, your knees scraping against the forest floor. He sees how wet you are for him, so wet that your thighs are coated with your slick. “What a disgusting little omega you are, to get so wet at the thought of her alpha raping her.” 

Pope leans in, dragging his tongue up your folds. You nearly cum from that simple touch, your legs trembling, your knees wobbling. He holds you steady by your thighs, dipping his tongue deep inside of you before his fingers go to pinch your clit. 

“Don't!” You shout, the pleasure building too quickly. “I don't want to cum, I don't want to—”

“Just shut the fuck up and take it.” He growls before the tip of his tongue starts to tease that spot inside of you that makes you see stars. He drives you right into a violent orgasm when he pinches and pulls at your clit at the same time as his tongue abuses the spot beneath it. “You love being forced to cum. I should've raped you earlier.” 

You let out a series of desperate little whimpers when you feel the tip of his cock line up with your entrance. “Wait, Andrew, please don't do this. I don't want my first time to be out here, please—”

“You really are such a good actress. Pretending like this isn't what you want.” His chuckle is so dark, it sends chills down your spine. “I'm going to rape you and make you cum on my cock until you beg me to make you my mate. That's the only way this ends.” 

You dig your fingers into the dirt below you, to brace yourself. Then, when Pope thrusts the entire length of his cock inside of you in a single thrust, you unravel completely, heat shooting through you. 

The same heat you've only felt once before. When he was on top of you that first time. The heat he induced and nearly killed you with when you went to the hospital after he was arrested. 

Your body begged for its alpha, needed its alpha. But he just had to be a criminal. 

So you're making sure he stays one. 

“You take me so well, my pretty omega.” He presses kisses along your smooth back. “If my cock can fit so easily, my knot will too.” 

It takes all your remaining willpower not to beg him to mate with you right now. 

You want his knot. You want his cum. You want him so badly. 

“Andrew…” You look back at him, his eyes meeting yours as you tell him, “you're scaring me.” 

He just stares blankly back at you, his hands gripping your hips tighter, before he replies, “good.”

That's when he starts to pound into you without mercy. And you muffle your screams of pleasure into your hands, your lips pressed up against the scars he left there. Your face is shoved against that rough skin with every forceful thrust, reminding you of how deadly he can be. 

You cum way too hard when he angles his cock upwards, grinding right against your womb. Your pussy is clenching around him, desperately trying to milk his cock. 

Pope is getting close to his first release. He knows it will only be one of many. Your heat will keep his cock hard until the two of you are completely satiated. And from the way you're unconsciously meeting him halfway, you're far from satisfied. 

“If you want my cum, beg for it or I'll pull out before I do.” His words make you whimper, your omega instincts reeling from the potential loss. 

“Andrew, please.” You cave, completely. “I want you to cum inside of me.” 

“Good girl.” He praises, which makes so much pleasure surge through you. “Finally admitting how much you want me. Here's your reward.” 

Your eyes roll back when you feel his hot cum spill inside of you, the tip of his cock driving it deep with every stroke. The euphoria that rolls through you is unlike any other. 

“Say thank you.” Pope pulls your head up by your hair so he can hear you clearly. 

“Thank you.” Your obedience is rewarded with a soft kiss to the nape of your neck. 

“Now, you're going to flip over. Don't whine too much. I'll be back inside of you very soon.” He instructs and you chew on the inside of your cheek when he pulls out, to stop yourself from whining from the loss. 

You lay on your back then moan when Pope thrusts his cock back inside of you. He leans down to kiss you and you no longer resist, your hands settling in his soft hair, your tongue eagerly tangling with his. 

You are not ready for him to haul you up while he's still buried inside of you, his lips refusing to leave yours. You have your legs wrapped tightly around his middle so you don't drop. Though, he'd never let you drop. 

You expect him to carry you back towards the cabin but instead, he walks you over to a nearby tree, every step driving his cock further inside of you, making you gasp against his lips. He pins you against the tree, the bark digging into the skin of your back. 

“Pull off my shirt for me.” Pope tells you, wanting to feel your chest against his.

You listen, the sight of his bare chest making you so feverish. You can't help but lean forward, kissing the freckles along his collarbone. That stuns him. 

You've never been affectionate with him. Only when he is to you. He always thought you reciprocated because you felt like you had to. 

He never thought maybe one day, you'd want to touch him. But here you are. 

Kissing him, your lips trailing up the side of his neck, making him let out a groan that sends shivers through you. 

When you meet his lips, Pope kisses you with such a need that you close your eyes and just bask in it. Your hips start to grind against his and he grabs your ass harder before pounding into you again. He loves the way you moan against his lips, no longer hiding how much you enjoy him fucking you. 

“You're mine, all mine.” He rests his forehead against yours, wanting to hear the lovely sounds you're making. “Cum for me, my beautiful omega.” 

You do cum, but only when you grab the back of his head and bury his face against the side of your neck, presenting it to him. His teeth ache too much to stop himself from biting you right then and there, cumming with you as his knot swells inside of you. 

You're panting out his name over and over, your body clinging to him like he's your lifeline, heat pooling at your core, spilling out, the wet sounds filling the air. He lifts off your neck and licks along the edges of the bite, shooting ripples of pure pleasure through you. 

“That feels so good.” You breathe out against his ear. “Do you like being my mate?” 

Pope nods, kissing you all over your face with such affection. You grab his face, stopping him for a moment. 

“If you want to stay my mate, promise me you'll listen to me.” Now that he's more sentient, he can hear you clearly. “I don't want to have to kill you after this trip.” 

“Please don't kill me.” Pope pleads for his life. “I want to live a long life with you.” 

Especially now that you're officially his mate. He doesn't want to lose you. He'll do anything to have you. 

“Then I'm going to treat you like you're my dog.” You tell him and he growls low in response, making you smirk. “And I'll put you down the moment you start acting up. Got it?”

He nods without hesitation, sealing his fate.

“Good boy.” You lean in, nipping at his bottom lip. “That's my good boy, Andrew.” 

You let out a breathy sigh when you feel his knot swell even more inside of you from your words. Your heart feels like it could fall out of your chest at any moment from how hard it's beating. 

Your mate may be a violent man, but he's just a dog to you. A loyal dog, who will happily take care of you for the rest of your life. 

That, you can live with. 

You were never going to be his, not fully. But you were going to make sure he was yours completely. 

You own him now, every part of him. 

“Now carry me back and fuck me in bed, please.” You instruct and he does so right away. 

You lay your head against the crook of his neck, breathing in that comforting smell, fully content now. Pope knows you're happy, which fills him with such a rush of pride and joy. His mate is happy, genuinely happy. 

And you want him as much as he wants you. 

You feel so at peace when he lays you down on the plush bed in the cabin, his knot still buried inside of you as he climbs on top of you. 

“How do you want me?” 

“Just like this.” You wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer to you, pecking him on the lips before breathing out, “fuck me like you would've all those years ago.” 

You dig your nails into his back the moment he grabs the back of your thighs, pushing them up towards your chest as he drills his knot deeper inside of you with every harsh thrust. Tears stream down your face when you cum from him popping the knot out of you then pushing it back in, each shallow stroke making you claw into his back, hard enough to draw blood. You want more. 

“Harder.” You beg him. “Please, Andrew.”

“You like being fucked by your mate like an animal in heat?” His movements get rougher and you squirt all over his cock in response. He slows his movements after you do, making you whimper, wishing he hadn't stopped. But he won't continue until you listen to him, “tell me I'm your good boy and I'll make sure you cum a lot.” 

“You're my good boy, Andrew.” You drag your nails down his back until you can grab his hips, pulling him closer to you. “My mate. All mine.” 

Bringing you pleasure is what he was made for. Seeing you beneath him, grinding against him, enjoying every second of him fucking you, it fills him with a wonderful sense of accomplishment. 

You don't know how long he pounds into you for. You've lost track of all the orgasms you've had. You just know that you and him have completely ruined these sheets from how soaked they are when his knot finally settles. You don't let him pull out of you, though.

You both lay there, kissing, his cock still throbbing even though he's getting softer inside of you. 

“We should probably head back and get you the morning after pill.” The pharmacies are probably open now, since it's well into the next day. 

You shake your head against his chest. “It's okay if I'm pregnant. I know you'll take good care of me and the baby.” 

“I will.” He presses a kiss against your temple, warmth blooming in his chest from how happy he is. “I will take very good care of you two.” 

“Good boy.” You smile brightly at him, then furrow your brow. “Andrew, are you okay?” 

You reach up to cup his face, seeing the tears that are dripping down, wiping them away. He nods into your touch, grabbing a hold of your hands to kiss them all over. 

“I just never thought you'd smile at me like that.” Pope presses a kiss against the scars on the back of your hands. “I will never hurt you again, I promise.” 

“I believe you.” You definitely do now. He has earned your trust and he knows if he breaks it, you'll kill him. “And I promise I won't deceive you like that again. We're even now, okay?” 

He nods then tells you, “I wouldn't care if you hurt me. You can if you want. I can take the abuse as long as you keep smiling at me like that.” 

“Oh, Andrew.” You shake your head at him. “I want us to have a nice relationship now that we're mates. Let's put the past behind us.” 

“You would do that for me?” Pope lets out a heavy breath full of relief when you nod. 

“Of course I would. Because you're my good boy.” You nuzzle his nose playfully. “My lovely mate. My Andrew.” 

“Forever.” He won't do anything to jeopardize this. 

You have him in the palm of your hand, or at the end of your leash.  

Completely captivated. 

A/N: Honestly, was this whole fic just an excuse to call him a good boy after a very nice railing? Yes, yes it was. That's my good boy, my good psychotic batshit wild caring lovely boy. 

Hope you enjoyed the read! ♡

[borninmontage]

can you feel it?

Part two // Masterlist // AO3

pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x graphic designer!afab!reader

w/c: 8.3K words

summary: Eight days after your breakup with Robby, a kitchen accident leaves you needing stitches. The only thing worse than the injury is running into him at the Pitt (and seeing him with his ex).

warnings/tags: age gap (I imagined r around 27, but I didn't specify. Robby was her first serious relationship, though), jealous!r, angst, longing, language, r hurt herself catching a knife, r does not imagine herself having kids.

A/N: I hope you'll enjoy it! This wasn't originally supposed to be a multi-part story, but it ended up getting a little longer than I planned, so part 1 it is. It’s been a while since I last wrote anything, so I’m just hoping I’m not too rusty. Also, I have no medical background, so I apologize if the ER scenes aren't completely accurate. I hope the next part will come fast🌼 (I found the Robby pics on pinterest, so credits to the owners)

You knew you should have come straight to the Pitt, the same way you should have seen that his fear of commitment would eventually outweigh the little fantasy world you'd built together over the last few months. Yet you put it off, pretended not to see it, and ignored how much it actually hurt.

“Can you move your fingers?”

You flexed them carefully, trying to look as unaffected as possible while the nurse unwrapped your improvised bandage. You weren't sure who she was. You'd heard about multiple doctors and nurses, but none of the descriptions seemed to fit her.

“Yeah.”

Unwrapping it hurts far more than the cut itself, anyway.

“Okay. Sit tight. We won't keep you waiting long.”

You nod, rewrapping your hand and pressing down again, just like he taught you. And when the door opens a moment later, you see him.

It's not cinematic. There's no slow motion, no dramatic swell of music, no sudden zoom-in. Your brain just takes half a second too long to catch up.

Robby is across the hall, near the nurses' station, hugging Noelle.

Not a quick hug, either. They're standing too close, fitting together in a way that's painfully familiar.

Your stomach drops and you look away immediately, as if you've touched a hot stove. As if looking any longer might make it real.

But you're not surprised.

Hurt? Absolutely. Surprised? Not really.

You knew about Noelle. Knew enough to pretend it didn't bother you when it probably should have.

Still. Eight days.

Only eight days -as far as you know- and he's already back with her. So much for the seven-week itch. Somehow he'd made it a few months with you. Looking at him now, you weren't sure whether that was supposed to make you feel better or worse.

You shake your head, determined not to have a breakdown in front of thirty strangers waiting to be treated.

So you step outside.

You spend a few minutes drafting a message to your boss, explaining that you might need half a day tomorrow -or at least a few hours- because you have no idea how long it'll take before a doctor finally sees you.

You hit send, and less than a minute later, you swear you hear your name.

When you look up, you try not to frown.

It's Jack.

Then again, this is the ambulance bay. Any doctor could be here.

Still, he's not wearing scrubs, and he's way too early for the handover.

“What the hell happened?”

“Hi to you too,” you say dryly, trying not to look affected.

You'd missed Jack. That was one of the less obvious downsides of the breakup. Somewhere along the way, he'd become one of your closest friends.

And seeing how worried he looks makes your throat tighten.

He steps closer, already reaching for your wrist.

“How long has it been bleeding?”

“Not that long.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“...Okay, like two hours,” you admit.

“Jesus Christ.”

“It wasn't that bad, I'm in triage. A really nice nurse already looked at it-”

“Not anymore.”

Or maybe that's what he says.

Before you can argue, he's steering you back toward the doors.

You barely register what happens next. As soon as you get past the triage, Jack says something to a nurse you vaguely recognize as Dana. She nods, glancing at a computer screen, and he asks her to page Langdon since he never clocked in for his shift.

You're not really listening. The image of Robby and Noelle is still haunting, replaying every time you blink. Their hug... the ease of it. The history in it. How easy it seemed to slip back into.

And for one awful second, you wonder if you've been looking at it all wrong.

Maybe you weren't the one who got replaced. Maybe, for a little while, you were the replacement. The pit stop. The distraction.

The room is too bright and everything is too loud. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting that harsh, clinical glow that always seems to make headaches worse. The exam table crackles beneath you when you shift, the thin paper sticking slightly to your skin. This is the last place you wanted to be.

Your hand is still wrapped, but the bandage is not doing much anymore. The gauze is damp, a dull red stain spreading through it while Jack stands nearby, arms crossed, glaring at it.

“You really waited?” he asks again, as if he still can't quite believe it.

“I didn't think it was-”

“That bad?” he cuts in.

You shrug.

“I handled it.”

“You were bleeding for two hours.”

“It sounds worse when you say it like that. It wasn't that dramatic.”

“You're in the ER.”

Before Jack can continue, Dr. Langdon steps in, already pulling on a pair of gloves. And honestly, you've never been more grateful for an interruption.

Because you know Jack... or at least, you think you do. He wouldn't let it go. He'd ask why you waited so long. Why you didn't call Robby. He'd keep pulling at the loose threads until he got to the truth, and right now you're not sure you can survive another person looking at you too closely. Or worse, with pity.

You know Jack never liked whatever was going on between Robby and Noelle. Maybe Robby kept the details to himself. Maybe Jack has no idea that the same girl who came before you apparently came after you, too.

Or maybe he knows.

“Alright,” Dr. Langdon says, flashing an easy smile.

Truth be told, he's even more charming than Robby described. There's something boyish about him, softened by confidence and experience. It's a dangerous combination.

And no wedding band. Interesting!

“Let's take a look at Abbot's VIP.”

So he knows who you are.

You immediately offer your hand, asking him to call you by your name.

You thank him, too. You know he must be busy. Hell, the whole department seems one bad shift away from complete chaos.

Langdon smiles and starts unwrapping the bandage, and as the cool air hits the cut, you hiss through your teeth.

Beside you, Jack leans forward despite himself, and Langdon shoots him a look.

Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic.

“Okay,” Langdon says as he studies the wound for another second. “Yeah. That's deep.”

“Oh, I love hearing that,” you mutter playfully.

Langdon doesn't react, though. He just adjusts the overhead light, angling it directly over your hand. It makes everything look far more detailed than you'd like.

“Can you move your fingers for me?”

You don't hesitate, so you slowly curl them inward.

The skin pulls tight around the cut. It's an uncomfortable stretching sensation that makes your jaw clench, but everything moves the way it should.

“Again.”

You repeat the motion.

“Good. Now straighten them.”

You do.

“Any numbness?” Langdon asks.

“No.”

He takes a piece of gauze and lightly brushes it across your fingertips, then along the edges of the wound.

“Tell me if this feels the same.”

You nod.

“It does.”

Langdon glances at Jack.

“Alright.” A small nod towards Jack. “No nerve involvement.”

“Your last tetanus vaccine?” Jack asks without looking up.

"Three years ago.”

Another nod.

“You're fine.”

You smile nervously as Langdon reaches for a syringe.

“This part's going to sting.”

“Define sting.”

Jack glances at you as you eye the needle. "It's the worst part.”

“Great.”

Langdon doesn't wait, and the next thing you feel is the needle sliding into the skin beside the cut.

And.

It.

Fúcking.

Burns.

“Jesus-fúck, that hurts.” You suck in a sharp breath. “Sorry.”

That makes Langdon smile and shake his head. “That's a healthy reaction. No need to apologize.”

“Breathe,” Jack adds, arms crossed.

To your surprise, he actually looks concerned.

“I am breathing,” you say through clenched teeth. "It's not my fault this feels like hell."

Then it fades quite fast. Your palm starts to feel so heavy like it’s been inflated from the inside, so you instinctively try to flex your fingers. It's such a weird sensation.

“Take a deep breath.”

Another injection and another flare of that same burning pressure.

“You'll feel some pressure,” Jack says as Langdon trades the syringe for a larger one.

It's a good thing needles don't bother you much, because that one looks ridiculous.

Quickly, he positions it over the wound and presses, and you assume it's saline what shoots into the cut. And you flinch.

It doesn't exactly hurt, it's worse.

The sensation is deep and wrong, as if something is moving where nothing should be moving. You have to fight the urge to yank your hand away.

But you are a big girl. Instead, you watch how the fluid runs out pink at first, then gradually clears. It spills onto the blue pad beneath your hand, soaking into it.

Langdon repeats the process several times and despite yourself, your thoughts drift back to Robby.

How many times has he done this?

How many cases just like yours has he seen? Distracted people catching a knife with their palm while making dinner... How many wounds has he cleaned and stitched over the years? How many patients had come before you were even born?

“Why does that feel worse than I expected?” you ask, mostly to distract yourself. You don't even expect an answer; you just need something to focus on besides him.

“Because it's inside the wound,” Jack answers, still watching carefully.

You just know he's a good teacher.

He seems so patient and pulled together. And you're jealous.

You wish you could inspire that kind of confidence in people... make them feel safe.

“I hate this shit.”

Langdon chuckles and makes a few jokes as he blots the area dry, inspecting it more closely while gently parting the edges of the cut.

But you refuse to watch.

Instead, you stare at the ceiling, counting tiles, then the lights.

Anything except your own hand.

“Alright,” he says finally. “We’re good to close it.”

Once Jack gives an approving nod, Langdon opens a sterile suture kit.

You glance down.

Thread, needle, forceps.

Jack shifts his weight but doesn't leave.

“You don't have to wait for me,” you absently tell Jack. You're more than grateful, but you know he's busy. And so is Langdon "I'm sure you have actual patients to see. And if something urgent comes up, just let some newbie practice their stitching skills on-"

And maybe Robby doesn't have to be the center of every conversation.

“Shut up,” Jack cuts in, but there’s no bite to it. He is worried... he actually cares.

Maybe you can keep Jack.

You can watch tennis together, meet for coffee. Be friends.

Maybe he doesn't have to know how much it still hurts.

The first stitch is… weird.

You don't feel the needle break the skin, but you feel the movement afterward: the tug, the pull.

Like someone's threading something through your hand from the inside.

Your fingers twitch instinctively.

“Try to keep it still,” Langdon says, flashing you a smile that could probably solve half the hospital's complaints.

“I'm trying.” You shake your head. “How many?”

You've never needed stitches before. Well, you’ve also never caught a falling knife mid-air, so there’s that.

“Six or seven, probably.”

“Great, I’ll name them all. I saw that in a film.”

“My son did that once, too.” Langdon says immediately, and Jack huffs a quiet laugh.

“First one’s Jack,” you say, lips quirking into a smirk. You already know exactly how he’ll take it, and you're happy that the mood has changed.

“Absolutely not.”

“Too late.”

“Of course it is,” he mutters, shaking his head, but there’s no real anger in it. He is used to you being a pain in the ass.

Langdon snorts, smiling again. “I’d like to be excluded from this.”

They continue to talk about the shift after that, careful not to wander into anything confidential with you sitting right there.

“You’re definitely number two.”

“Why am I involved in this at all?” Langdon asks dramatically, and you wink.

And somehow, it doesn't even hurt anymore.

Then the door opens.

You flinch so hard your hand nearly jerks.

You've always been easy to startle... too aware of everything around you.

Robby used to think it was funny. He'd appear out of nowhere and say “boo” when you were least expecting it, just to watch you jump. Back when things were easy, of course.

“Hey, what do we have here?” a voice asks. “Abbot, since when do you have a VIP?”

Your stomach drops before you even turn around.

You know that voice far too well. Especially when it slips into that teasing tone... even if he isn't talking to you.

Your body goes still. You don’t even register Langdon’s needle anymore.

Jack catches it immediately, his gaze flicking from your face to the doorway as Robby steps inside.

He looks once. Then again. And only then does it register.

You. Sitting on the exam table. Hand open. Stitches halfway done.

When you finally manage to change your expression into something polite and distant, you catch the shift in his face. But you really don’t know how to read him anymore.

“What the fúck happened?”

He’s already moving toward you before the question is even finished.

You swallow, keeping your voice steady. “Kitchen accident.”

No detail, no explanation.

He stops beside the bed, eyes immediately dropping to your hand. And you’re suddenly very aware of how close he is.

Langdon keeps working, unfazed, though the room feels tighter now, like it has less air in it than before.

Robby’s jaw tightens.

“When?” he asks.

“Earlier.”

“When?”

You hesitate.

“Two hours ago. Probably more.”

You close your eyes for a second. “Thank you, Jack.”

“You waited two hours?" Robby says, sharper now, like he can’t quite believe it.

“I was fine. I handled it. The nurse-”

“That’s not okay,” he cuts in.

“I assume you checked for nerve damage," he adds, already shifting his attention toward Langdon and Jack, trying to take control of the situation.

“Can we not-”

“You should’ve called,” he says, colder now and you can’t tell who it’s meant for anymore.

Langdon clears his throat without looking up. “Almost done.”

But Robby barely reacts.

“Jack found me in triage. And, as you can see, I'm in great hands.”

Robby’s expression shifts again, while Jack raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. He looks like he’s been pulled into a game he didn’t know had rules.

“Does it hurt?” Robby finally asks after a long moment of awkward silence, as if the question is an afterthought.

But it isn’t. You know it, so it lands differently. Dangerous in a quiet way.

You glance down at your hand as Langdon finishes the last stitch.

“No,” you say. “Not really.”

It isn’t entirely clear what you’re answering.

“Alright. That’s it,” Langdon says with a small, professional smile.

He cuts the thread cleanly, leaving a neat row of stitches across your palm. Langdon presses gently along the edges of the wound, checking the closure, and in your peripheral vision you catch Robby nodding once, like he’s confirming something to himself.

A final wipe of antiseptic follows, then a non-stick pad, then gauze wrapped carefully around your hand until it no longer looks like your hand at all.

“Move your fingers for me,” you hear Robby gently ask you. And even though every single bone in your body wants to disobey him, you listen.

The movement works, but it feels strange... slightly delayed, as if your hand belongs to someone else for a moment. You wonder if this is exactly what Mary Shelley meant when she wrote Frankenstein’s monster. You almost laugh at your own thoughts.

“Again.”

You flex them once more.

“Good. Make a fist.”

You do.

Just in time to catch the small exhale Robby lets out. Relief, subtle but unmistakable... the kind only someone who knows him well would notice.

Unfortunately for you, though, you've spent enough time loving him to notice it.

“No numbness or tingling?” Langdon asks.

You shake your head. “No.”

“Good. No obvious nerve involvement. Tendons intact, sensation normal.” He pauses, then adds lightly, “Sense of humor intact too.”

“Obviously,” Jack mutters from his spot against the wall.

“Keep it dry for forty-eight hours,” Langdon continues, peeling off his gloves. “No heavy lifting, no gripping if you can avoid it. Change the dressing as instructed. I’ll leave notes, but I’m sure Jack will fill you in.”

Jack glances at you briefly, and something in your stomach twists -guilt, or something close to it-but you don’t know where to put it.

“And before you ask, no, you’re not magically healed because the stitches are in,” Robby adds under his breath.

“I wasn't-”

“You were absolutely going to ask.”

Jack snorts, and you choose not to defend yourself.

“Tetanus shot is up to date,” Langdon says, recapping for Robby as well. He doesn’t know exactly how close you two are, but it’s obvious there’s history there. “So no booster. Stitches out in ten to fourteen days.”

Then he tosses the gloves into the bin, and just like that, the procedure is over.

No more reason for anyone to be hovering around your bed, no more reason for you to still be in his ER.

And somehow, that’s worse. Because now there’s nothing left to distract from the fact that Robby is still standing there.

The adrenaline drains out of you slowly, leaving behind exhaustion, and a small tremor runs through your fingers before you can stop it.

Jesus, you will never try to use a knife again.

Robby notices the change immediately.

Of course he does.

His eyes drop to your hand, then lift back to your face. The concern is brief, but enough to make your chest tighten anyway. Fúck him.

“Should’ve come in sooner,” he says.

Not angry this time, just tired.

You let out a breath. Well, you're tired too.

“Noted.”

“I'm serious.”

“I know.”

“Take ibuprofen or acetaminophen once the anesthetic wears off. Dana will bring your discharge paperwork,” Langdon says, but Robby doesn't take his eyes off you as you gently thank your doctor before watching him go.

“You should’ve told me.”

You finally meet his eyes, finding his tone almost unbearably clinical. Like a lecture... like something to be corrected.

“You don’t get to be worried like that,” you say firmly.

You're tired of this conversation, of him, of pretending this doesn't hurt more than your hand does... of this whole day.

You just want to go home, order takeout, and not think about any of it.

So you hope it lands harder than if you'd raised your voice.

He blinks. “What-”

“You have no right,” you continue, just as quietly, and the room goes very still.

Beside you, Jack wisely says nothing as you adjust the bandage around your hand. You really hope the pain meds are going to be effective. You know this is going to hurt like a motherfúcker.

“I’m fine,” you add, playing it cool. “See? All patched up.”

For a second, Robby just stares at you like he’s trying to decide whether to argue.

But you step past him, with Jack following without uttering a word. Neither of you looks back immediately.

And when you finally do, just before the door swings shut, Robby is still standing exactly where you left him, staring at the empty space on the bed, jaw tight, something unsettled and unresolved sitting heavy in his chest.

Because you’re right.

And that’s the problem.

*

After they discharge you, Jack insists on walking you out. It's not like his shift has started yet anyway.

So you slow your pace, careful not to make it obvious that you're adjusting it for him. You don't know how uncomfortable it is to walk quickly with a prosthetic, and you don't want him to think you're pitying him.

“You okay?” he asks, and you flex your fingers slightly inside the bandage in response, which you end up regretting immediately as a dull, pulling ache shoots through your palm and up your arm.

“Yeah. Just... feels weird.”

“It will,” he says, still looking at your hand. “That's why you shouldn't use it.”

“Noted.”

It's only half a lie, at least. You're gonna slow down. But you can't stop using it completely. How are you supposed to just stop working? Nobody can replace you for two weeks.

By the time you reach the ambulance bay, everything feels different. Quieter.

“You got someone to take you home?”

You can't help but snort.

“I'm not dying, Jack. It's just a cut.”

“Didn't say you were.”

“I can manage by myself. I'm a big girl.”

He studies you for a second longer than necessary, and you know that look.

He's thinking about saying something... probably about Robby, or the disaster that is whatever exists between the two of you. And you're grateful when he decides against it. It's already been a long day: the knife accident, the ER, seeing Noelle, seeing Robby, talking to him.

You just want to go home.

“Yeah. I know you can.”

There's something in the words... Acknowledgment, maybe. Or acceptance or even pride. You're not sure, so you just smile.

“Thanks. Really.”

“For what?”

“For helping me. For not letting me bleed out to death.”

You add the last part just to make him smile. You know he loves drama as much as you do. Maybe even more.

And it works: a quiet laugh escapes him.

“Next time, come sooner.”

“Next time? Hell, I'm never cooking again.”

“Good plan.”

You nod, trying not to look back at the entrance. What did you expect? For Robby to drop everything and come find you? The thought is embarrassing the second it appears. It's ridiculous.

“I really hope I'll see you around. You're a great guy, Abbot.”

That earns you a crooked grin.

“I hope so. You're pretty fun to be around, even when you're bleeding.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it, and you lift your left hand in a wave.

“Have a good shift.”

“You too,” he says automatically. Then he shakes his head. “Actually, don't work at all.”

“Yeah. Don't.”

You freeze.

Of course.

Inhale, exhale.

Robby is standing a few steps behind Jack.

At some point, he'd come outside, and you hadn't heard the door open.

So for a second, all you can do is stare. He looks different out here.

The harsh fluorescent lights of the department make him look untouchable. Outside, beneath the natural sunlight, he looks less composed... less untouchable. Exhausted.

Like whatever walls he keeps so carefully in place inside didn't quite make it through the doors with him.

His scrubs are wrinkled and a bit dirty. His hair is slightly messed up from running his hands through it, you're sure. And there are shadows beneath his eyes you don't remember noticing earlier.

Or maybe you did, and you just weren't letting yourself look for real. You used to kiss this man every morning. You used to bite his arms, caress his cheeks, and touch his hair as many times as you could.

“You shouldn't be using it,” he adds, nodding toward the bandaged hand tucked against your chest.

You shift instinctively.

“I'm not. And I've already said I won't.”

The lie leaves your mouth before you can stop it. But he knows you better than that and he has more power over you than you'd like.

When Robby takes a step closer, the rest of the world seems to blur around the edges: the ambulance bay, the traffic... even Jack standing beside you. All of it fades into background noise.

And only later do you realize Jack is no longer there.

No goodbye, as if he'd taken one look at the two of you and quietly decided this conversation wasn't meant for him (once again).

He's not close enough to crowd you, but it's enough for you to smell the hospital soap and coffee.

Close enough to remember.

“You really waited two hours?” he asks again, quieter now as he brings his left hand to the back of his head, messing up his hair.

The disappointment in his voice catches you off guard, and you can't control the hollow feeling in your stomach. You've always wanted to be good for him. You never cared about what other people thought of you on the level that you cared about Robby's opinion. So your gaze slides past him toward the street.

“Yeah. I didn't feel like sitting in an ER.”

From the corner of your eye, you see his jaw tighten. His gaze lingers on your face, searching, questioning, but you don't give in. You keep your eyes forward. You won't let him know just how much power he still has over you.

“You should've called,” he says.

There it is. Again.

A laugh escapes you.

His audacity...

“Why?”

“Because I would've helped you.”

You almost laugh.

Of course he would've. He would've shown up and made sure you were okay.

And then he would've gone right back to not choosing you.

Because I have a hero complex and I'd help you even though I can't stand being with you.

“You don't get to help me anymore, Robby.”

His expression flickers, like something in your gaze cuts deeper than the words themselves.

“I know you can take care of yourself, but I-”

“I don't care,” you interrupt, keeping your voice as steady as possible despite the tightness in your throat and the pressure building behind your eyes. “You made it pretty clear you don't want me anymore. And I made it clear I'm not interested in being your friend. So no, I don't want your help.”

The sounds of the ambulance bay drift around you. Doors opening. Tires rolling over pavement. Life continuing.

But neither of you moves.

Robby exhales slowly and drags a hand through his hair while you keep your eyes fixed on the thick white bandage wrapped around your palm.

“Is it starting to hurt?” he asks, and the sudden change of subject is almost funny.

Almost.

The anesthetic is wearing off slowly, and so is the adrenaline, but you'll survive until you get home.

“Yeah.”

You see it immediately. The way his shoulders straighten... the way his attention narrows.

Like every part of him is wired to respond to that answer.

He takes a step closer before he seems to realize he's doing it.

“Alternate ibuprofen and Tylenol when it starts throbbing. You shouldn't need anything stronger.”

There he is. Not your Robby... Definitely not your Michael.

Dr. Robinavitch, the Chief of Emergency Medicine at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

Safe territory.

“I'll take something when I get home.”

His gaze lingers.

Not quite staring, but long enough that you're suddenly aware of everything: your posture, your messy hair, your tired eyes. The fact that you've probably got dried tears on your face.

He looks at you like he's trying to remember something.

He looks at you like he's trying to remember something, or maybe fix something... fix you.

Or both.

You're being ridiculous.

“You should keep it dry,” he says eventually. "At least a day. Two if you can.”

“Wow.”

His eyebrows lift slightly.

“Didn't Dr. Langdon just tell me that? It's like you work here or something.”

Usually, that would've earned at least a smirk. He used to love your bratty tone.

This time, it doesn't. His expression barely changes, and the silence that follows settles heavily between you.

Suddenly the joke doesn't feel funny anymore.

Because maybe he doesn't miss this... Maybe this isn't hard for him.

And maybe -just maybe- you were never what he wanted at all.

“Just be careful.”

The words come out softer.

Not doctor-soft.

Dangerous-soft. Boyfriend-soft. The kind of soft that makes your chest hurt. That belongs to a life you don't have anymore.

You feel a fresh wave of frustration rise in your throat.

You can't do this.

“I will.”

You look at him again, and a weird feeling hits you. For one stupid second, you think he's actually going to reach for you.

His hand shifts slightly at his side, then stills.

He doesn't.

You sigh, trying not to be disappointed. You hate yourself for even thinking about it.

What is wrong with you?

“Text me when you get home.”

The words slip out before he can stop them. Like they're instinctive.

You blink a couple of times before you can find the strength to open your mouth.

You need to get the hell out of here.

“No.”

The answer isn't cruel. That's not your intention. It even sounds less firm than you'd like, but it gets the point across.

And for a moment, something in his face falters.

“Right,” he says quietly, as if he's just remembered the nature of your relationship.

Or the lack of it.

You adjust your bag on your shoulder, and the movement feels awkward with only one good hand.

“I'll be fine.”

He nods.

“I know.”

You turn away before he can say anything else. Before you can say something stupid, or even worse, tear up because he looks like he saw a ghost, yet somehow still has time to flirt with his casual ex-flings.

So as you walk, you don't look back.

But somehow you know he's still standing there watching you, just like he watched you leave the first time.

*

By the time you get home, your hand is throbbing in a steady rhythm.

You close the door with your elbow, careful not to put any pressure on the bandaged hand, and lean against it for a moment before making your way to the kitchen.

Everything suddenly feels like too much: the lights are too bright, the apartment is too quiet, and the mess. God, the mess!

The cutting board is still sitting on the counter. Half-chopped vegetables have started to dry at the edges, left exactly where you dropped everything and ran to wash your hand.

For a moment, you just stand there and stare. Then your gaze drops to the thick white bandage wrapped around your palm.

“Fúcking ridiculous,” you mutter.

Whether you're talking about the injury or yourself, you're not entirely sure. You needed seven stitches because you were trying to make yourself dinner.

You make your way to the couch and sink into it carefully. The cushions dip beneath your weight, and that's when the quiet finally catches up with you.

No Jack or Langdon. No monitors beeping in the background.

Just you and the image of Robby standing in the ambulance bay... the look on his face when you told him no. The way he'd watched you leave.

And, despite everything, the memory that hurts the most: Robby's arm around Noelle.

You shift uncomfortably, as though you can physically move the thought away. But of course, it doesn't work.

Because it’s not even about Noelle. It’s about being replaced so quickly while you're still trying to remember how to breathe around the empty space he left behind.

Your fingers curl slightly and the pain shoots through your palm and up your arm immediately.

You hiss through your teeth and force your hand open again. “God, I'm a fúcking idiot!”

Like you were still someone he was allowed to be responsible for.

You knew he was emotionally unavailable, that he was an avoidant, that there was an age gap big enough for everyone to have an opinion about it. But you stayed. You fell in love... you trusted him.

You shake your head.

The worst part is how calm he was, how concerned he still looked.

Your eyes sting before you can stop it.

“No,” you say quietly.

Like that helps.

You pull your phone from your pocket and place it face down on the coffee table before you can do something stupid.

You could text him and tell him exactly what you think of him aka call him a coward and a fúcking asshole. You could say all the things you refused to say eight days ago when he ended it.

You could do a lot of things.

Instead you just sit there, your bandaged hand still aching as something ugly and honest rises up in your chest.

Not sadness, something sharper. Something that needs somewhere to go.

Eventually, you force yourself off the couch in search of ibuprofen, and halfway to the kitchen, a laugh escapes you.

Humorless and pathetic, really.

Because despite everything you miss him.

His stupid, sad smile, his voice, his nose. The way he always stole your fries and pretended he wasn't doing it.

Ten days before you're free.

*

Two days later, it’s worse in a different way.

Not the pain, which you got used to by now. It even became more manageable.

It's the tight, itchy pull under the skin that makes you want to do exactly what you're not supposed to do. To disobey him and prove to yourself you got the power.

You want to use your hand... to test it.

But you don't (except for a few hours when a project deadline leaves you no choice and you're back at your desk, using your hand far more than Langdon, Jack or Robby would've approved of).

You tell yourself it's necessary.

You always tell yourself a lot of things.

*

The message comes on the third day.

Robby: Come in tomorrow morning. Quick check.

No hello. No how are you. No are you available.

Just an instruction. So you stare at it for nearly a minute, then type:

I was told 10 days.

The typing bubble appears immediately.

Disappears.

Appears again.

You hate that your pulse picks up.

Then:

Robby: I know. Just come in when the morning shift starts.

You stare at the message... at the familiar bluntness of it and the complete lack of explanation.

Then you lock your phone and toss it onto the couch beside you as the podcast continues playing in the background.

You have absolutely no idea what they've been talking about for the last ten minutes.

*

You go anyway.

Partly because you're annoyed, and partly because refusing would mean admitting he's gotten under your skin.

The hospital smells exactly the same as it did three days ago: antiseptic and stale coffee.

Jack spots you before you've finished signing in.

“Back already?”

You glance up.

“Apparently I left such a strong impression the boss invited me back.”

His eyes drop to the bandage.

“Follow-up?”

“So I've been told.”

A smile flickers across his face, and you can't help but grin back. He has a kind of charm that disarms you.

“Try not to injure yourself on the way in. Or him. We can't run this hospital without the chief.”

“No promises.”

He walks with you toward the exam rooms, matching your pace without comment. The conversation stays comfortably superficial: the weather, his shift, and the last show you watched - which you're grateful for.

At the nurses' station, he slows. Dana is halfway through updating a chart when she looks up. You exchange a few pleasantries while Jack leans against the counter, listening with a half-smile.

Then Dana's gaze flicks past you toward one of the exam rooms.

Something passes silently between her and Jack, and he straightens immediately.

“Room six.”

“That's it? No dramatic goodbye?”

“I figured you'd had enough medical attention for one week.”

“Fair.”

“Good luck.”

Before you can ask what that's supposed to mean, he's already turning away.

The traitor!

The room is empty when you step inside, but you barely have time to feel relieved before the door opens again.

Robby walks in carrying a chart, and for a second neither of you says anything.

Without the chaos of the emergency department around him, he looks strangely out of place.

Or maybe that's you.

“You came.”

You set your bag down on the chair beside you, keeping your expression neutral as he pumps sanitizer into his palms.

You remember how many times you had to remind him to moisturize his hands, his skin always so dry it looked like it might split open.

“You summoned me via text.”

Something flickers across his face. Annoyance or maybe amusement. You can't tell anymore.

“Sit down.”

There's no point arguing, so you do.

The paper covering the exam table crackles beneath you as you climb up, the sound reminding you of the last time you were here.

Robby pulls on a pair of gloves.

“Let me see it.”

You offer your hand without comment, but for a moment, he doesn't take it.

His gaze drops to the bandage first, studying it like he's already looking for evidence of something worse.

Then his fingers close gently around your wrist as he starts unwrapping it.

The contact is professional, almost detached, but your stupid brain notices anyway.

Layer by layer, the dressing comes away, and he studies the wound in silence.

The stitches hold the edges together neatly now. The swelling has gone down, and the angry redness from the first day has faded into pink.

“Any increased pain?”

“No.”

“Drainage?”

“No.”

“Fever?”

You give him a look.

“No.”

His attention stays fixed on your palm, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

“You've been using it.”

You let out a short laugh.

“That's a bold accusation.”

When his gaze lifts to yours, you want to hit him. It's infuriating how quickly he sees through you.

“You've been working despite our medical advice.”

The certainty in his voice makes it clear it's not a guess.

You look away first.

“I had deadlines.”

“I know.”

Somehow those two words are more irritating than if he'd argued.

Because he does know.

He knows exactly how many hours you'll spend obsessing over a project. What a perfectionist you are. He knows you'll work through headaches, exhaustion, and apparently hand injuries if given the chance.

His thumb hovers near the base of your palm.

“The swelling's worse here.”

Damn it.

You say nothing, and Robby sighs softly- resigned, as though this outcome was entirely predictable.

“You need to leave it alone for a few more days.”

“You sound like a doctor.”

“I am your doctor.”

The silence that follows is familiar, and Robby looks down and resumes wrapping the fresh dressing around your hand, carefully. Methodically. Giving both of you something else to focus on.

When he's finished, he smooths the edge of the bandage into place and steps back.

“You're healing pretty well, despite the fact you haven't been listening.”

You nod, because it should feel reassuring.

Instead, it leaves a hollow ache somewhere beneath your ribs. Healing implies moving on, and you're not sure you've figured out that part yet.

“You'll come back in a week for removal.”

“Yes, doctor.”

His mouth almost curves.

Almost.

You stand quickly and reach for your bag, but neither of you moves for a couple of seconds.

Then, before you can do something stupid, you turn toward the door.

You don't look back.

Not because you don't want to. But because you already know he'll be watching.

*

You try to work.

You really do. The laptop is open on the coffee table, a half-finished design staring back at you from the screen.

But after several minutes of pretending you're accomplishing something, you let your head fall back against the couch and close the laptop.

“Great,” you mutter to the empty apartment. “I'm completely useless. Fantastic!”

Outside, a car passes. Somewhere upstairs, something heavy drops.

Life continues. Unfortunately, so does your brain.

The problem isn't that you keep replaying memories. It's that you keep replaying a sentence.

You can do better than me.

The same calm voice, the same careful expression. As though he'd handed you a gift instead of a goodbye.

Your jaw tightens.

“No, that's bullshit.”

You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when your injured hand protests. Pain flashes through your palm.

“Shit.”

You sink back into the cushions with a groan, but it's not your hand that's upsetting you.

It's the way he left, as though he was doing something responsible. Noble. As though loving you had been a mistake he was finally correcting.

Your phone lies face down beside you, and without thinking, you reach for it.

The screen lights up.

Nothing.

No messages except the family group chat.

No notifications, either.

You stare at it anyway, then open a message box.

I'm happy for you.

You stare at it for three seconds before deleting it.

I wish nothing-

Delete.

A frustrated laugh escapes you.

“God.”

The worst part is that neither statement is entirely false.

You do want him to be happy. You just wish you didn't have to witness it.

The music keeps playing in the background.

At some point, you stopped paying attention to the playlist.

Now it feels like the playlist is paying attention to you.

Alanis Morissette's voice fills the apartment: raw, messy, unapologetically angry.

An older version of me…

A bitter smile tugs at your mouth. Isn't that funny?

“Yeah.”

You rub your eyes.

“You really thought that sounded noble, didn't you?”

The memory of that conversation has somehow become more irritating with time.

Not less... because now you can hear everything he thought he was saying.

You are not a child, and he knows it. You could have handled him telling you he stopped loving you much better than what he actually said.

The song continues.

Did you forget about me, Mr. Duplicity?

That one almost makes you laugh.

“Fúcking hell.”

You shift forward, resting your elbows on your knees, careful of your hand.

Everything is careful now.

The music keeps going and your mind drifts somewhere you don't want it to.

Toward Noelle. Toward possibilities. Toward images you never invited into your head.

Maybe they want the same things... Maybe he wants a baby with her.

You never really considered having kids. You can't imagine yourself in that position, and Robby knows it. You were honest from the get-go.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Nope.”

Your finger points at nothing.

“We're not doing that.”

But your imagination ignores you completely.

Of course it does.

A familiar laugh, a familiar smile, a mini-version of Robby... life continuing without you.

Your stomach tightens.

Not jealousy exactly.

Something uglier.

Much uglier.

I'm sure she'd make a really excellent mother.

You've heard these a hundred times before, but now they feel like they were always about you.

And every time you speak her name

Does she know how you told me

You'd hold me until you died?

Is this what grieving a relationship feels like?

Because it's so humiliating it almost hurts more than the loss itself.

You don't want revenge or to see him miserable. You don't even want him back if being with you made him unhappy. If he truly thinks you're too young, too immature, too much of whatever it was that finally convinced him to walk away with no regrets.

You just want proof that you mattered. That he didn't walk away and immediately become -again- someone else's person. That somewhere beneath all that careful self-control and rational decision-making, there's still a place where you exist. A scar. A memory.

The thought settles heavily in your chest. Now you understand why you've been listening to this stupid song on repeat.

Beneath all that anger is a woman desperately trying to convince herself she wasn't forgettable. That she was loved.

It feels really pathetic.

You drag a hand over your face.

“God, I sound insane.”

But you reach for your phone anyway and hit replay.

*

The removal is simple and fast: clip, lift, pull.

There’s no real pain, just a faint tugging beneath the skin, more memory than sensation.

So you watch him work. Not your hand. Him.

Because this version of him is always like this: controlled, in command, careful in a way that feels effortless.

And it’s unfair how good he looks like this. Glasses on, focused, entirely elsewhere while still being right in front of you.

“You’ve been using it,” he says without looking up.

There had been no real conversation before this, just the quiet logistics of being here. He was waiting at the nurses’ station while Jack finished the handover, you assume.

When the last stitch is out, he doesn’t move immediately. Just checks the skin, thumb hovering near the edge as if confirming something only he can see.

Then he wraps it anyway.

Habit, maybe.

“You’re healed,” he says finally.

“I’m free.”

You don’t know what kind of freedom you mean.

A quiet exhale slips out of him... almost a laugh, before the silence settles again.

You flex your fingers once. Strange how quickly something that was broken can feel like it belongs to you again.

Like it never left at all.

Then you look at him, suddenly making up your mind. It feels like the last real chance to say what’s been sitting in your chest for days. You deserve better closure than silence... and better than what he gave you. You need to do this for your own peace.

“I want you to know something,” you say.

His attention shifts fully now as he waits for you to continue.

“I’m happy for you.”

The words land exactly the way you expect them to. Something in his expression tightens... not surprise, not relief. Recognition.

“I wish you and Noelle nothing but the best,” you add. “I guess she really made an impression on you. You ended up all cozy in the hospital barely a week after we broke up.”

You hope this makes him feel like shit. Because it isn’t really about Noelle.

He exhales through his nose, controlled, and you can't read his expression. His shoulders tense, his expression being unreadable in a way that only makes you more certain you’ve hit something real.

“What are you doing?”

No denial. That alone tells you enough.

You were right.

“I’m not quite as well,” you say, your tone so even it almost sounds detached, like you’re commenting on the weather instead of opening your chest and handing him your heart once again.

And the moment it leaves your mouth, you regret it.

Because it’s too honest and real, and it gives him something he doesn’t deserve anymore.

His jaw tightens.

“Don’t,” he says.

He drags a hand through his hair, and you notice it now: the smallest crack in his control. Not panic exactly, just something closer to discomfort. Or guilt.

You almost smile as pick up your bag.

Then stop. Because if you leave now, it becomes clean.

And this isn’t clean, so you turn back.

“I thought you should know you were wrong,” you say.

A beat.

“I didn’t need better than you.”

Your voice stays steady, but something underneath it fractures anyway. You just needed your Michael.

“I just needed you to stay. Or if you were going to leave, you should’ve said it properly. You should’ve told me there was someone else. Or that you didn’t love me anymore. Not… that.”

The words leave you all at once, sharp and unfiltered, like there’s nothing left to protect anymore. You have nothing more to lose.

For a moment, he doesn’t respond at all. He continues to stare at the wall, then the floor, then your shoes before he finally meets your eyes.

Then, very quietly:

“You should go.”

And something in you almost laughs at how predictable it is. How final. How cleanly he can end things when it suits him.

Your throat tightens. It becomes hard to breathe in a way you can’t fully hide. Your eyes sting, that familiar pressure building behind them until your vision blurs at the edges.

You swallow hard, but it doesn’t go away. It just sits there: heavy, humiliating, like your body is betraying you for still caring.

A short, broken sound slips out of you before you give him what he asked for.

“Well then,” you say, voice lower now, steadier in a different way. “Every time I scratch my nails down someone else’s back.” You pause, holding his gaze. “I hope you feel it.”

The silence after that is immediate. But it's far from empty... it's charged as his expression shifts. Something in him stills completely.

He exhales slowly, tension pulling through his neck and jaw, a faint flush rising there.

When he speaks, his voice is lower now, colder.

“We’re done here.”

*

The next evening settles in too easily and that bothers you.

Like nothing important happened at all.

You tried to focus on work all day, but you can barely get anything done between meetings. Even music doesn’t fill the space properly anymore.

Eventually, you stop pretending it isn’t eating at you, and the phone is already in your hand before you realize you reached for it.

Your thumb rests over the screen as you tell yourself you don’t care what happens next.

But you do.

You think about yesterday, not the words exactly, but the tone.

We’re done here.

Clean. Practiced. Efficient. Like you were just another patient he needed out of the room.

Did your relationship really mean nothing? Did you mean nothing?

The thought of Noelle slips in again, uninvited.

What did he see in her that he can't see in you? What is so special about her? What kind of power does he have to make you still think about him after everything?

Something shifts inside you subtly, almost quietly.

Permission.

He always said you were too kind.

Maybe today you are petty. Maybe you always were, just quieter about it before.

And maybe he deserves to feel all of it.

Your grip tightens around the phone.

“Fúcking asshole.”

Your fingers move before you can think about his feelings and stop yourself.

Sent.

Can you feel it?

[thatfanficstuff]

A Meeting in the Moonlight - M. Robinavitch

Werewolf!Robby x Witch!Reader

synopsis: You meet a very special wolf on the night of the full moon

notes/warnings: An AU where supernatural beings are known and accepted. This is so floofy. If you guys like it I'm totally up for at least a part two. Inspired by an ask from @crazyunsexycool about werewolf Robby finding his mate while in wolf form.

wc: 3.6k

The bench was old, worn, comfortable. The park was empty save for you, most people reluctant to be out during a full moon. Despite the relative safety, old superstitions ran deep. You were more than content to have the whole place to yourself. The moon was bright and revitalizing. You tipped your face up as you enjoyed the sensation of the moon humming through you like a current. It buzzed along your bones and pricked your skin.

As a witch you had an intimate relationship with the phases of the moon. Some good for one thing, others for another. But the full moon was your favorite. It was when you recharged your batteries so to speak. When you felt at peace with the world.

The night was quiet, the noises of the city fading into the background. The breeze carried a chill and you shoved your hands into the pockets of your jacket to keep them warm. Then you felt it. A presence intruding on the perimeter you’d set in your mind. Behind you, moving closer. A steady, silent approach. But no sense of danger came with it.

You didn’t look right away. If magic had taught you anything, it was patience. You sat perfectly still, tracking the movement until a huff of breath came from directly behind the bench. Only then did you turn.

The wolf was enormous, easily twice the size of any natural animal. His coat was dark with flecks of gray scattered throughout. His shoulders were broad and muscled, his head massive. He stared for a moment before moving around the bench to stand in front of you. His ears were forward, his tail low and swinging in a slow, measured rhythm. Not aggressive. Not even cautious. If you had to pinpoint the behavior, you’d call it attentive.

You kept your hands in your lap now instead of your pockets and watched him. He stood close enough you could feel the heat radiating off of him, could smell the clean, wild scent of him. He held your gaze. His eyes were dark brown, almost black in the moonlight and full of awareness and assessment that told you this was no mere animal. There was no threat, simply…recognition.

You stared at one another for one beat, then two. Then he lowered his head and laid the full weight of it in your lap. He was solid, warm. The whine that accompanied the action was a low, plaintive sound that vibrated through you. He watched you with those soft brown eyes. Waiting.

Your hands hovered for a moment before sinking in the thick fur. In that second, you felt something slide into place inside of you with a deep, instinctive knowing. You shifted your hold and began to scratch behind his ears.

He exhaled, a full body release that softened every line of his body. His weight settled more firmly against your legs, his eyes half closing. As your attention continued, he made a small satisfied noise in the back of his throat. His eyes held a human quality in them that was unmistakable. Intelligence and a focus that didn’t belong on anything living solely on instinct.

He had been looking for you, you were almost certain. He’d crossed the park with a single-minded determination and had found you sitting on the bench. Then he’d put his head in your lap like he was coming home.

You knew what this was. Felt it the moment you touched him and the universe suddenly seemed right, complete. You tilted your head. “You’re my mate.”

The wolf lifted his head from your lap. For a moment he just looked at you, his dark eyes steady and intent. And then he whined again, louder this time, with a hint of desperation that wasn’t there before. Before you had time to attempt to figure out what he wanted, he lowered his muzzle and closed his teeth around your wrist.

Your breath caught. His jaws were enormous, capable of crushing bone. But his teeth didn’t press, settling against you with extraordinary gentleness. The pressure was so light it was almost absent. It was just the faint weight of his mouth and the light scrape of a canine against your pulse. Then he tugged.

Not hard. Just enough to say come with me.

“Okay, okay,” you said as you stood.

He released you immediately, leaving not a mark behind. He turned away from the bench and took three steps before he stopped and looked over his shoulder, those dark eyes finding yours. Checking.

You followed.

He led you out of the park and into the city. He moved with purpose, keeping a steady pace that had you taking wide strides to match it. Every half-block or so he would glance back, making sure you were still there. Still following. At crosswalks he paused, waiting for the light even when the street was empty. His nose constantly twitched as he picked up scents from the air. He stopped at lampposts and fire hydrants, sniffing, tracing whatever trail led him on.

You walked past closed storefronts with their security gates pulled down, past a bar with sound spilling from inside. A man stood just past the door nodded at you as you passed, did a double-take at the wolf, then shrugged and went back to his cigarette.

The wolf led you through blocks you didn’t know, turning corners and leading you down questionable alleyways, though you didn’t fear. Between your own abilities and your wolf tour guide, you figured you were safe enough. Then, suddenly, the hospital rose into the night sky in front of you.

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. The building was massive. The wolf led you around to the ambulance bay. He stopped at the edge of the pavement, right where driveway turns to walkway and turned to you.

The he shoved his head hard against your hip. The push was insistent, not rough as he nudged you toward the glass doors of the ambulance bay. You put a hand flat on top of his head. “Do you know someone here?”

He let out a frustrated whine and shoved harder. His entire weight leaned into your hip now, steering you toward the doors.

“We can’t just walk into the hospital. I’m pretty sure there are rules about wolves roaming the halls.”

The wolf sat down and stared up at you. His dark eyes were unblinking. You looked down at him. He looked up at you. The standoff lasted a good minute.

“Fine,” you said, finally.

You walked up to the doors and they slid open. A man in black scrubs with a Dunkin cup in one hand glanced over at the sound. He frowned as he saw you standing there. He moved closer. “Can I help you?”

You pointed at your companion, who was still sitting on the concrete right where you’d left him, watching the exchange with what you would have sworn was amusement.

“Does anyone here belong to him?” you asked.

The man’s brows raised and he grinned as he looked at the wolf. “This is fantastic. Just hold on one second.” And with that, the man who never introduced himself disappeared into the halls of the hospital.

You turned back to the wolf. He was still watching you, his tail wagging in slow arcs.

“Well, that was not helpful in the least.”

He blinked at you and you could have sworn he was laughing.

A low concrete wall ran along the edge of the ambulance bay, keeping the minimal landscaping at bay. You settled onto it, the cold seeping through your jeans and the wolf was there before you even fully found your balance. His head dropped into your lap with the certainty of a creature that had decided your lap belonged to him now. You didn’t question it as one hand found the soft fur under his chin and began to scratch.

A low, rumbling vibration of contentment came from him. One of his massive paws joined his head in your lap. You scratched under his chin and waited. The night had grown colder and the warmth of the wolf against your legs was welcome. “Would you like to see a trick?” you asked after a moment.

His ears flicked forward and his gaze met yours. You held out the hand that wasn’t occupied with running through his fur and produced a small ball of blue light you ran over fingers and back again. His tail wagged enthusiastically as he huffed out a breath. High praise, you were sure.

The door slid open and a man in scrubs stepped outside. His gaze found you and you waved a hand through the air to dismiss the light. He took in the scene before him. You on the wall, the enormous wolf with his head in your lap, your hand scratching under the chin before occasionally drifting up to get the spot behind his ears. His face split into a grin wide enough to show teeth and crinkle the skin by his eyes. The laugh that came from him was part surprise and part pure delight.

He walked over to stand in front of you and the wolf lifted his head from your lap just enough to look at the man who reached out and ruffled the fur between his ears with a casual affection.

“Hey, brother,” he said to the wolf. Then he looked at you, still grinning and extended a hand. “Jack Abbot. Night shift attending.” You shook his hand and he said, “Might I ask who you are and how you know our friend here?”

You told him your name before you explained everything. The park. The moon. The wolf finding you on that bench and declaring you were his in the most fundamental way possible. Then you explained about the bond between the two of you.

Jack’s grin grew impossibly wider with every sentence. By the time you finished, he was practically vibrating, his eyes bright with something that looked suspiciously like triumph.

“He led you here?” Jack asked. “Just…follow me human, we’re going to the hospital?”

“Basically.”

Jack looked the wolf. The wolf looked back at Jack and you could have sworn they were silently communicating about something. “This is incredible,” Jack said, and he wasn’t talking to you. He was talking to the wolf who lowered his head back into your lap with what could only be described as smug satisfaction. “Absolutely incredible. I’ve been working with this man for years and I never—” He stopped, shook his head, and the grin came back full force. “Never mind. This is perfect. This is absolutely perfect.”

He watched you for another moment before leaning forward and dropping his voice. “So, you up for a little fun?”

The wolf in your lap made a small curious sound, his ears flicking forward.

Jack’s grin didn’t waver as he waited for your answer. The anticipation on his face was infectious and entirely terrifying.

Robby walked through the doors of the ED at ten the next morning, three hours into day shift as was the routine when he was scheduled the night after a full moon. Jack always covering the extra time without complaint. Robby was exhausted as he always was after a run, but he felt oddly invigorated.

Jack was at the nurses’ station, sitting as he typed at the computer. He looked up as Robby dropped his bag beside him and a grin spread across his face.

“Morning,” Robby said with a lifted brow. “You seem in oddly good spirits. How was the shift?”

Jack’s grin didn’t budge as he shrugged one shoulder. “Same as always. Nothing remarkable.” He paused, his head tilting slightly, the amusement in his expression increasing. “How was your run?”

Robby ran a hand through his hair, feeling the residual stiffness in his shoulders, the soreness in his muscles that came from a night spent as something other than human. “Good. Really good, I think.”

He remembered fragments. The park. A rabbit. Moving through the city. The feeling of something pressing, urgent. He tapped his temple with one finger. “Nothing. The usual black hole. But I feel like…something happened. Something important but I can’t fucking place it.”

Jack’s mouth twitched, his eyes crinkling at the corners as that grin somehow got wider. He reached out and clapped Robby on the shoulder. “Langdon’s been holding down the fort. Have a fantastic day, brother. I’m out.” Jack grabbed the bag that Robby hadn’t noticed at his feet and headed toward the doors without a backward glance.

Robby frowned after him. That was…odd. Jack Abbot was many things. Subtle was not one of them. Whatever had that expression on his face was something he was savoring and Robby was almost certain it was going to somehow bite him in the ass.

You arrived at PTMC just before noon, checking in at the front and giving your name before being let through. A blonde glanced up as you moved through the chaos toward the central hub. “Dana?” you asked, making an educated guess based on what Jack had told you.

Her gaze flicked over you from head to toe and one side of her mouth curled up as she said your name. With a nod, you confirmed your identity and she smiled wide. “Jack filled me in, said you’re here as part of Gloria’s new initiative to increase the presence of magical healing in the hospital, right?”

You nodded again. It was Jack’s idea. The program was real enough and you actually were a witch trained in healing magic. He’d submitted your name himself this morning and texted you when he got approval. The best cover stories were the most truthful ones, after all.

Jack convinced you to spend a day with Robby as a human before telling him who you were to him. Something about driving his best friend crazy before letting him in on the secret. He’d seemed so giddy at the idea you’d agreed without much argument. It was unlikely Robby would remember anything about the night before, anyway. Getting to know him this way seemed infinitely preferable to just showing up with a wave and saying, “Hey, I’m your mate. How are you doing?”

Robby stood in North Four with a med student and a third-year resident, watching as the student conducted a neuro exam. His arms were crossed over his chest as he observed. The resident was correcting a small error the student had made when Robby’s spine straightened.

A scent drifted to him. Warm and layered and completely out of place in an emergency department. Something rich and complex that smelled like rain, the earth and a note he couldn’t name but that pulled at him all the same.

His chin lifted and his nostrils flared. His focus narrowed to a single point, that scent and the direction it had come from. “Finish the assessment. Let me know if you have any questions,” he announced to the room in general.

He didn’t wait for a response. He was already moving, following the scent through the department before he had fully processed what he was doing. The scent led him past staff and countless patients until finally, there you were.

You stood beside Dana, one hip leaning against the counter. You were saying something while Dana listened intently.

Robby stopped when he was maybe fifteen feet from you. Close enough his eyes registered little details about your appearance, about the way you held your hands. Close enough that the scent swamped him.

He knew you.

The certainty was bone deep and inexplicable. He had never seen you before in his life, yet every instinct he possessed insisted that he knew you as well as he knew his own name. There was no memory attached to the recognition, just the raw, incontrovertible fact that he knew you.

Dana glanced over and saw him standing there. Her eyebrow lifted along with the corner of her lips. “Robby.” He stepped closer and she introduced you by a name that meant nothing to him. “She’s part of Gloria’s new program. Here to observe only today.”

You turned to fully face him and your eyes met. “Hi.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Hi.”

He was still trying to figure this out, this familiarity, this pull when you lifted your left hand. A flick of your fingers and a small ball of blue light appeared. You let it run over your fingers and back again before another flick had it vanishing from sight. It was the kind of thing a witch did without thinking, the magical equivalent of clicking a pen.

For a moment, Robby was completely lost to you. A feeling of security that he didn’t understand at all flowed through him. He was all the more certain that he knew you. That you were important. This was driving him insane.

Realizing that he’d been staring in silence for far too long, he cleared his throat.  “I should…Patients. I have patients.”

He made himself turn around. Made himself walk through the halls and find another resident to observe, another med student with a question. Anything he could focus on besides you.

He failed miserably.

For the rest of the afternoon, he found reasons to be wherever you were. When you were at the hub, he appeared with a question for Dana he already knew the answer to. Each time, his eyes found you, watching you make notes or talk to some of the staff. He slowed his pace as he passed a bay where you were holding the hand of a small fae child that was awaiting the arrival of her parents. When you were in the break room, he had a sudden need for coffee despite the four cups he’d already had that day. When work pulled him away, he immediately sought you out when he finished, needing to know where you were and if you were safe.

The department continued around the two of you. Traumas came in. Labs were ordered. Consults were called for. Students were taught. And through it all, that scent pulled at him. It was mouth watering and maddeningly familiar. But every moment spent in your presence brought him no closer to understanding.

Jack arrived ten minutes before his shift was due to start. The rest of the night shift was filtering in as well, day shift starting their handoffs. He found Robby at the hub, a tablet laying on the counter in front of him that he was absolutely ignoring. In fact, he hadn’t looked at it in ten minutes. He leaned against he counter, arms crossed as he watched you talk with one of the nurses, hands moving. Perlah was laughing and you were smiling, the expression making Robby’s chest feel tight.

Jack stopped beside him. He looked at you, then to Robby and back to you. Then he laughed, the sound drawing Robby’s attention away from his staring. “You are so far gone,” Jack said. He still had that stupid grin on his face.

Robby shook his head and huffed in irritation. “I can’t focus. I feel like I know her from somewhere. I’ve been like this all day. It doesn’t make any sense.” He ran a hand over his beard, smoothing it down. “I should introduce the two of you. Maybe you can place her.”

Jack’s grin turned smug. “Oh, I already met her. You introduced us.”

Robby turned to look at him, the movement slow and deliberate. His body orienting with the same focused intent his wolf used when tracking a scent. “What?”

“Last night.” Jack leaned against the counter, mirroring Robby’s posture. “Found her in the ambulance bay just before midnight. Sitting on the wall with a very large wolf’s head in her lap.”

Robby went perfectly, utterly still.

“She was scratching under his chin, behind his ears. Like she’d known him for years. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. And he was letting her. Head right there in her lap, eyes half-closed, making these little content noises. You know the ones.” His voice had dropped to a lower register, almost gentle though the mischief was still present.

Robby knew the sounds he was referring to, the satisfied rumbling sounds his wolf made at his happiest. When he felt safe.

“He led her all the way here from some park downtown. Said he put his head in her lap then whined at her until she got up and followed him here.” Jack paused, searching his friend’s face. “He brought her right to the doors and then sat down until she got Shen’s attention. He got me and there you have it.”

Robby’s mouth had gone dry. The pieces assembled themselves in his head with a slow certainty. The scent that had pulled him across the department, the recognition with no context.

“I’d only go to someone like that if…” he trailed off, the words hanging there for a beat before he said, “Oh.”

His gaze shifted back to where your conversation with Perlah had been joined by Princess. A warmth settled over him as he realized the scent he had been chasing all day had been following him first. From a park through the city under a full moon to the feet of his best friend.

You looked up, your eyes meeting across an emergency department filled with a scent he could finally, definitively name. Your gaze flicked to Jack and back to Robby and you smiled, warm and welcoming.

He did not look away.

Robby Masterlist

[madprincessinabox]

two of my favorite men of the moment in the same picture 😭🥰😍

[madprincessinabox]

Did I just created a new playlist for Ruben?

Yes, I did.

So far I've added the ones Richard has mentioned in his interviews, looking for more to add 👀

[opulentpeony]

turbulence - older brother!pope x little sister!reader x stepfather!charlie

word count: 5.1k warnings: dead dove: do not eat, non-consensual touching + voyeurism (by charlie!), fauxcest, use of the words brother and sister in bed (whoops!), unprotected sex, squirting, fingerfucking, thigh riding, choking, cum play/creampie, possessive behavior, age gap (20s/40s), masturbation, you call smurf "mom" (in general, not in a sexual context) and charlie "dad" (reluctantly) summary: no one has heard from smurf in weeks, until she tells you all to come over for family dinner and to dress nicely. because she just eloped in vegas a few days ago and she wants you all on your best behavior to meet your new stepfather, charlie reid.  but when pope sees the way charlie looks at you, your big brother is not happy with the way you stare back… 

a/n: new family member, yippee! the next part of this will be charlie-focused but gotta add in some plot (and of course, messed up porn!) 

technically you dont have to read the first part to read this but it would help! im going to try my best to make every snippet their own little “starting point” so ppl can hop in whenever they desire in this nasty alternate universe lmao…

hope it's a sick read ♡

“Wear that blue dress I got you, baby.” Smurf tells you over the phone.

“It's too hot to wear that one, mom.” It's a long sleeve dress that's super short, so you always wear it with tights or you're afraid you might flash someone.

She chuckles, loving that you, of all of her children, actually call her “mom”. Even though you're the only one in the family who isn't related by blood, like Baz. 

“It's just family, baby. You don't have to worry. No one will look up your skirt. Wear that one. Your dad loves that color.” 

“He's not my dad.” You bite back a groan, not wanting to seem unsupportive but…

Smurf randomly dropped off the grid for two weeks. You and your brothers have been worried sick, only for her to come back with a giant rock on her finger and a man fifteen years younger than her. A man who is less than a decade older than Pope.

Who looks eerily similar to your big brother. 

At least, that's what J texted you, since him and Nicky are the only ones currently living in the house, so he met Charlie Reid first. 

J: I got a bad feeling about him. Apparently he's a cop. I don't know what the hell Smurf is doing…

You: Just keep an eye out. Is he living there?

J: No. Didn't even spend the night. He's got an apartment near the station by the beach. I'll try scoping it out when he's busy with Smurf. 

You: Be careful. Need my help? 

J: Maybe. I'll let you know. 

“If it'll make you happy, I'll wear it.” You'll have to hope the weather is nice tonight and it's not too hot once the sun sets. “Can Pope and I stay over? I want to swim after.” 

“You never have to ask. It's your house too.” 

“Well, I don't want to bother you and…dad.” You try not to sound too strange when you say that out loud. 

Smurf doesn't know that J told you that her and Charlie don't live or sleep together, so it should be a reasonable statement for you to make. You have to pretend like you're clueless. 

“You've always been such a sweet girl, worrying about everyone else. We would love to have you spend the night. Are you and Pope okay with sharing a room? I've got a full house tonight.”

“Sure. If Pope doesn't like sleeping on the floor, he can move to the living room.” You say since you can't let your mom know you've been sleeping with your older brother ever since you moved in with him…

“I'll make it nice and cozy then. See you both at seven. Don't be late.” She hangs up the phone then. 

“I'm not dressing nice to meet some guy.” Pope is purposefully wearing a black shirt and some jeans. 

He doesn't like how adorable you look in that dress. It's the kind of look he wishes he could keep to himself. He still can't believe Smurf is the one who bought you that dress. 

It is entirely too short for you not to wear with tights. Pope can see your underwear, a simple black pair, peeking through with every slight movement you make. 

“He's our dad now.” You look over at Pope, who has been hovering over you in the bathroom this whole time as you get ready. “Maybe Smurf fell in love.”

That makes Pope scoff. “Yeah, right. I heard he's a cop. There's only one reason a cop would be interested in our mother.” 

“I'm sure they have some deal going on.” Not that you really care. 

You're just grateful you don't live over there and have to witness whatever strange relationship your mother has with your new stepfather. Moving in with Pope was a great decision in this case. 

Pope definitely doesn't want to witness anything. He grimaces at the idea of Smurf getting intimate with someone, especially when the guy supposedly looks like Pope, just a few years older. 

He walks up behind you, staring at the way you're applying lip gloss in the bathroom. He still hasn't kissed you, at least not on the lips yet. He wants to, but there hasn't been a good opportunity yet. 

Now this family dinner is cutting into his time with you. He wants to spend every second of his day with you alone. 

Pope slides his hands under the skirt of your dress, lifting it up enough for him to see the round curve of your ass. He's already growing hard in his jeans. 

“Don't even think about it, Andrew.” You glare over at him via the mirror. 

“Why not?” He slips his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, slowly pulling them down. 

You grab his wrist in protest. “Stop that.”

He steps closer, but moves his hands off your underwear. You think he's actually stopping so you go back to finishing up your face. 

Only for him to hook your underwear aside and slip two fingers into you all of a sudden. “Andrew!”

You bite down on your lip, tasting the flavored lip gloss as he curls his fingers inside of you. You can't concentrate now, your hands dropping your makeup and grabbing a hold of the sink. 

You really need to stop letting him get away with doing this to you…but it feels so good. He has gotten a little too good at finding your sweet spots with his fingertips, grazing them over and over again. 

Pope pays attention for a reason. He likes making you cum. He likes how you're struggling to grip onto the sink, your hips trying their best not to sway to the rhythm of his fingers thrusting inside of you. You want to cum but he's keeping you right on the edge. 

When you start to let out desperate little whimpers, Pope adds another finger before whispering in your ear, “I want you to have my cum sitting inside of you while we eat with our family.” 

Those words are enough to make you cum, ruining this pair of underwear immediately. 

You're so slick between your legs. He could slip right in…

“I told you that next time we fuck, you have to wear a condom.” You aren't going to get pregnant right now of all times. 

“I'll get you the morning after pill again.” Pope can't possibly wait. He also would rather have his cum be inside of you than wasted in a condom. “Can't you start taking birth control?” 

“You like cumming inside of me that much?” Your question is answered with more rough thrusts of his fingers, your legs wobbling. “Oh god, I'm going to cum again already…”

“Not yet.” He pulls his fingers out of you, making you hide the whine that threatens to leave your lips. “I want my little sister to cum on her big brother's cock.” 

You stare at the way his eyes are fixated on you. He doesn't even notice how he looks in the mirror. He's focused on unzipping his jeans and pulling his cock out to line up at your entrance, hooking your underwear aside. 

You close your eyes when he sinks into you, a moan escaping your lips uncontrollably as he fills you up. He feels even bigger from this angle, standing up like this from behind. 

“You love my cock, don't you?” He slips his hand down to play with your clit through the soaked fabric of your underwear. The friction feels incredible. 

“Yes, I do.” You'll admit it. He's got a huge cock. The biggest you've taken. “I love getting fucked by my older brother.” 

Your words make him chuckle, so amused. “I really did fuck you up.” 

“Hurry up and just fill me with your cum already.” You check your phone, the time getting closer to seven than you'd like. You definitely don't want to be late for dinner because you and Pope were fucking. 

“You're going to look so good with my cum dripping out of your pussy all of dinner.” He says the moment he starts to ram his cock deeper inside of you, his thrusts getting rougher. “Maybe you shouldn't even wear underwear. You'd soiled them right away anyways.” 

“I don't think you'd want our brothers or our new dad to see my pussy, do you?” 

“If it's leaking my cum, they can stare all they want.” Pope growls into your ear. “They'll know your pussy is all mine. And I'll remind you of that again after dinner.”

“You're going to fuck me in our house? With our family sleeping next door?” You can't even hide how turned on you are, the wet sounds getting louder, echoing in the small bathroom. 

Pope can feel your pussy clenching around him, letting out a dark laugh in response. “I'd fuck you right on the dinner table if you let me.” 

You cum so hard when he says that, imagining him bending you over, fucking you from behind just like this, in front of everyone. You'd never let him do that, but the thought of it is enough to have you squirting all over his cock. 

“Maybe I'd throw you down on that table and eat you out instead. You'd probably taste better than whatever Smurf cooked for us.” Pope licks his lips at that image, of you sprawled out on the dinner table with his head between your legs, your hand in his hair, your hips grinding against his face as you cum all over it. 

He definitely needs to do that soon. He hasn't tasted your lips or your pussy yet and he could cum just thinking about how good you must taste. 

Pope can feel how pent up he is. He's going to cum a lot right now. But he'll cum even more if you tighten up. 

So, he reaches up to your neck, wrapping his hand around the delicate column of your throat, before he presses down on the center with his thumb, cutting off your air. You try to gasp in response but it doesn't come out. He holds your face steady, forcing you to look and watch as he chokes you while he pounds into your pussy. 

“Look at how glazed over your eyes are. Our whole family is going to know you were just freshly fucked by your big brother.” He squeezes your throat harder and you completely burst, your orgasm crashing through you so violently that your body is shaking in his grip. “I want to see you cum harder than that. Rub your clit while I fuck you.”

You listen, your hand slipping between your legs, feeling how obscenely wet you are. You rub your clit through the fabric, your eyes rolling back when you cum from the sudden rush of pleasure. You keep going, rubbing your clit raw while Pope grips your throat with both hands, choking you more, as he pounds his cock over and over into your pussy. 

You've completely ruined your makeup from the tears that drip out of your eyes from the intensity of how much you're dripping between your legs with every orgasm. You can't stop cumming, your vision going black from the lack of air and the waves of endless euphoria. 

Pope has you completely at his mercy. “My baby sister is so beautiful when she's cumming so hard on my cock. You really like being choked, don't you?”

His hands grip your throat tighter and you squirt on his cock in response, unable to help it. It doesn't end because his hot release triggers you to burst at the seams, the tension in your body unraveling all at once. 

Pope grinds his hips against you, wanting to make sure his cum is buried deep. “Tighten up. You need to keep my cum inside of you. Don't let too much of it leak out.” 

“I don't think I can.” You whine as he pulls his cock out and you can feel it starting to leak already. 

“You have to try.” Pope cups your pussy, making you tremble. “Put your hand right here while I go get you another pair of underwear. A nice white pair, so we can see exactly how much you let drip out later.” 

You replace his hand over your pussy and wait patiently for Pope to come back. He slips your old ruined pair off and then helps you put on the new pair. 

You could cum just from the feeling of his release sitting inside of you. You quickly fix your makeup as best you can then you let Pope grab your hand, leading you out to his truck. 

You squirm a little in the passenger seat, the wetness between your legs already flooding into your new underwear. Pope loves how distraught you look, how embarrassed you must be, how incredibly adorable you look with your legs pressed together so desperately trying to stop more of him from leaking out of you. 

“You'll be fine.” Pope puts his hand on your thigh and you nearly moan from the sudden touch. 

You definitely aren't fine…

Because Deran had invited Adrian to come eat family dinner with all of you. And there simply are not enough seats for everyone now to eat outside at the table. 

Until Nicky jokes that she can sit on J's lap, after seeing Lena sitting on Baz's lap. So Pope replies by saying that if you sit on his, there will be enough chairs for everyone else then.

You give him a panicked look but he just smiles back at you, patting his lap. You watch as Nicky easily sits on J's lap. 

Then, you flinch when you feel a hand on the small of your back. You look up and see Charlie. 

J was right. He does look like an older version of Pope…how freaky. 

Almost as freaky as him going, “you can always sit on your dad's lap if you don't want to sit on your brother's.” 

He then laughs at your flustered expression, obviously having said it as a joke. Or well, he wants you to think it's just a joke.

Charlie is being very serious. He'd love to see you in that blue dress of yours, sitting pretty on his lap. Grinding against his cock, whimpering, begging him to make you cum. 

Smurf said you were beautiful but his thoughts are going much further than they would for a beautiful girl. You're special. 

“She'll sit on my lap, like she used to.” Pope gestures for you to hurry over and you do, trying not to think about how Charlie's hand had slipped lower, grabbing your ass before you moved away from him. 

You don't know if it really happened or if you were just so panicked about having Pope's cum dripping down your thigh that you made it up in your head. 

You didn't make it up in your head. Charlie definitely slips his hand over your ass, his fingers sinking in between your legs just enough to feel your slick on his fingertips. 

You're very wet, much to his surprise. 

Haven't you been at home with your older brother this whole time? 

It only takes him one touch to suss out the relationship between you and Pope. Though, maybe everyone else is just clueless and can't see the way Pope has his hand resting on your thigh, his fingers practically between your legs. But Charlie sees. 

He's been trained to notice those little details. His new family is going to be a lot of fun. And he is going to have a lot of fun with his new daughter…

“I'll go grab the drinks.” Charlie says to the family before he heads inside, opening the fridge. He takes that moment to lick the tips of his fingers, tasting you, wishing he had dipped a little further so he could've had a bit more to coat his tongue with. His cock is getting hard already at the thought of you sitting on his face. 

You watch as Charlie comes back with the beers, handing everyone at the table one. When he gets to you and Pope, he asks, “do you like beer, kid?” 

“Yeah.” You take it from him. 

“How about you, son?” Charlie asks Pope, who glares at him.

“I'm not your son.” Pope pops open your beer for you on the table. “And I'm not drinking. I'm driving my sister home later.” 

“Aw, baby, you're not going to swim anymore?” Smurf asks with a little frown. “I thought you were staying the night.”

“I forgot my swimwear.” You were going to wear it under this dress but you sort of forgot to, given everything that happened earlier…

“I'm sure I still have something of yours that fits.” Smurf says, wanting you and Pope to stay. “It's been a long time since the house was this full. I'd hate for you two to miss out on the sleepover.” 

“Maybe next time.” Pope states flatly. “I want to sleep in my own bed before it gets too late.” 

“Then Charlie can drive your sister home once she's done swimming. You don't have to stay the night if you don't want to, baby.” Her words piss Pope off. As if he's going to let some stranger drive you home. 

“I wouldn't mind. You both live near me, anyways.” 

“Where do you live?” You ask him, curious. 

“I think just a few doors down. We're practically neighbors.” Charlie replies, maintaining a smile that unnerves you. “You can come over whenever Andrew is bothering you too much.” 

“Don't call me Andrew.” Pope reserves that for you and you alone. 

“Alright, Pope.” Charlie purposefully says it with a weird cadence. 

“What the fuck are you doing here, Charlie?” Pope says his name back with the same weird cadence. “What is a cop doing marrying Smurf?” 

Pope asks what you all are thinking but no one has been ready to say yet. 

“She's a lovely woman.” Charlie puts his hand out and Smurf holds it, but there is no real intimacy in it. 

Though, maybe you're the only one that notices that. You're the only one who is noticing the way Charlie has his eyes locked on you. Because if Pope noticed, he would kill his new father. 

“Smurf, we all know there's a reason you two got married.” Deran breaks the ice, backing Pope up. “Are you going to tell us or what?” 

Baz and Craig don't say a word. They were on the boat of not mentioning it until Smurf was ready to explain. 

“Charlie is an old friend.” Smurf explains to you all. “He needed some help getting out of Chicago. I said he could come stay here, as long as he got a job at the police department and helped us stay out of their crosshairs. We got married to make it more official, as to why he had to move all the way here.” 

The explanation seems reasonable enough. But J asks for clarification, “so you two aren't actually together?” 

“I'd like it if you considered me your grandfather. Though, that makes me feel a bit old.” Charlie chuckles, his laugh reminiscent of the darker one Pope has. “I want us all to be family. I consider Smurf my family now. She has done me a great service helping me get out of Chicago unscathed.”

You wonder what he's running from that he would choose to marry someone he doesn't love and move across the country. You don't pry though. You don't care that much. 

You all start eating and everyone engages in conversations among themselves. Charlie seems hyperfixated on asking you things, like what you do for work, etc. You answer them because you feel impolite if you don't. Pope holds his death glare. He has a bad feeling about this guy but he knows Smurf must have something over Charlie so he won't risk fucking the Codys over. 

It seems like the Codys are fucking themselves over. Because Deran sucker punches Craig all of a sudden. You were immersed in eating, since you're starving, so you didn't hear what prompted the fight. 

Baz is pulling Craig away from throwing hands back at Deran and Charlie is standing between the two of them, blocking Deran with his body. Pope would intervene too, but he has you on his lap and he'd rather not move if he doesn't have to. 

Your brothers are prone to fighting. It's just what happens when this much testosterone is in one place. 

“I'm getting out of here.” Craig looks over at Pope. “Can I have your keys? I'll bring your car to your place tomorrow.” 

Craig had carpooled with Deran and Adrian but now he wants to get the fuck out of here and go get high. 

“Can't Baz take you home?” Pope would like to avoid staying here. 

“I'm not leaving Lena and Cath here.” Baz gives Pope a look which screams I'm not leaving them alone with Smurf and Charlie. 

“It's okay, Pope. Someone else can drive us home. Help our brother get out of here.” You pat his chest, hoping that motivates him to listen.

It does and he grumbles as he tosses the keys to Craig, who storms out right away. 

“That might be enough excitement for me for the night.” Charlie says, turning towards you and Pope. “I'm going to head home. You kids want a ride?” 

Pope would rather die than get in a car with a cop but you nod, saying, “I think I'm getting tired. I'll come over again this week some time to swim, mom!” 

“Please do, baby. I've missed you.” Smurf gets up from her chair, opening her arms. You hop off Pope's lap to go hug your mother and then gesture for Pope to come along. Charlie twirls his key ring around his finger, leading you both to his sleek black car. It does look like an unmarked police car. 

“This better not be some fucking ploy to arrest me.” Pope doesn't trust this guy at all. 

“You two are my kids now. I'm not going to arrest my own kids.” Charlie opens the backseat for you. “Are you going to sit in front with your dad, Pope?” 

“Fuck you.” Pope shoves you into the backseat with him. 

The drive back to Pope's place is very awkward because Pope has his hand in yours the entire time. And you know Charlie can see that. 

“Have you two always been close?” Charlie acts like he's just making small talk but he is curious to hear what you'll reply.

“What's it to you?” Pope is getting in the way, which irritates Charlie. He wants to hear your pretty voice, not the voice that sounds a little too similar to his own. 

“Can't I get to know my kids a bit better? I'm going to be a part of your lives for a long time.” Charlie will make sure of that now that he has a precious daughter to look after. 

“Stop calling us your kids.” Pope hates it so much. He's never had a father and he's not looking for one now. 

“He's just being nice, Pope.” You squeeze your brother's hand gently before replying to Charlie. “I'm close with all my brothers. They practically raised me.” 

“But Smurf never officially adopted you?” 

You're surprised Smurf told him. “Ah, yeah, I was eighteen by the time I moved in with Smurf so no need for her to adopt me formally. But I've always considered her my mom. She helped me through a lot.”

Pope glances over at you, seeing how you have grown since you first ran away from home. You've always been beautiful but he finds you more beautiful now than ever because you seem comfortable with your life. You aren't in a constant state of fear anymore. 

Charlie catches the way Pope looks at you with such affection. You must be easy to love. He can already feel himself getting attached to you. 

He looks forward to getting to know you better. 

Better than a stepfather should when it comes to his adorable stepdaughter… 

Charlie drops the two of you off at the street by the shoreline. He stays for a moment to watch how Pope lets go of your hand when you both head to the door. He goes to grab your ass, lifting your skirt a bit, which you glare up at him for, smacking his hand away. 

“Our dad will see us.” You say very clearly through the bug Charlie planted in your dress when his hand was on the small of your back earlier. Your lovely voice coming out clearly through his phone's speaker. 

Though, he switches to his earbuds when he hears Pope say, “if you call him our dad again, I'm going to remind you who your actual brother is.” 

“Andrew…” You sound so shy. Such a sweet girl. Not rejecting him. 

Charlie hears the door open and shut. Then, the sound of feverish kisses swarm in, followed by a little moan escaping your lips. 

Pope has you held up against the front door, finally kissing you, his thigh resting between your legs. You grind on it while your lips stay plastered to his. 

“You're going to coat my jeans with how wet you are.” He grabs a hold of your chin, wanting to look at how swollen your lips are already. Gorgeous, all puffy, so kissable. 

“Whose fault is that?” You pull him back in, wanting to kiss him now that the two of you have crossed that line too. 

“Let me see you cum in my thigh.” Pope nips at your bottom lip, his eyes trailing to his thigh, watching you rub your clit against it. 

“Can I do it on your lap?” You've been thinking about it since earlier… 

“Will you ride my cock after?” 

“Yes.” You would love that. 

Pope drags you over to the couch, pulling you until you're sitting with your legs straddling his thigh. He has his legs spread like he always does. You can see that he's already hard through his jeans. You can't wait to sink onto him soon.

You grab a hold of his shoulders, grinding yourself against his thigh, the friction against your clit pushing you towards an orgasm. Pope slips his hand into your dress to unhook your bra, then pulls it off, so your breasts are bouncing in your dress, your nipples getting hard, peaking through the fabric. He leans in, swirling his tongue over each of them, leaving a wet spot that can be seen very clearly through the light blue fabric. He nips at them, which is enough to send you over the edge, cumming on his thigh. 

“You soaked through my jeans.” Pope shakes his head at you. “Do you always cum this hard or is it just because your big brother is the one you're grinding on?” 

You say the correct answer. “Because of you, Andrew.”

“Come here.” He unzips his jeans and pulls his cock out. “Get on.” 

Pope helps you line his cock up then patiently waits for you to sink onto him. He groans when your pussy swallows the entire length of his cock so easily. 

“Please take me so I can get the shot.” You don't think you can stop yourself now that you know how good it feels to be fucked raw like this. 

“We can go tomorrow once Craig gives me my car back.” Pope cups your face, pulling you towards. “Now kiss me while you ride my cock.” 

You smile, leaning in to kiss him. Then, you roll your hips, trying to find the right rhythm that has his cock brushing against your womb with every movement. You moan against his lips when his tongue tangles with yours. It feels so good to kiss him while his cock is inside of you. 

It leaves you breathless, which is something Pope seems to like doing a lot. 

He slips his hand between your legs, rubbing your clit, helping guide you to your next orgasm. 

“I'm going to cum.” You rest your forehead against his, breathing out on his lips, “my big brother's cock is going to make me cum.”

“My little sister loves being fucked by her big brother so much.” Pope then shifts you until you're on your back on the couch cushions. “Let me fuck you just the way you like it.” 

The moment you stop controlling the pace and let Pope take over, you cum so hard, squirting as he roughly pounds into your pussy. You arch your back, meeting his thrusts halfway, needing more. 

“Faster.” You grab a hold of Pope by his shoulders, gripping onto him. “Fuck me harder. I want to see stars, Andrew.” 

“Ask and you shall receive.” Pope places both of his hands over your throat, pressing down, cutting off your air. “Let me see how fucked up I've made you.” 

You watch as he pulls his cock almost all the way out of you before ramming every inch back in. Tears leak from your eyes at the sight of you squirting the moment his cock buries itself deep. Then, he pulls it out and does it again, forcing you to cum again. 

He's figured it out. 

How to really fuck you up. 

Pope does this over and over again, leaving you gasping for air that never comes. His hands keep you pinned to the couch by your throat. You aren't able to escape from his cock abusing your overstimulated pussy. 

By the time he cums inside of you and frees you from his hold, you've drenched the lower half of his shirt and his jeans with how hard you kept cumming. 

“Imagine if I was wearing something nice. You would've ruined it with how much you were squirting on my cock.” He feels the way you clench around him when he degrades you. “My little sister loves being bullied, doesn't she?”

You nod, smiling all loopy and happy. “Especially by my big brother.” 

You and Pope have no idea that Charlie has been listening this whole time, his hand coated in his own release from stroking himself to the sound of you getting fucked so rough by your brother. 

He wants a turn. He'll get it soon. 

He needs to know what his daughter's pussy feels like. 

And he's almost certain you're going to love getting fucked by your new dad… 

a/n: oh this was so yucky! my hand really just slipped, oh no! what will i do now…

i guess it's time to fuck your hot stepfather! see you in the next one ♡  

[opulentpeony]

polarization - older brother!pope x little sister!reader

word count: 5.0k warnings: dead dove: do not eat, rape/non-con, fauxcest, use of the words brother and sister in bed (whoops), somnophilia, degradation kink, unprotected sex, breeding kink, squirting, fingerfucking, choking, possessive/jealous behavior, age gap (20s/40s) summary: you, much like baz, were taken under smurf's wing. you're only a few years older than J, but technically you're his aunt, something you'll never get used to. you'll also never get used to pope being your older brother. especially not when he does things to you that an older brother definitely shouldn't do to his little sister…

a/n: trying out a new style for this specific kind of series! this was a little challenge to myself to write something shorter form to maybe make into a mini-series where I just add on as I see fit if people are interested!

all in all, this was just my nasty excuse to write perv!pope so there's like no plot, all fucked up porn. my hand just slipped and this came out of my yucky brain! hope it's a sick read ♡

It's the fourth night in a row that you haven't been able to sleep. You're getting irritable. It's mainly because Pope refuses to turn on the air conditioner. 

You knew you shouldn't have agreed to move in with him. But his place is right next to the beach and you were not going to stay at Baz's house and deal with his marriage quarrels. Though, maybe living with a child would be better than living with Pope. 

He scolds you over everything. You do your laundry “wrong” apparently so now he does your laundry. You aren't as tidy as him so he does all the cleaning. You buy too much junk at the grocery store so now he shops for the two of you. He hates the TV shows you have on in the background while you browse your phone so he only lets you have shows he likes on when he's in the living room on the couch with you.

It seems like he hates living with you so you have no idea why he said yes when you asked him out of the blue if you could move in with him instead of living with Smurf. 

As much as you are grateful Smurf took you in and made you part of the family, living in that house was making you go crazy. Smurf had her eye on you the entire time. You have an inkling it's because she thought you were interested in J. But J is technically your nephew in this strange, adopted family tree, so you would never even look in his direction. 

“Pope, can't I turn on the air conditioner? It's so hot in here!” You're down to just wearing biker shorts and a loose tank top, no bra. 

Pope stares at the way your nipples are peeking through the translucent material of your top and then shrugs. “It's barely in the eighties. Why waste it now? Plus, it's expensive to cool the whole house.” 

“I haven't been able to sleep at all since it's been so hot.” You groan, plopping down next to him on the couch, pressing your glass full of ice water against your warm neck. 

Pope watches as you gulp down the glass of water. He's entranced by the way your throat moves when you swallow. He imagines what you'd look like with his cock in your mouth, swallowing his cum. 

Your voice brings him out of his fantasies. “Can I get one of those portable ones for my room at least? That way only my room is cold.” 

“Your window wouldn't fit it.” Your room has too small of a window for one of those AC units. “But I can buy one for mine and you can sleep in my room if it's really that bad.” 

“Really? You'd swap rooms with me?” That's actually so nice of him. 

But you are severely disappointed when he tells you, “no, I can't sleep anywhere but my own bed. You'll have to share with me.” 

You grumble. “You have a full sized bed. It's tiny. How are we both supposed to fit on that?”

“I guess you don't need the AC unit that bad then.” He leans back, spreading his legs, sitting like he always does, taking up half the couch. 

You try not to notice that you can see the outline of his cock through his sweats. He's not even fully hard and he looks huge. You snap your eyes back to the television, to one of the nature shows Pope has on. It's one of those ones about the fishermen catching some crazy big fish. 

He's not watching the show, though. His eyes are fixated back on you, his little sister, and how sweaty you are. You have always run hot. He would know. He's touched you in your sleep before, your skin always burning up when you're deep in sleep. He only touches any exposed skin. He never goes under your clothes, even if he wants to. 

Which is why he prefers it when you wear less. Makes it easier to touch you when you're clueless about it. 

You pull out your phone, checking the weather app. It's going to be in the eighties for the next week at least. Meaning Pope won't be letting you use the house AC at all. 

“Okay, fine, I'll sleep in your bed with you but we have to go get the AC unit right now.” You get up from the couch, your eyes still glued on your phone as you see what stores you should make Pope take you to.

Pope sits there, staring at the way your biker shorts perfectly define your ass. They're so skin tight that he can see the slit of your pussy if you stand a certain way. That won't do. No one else is allowed to see you like that except him. 

He makes his way over to the pile of laundry he was going to fold, pulling out one of his gym shirts. He walks up to you, while you're still engrossed in your phone, and proceeds to pull the shirt over you.

“What the hell are you doing!” You flail with his giant shirt on top of you. 

“You need to cover up if we're going out.” Pope manages to get you into his shirt. It practically swallows you whole. 

You groan. You'll never get used to him just randomly doing things like this but you could care less at this moment. “Whatever. Let's go. There's a good priced unit nearby." 

You slip your sneakers on and go to get your bag but Pope stops you, grabbing your hand in his. “I got it.” 

“You just complained about money and now you're offering to pay?” You raise your eyebrow at him.

“It's just me spending your rent money.” Pope makes you pay him rent for staying here which you don't mind since you have a decent job bartending at one of the bars along the beach. 

“Alright.” You let him drag you out of the house and into his truck. 

You tend not to question Pope when he does certain things. Like, how he likes to hold your hand, especially in the car. When you asked about it, he said it steadies him while he's driving to pay attention to your hand in his so you just let him if it helps. 

That doesn't really explain why he's still holding your hand when the two of you get to the appliance store but you don't care. You especially don't care when he lets go of your hand to wrap his arm across your back, grabbing a hold of your hip when the cashier at the store starts trying to flirt with you. 

“You're that bartender right? I drank at your place a few days ago.” The cashier talks too casually to you for Pope's liking. “Is this your boyfriend? I thought you were single. I overheard you telling one of my friends that you were.”

That makes Pope clench his jaw. If you're telling someone you're single, does that mean you were interested in them? 

“Oh, this is my older brother.” You clarify. “He's just a little protective of me. Ignore the glaring.” 

“Well, my friend Harris is super into you. He gave you his number right?” 

“Yeah, I got it.” You say with a giggle that pisses Pope off. “I've been meaning to text him but I've just been so exhausted after work. Tell him I'll contact him soon.” 

“Can we just buy the fucking air conditioner already?” Pope drops the cash for it on the belt. “We have to go home and install this shit and I don't want to be up any later than I have to.” 

“Sorry man, here's your receipt.” The cashier hands it to Pope who snatches it before stuffing it into his pocket.

Pope doesn't say another word. He just pushes the cart out of the store and you follow him back to the truck. He throws it into the truck bed with ease, despite how heavy that thing is. 

“Sorry for keeping you up.” You tell Pope when you're both in the car. 

He grabs your hand, holding it tightly as he starts the truck. “I'm doing you a favor and you're fucking wasting my time flirting with some minimum wage fucker.”

“I wasn't flirting with him.” You roll your eyes, trying to tug your hand away but Pope won't let it go. 

“But you were flirting with his friend.” 

“Because they tipped well.” You don't bother having to explain this to Pope. 

It's none of his business. You never text any customers from work but you try not to antagonize them. It's better for them to think you're just busy versus uninterested. 

“Do you need money?” Pope can give you money if it means you won't fucking flirt with other men. 

“I need to pay rent somehow.” 

“Then stop paying rent.” 

“You can't be serious.” You don't get why Pope is being so generous tonight. 

“If it's too much for you, then don't pay it. I don't need your money.” He definitely doesn't. 

They just got a big payday from a job that you got a cut in too. You don't need to work this shitty bartending gig, especially when you have to talk to men for tips. 

He can convince Baz to add you into more jobs in the future. You should just quit. He'll make you quit. 

“No takebacks.” You warn him then say, “I'll still pitch in for groceries, though.” 

“I don't care either way.” All he cares about is that you live with him and he gets to look at you every day. 

Now, he'll get to sleep with you everyday too. 

Despite Pope having a small bed, you sleep wonderfully after he installs the air conditioner. It cools his room down so quickly and you are able to wrap yourself up in his comforter, all cozy. The cold air also helps counteract the fact that you're sleeping next to Pope, who radiates quite a lot of body heat. 

All in all, sleeping next to him isn't that bad. You thought it would be more difficult. 

It gets more difficult when you wake up in the middle of the night and notice his hand has slipped into your sleep shorts. He's asleep behind you, not budging when you shake him, so you know he isn't doing it on purpose. 

At least, that's what you fool yourself into thinking. But Pope has been testing the limits of what you're okay with. And it seems to him that you don't mind it if he wraps his arms around you and spoons you in your sleep. You also don't mind if his hand slips under your shirt and cups your breast. 

Tonight, he puts his hand down your shorts and it seems like as long as you think he's doing it accidentally and in his sleep, you just brush it off and go back to sleep. 

So, he dips lower. Slowly, just to make sure it seems unintentional. He hears your little gasp of shock as his fingers graze your clit through the thin fabric of your underwear. He rests his fingertips there, not moving, still pretending to be fast asleep. 

“Pope?” You try shoving his arm off of you but he won't budge. 

You should wake him up but you don't want him to feel embarrassed that he had his hand accidentally touching you. So you just try your best to get him to move but he's way too strong. His arm is twice the size of yours, the weight of it pressing down into the side of your waist from how he's resting it around you. 

You bite your lip when his fingers move lower before managing to push your underwear aside. Now he's touching your folds directly and you wriggle at the feeling. 

Pope nearly groans when he feels how wet you are against the pads of his fingers. You like this. You would never admit it but you must like being touched by him. 

Why else would you be so wet? 

He drags his fingers back up towards your clit then once he knows you've settled down a bit, he starts rubbing your sensitive bundle of nerves. You let out an airy little moan uncontrollably at the sudden rush of pleasure tingling through you. 

You clamp your hands over your mouth, trying to quiet yourself. Now you definitely don't want Pope to wake up or else he's going to realize how wet you are from all his accidental touching. That's not something you can explain away. 

So, you endure it as his fingers play with your clit, rolling it between his fingers, gently swirling small circles until he can hear your quiet whimpers. You must be close to cumming because you've grown incredibly slick. 

That tempts Pope too much so he thrusts a finger into you, drawing a gasp from your lips as he kneads your clit with his palm. You start to tremble when he adds another finger. His fingers are so thick and long, filling you up so much more than your own would. 

You turn your head into your pillow, biting it to stop yourself from vocally reacting to his touch, so you can free up your hand to try to tug Pope's arm off of you but you can't move him. He moves his fingers, though, curling them deep inside of you, rubbing right up against a spot you could never reach on your own. He teases that spot at the same time as he kneads your clit and you cum uncontrollably, your toes curling from the sudden wave of pleasure. 

You haven't ever cum that hard before. This is not good. This is really not good. Your older brother just made you cum. 

You have to get him to stop but his fingers keep bullying you, thrusting side to side now, spreading you wide open. The tension coiling in your stomach bursts, your body unable to hold in your orgasm. 

It doesn't stop. He adds another finger, filling you up more, making you see stars in your vision while he fucks you with his fingers. It's starting to get rougher, faster, more brutal, and you suddenly squirt for the first time in your life. 

You don't know what to do. How are you supposed to explain that? You've soaked through your flimsy shorts and it's not stopping. His fingers keep drilling into you, searching for all the spots that make you unravel. Soon enough, he has you squirting every time he curls his fingers just right. 

“Pope, please, stop—” You can't help the way you grab a hold of his arm for leverage as you grind against his hand, another orgasm forcefully ripping through you from his rough finger fucking. “Oh god, please, I can't keep cumming—”

“Sure you can.” His voice sends frightening ripples through your whole body. “You can keep cumming on your older brother's fingers. It's okay, my sweet little sister. I'll make you cum lots.” 

“No, no, Pope, stop!” You cross your legs, squeezing your thighs together in a meek attempt to stop him. 

But now, Pope doesn't have to pretend anymore. So he grabs your thigh, spreading your legs wide open so he can pound his fingers into your pussy, the wet sounds getting obscenely loud from how much you're cumming. 

“Pope, please!” You scream right as another orgasm shoots through you, tears dripping down your face from the intensity. “It's too much, it's too—”

"It's not enough, is it?” Suddenly, you feel his bare cock against your back. You can't even see it but it feels huge. 

Oh no, is he going to—

You shriek when he rips your bottoms off, kicking them away, leaving you bare from the waist down. 

You have to get away. He's going to rape you! 

You squirm in his hold but you can't wriggle away with his fingers still buried deep inside of you. “Please, Pope, let me go!” 

“No.” He tells you. “Not until I cum inside of my baby sister."

“You can't do that.” You aren't on birth control. “I'll get pregnant.”

“That's okay.” He presses a kiss against the nape of your neck. “I'll take care of you and the baby very well.” 

“Pope, you're my brother, you can't—” You bite back a whimper when he pops his fingers out of you and you squirt all of a sudden from the pressure loss. 

“You're my sister and yet you're squirting all over my bed.” Pope lays you onto your back and climbs on top of you. “If you really hated this, you wouldn't have let me keep going. You knew I was touching you and you liked it. Admit it.” 

He kicks off his pants then pulls off his shirt, leaving him completely naked on top of you. You protest, shoving at him when he tries to pull your top off but you fail miserably and he yanks it off of you, leaving you bare beneath him.

“We can't do this, Pope.” You shake your head at him. “Please, we're family. Smurf would—”

“I don't care what anyone else thinks.” Pope takes his cock and rubs the tip of it up and down your folds, sending shivers through your body from head to toe. “All I want is to fuck my little sister. To watch her cum all over her big brother's cock.” 

You feel him poke at your entrance. He doesn't push in but he teases right there. Like he wants you to be fully aware of what he is about to do. 

“At least wear a condom.” You plead because you don't think you can stop him from doing this. “Please, Pope.”

“Call me Andrew.” He says to you, surprising you. “And I'll wear a condom.”

“Please, Andrew.” You've never called Pope by his first name before. But from the way his cock throbs against you, he must like it a lot. 

He reaches over, opening the drawer of his nightstand. He has one condom, only one, from one of those random sex education people walking around the beach giving them out for free. They just shoved it into his hand so he took it home and it's been in his drawer since. 

You watch as Pope rips open the condom wrapper with his teeth, the sight hotter than you expected. Your eyes trail up and down his body. A body you've always found attractive but you never let yourself think deeply about it until now. 

Now you're thinking very deeply about how good he looks above you like this. You watch as he slides the condom on and…

“I don't think it's going to fit.” It definitely doesn't. He can't even roll it over the tip of his cock before the rubber snaps. 

It's useless now. And he only had the one condom. 

“Sorry, sis.” He says with a shrug. “I guess I'm fucking you raw.” 

“Andrew, we can't, okay? We're siblings. Siblings don't do this.” You plead desperately. “Please stop.”

“You didn't want me to stop when you were cumming all over my fingers.” He pushes the tip of his cock into you, making you arch your back from the sudden fullness. “You won't want me to stop now. You want your big brother's cock deep inside of you.” 

“No, I don't!” You cry out when he pulls the tip of his cock out then shoves it back into your pussy. 

He does this and only this, feeding you only the tip of his cock over and over. Your pussy clenches around nothing and your body aches for him to go deeper. To fill you up. To fuck you. 

“My little sister is trembling. Does she want me to fuck her that bad?” He slides his cock in just a bit deeper this time before pulling all the way out again, letting you feel what you could be getting from him if you wanted it. 

“Andrew…” You hate how much you want him to just take you already. All the edging is making you more sensitive. 

“Just say the word and I'll make you cum like before.” He urges you to let him in. “Come on, let your big brother spoil you. You like it when I spoil you, don't you?”

You do. You like it a lot when Pope is generous… 

But you know the moment you let him do this, he's never going to stop. Like how you let him hold your hand. He's going to want to do this again. 

Your older brother will want to make you cum like crazy again. As often as you want him to.

He'll spoil you rotten. He loves his little sister so much, after all. 

“Please fuck me, Andrew.” You tell him all sweetly. “I love it when my big brother spoils me.” 

You're not ready for him to flip you onto your stomach. Nor are you ready for him to keep you laying down flat as he thrusts the entire length of his cock inside of you while you're completely prone. You cum so fast and so hard that your vision blurs completely.

And it doesn't stop because he presses all of his weight down onto you as he roughly pounds into you at this angle. You can feel how deep he is inside of you, the tip of his cock teasing your womb with every thrust. 

“Andrew!” You claw at the bedsheets, stuffing your face into your pillow to muffle you screaming his name over and over again as your orgasms compound. 

Pope leans down, whispering against your ear, “how does it feel to get raped by your older brother?”

You squirt on his cock all of a sudden, the orgasm tearing through you from his words. 

It doesn't end because he says to you, “I'm going to fuck a baby into my little sister and she's going to cum when I do it.” 

You hate how much your body is reacting to what he's saying. You know this is wrong. You know you shouldn't be doing this. 

You know you're going to be fucked up for life. 

But you were going to be fucked up anyway. 

So, why not fuck your hot older brother while you're at it? 

“I like it when my big brother abuses my pussy.” You say to Pope, falling completely into his grasp. “Do you like fucking your little sister, Andrew?”

“I like raping my little sister.” He presses a kiss against the back of your head. “I like making her cum hard on my cock.” 

He fucks you harder then, rougher, angling his cock as deep as it can get. You cum so easily, drenching the sheets beneath you with your orgasm. It's getting harder and harder to hold back. 

Your body just feels too good. 

You can't stop cumming your brains out on your brother's cock...

“I don't want to cum anymore.” You cry out, but then you're completely stunned by his arm wrapping around your throat, putting you in a headlock. “Andrew, wait—”

“Shhhh.” He tells you, squeezing you tighter in his hold. “You'll like being choked. Just like you like being raped. You'll love them both at the same time.” 

His muscular arm completely cuts off your airways. You dig your nails into his bicep, trying to pry him off of you, but he's too strong. You're completely trapped, his body weight holding you down, his arm keeping you in a headlock as he fucks you relentlessly. 

You cum harder than you've cum all night the moment you feel his hot release inside of you. When you realize you can't breathe, you squirt so much that your thighs are absolutely soaked. Your whole body is convulsing beneath him. You feel like you could die from how intense your orgasm was. 

Pope frees you from the headlock, letting you gulp in air like there's no tomorrow. You're so spent that you can't even move. 

He flips you over onto your back, checking to see if he bruised your neck from how hard he choked you. He didn't, thankfully. 

“Are you still with me?” He snaps his fingers in front of your face, trying to pull you from the daze. “Did I fuck you stupid or what?”

Pope looks down, at the way his cum is dripping out of your pussy. It's the most incredible sight he has ever seen. Almost as good as how you look, all cummed out. 

He'll definitely have to do this again. He wants to see you like this because of him again. But you'll need some rest first. 

“Come on, my sweet baby sister.” He gently taps your face. “I need you to answer me.” 

“Huh?” You blink up at him, still so dazed. 

“Are you alive or did I fuck you too hard?” Pope doesn't think he did but maybe he went a little overboard. A byproduct of finally having you in his arms. 

“I'm…alive…” You try to regain your sentience but it's hard when you're still tingling all over. “But I definitely can't move.” 

“Do you want to take a bath with me?” That might help. 

“Okay.” You nod but that's the most you can do. 

Pope goes to run the bath and then decides to turn on the air conditioner for the whole house, since the two of you will likely sleep in your room after the bath. He comes back to get you once the bath is drawn. 

You're pretty limp in his arms but you still manage to wrap your arms around his neck for balance. You regain a bit of feeling in your body when Pope helps you into the warm bath, settling your back against his chest. He gently dips your head under the water to get your hair wet and then helps you back up before he pour shampoo into his hands, massaging it into your scalp. 

You hum happily at the feeling of him washing your hair for you. He likes the sound of it. “Feels good?” 

“Mhmm.” You close your eyes, leaning back into him. “Thanks, Andrew.”

“You don't have to call me that if you don't want to.” He sinks you back under the water to wash out the shampoo then pulls you back up so he can add in conditioner now. 

“I like calling you, Andrew.” You say as you turn back to look at him. “Makes me feel closer to you.” 

“I think we're pretty close now.” He settles his arms back around your waist while the two of you wait for the conditioner to set in. “Was that…okay?” 

“No.” You laugh a little too hard after that, making your stomach cramp. Pope gently rubs your belly, which you appreciate. “You better buy me the morning after pill.” 

He slumps a little against you but then concedes. “Okay…but are we okay?”

“Yes, Andrew. I'm not mad at you.” You go to pat him on the head, brushing your fingers through his hair. He seems to like that a lot because his cock twitches to life behind your back. “But next time, I want to use a condom.” 

“So there will be a next time?” He likes that. 

“I don't think I can ever have sex with anyone else again. My older brother has fucking ruined me.” You say with a giggle. 

“Good.” Pope is openly possessive now. “You're my little sister. Only I get to touch you.” 

“Then you better keep me happy.” You smirk. “I want a bigger bed.”

“Fine.” He grumbles but can't say no to you. “But you have to quit your job.” 

“How will I make money?” You can't rely on him forever. 

“I'll tell Baz to have you help with jobs so you get a cut too. You're good at talking to people. You'd probably be good at scouting places.” Though Pope would prefer it if you didn't have to flirt your way in somewhere. 

“Alright.” You dunk your head in, washing out the conditioner. “Help me into the shower now.” 

Pope drains the bath then helps you up and over to the shower. He takes his time washing you up, making sure you're nice and clean. You let him dry your body with a towel and also sit patiently as he blow dries your hair.

He really is spoiling you, isn't he? 

You both lay down on your bed and you decide to snuggle up against him, laying on his chest. You hear his heartbeat quicken, which you find very cute. 

“So, how long have you liked me?” You ask playfully, since you're curious. 

“Since Smurf brought you home.” Pope actually hated the fact that you became his little sister because he wanted you for himself. But then he just grew to be alright with the fucked up taboo of being in love with his sister. Since technically, you two aren't actually related.

“Really?” You're shocked. “But you were always so grumpy around me!” 

“Yeah because I wanted to fuck my baby sister.” He feels it's reasonable to have been a little annoyed. “You're always lounging in such skimpy clothes. Pissed me off.”

“And made you very hard.” You chuckle. 

“Don't dress like that for anyone but me.” 

“Or what?” You push him a little. 

“I'll actually rape you.” He threatens. 

“What if I'm into that?” You're learning a bit too much about how fucked in the head you are.

“Then I'll only have vanilla sex with you.” 

“Aw, that would suck.” You frown. 

“It's a punishment for a reason.” Though, wouldn't Pope also be punishing himself? 

He does like the idea of making love to you so maybe it wouldn't be too bad. 

The two of you still haven't kissed. He'd like to kiss. 

But you're fast asleep before he has the chance to. 

So he settles for placing a kiss on your forehead and closes his eyes. 

Dreaming about when he'll be able to kiss you, his darling little sister.

a/n: so this was my attempt to write something shorter form and then possibly making it into like a mini series where I just add onto it little by little, a few thousand words at a time for funsies! 

I don't know if anyone is interested in more but I think this dynamic is really fun. lots of scenarios to explore with these two, like doing a job together, more jealous!pope, super duper raunchy smut, etc ♡ plus I should let them kiss eventually!

also…I was going to add in stepfather!charlie reid to this mix since this is something I've been yapping about behind the scenes so that's a big possibility too! little sister!reader really does get around, fucking her older brother and potentially even her stepfather. wish it were me! ♡ 

edit (as of 05/14/26): I wrote the follow up to this snippet! it's called turbulence so feel free to continue onto that one if you enjoyed this one!

[diirty--chaii]

Promise? (2)

Summary: Robby leaves his wife in Pittsburgh for his sebbaticle. Luckily, his best friend will check in on her from time to time for him. Pairings: Jack Abbot x Robinavitch!reader Warnings/Tags: Pregnancy/Troubles concieving -> Reader has had miscarriages in the past and at times worries she will lose this pregnancy but she does not (mentions of past miscarriages throughout the story), Sucidal Ideation -> Reader and Jack are both worried about Robby's fragile mental state (nothing graphic happens on page), age gap (M - early 50s, F mid-late 30s), eventual affair, medical inaccuracies (author has google and a dream), reader is an at home baker, smut (masterbation)

If you have any concerns about the warnings, please feel free to ask me Notes: little bit shorter i'm sorry but there will be a part 3!! Word Count: 3.5K

Part 1 | Masterlist | Jack Abbot Masterlist

Jack hasn't been able to sleep all week - not that it's has ever come easily to him. But it's been particularly bad since that night in your doorway. He keeps checking his phone like a lovesick teenager, desperately hoping that you've reached out to him and ignoring the pang in his chest when his screen is empty.

He keeps replaying that moment in his head, the face you made when he spurned your advances. It wouldn't have been right, he keeps telling himself, you're pregnant and scared - he'd be taking advantage. But there is no comfort in knowing that he did the right thing when you've gone radio silent to his outreach attempts.

He gets the notification that your dryer is being delivered on Saturday morning. He's been debating whether or not showing up will make things worse. But, he hasn't survived as long as he has by running away when things get messy. So, he gets out of bed that day, and heads to your house.

He rings the doorbell once, knowing the camera has sent a notification to your phone. He can only assume you've checked it when you don't come to the door. After enough time has passed he tries again, and then a third time after a few more minutes.

Sure, Jack feels weird about using his key after you've deliberately been ignoring him. But what else is he supposed to do? He has a promise to keep.

You're in the kitchen, some sitcom he vaguely recognizes paying on the TV while you stand in front of the mixer. You meet his eyes briefly before focusing back on the batter in front of you.

"Most people would take the hint after ringing the doorbell 3 times and being ignored every time," you say, still not looking at him.

"I never was good at the whole 'reading signs' thing," Jack responds, standing in front of you.

"What do you want, Jack?"

"I just wanted to check on you. Make sure everything's okay with you and the little hedgehog. Your dryer's coming today - I said I'd be here, so I'm here."

"Oh, she's a hedgehog now?"

"15 weeks puts her at around 13 , which is about the size as a baby hedgehog - a Pygmy hedgehog, if you want to be specific. Also about the same size as a sugar glider."

You tilt your head at him, "Do you just have that all memorized?"

"I have a general idea about how big fetuses should be, but the specifics and the size comparisons, I've been looking up week to week because it's fun and I do care about you and the baby," he says with a small shrug, "And I have missed you this week. There's not much for me to do at home by myself when I'm not fixing your newest craving into a meal."

"What, you arrested all the axe murderers in the tri-state area with SWAT or something?"

Jack thinks about the last time he suited up for TEMS. He's been switching and declining a lot of shifts lately so that he could be with you when he's not at the hospital. It must have been over a month since he's last gone.

"Can't be catching axe murderers when you're mad at me."

"I'm not mad," you say, but Jack has never seen you use that much force on your kitchen aid to move the head on the mixer before, "I tried to kiss you, you rejected me. I'm just embarrassed."

"Are you sure? 'Cause I've seen you yell at Robby for 'manhandling' your mixer before and here you are slamming it around."

"Not at you," the head slams back down after you add more to the bowl, "I just feel…stupid. You're just being nice, but I've just been really fucking sad lately, and you've been so helpful and pretty much the only reason I haven't had a full on breakdown yet. And of course you weren't making a move because you're Robby's friend and I'm pregnant but these hormones are no joke so I'm sorry."

"You don't have anything to apologize for."

"I basically harassed you."

The term harassment insinuates that I didn't want it, and trust me, if I were a weaker man, I would have kissed you back.

"You didn't harass me. It was late. We got caught up in the moment, the ultrasound room at an OBGYN's office is an emotionally charged place. It's water under the bridge, we don't have to speak about it ever again," he holds up the bag containing fresh farmers market fruit, "besides I brought you strawberries to sway your fetus's gender like in that game."

"You swear? Not even as a joke."

"Promise."

"Fine," you mutter, before throwing more ingredients into your mixer.

"So what are you making and how much am I allowed to snack on?"

"Cake pops, and you can have the burnt edges once it's finished cooking."

"My favorite," he bites back the quip about you knowing him so well after these past few months, "Need any help."

"Nope, I have a system and you will just get in my way," you say with a smile but Jack knows you are serious. One time when he was over Robby's bumped into you while you were doing last minute touches for an order. He shivers, remembering the glare on your face, "But if you want to make me some tea, you can help me with that."

"Your wish is my command," he says, heading back to your walk in pantry, "Am I making my people's tea or your people's tea?"

"What do you think the answer is white boy?" you shake your head with a small smile.

"It may shock you, but I don't know how to make that."

"If you can cut open people's chests then I'm sure you can make tea," you laugh, "Go get my pot. The medium one."

He follows your instructions, using cold water - cold, not hot because that's important for some reason (though hot water would be faster but who is Jack to argue with a centuries old practice) - waiting for your burner to light and then placing the pot on top. He's got three teabags and the jar of pre-ground spices waiting on the side.

"You sure it's 3?" Jack says holding them over the rolling water, "That seems excessive."

"You want good chai? Listen to me."

He drops them in, waiting the water turn a rich colour as the tea starts to diffuse into the pot. The doorbell rings, pulling his attention away from the stove.

"Are you ready to renter the 21st century with your soon to be new washer and dryer set?" he jokes as he starts towards the door.

"You have no idea. I feel like a 1850s house wife about to put up a damn clothesline. "

Except when he opens the door he immediately frowns, "That's the wrong one."

The man next to the incorrect model looks back at the washer, "It's what's on my list."

"Your list is wrong."

The kid shakes his head with a roll of his eyes. All of a sudden Jack is trying to tamp down the burst of anger in his chest from the look of sheer indifference on his face, "The order goes directly into our computer system and gets processed after purchase."

Jack takes his phone out from his pocket, shaking his head. He opens up his email before realized that it isn't his washer and he should use your phone instead.

"Give me a minute," he leaves the door open, walking at a brisk pace to you in the kitchen, "I need your phone."

"On the counter," you nod your head towards it, "Why?"

"Password?" He types it in, unlocking the phone with ease, "Need the confirmation email…aha!"

He all but shoves the phone in the delivery man's face, "This does not match that."

The delivery man squints at the phone and then nods apologetically. "I apologize sir. We can still give you this one and refund you the difference."

"I want the washer dryer set I paid for."

He nods, filing his dolley, "Someone will be in touch for a new delivery date."

When he gets back, you're staring at him.

"What?"

"Listen, if things are going to be completely platonic between us you can't be running around defending my honour like a caveman. That does something to a woman, especially when we're pregnant."

"A Caveman?" Jack laughs

"I want the washer dryer set I paid for," you mock, dropping your voice several pitches.

"I want the washer-dryer set I paid for," he repeats, exasperatedly, going back to to stand watch over his boiling pot, "Is that a crime?"

"You didn't pay for it, I did - well, I still have Robby's card info so he did."

"He didn't know that," Jack shrugs, "And he looked at me like I don't understand how computers work. I've been using them since the kid's been in diapers."

"Whatever you say, grandpa."

That night he's in his own bed at a respectable 9:30 pm.

"My blood pressure wasn't even high," you groan as Jack fastens the velcro cuff around your arm, "I thought you were joking about buying a cuff."

"I don't joke about your health - or the little hedgehog," he clicks the start button. "What were the numbers at your last check up?"

"I don't remember the numbers but Dr. Kaur didn't tell me anything so I assumed it was okay."

"You know what they say about assuming," he quips.

Several moments go by before the machine beeps and the pressure is released on your arm. The machine buffers before displaying your number on the screen.

"See 120 over 80," you point, "Tip top shape."

It really is easy to see how Robby fell for you. When Robby had told him, not too long after Lucille had passed, that he was seeing a just barely 30 year old Jack had rolled his eyes at him and told the older man that he didn't expect the mid life to crises to hit quite so soon. And then he'd met you and warmed up to you immediately - the pan of your world famous fudgey brownies certainly helped grease the wheels.

And now, standing in front of you watching the defiance etched onto your face after you've been proven right? He's really starting to regret getting into his truck that night.

He clears his throat, shaking his head. His mother would be utterly disappointed with the thoughts rolling around his head in this moment.

"I never said you weren't, I just said I needed to know the numbers for my own sanity," he grins, holding up the steaks he bought earlier, "Now we can have these. Lots of proteins and nutrients for little miss sugar glider in there."

The next morning he's nodding his good morning to Ellis as they bump into each other on their way into the hospital.

"So, how was your night?" Jack's confused by the suggestive grin on her face and the nudge to his ribs.

"Why do you look so," he makes a gesture with his hands at her general demeanour, "perky? It's 6 am."

"I told you, days suits me better but I liked your teaching style more," she nudges him again, "how was your date? Clearly not that good since you're not in yesterday's scrubs."

"I was not on a date, Ellis," Jack eyes her, "And if I was, I still wouldn't be discussing the intricacies of my dating life with my residents."

"I saw you yesterday, leaving here in with and get in a car that was not yours. I saw you try to argue and get in the drivers seat too."

Jack squints, "How long were you standing there?"

"Long enough to see you be all mooney eyed. Pretty sure Princess saw too so everyone will know by the end of the week - but it's okay. From what I witnessed, she was pretty, you could do way worse, boss," she slugs him in the arm.

Jack shakes his head, "No that was Robby's wife-"

"You're dating Robby's wife?" Parker stops, stunned, "That's messy. I mean hey- we can't control who we love but -"

"We are not dating."

"Women don't usually let men they're not dating touch their hair."

"I didn't touch her hair?"

"You took out her claw clip. That's intimate as hell."

"Did you have binoculars or something," Jack scoffs incredulously, "If you must know I only took out her hair thing because back in the 90s I picked my fair share of those prongs out of women's heads. Because I am a doctor so can we please focus on saving lives instead of whatever this is."

She puts her hands up in surrender, "No need to be so defensive boss man, I'm just making an observation."

"How about we go observe some patients then."

That night after dinner, Jack has his pant leg rolled all the way up his thigh as you hand him the CBD creme he left the last time he was here.

"Oh by the way," he says, dolling out the amount he needs and rubbing it onto his amputation scar, "There's a rumour that we're sleeping together running around PTMC."

"What?" you blink in surprise, "How did that even start?"

"Some of my lovely coworkers saw you picking me up last night," you tilt your head, watching him dig his fingers in his leg, "Apparently me taking your claw…thingy out of your hair to prevent it from lodging itself in your skull means that we're having a torrid love affair."

Never mind that his heart had skipped a beat when your lose curls framed your face after he'd reached past you and taken the clip out. Skipped another when you rolled your eyes and called him paranoid but made no move to stop him. And again when the smell of your shampoo rushed into his lungs as your curls had fallen free.

Maybe he's developed a murmur. His stethoscope is still in the car, he'll check it later.

"Who saw? And why were they spying on you."

"There was a group of them, I guess. They saw me getting into a car that wasn't mine and assumed it was a date."

"Did you tell them we're just friends?"

"Of course I did," he chuckles, "But you know how these things go. All you need is one little spark and all of a sudden you have a full blown wildfire on your hands."

"Maybe someone will tell Robby and he'll come home."

Jack grunts, "Still nothing?"

"Sent me a picture of some fuckass desert the other day so I spent the entirety of the money he sent me that day on a crib," Jack winces as his fingers dig into the sore flesh of his stump, "How bad does it hurt?"

He shrugs, "Some days are worse than others."

"And today?"

"Today is another day."

"Okay, Shakespeare," you shuffle on the couch to come sit next to him, your now much more noticeable baby bump making it a tad more difficult, "I can try and help you with that - if you want of course."

"You've been on your feet all day too."

"Well once I get farther along in this pregnancy you'll be rubbing my feet so I'll be cashing in later," Jack grunts and relents, settling back against the pillows.

He chuckles as your fingers prod at the soft skin at the end of his knee, "What ya looking at?'

"Sorry," you say sheepishly, "I didn't realize it would be squishy."

Another poke that makes Jack laugh, "They take the muscle and wrap it over the end of the bone so it's cushioned to bare the weight in my prosthetic."

"You learn something new every day," you smile.

This time your fingers are less tentative, working little circles into his sore muscles. It's tender, your fingers gently dig into the scarred skin, relieving the ache in his lower leg. It's strange, the last person to touch his amputation this way was Lucille. He fidgets with his ring, spinning the band on his ring finger as you rub his stump methodically, using the lotion to help guide your fingers along his body.

"Is that-does that feel okay? I don't want to hurt you."

"No," he says quickly, "Don't stop."

Jack has a wavering relationship with faith.

He was raised by a single Catholic mother, grew up going to church on Sundays. Over the years his faith has wavered, most notably when he lost his leg and again when he lost his wife. He knows the Lord only gives what you can handle, but that's not much comfort when you come home for the first time and realize that the bedsheets no longer smell like your dead wife, that her presence will slowly start to fade in your once-shared house. And,if he's being honest, his spiritual connection just hasn't quite been the same since she was taken from him - though when his mother calls he makes sure to mention Pastor Andrew every so often, even if he hasn't seen Pastor Andrew since the funeral.

He knows one thing for certain, though. If hell is real, he's just sealed his fate.

He grunts, thrusting up into his own hand, spreading the sticky mess leaking from his tip down his shaft. His hips come off the bed as he gasps, remembering the feel of your touch on his body. Your hands were soft, gliding across his skin, different from his own calloused palms.

He thinks about that night in your foyer. How close you were to him, how easy it would have been to lean forward and close the gap between you - how he should have closed the gap between you.

He would have reached behind you and loosened your hair from its confines, because maybe Ellis was right and undoing a woman's hair is "intimate as hell."

He'd get his hands in it, getting his fingers lost in your curls and tipping your head back as he pushed you up against the wall. He'd take his time, learning what makes your body tick, kiss down your neck and make a map of all the places that make your breath hitch.

The dress you wore that day is etched in his brain. Simple. Domestic.

Soft fabric that flowed off your body and showed off the little hint of your baby bump. He'd get you into the bed, kiss down your body, take his time peeling you out of it. He'd run tongue along the valley of your breasts, teasing you with fingers on your on nipples until you'd squirm. Arrest him for insider trading if you want, but a decades long friendship and a few nights with too many beers with your husband have left him privy to the information that his mouth on your tits will make you gasp out his name.

He'd slip his hands between soft skin of your thighs, spreading your legs open to make space for him. He'll wedge his leg between yours, letting you use his body while he switches breasts. He'll pinch and play with your nipples, suck little marks on the side of your breasts that he'll revisit in the morning.

He won't give you too much, wants you right on the edge for he sinks into you, watching your mouth fall open while he slowly pushes into you. The thumb on your clit will make your nails dig into his back, scratching to pull him closer to you.

Jack's pulled out of his reverie with a shout, spilling into his own hand. His chest heaves as he sits for a moment, letting himself live in the fantasy for a moment before the guilt sets in.

taglist: @misty–lillies @yl90 @abbott976 @fortjackson @andie88 @chikisreads @mrsjgbuck

pt. 3 coming soon

[fhrlclln]

i. express yourself, don’t repress yourself | michael robinavitch

SUMMARY -> he’s miserable and horny on a wednesday night, but when he happens to see you, his kind and innocent resident in the same sex shop as him… he can’t help but wonder whether he feels more miserable or more horny thinking about what the hell you’re doing in a place like this? he doesn’t want to admit to himself it’s both when you catch him on another night.

michael ‘robby’ robinavitch x resident!fem!reader

GENRE -> nsfw/smut

WARNINGS -> not proof-read, heavy sexual themes, medical inaccuracies, pining, age difference (not really specified but implied), mentions of sex shops & that, power imbalance, sexual tension, praise kink, sub!robby, self-degradation, blowjobs & slight d/s

WC -> 6.4k

a/n: how could you not degrade this man when he looks like that? all pathetic and miserable with puppy brown eyes lmao. and part two soon cuz i actually didn’t expect for this to be 6k words already lmao.

robby is like any other single man. 

he gets horny, sure he can hook-up with any of the available women or anyone in the pitt or somewhere, but sometimes he just doesn’t have the energy and time to pursue and woo someone just to get rid of his pent-up sexual needs. he watches porn on his phone… sometimes on the t.v if he’s feeling extra pent-up. but sometimes… sometimes the old fashion way makes it more thrilling. like going to a sex shop, browsing through porn magazines, like what he did when he was in his college years. maybe watch a peep show or something like that. his home is already quiet and suffocating enough, so why not be somewhere open? nobody would judge him, all the people there might just have the same idea and sentiment as him. 

being lonely, horny, and fucking miserable. 

“good work today, chief.” dana tells him as she pats his back, ready to go home for the night now. “slow day but thank fucking god.” 

he snorts. “must be our lucky day, can’t say for the night shift.” 

“ha! you tell abbot that.” dana chuckles as she finally says goodbye to lena and the others as robby stares up to the central board, backpack on his shoulder, ready to leave as well. he’d already done the briefing with jack, so he doesn’t have anything else to do other than say his goodbyes or do an irish goodbye. today was a good but slow day. 

“bye lena, have a nice shift.” your airy voice flows through the room like the cool wind. robby’s gaze shifts to see you leaning against the nurse’s station while lena chats you up for a moment. you smile at her, all wide-eyed and sunshine in them. he doesn’t notice his lips tug up as he watches you wave your hand to whitaker, who awkwardly waves back, who’s still charting and munching on a sandwich. hopefully not leaving crumbs on his desk. 

and then your gaze sets to his, and he feels that pathetic tug on his heart which causes him to swallow it down. 

“dr. robby! you’re still here.” you lighten up even more, and he smiles… almost painfully. 

“yeah, still here.” he says. “just… uh, checking if we missed anything.” 

“i think we got everything right.” you say beside him, and he can smell your citrusy perfume, your signature scent. he slyly takes a good look at you, seeing you dressed up. he can’t help himself but enjoy these few minutes before you leave. 

“you going somewhere?” he asks. 

you turn to him, nodding. “couple of my girlfriends and i are going to the movies.” 

“well, don’t let me keep you here.” he sadly has to say as he smiles at you. “you did good today, by the way.” 

“i don’t know about that. nothing really happened today. which is weird, considering we’re always busy.” you laugh, and it sounded so nice to hear for him, especially after this slow shift. 

“you’re right. but you managed and taught most of our medical students today so you did good, sweetheart.” the nickname slips past his lips naturally. your smile sweetened at that, and he noticed it. all innocent and kind. 

“good enough for your recommendation letter, then?” you joked, and he rolled his eyes playfully. he couldn’t be prouder that you’re almost completing your residency. you’re the best resident he’s had other than langdon… which he doesn' t want to think about him right now. 

“don’t get too excited now, you still got another year stuck with me being your boss.” he smiled, eyes crinkling. 

“whatever you say, chief.” you giggled. “well, goodnight, dr. robby.” 

“yeah, goodnight. have fun.” he painfully has to say as you leave his side. the whiff of your citrus scent slowly leaves as well. he takes a deep breath as he sighs, still looking up to the central board, with no thoughts of checking it again. just quietly staring and brooding as he finally turns to leave the pitt.

・゜゜・．

the city lights of pittsburgh welcome him as he rides through the highway on his bike. helmet on today, which was a relief if anyone saw him. the wind blows through the night as he finally parks at a corner street before hopping off and walking towards where his guilty pleasure is. the sex shop was like a picture back in the 90’s, neon signs glowing: red, green, blue, pink, and that. the familiar provocative signage of a woman’s leg further deepens the shame in him as he adjusts his backpack on his back before heading in. 

it was dim, a few people are in here, most of them were sleazy looking men… just like him. well, maybe he’s the better half of that, but still a miserable and lonely man. he guessed some are married, some single, no wife and kids like him. others are teenage boys who are giggling in the far corner, browsing through the porno magazines. he’s surprised that they still sell that despite the decline because of the wonders of the internet and shit. 

he sets off to look around the endless shelves of magazines. wondering what his poison is for tonight or maybe he’ll head to the booths for some peep shows, jerk off and enjoy. as long as he doesn’t go home yet, and be met with silence he’s known since god knows when he started letting himself go. the women on the magazine are all dolled up in heavy makeup, tits out, poses that let him see everything, but he can’t feel the stir in his cock yet. 

well… he’s still not that old to have an erectile dysfunction, right? no, he’s old enough that maybe that’s the reason why he’s not turned on yet. or maybe it’s because the women on the covers are not- 

he stops himself for a moment with that impending thought. 

he habitually wipes his hand down his mouth and beard, a habit that he does when he’s trying to repress himself or calm down. he does not want to think about what he’s been trying to not imagine since… fuck him, he tells himself. trying to. he manages to joke miserably. he reluctantly grabs a random magazine, flicking through the pages as he tries to immerse himself in the pictures that are supposed to entice him. 

he should have just suckered up and watched porn on his phone. he thinks now. 

“didn’t know women came here. look.” one of the young boys whispers as he hears them from the side. 

“no shit, dude. what are you, 80?” one of the other boys says back sarcastically, and he can’t help but feel amused at that. he looks up… he should not have looked up actually. 

loe and behold were you…  

in the same sex shop. 

as him. 

you. 

his resident… his fucking resident. 

in a sex shop. in this sex shop. 

his eyes almost fell out as he quickly ducked to the other isle, much further from the entrance as he stayed still and hid there like a fucking idiot. fuck, fuck, fuck, she didn’t saw me, right? he panicked. and the most important question popped in his mind. 

what the hell were you doing here? 

i mean it was already self-explanatory… but you out of all people- he’d settle for whitaker or ogilvie, maybe even ellis or mckay…or anyone… but you?

he slyly looked up, peeking over the shelf, he’s tall enough to do that without his whole face showing as he tracks your every move. and there you are, walking in the other aisle, moving to the counter. face all serious and quiet as you ignore the several stares when you pass by those sleazy-looking men. he suddenly wants to kick their asses the way their eyes looked at you like you’re one of the magazines they’re holding in their hands. fucking pigs.

it’s really you. 

same cute outfit on, the one you wore after that slow shift. he’s definitely not hallucinating, it's you talking to the cashier at this instant. 

what happened to the movies with your girlfriends? he had to wonder… did the ‘movies’ entail this? he’s curious where you’re going as the cashier hands you something, and you move away. he follows his gaze where you’re going, and he’s utterly shocked to see you get in one of the booths for the peep shows. 

movies, huh? he lets out a low chuckle to himself as he wipes his face. fuck, he didn’t expect this at all. what was he expecting, really? you, the sunshine that you are. always greeting people with a shy smile, tending to patients so kindly that gloria can fuck-off with those ‘patient satisfaction scores’ when you’re already doing that. he never once heard about your romantic escapades no matter how cunning princess or perla are trying to suck it out of you. you’re a great doctor- one of the best that he’s had the opportunity to guide. 

and now he’s seen this new side of you. 

in a sex shop for fuck sakes. 

oh, god- he wonders… he wonders what you’re watching now behind the booth. behind that closed door. and he feels blood rush all over his body. to his ears, apples of his cheeks, neck, and… 

oh, fucking hell. he looks down, there’s a slight bulge in his pants. out of all instances- god, this was hilarious. a wash of shame envelops him. he can’t be thinking of what you’re watching right now- whatever porn movie you’re indulging in, he doesn’t have the right to know. it’s your privacy. and he doesn’t want to stay here any longer when you come out of the booth and see him here. 

see him being miserable and horny like these sleazy pigs. 

he walks out of the sex shop in a haste. he quickens his steps when he’s outside, being met with the cold air that doesn’t help his shame. 

what a night, huh? 

・゜゜・．

the day after was hard. 

really hard for him. 

he spent all night under the shower, a cold shower to get rid of his… problem. he’s mortified- mortified in a sense that his ‘reaction’ stemmed from the fact that he saw you in a place where he thinks you should not belong. was it the absurdity of it that made him hard as a fucking rock? that you, the kind woman that you are, who he thought of as innocent as a feather be in a place housed in filth and pleasure? 

sexist, much? the little voice in his head berates him. 

it was not like that… he tells himself. just that- it’s you. 

the woman he’s been trying hard not to think of. he’s already got a bad wrap in the dating scene. everyone in the hospital knows about his messy escapades. he’s a walking red flag, he knows that. he’ll get what he wants then leave when things get serious. he even got slapped in the face when this one nurse he was ‘dating’ told him how much of a asshole he was to fuck and run. and to add that, you’re his resident, who is almost completing your residency. 

and he would not do that to you. 

saviour-complex as they say. but isn’t he doing the bare minimum by leaving you alone? he doesn’t fucking know. all he knows is that he can’t, he won’t, and he needs to grow up and move on. 

and no matter how much he wanted to see you smile at him, just the two of you. hear your laughter near his ear as he buries his face in the warmth of neck. your citrusy scent enveloping his nostrils, making him feel all calm and at peace. or your gentle hands that will cup his face, telling him he deserves to be here. that he deserves to be with you. 

a man could only dream, right? 

now these thoughts sparked even more the fact that he’s got a glimpse of you’re hiding. that you have needs, needs that he can satisfy… and he wonders what you were watching. was it soft porn? do you like it soft and gentle? or maybe passionate and raw. or… fuck, maybe even hardcore and that kinky shit. hell, he can do that if you want to. 

no, no, no, no- he has to stop himself right now. 

the grip he has on the ipad he’s holding tightens as he sets it down on the desk. he removes his glasses, leaning back as he sighed. today’s shift was already busy, a complete opposite of yesterday. and he’s glad because that means he won’t be interacting much with you today. he’s got interns to teach, and you as well. with the number of trauma cases coming in, he hopes he won’t have to meet your eyes and feel the shame in him. or stand close near you and get a hard-on. 

“you’re looking rough today.” dana quipped behind him, busy looking at her own ipad. 

“aren’t i everyday?” robby manages to joke, almost mirthfully. 

dana looks at him through her own reading glasses, seeming to eye him up and down. “hmm, you’re right. but you look like you can use a drink with that face of yours, robinavitch.” 

he manages to huff out a laugh. “oh, you have no idea, dana.” he finally stands up, ready to take the day on and forget about last night. “you have no fucking idea…” 

dana casts him one last judging look before shrugging at him. he leaves, already being called to trauma 2 as he sighs. 

・゜゜・．

for the rest of the days that followed, he avoided you like the plague. maybe a quick ‘hello’ or consult here and there, but he didn’t linger longer than he used to do with you- joking and talking about whatever topic was in hand. he avoided you like you were gloria. some people wouldn’t mind about this sudden and actually very minuscule shift in the air. although, of course the one who noticed it happened to be the most known observant man in his life that will point it out to him out of the blue. he’s actually frightened the way jack does these things like this almost accurately.

“you’re very weird today.” is the opening liner jack says as they do their handoffs. 

“…i don’t know what you’re talking about.” is his most obvious reply that seals the deal with jack abbot’s accurate suspicions. 

“do i have to point it out in the open, brother?” jack stares at him, holding the chart in his hand that’s deprived of his attention. robby sighs as he pinches the bridge of his nose. 

so… he tells him in a whisper… in an empty trauma room for privacy. but his nerves are on fire as he looks out in the windows, hoping you’re not near. and all he got from jack was a hum and a very amused look. 

“am i fucked up?” robby asks him, worried. 

“100%.” jack immediately says, and robby glares at him. although point-taken. “i mean, i understand… why were you in a sex shop in the first place?” 

he shoots him a pointed look. 

“okay, okay. self-explanatory, i know.” jack raises his hands up in defense. “so… let me put this straight. you’re acting all weird around her because you saw her in that place. normal reaction, probably the most common. but… the other added reason, i might add, is that you get bricked up thinking about it? well, that’s… fucked up-“

“don’t have to be an asshole about it, i’m fucking dying here just- just thinking about it!” he stops himself from raising his voice. “it’s her… in that shop.”

“sheesh, i know you like the woman, man. didn’t know you liked her so much that you think she’s too innocent to be there.” jack whistles, very much liking hearing him getting tortured. “but hey, soon you’ll forget about it. try not to think about it most of the time.” 

“that’s the problem. are you even listening?” 

“excuse me, what else do you want me to say?” jack has the audacity to be offended. “should i say, ‘oh! yeah, man, of course. she shouldn’t be there in the first place. that’s why you’re like this.’ look, i’m not someone who’d shame anyone for tapping into their… sexual fucking needs.” 

robby lets out an exasperated sigh. jack was right, of course. all the time, in fact. 

“robby, my brother. i admire you for not jumping on her like you usually do with the poor women who’ve crossed your path. means she’s special, right?” jack consoles him, and robby nods. you are special. the most special thing he doesn’t want to fuck up. 

“she is.” robby whispers, and jack smiles at him. 

“well, don’t fuck it up if you ever want to actually be with her. this kind of thing… it’s normal to be weirded out, of course. you saw her in a new perspective. but you gotta get in your head that everyone does this shit. not just you going into a… sex shop.”

“you’re not gonna let this go, are you?” he eyes him, and jack shrugs before patting his shoulder. yeah, he’s not gonna let this go the next time robby teases him, and jack has something to fire on to ridicule him. 

“we all got our needs, man. no judgement here. just that you got pulled into a hilarious situation that you do know you can just forget about, and not be weird around her.” jack finally says before leaving him alone in the room. “you know… try to repress yourself if you can’t take it anymore.”

robby actually feels a little lighter. and by the window, he finally spots you by the nurse’s station. you greet jack with a smile before your gaze lands on him. his heart started to beat uncontrollably, thinking you know he was there that night. but no… you wave at him shyly. he can’t help but wave back, finally letting his shame go. letting the curiosity of what you watched that night go. you’re here, being normal with him. and you didn’t know he was there, and you certainly did not know about his… hard dilemma. 

it was that easy, told you so. jack’s voice echoed in his head as he finally exited the trauma room. with a plan set in motion of how he’ll regulate himself. 

・゜゜・．

he took it to heart what jack suggested. 

he distanced himself from all things sexually. from jerking off, watching porn, going to the sex shop, and thinking about you in that sense. he was doing good for the first few days… felt refreshing, like he’s transformed into a young man again. or maybe he finally accepted that he’s old and his dick’s not gonna work the same way it used to be. that he’s reached the state of pure nirvana and peace. matter fact, maybe he can switch careers, and become a priest or monk for how long he’s been celibate. 

yet… it got hard after talking to you in those days. 

really hard that whenever you look at him, he can’t help but think about what you’re doing behind closed doors… or booths. that he’s suddenly hyperaware of every blink of your lashes, tiny things that suddenly make him want to run to the nearest bathroom. how you wet your lips when you talk to him about this one patient who- who he gives no fucks right now, and just quietly admires your face. the face he wonders what it would look like if he drops down and eats you- okay, stop. 

he’s not ignoring you anymore, that was a good change. but the cost of that was him torturing himself that he thinks he might be into edging if this was the case. 

you’d like that, wouldn’t you? okay, stop, again. 

and now he turns to other mundane and boring things to avoid his hand from reaching down there when he’s home. he’s off on sundays, and he actually doesn’t work harder in the ED like he usually does because you’re there, so he starts jogging. he does wordle, rides around the city in his motorcycle more often, do some yoga (he finally listened to abbot but minus the nakedness), read more books, and maybe smoked a cig here and there just to busy himself. 

and like all hard times, he breaks. he’s just a man, after all. 

on a cold sunday night he drives downtown to the familiar place of sin. he did not want to go here again knowing you come here. but maybe that night was a one time thing, right? maybe you did it out of curiosity and need. a need he can satisfy- fucking hell. and all honesty, he does not know a similar sex shop like this one that houses the nostalgic magic of porn magazines and peep shows. or maybe deep inside, he thinks you’ll be here. but he quickly shuts down that thought, 

so, he goes in, feeling a little out of place after a week of repressing himself. he just needs to watch something, something that will scratch his hard itch, and he can go back to torturing himself. he heads straight to the counter, and inquires about the booths in an awkward manner. the young cashier looks at him with disinterest, and tells him the price and gives him this sort-of coin after he pays, saying that he’ll have to insert it into the machine once he gets in. and now he waits awkwardly outside one of the booths, it seems like a busy night considering all of the others are locked as well. 

so he waits… awkwardly. 

he considers buying a magazine and getting the hell out of here. but the sound of the door opening finally makes him feel relieved. until… 

“dr. r-robby?” he’s met your wide-eyed expression and soft voice of surprise. the smell of your perfume envelops his nose as his cheeks turned bright red. 

oh, fuck. 

he freezes, and stares right back at you with the same wide-eyed expression until moments later you pull him into the booth, and he still can’t process what just happened. the door clicks shut, and he quickly turns around to be with you in this dim space… with the sound of soft moans coming from the little glowing screen which makes his whole entire face get even warmer. he stares at the porn on the screen, the soft moans come from the man being fucked the hell out by the woman riding him. the woman berates the man under her, telling him how much of a filthy fuck he is. oh wow. this is what you like to watch? 

“i-i should go-“ robby turns away from the screen, gaze stuck to you, trying his best not to get affected by what he just watched. the porn you just watched. 

“this is awkward…” you finally say, back pressed against the door, and you eye him up and down. 

“listen, we can forget about this. i never saw you here, you never saw me here, i never saw you last-“ he has to stop himself with the way he just slipped out a crucial secret. but you immediately clock on to it as you raise a brow at him. freudian slip, as they say. 

“you saw me in here before?” 

if jack was here, he’d be laughing at his face right now. or worse… looking disappointed. 

“i-“ robby doesn’t know what to say. he’s too frazzled, knowing blood just rushed down to his cock when he notices a small smirk appear on your lips. “…yeah. i’m sorry. it’s a public space… i didn’t- i didn’t mean to see you here at all.” 

soft moans run in the background, and he feels ashamed as he tries to hide his hard-on from you in a discreet way. 

“…so that’s why you’ve been weird around me.” you hum, and took a step closer to him. robby stays still, looking at you carefully. he doesn’t see you grimace or get disgusted just by looking at him. your expression was hard to decipher. were you mad at him? 

“yeah… sorry.” he lets out an awkward huff of laughter. trying to appear calm and collected. you don’t say anything for a good minute, just quietly staring at him. 

“are you hard right now?” 

huh? 

“w-what?” he stuttered. you look at him with a blank stare before gesturing down his pants. 

“i asked… are you hard right now?” 

another flush of blood rushes down at your tone. he can feel his whole body turn hot. the little booth was suffocating, and if he takes one step closer, your chests could brush against each other. robby lets another awkward laugh as he scratches the back of his head. he looks down, and there’s an evident tent on his crotch which further makes him feel disgusting. here he was, inside a peep show booth with his resident, and he’s fucking hard as a rock. 

“i need to… go.” he finally says, dropping the coin on the ground as moves past you. your passive expression breaks as you reach for him, tugging on his sleeve, and he almost shudders when your fingers touch his skin. 

“robby, wait.” your soft voice further makes him want to leave. it’s gentle, laced with no malice whatsoever. but to him, he thinks the worst. 

“i-i’ll see you tomorrow, okay? and i’m sorry, sweetheart. i…i didn’t mean to-“ he cuts of his words as he exits the booth in a haste again, just like the first time. he can hear you call out for him, but he shakes his head, walking even faster to get on his motorcycle and drive away. 

and he leaves you standing outside of the sex shop, and doesn’t notice the glint in your eyes as you watch him ride away. 

・゜゜・．

he stands very still in a trauma room. watching closely as whitaker and javadi treat a patient who got in for chest pain, and long after had a heart attack as they predicted. he’s just waiting for garcia to come down here, and he can move on to the next patient. he’s been on edge all day after last night. he could not sleep thinking about you and him in that tiny booth. his mind can’t shake that moment… 

are you hard right now? 

if he could fling himself off the roof right now, that would end his suffering because he could not calm his dick down after that. the only thing that could keep his mind from repeating that was to work, and he has been working for the past 6 hours into his shift. and he has been very adamant on not passing by you at any point and time. but the problem? 

you seem to be normal and more present wherever the hell he is. but the ED is a small space, what was he expecting anyway? 

he gets out of the trauma room once he briefed garcia of the patient’s stats and passed on to her. he goes to every available room and ward he’s needed, and when he finally stops by the nurse’s station to check the central board… of course you were there as well. and he almost lets his emotions out of his serious facade when you greet him with a smile that didn’t seem so innocent as before. or maybe he’s just being paranoid. 

“hi, dr. robby.” you say, looking up to the board as well. he doesn’t say anything back, only a hum as he tries his best not to look at you. “you good?” 

he wants to kill himself. 

“never better.” he manages to say sarcastically without sounding pathetic like last night. from the corner of his eye, he can see you looking right at him with a smile. 

“good.” you grin, and pass by him with a touch on his shoulder. he feels the hair on his skin go up at your warm touch as you leave him alone. 

good? 

…good? there’s a million thoughts running through his mind about what you mean by that. he finally looks at your retreating figure, and sighs. he’s not gonna have a nice day, is he? 

half of the hours after that spent him avoiding you, but you manage to find him everywhere he goes. you smile at him, almost like cheshire cat filled with mischief, and stand too close whenever you get the chance to ask for a consultation. there’s one instance when the two of you are treating a trauma patient, and every brush of your shoulder to his, and the feel of your body next to him has his mind going in circles. and when you pull away, you always leave with a soft smile at him, and he knows he’s about to explode. 

he goes straight to the nearest bathroom an hour left before his shift ends. he can’t do this anymore as he tries to repress every thought of you away before the semi-bulge in his pants start to become more noticeable. were you trying to tease him? he thinks, but he doesn’t have a clear indication of that. he closes his eyes for a moment, thinking of anything that will turn him off. he feels so frustrated that he’s considering drowning himself in the toilet. 

the door suddenly opened, and his eyes widened. he forgot to lock it… again. 

“robby? you okay?” your soft voice makes him groan as he turns to you. feeling irritated as he lets out a sharp breath. 

“not the time.” he grits out, and you stand there, assessing him before shutting the bathroom door and locking it. what the fuck are you doing now?

“what are you doing-“ 

“you didn’t answer my question last night.” you cut him off. 

robby shakes his head in disbelief. “sweetheart, this is not the place we should be talking about that.” 

“when will we ever talk about it, then?” you eye him, and the softness of your tone turns serious. he suddenly stiffens. “it’s a yes or no question, robby.” 

he fights back, trying to stay rational and authoritative. “i’m your attending-“ 

“yes or no?” your voice drops with authority. that you're fed up with his nonsense. he blinks, his resolve finally breaking as he runs a hand down his mouth. 

“yes.” he breathes out. and the two of you fall quiet as he looks at your expression, yet your face remains passive just like last night. you stare at him, and he finally gets a semblance of what you’re feeling right now as your gaze falls down to his bulge.

“good.” you praise him at last, and his cock jumps at that. “see? that wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

“…this is completely inappropriate.” 

“shut up.” you glare at him, taking a step closer to where he’s standing. “i think we’re way past appropriate with the way you’ve acted around me since… forever, robby.”  

he genuinely feels ashamed. “i-“ 

“did you like what i was watching last night?” your airy tone comes back, and he has to say no and get the hell out of here. “answer me, robby.” 

but he nods. “yeah.” 

“good. you’ve been good now, aren’t you? answering me truthfully.” you cooed, and he likes the way you praise him. “…you know, i thought you were just being very kind, like the good man that you are. always there for your residents and patients, but you always had a soft spot for me, don’t ‘ya?” 

…fuck, you knew he likes you? since when? his thoughts spiral as you’re getting closer to him. 

“i really liked it, robby. i can say that i really liked you until you started acting weird all of the sudden. that pissed me off.” you pout, and he wants to say sorry, but he stays silent as he watches your every move until you’re so close to him, he can feel your breath. you like him? his heart beats loudly as his cheeks turn red. 

“then i understand now why you suddenly changed… i thought you were disgusted by me-“ 

“i could never be disgusted with you, sweetheart.” he replies almost instantly. he had to assure you because seeing you frown made him weak. “i’m the disgusting one-“ 

“shh, none of that.” you say as your hands cup his cheeks and he lets out a tiny breath. “…i really liked it when you’re like this… so obedient and willing. you needed a little push, huh?” 

“i-i-“ he doesn't know what to say, but the softness of your hands lulls him. 

“yeah, huh? i think you deserve something special from me.” you cooed, your hands dropping down to his chest. he stares at your lips as you grin at him. 

he lunges forward, taking you in a heated kiss as you let out a noise of surprise as you kiss him back with the same energy. he grips the back of your neck to keep you steady while your arms wrapped around his neck to pull him closer. his knees buckled as he held you close, desperate to taste you as his tongue nudged your lower lip to let him in. you moan as your tongues clash with each other. the kiss was so messy and hot that it made him feel like he had a fever. 

you like him. god, you like him. 

robby almost whines when you suddenly pull away. both of your chests are heaving as you look at each other with heavy gazes. you grin as you wipe your mouth, savoring his taste and he licks his lips. 

“i was waiting for so long for you to make a move… but i’ll settle for this.” you suddenly say, and robby almost laughs until you drop to your knees in front of him. 

“sweetheart, w-we still have an hour until- oh, fuck-“ your hands fumble with his belt. he clenches his fist as he lets you do whatever you’re doing that he knows is downright wrong to be doing in a hospital bathroom. 

“shut up or i’ll stop, okay?” you look up at him, and he nods desperately. you unclasp his belt then immediately unzipped him. you don’t waste time to tease him as you pull the band of his boxers down until his cock sprang out. he hears you let out a tiny breath of surprise, seeing his cock jump out red and angry. 

“oh my.” you laugh as you grip him. he stares down, seeing you admire his cock as you spit on his tip all of the sudden. he shudders, biting back a moan as your hand starts to jerk him off. good god, he hasn’t touched himself in a week, and he swears he’ll cum any moment at your ministrations. “it’s so big, robby. you’re so big.” 

he lets out a tiny groan in response as you continue to jerk him off with a smile. 

“aww, how long have you been holding yourself out? it’s so red on the tip and so hard…” you say sweetly as you kiss the head. 

robot stutters. “i-i’m not gonna last long. s-shit-“ 

you suddenly stop your movements, and look up at him disapprovingly. “don’t you dare or i won’t let you cum.” 

he panics. “i’ll be good! i promise… it’s just that i haven’t- uhm-“ he’s too embarrassed to say it. 

you giggle. “aww, then you’ll have to try harder not cum, okay?” 

robby nods sadly. “okay.” 

“good.” you praise him, and he twitched in your hand. you kiss his tip again, peppering kisses all over his cock as the other cups his heavy balls. he almost dies when you finally take his tip into your mouth and suck lightly. he had to bite down on his fist to not moan loudly. or else both of you are fired if anyone caught you two. a resident sucking off their attending, what an image. 

you welcome him into your mouth as his hands flies down to your head. not grabbing it, but only holding you gently to guide you. you bob your head, moaning around him, liking the way he feels on your tongue. all big and stuffed. he lets out tiny sounds of pleasure as you continue to suck him off. 

“i-i’m close, fuck, i’m so close. i’m sorry-“ tears wet his eyes at the immense pleasure you’re giving. 

your mouth pops when you pull back, and he lets out a low whine. “that’s okay, baby. you’ll just have to make it up for me later. you’re so good for saying sorry.” 

“y-yeah?” he asks breathlessly, and your hand moves up and down on his cock. it’s all sticky and messy from your mouth and his precum. your hands feel so good around him. 

“yeah.” you grin and take him in your mouth again. this time you suck him off more harshly making him groan as he holds your head gently. his hips buck as he mutters jumbled words as he feels his balls tighten, almost near. 

“oh god, yeah- yesyesyesyes, please-“ he whispers as you feel him shoot out his release. thick white hot ropes of cum keep flowing in your mouth as you swallowed it all. his chest heaved as knees buckled at the intensity of his release. he slowly pulls out of your mouth as you cough a little as he sees some of spend drip at the corners of your lips. he feels all warm and sweaty seeing you on your knees, mouth full of cum as you swallowed it all with a satisfied look on your face. 

he helps you stand up as he tucks his flaccid cock back in his pants. he suddenly feels all shy as you lean up to peck his lips. 

“you were so good, robby.” you tell him sweetly. “but i think you can do so much better than that, right?” 

he should be saying that this was wrong, but to hell with that now. “let me make it up to you, please.” he begs as he kisses you again. you grin against his lips as you smirk at him. it’s as if you planned this from the start. but robby’s too fucked-out and smitten with the way you’re in his arms right now. 

“take me home, then.” 

・゜゜・．

haha, edged y’all.

mini taglist: @thesandbeneathmytoes

[opulentpeony]

break up with your boyfriend, im bored - robby's bf!jack x serial killer!reader 

word count: 8.6k warnings: dead dove: do not eat, rape/non-con (because of somnophilia), femme fatale!reader, age gap, bisexual!jack (happy pride month!), infidelity (robby cheats on jack with whitaker), murder (you kill robby and a lot of other ppl, oop-), daddy kink, jack calls you “baby”/”babydoll”, stalking, surveillance (jack and those damn cameras of his!), mentions of alcohol (you're a bartender and drink a little), unprotected sex, squirting, fingerfucking, choking, spanking, rough sex, dom/sub dynamics, breeding kink, size difference, gun play (look away if you don't want a gun in your mouth!), semi-public sex (you fuck in an empty bar in a booth), slut shaming (he calls you a slut but you like it!), he sedates you to keep you asleep, lowkey jack is batshit crazy in this but what's new? (do i ever write him normal?) summary: you hate people who don't treat their significant others well, which is why you go out of your way to kill them. so, when a hot older doctor comes into the bar where you work and starts complaining to you about his boyfriend being distant, you decide to convince him to break up with him.  why? because you're bored! 

a/n: had an itch to kill robby and get railed by psychotic!jack. that's it. that's the fic! 

hope it's a sick read ♡ 

For the fourth morning in a row, the same guy keeps showing up to the shitty dive bar where you work, which is unfortunately open 24/7. And you've been stuck with the shift that starts at midnight since you moved to this city. 

You don't mind it now. Not when you have a hot old man wearing black scrubs to look at before your shift ends. 

Though, he has gotten a bit gloomier over the days. Orders the same thing. A cold beer, that he nurses for half an hour before asking for a double shot of whiskey. Like he needs to pretend to debate drinking more than he should at seven in the morning. 

But today, he starts with the whiskey. 

“Bad night, Doc?” You assumed he was a doctor but you know for certain now since he hasn't taken his badge off yet.

You're a bit too distracted by the sad look in his eyes to catch his name before he tucks his badge into the backpack he always slings in on his shoulder and drops at the bar stool beside him. 

“Jack.” He tells you his name because Jack would rather not be reminded that he's a doctor for the time being. 

“No need to talk about it, Jack.” You pour him his shots but also hand him a glass of water. “But the bar's all yours if you want to. I'm pretty good at keeping a secret too.”

You wink at him, smiling beautifully. 

Jack hasn't had a pretty girl smile at him in a long time. Probably because he's been so wrapped up in attempting to salvage his failing relationship with his longtime partner, Robby, that he hasn't noticed anyone batting their eyelashes at him the way you're doing now. 

The bar is empty. That's why Jack comes here. It's a far trek from work, so no one he knows ever goes to this area. He usually drives but the last few days, he's been calling a rideshare so he has the option to get wasted. He hasn't yet.

Today might be the day he does. 

Because he caught wind of something he shouldn't have. 

And it's killing him.

He has no one he can talk to about it. 

Except you…

“Only if you drink with me.” If Jack is going to spill his secrets, he'd rather you not be sober. At least then, he can pretend that maybe you'll forget all about his ramblings. 

“Trying to get me in trouble?” You chuckle, then grab a cold glass, filling it with beer. “How about this: you drink your usual beer then you wait until I'm off work in an hour and we can drink at my place nearby. Good idea?” 

Jack's stomach churns at that. Because he shouldn't say yes. He's in a committed relationship. He definitely shouldn't go over to your place, especially when it's blatantly obvious that you're an incredibly attractive woman who isn't hiding for a second your interest in him. 

But if Robby can "hang out" with someone much younger than him, so can Jack. 

It's only fair. 

“Alright. But I'm paying for the liquor.” 

You shake your head. “I have plenty of booze at home. You're paying for breakfast.” 

Jack doesn't like how smooth you talk. So casual. So easy going. So much like he was before insecurity racked his every waking moment. 

“Fine.” 

“It's a date.” You slide the shot glasses back towards you and then Jack watches as you down them both back to back in front of him. His eyes trail along the whiskey that drips off the sides of your lips.

He wants to lean forward and lick it up.

A thought he shouldn't be having.

Fuck. He's going to do something stupid, isn't he? 

Accepting your invitation was stupid enough as is but lusting after you would be the worst decision a taken man like him should consider. 

But when he sees the way your tongue swirls around your full lips, Jack can't help but stare. 

You've always had this effect on people. It's what makes the kind of lifestyle you live easier than it should be. Because you can always get a job bartending in any city you go to without a resume and you can always convince the owner to pay you under the table. Same goes with your landlord, who is happy to let you pay your rent in all cash without verifying if your identity is real or not.

It isn't. It never is. 

Because you would've been caught by now if you weren't as smart as you are. 

And you like killing people a little too much to get caught now. 

So, when Jack asks you for your name, you give him the same old routine you do with everyone and tell him, “just call me baby.” 

“Baby? That can't possibly be your name.” 

“It's what you'll call me.” You lean over the counter, giving him a very nice view of your breasts peeking through your low cut sweater. “I like that or babydoll. Especially when I get to call you daddy.” 

Tension forms in every muscle in his body. 

Because…fuck, he has missed being called that. 

Robby never liked it. He was dismissive of Jack's daddy kink, made him feel ashamed for having one so Jack repressed it.

Now here you are, openly feeding into it. 

“I should tell you I'm in a relationship.” Jack has to ruin this. 

But you don't let him. “Then break up.” 

“W-What?” He is so shocked by how blunt your words are that he stammers his own. “E-Excuse me?” 

You put your hand on his, drawing a line from his wrist to his knuckles with your finger, swirling the tip around each bone as you tell him in a sultry tone, “come on, daddy. You know you want to, or you wouldn't have said yes to me.” 

“W-We've been together for years.” It feels like a poor excuse once Jack says it aloud. 

You shrug, not caring at all. “So?” 

“He's…” Jack doesn't even know what he was going to say because your hand comes up to cup his face, lifting his chin to look at you. 

“He's just your boyfriend.” You brush your thumb over his lip, smiling when his jaw tightens in your grip. “You don't need a boyfriend when you could have me.” 

For fun, you step closer, wanting to see how he'll react to your lips being only an inch away from his. 

His reaction is on par with a man his age who has been out of the game for a while. “You're at work.” 

“If you kissed me, I wouldn't mind getting fired.” You playfully bite your lip, purposefully making it swell so he's more enticed than ever. “Do you want to kiss me?” 

Jack should say no. He definitely should say no. 

He's in a relationship. A shitty one, where Robby is cheating on him but he made a commitment. 

One that he'll need to break if he's going to say yes. 

“I—” Jack is rendered speechless when you nuzzle his nose with your own, giggling at how flustered he gets because he thought you were about to kiss him. 

“God, you are so fucking cute.” You want to ride him until the next morning. “Can you just break up with him already?”

Why is Jack even considering this? 

Maybe because he knows it's rational. He caught Robby cheating on him with that younger resident, Dennis Whitaker. He hasn't confronted Robby about it yet.

Jack knows his relationship is over.

So, why is he clinging onto it when there's a gorgeous girl right in front of him that's practically throwing herself at him? 

He should forget about Robby, like he has been trying to do these last few days. 

He can do that by fucking you. 

He will do exactly that.

“Fuck it.” Jack pulls out his phone and against his best judgment, he shoots Robby a text. 

With a video of Robby and Whitaker from Jack's hidden camera in Robby's apartment.

And the only text he sends with it is: It's over between us. 

Then, once it's sent, Jack grabs you by the throat and tugs you to him, kissing you. 

You were not expecting the sudden aggression. But, it's incredible. 

Like Jack is finally able to enjoy himself for once. 

You like how tight his grip is, how you're certain if it was any tighter, he'd bruise your neck. You like how he's eager to kiss you, his tongue slipping into your mouth the moment you let him. 

You slide your underwear off under your skirt, tucking it behind the counter before you end up getting it wet. You're already raring to go, just from this feverish kiss. 

You'll surely have to fuck Jack now. 

“Let me lock the door.” You say all breathless against his lips. “Unless you want people to walk in and see you with your hand wrapped around my throat.”

Jack's eyes shift to the door then back at you, trailing down the length of your body to your short skirt that leaves nothing to the imagination. 

“Do you care?” He asks, his hand releasing your neck from his hold, and you smirk in response. 

“I'd let you fuck me right here if you wanted to.” You're getting fired anyways. 

Might as well enjoy the taboo of it while you can. 

“Do you have a condom?” Jack should not fuck the first person to give him attention but especially not without protection.

You laugh at that. “Did you fuck your ex with a condom?” 

Of course Jack did and he is thankful he did because he has no clue how long Robby has been cheating on him for. He could've gotten something unknowingly. 

Maybe he doesn't feel too shitty about breaking up with Robby now…

You snap your fingers in front of Jack's face, breaking him from his thoughts. “I'm going to take that as a yes. I trust you're clean. You are a doctor, after all.” 

“Are you?” He has to ask.

“A doctor? Definitely not.” You laugh again, earning a glare from Jack. 

“Clean.” He emphasizes the word. 

You pull out your phone, showing him the test results along with proof of your IUD that you got from a doctor friend of yours who works at a clinic a few states away. You always test after every sexual encounter.

You'll likely head there again after this because from the look in Jack's eyes when they meet yours, you've got him hook, line and sinker. “Did I pass, Doc?” 

“Why do you want this?” That insecurity of his leaks out. 

“Hmmm.” You tap the rim of his untouched glass of beer before following the line around it. Once, twice, trailing slow circles around and around, for no real reason.

Jack is mesmerized by how strange your movements are. He's never met anyone like you. Someone who could entrance him with a simple motion. 

Your words draw him further into your spell. “Because I know when a man is dying to fuck a nice pussy.” 

You pull your finger off the rim then and pick up the glass, hovering it over the drain behind the bar in front of you. 

“The question is: are you going to fuck me with a beer in your system or stone cold sober?” You slowly tip the glass, baiting to see if he'll stop you from pouring out his drink. 

Jack doesn't. He lets you pour the bubbly amber liquid down the drain, setting the glass aside when you're done. 

Then, he snaps at you. “Go to that booth and spread your legs so I can see that nice pussy of yours, babydoll.” 

Your lips curve into a wicked smile, “now how did you know I'm not wearing any underwear?”

“Because a slut like you wouldn't.” He snaps again, his tone harsher now. “Go.” 

You lick your lips before skipping over to the last booth in the bar. The one furthest from the door. Also the one that is out of the line of sight of the only camera.

So, the doctor is aware of the blind spots. 

You wonder where he learned to be so diligent. 

Is he ex-military? Must be. 

For the sake of cleanliness, you throw a freshly washed tablecloth over the table before you hop onto it. Doing exactly as Jack desires, you spread your legs for him to see that you were not lying to him. 

The owner of the bar will have a fun time with that lace pair of yours when they find it later. 

But not as much fun of a time as you're about to have because Jack walks over until he's standing right in front of you, staring down at the sight before him. 

You have the nicest pussy he has ever seen in his life. He wants to know what you taste like. What you look like when you're cumming. 

If you're this gorgeous right now, he knows you'll be breathtaking when you're out of breath from cumming on his tongue. 

He nearly drops to his knees when you use your hand to part your folds for him, giving him a clear view of how wet you are as you say in that sultry tone of yours, “is my daddy going to eat my pussy or not?” 

Jack holds back because he's done giving someone else the reins. It's been a long time since he got to be the one in charge. He wasted too much of his life trying to please Robby.

Right now, he's going to focus on himself and what he wants. 

And what he wants is for you to beg him to touch you. 

“Ask nicely.” He instructs and you can't help how giddy you feel hearing his stricter tone. 

You want to be a brat but you decide Jack must've suffered enough in his last relationship. 

You should make his life easier by submitting to him. 

It's what he needs right now. 

“Will you please go down on me?” You ask so sweetly that Jack swears his teeth might rot. “Pretty please?” 

“Is that what my baby wants?” He leans forward, hands gripped on the corners of the table, fisting the cloth beneath him. “For her daddy to make her cum?” 

You nod eagerly. “Yes, please.”

Jack slides into the booth and gestures for you to adjust. “Scoot over here.” 

You listen without any hesitation and once your legs are in his reach, Jack yanks you closer to him by your knees. His face hovers so close to your pussy that you can feel every exhale he takes. 

He feels parched. He hasn't had anything to drink yet. And the sight of your slick is enticing him too much for him not to give into his need to taste you. 

You let out a breathy little sigh of pleasure when you feel his tongue drag along the length of your folds before settling at your clit, giving it a light flick. 

“Can I touch your hair?” Your hand aches to feel those soft looking curls he has. 

“Say please.” Jack is so fucking hard right now, it's unbelievable.

His cock wants to burst out of his pants when you respond so beautifully, “please, daddy.” 

He nods and you gently lace your fingers through his hair, reveling in the feel of it. You play with his curls as he leans back in, his tongue dipping into you this time. You don't hold in your voice, a moan leaving your lips immediately. 

It's like heaven to Jack to hear you react to his touch. He never liked how quiet Robby could be in bed. It made him feel inferior, like he wasn't doing a good enough job. 

Especially after seeing how vocal Robby could be in that video.

It pisses him off that—

Jack winces when you tug at his hair hard all of a sudden. “What the f—”

“If you're going to eat my pussy, can you focus on me?” You don't like that his mind is elsewhere.

Jack realizes how he's acting. He's doing what he dreaded from Robby. You deserve his undivided attention, like he deserves yours. And you're willing to give him your attention. 

So, Jack apologizes, “I'm sorry, babydoll. It won't happen again.” 

“It better not.” You pull him towards your pussy. “Now you have to make me cum, to show me you'll keep your word.”

He licks his lips then smiles, his mind locked in this moment with you now. “Don't worry. Your daddy is going to make you cum real good.”

He finally feels confident again, especially when you cry out his name the moment his lips seal around your clit and start sucking on it. He alternates between that and swirling circles around your clit until the tension in your core coils up to the point of no return. 

“Please don't stop.” You're gripping his hair tight, keeping him against you as he plays with your clit just right. “Please let me cum, please.” 

Jack does let you, pushing you right into your orgasm with every flick of his tongue on your clit. Your eyes roll back when the pleasure shoots through you, your body bathing in the heat of it. 

It was a great orgasm but Jack knows he can do better. He can make you cum harder than that. 

So, he tells you, “get on your knees.” 

You bite your lip, looking up at him with the same amount of lust he has for you. Then, you, like the good girl you are, listen, flipping over, getting on your knees for him. You give him a wonderful view of your ass and your dripping wet pussy and he groans, kneading his cock through his pants with his hand. He could fuck you right now. Nothing is stopping him. 

Besides this desperate urge to make you cum your brains out. 

“Tell me how you like it.” Jack doesn't want to do the guesswork. 

And you don't mind being honest. “I like it rough.” 

“Yeah?” He smacks your ass all of a sudden, drawing a yelp from your lips. “How rough?” 

“Harder than that.” You wouldn't mind wearing his handprint on your ass for the next few days. 

“Rub your clit for me and don't you dare cum.” Jack demands as he slides out of the booth. 

You do as you're told, playing with your clit as you watch Jack walk behind the bar counter to wash his hands in the sink. You find that oddly endearing. He doesn't want to touch you with dirty hands. You appreciate that. 

He might prove to be more fun than you originally thought. 

Jack sits back down behind you then slaps your ass again, this time even harder as he scolds you, “you're barely rubbing your clit. Do better.” 

“I'm sorry.” You touch yourself the way you usually do, a bit more heavy handed. “But if I keep doing this, I'm going to cum…”

“You cum when I tell you to.” His hand strikes you again. You definitely have an imprint of his hand now… 

Your whole body is shaking from the throbbing sensation of your now sensitive flesh and the ache between your legs, which Jack quickly resolves when he thrusts a finger inside of you. 

His finger is so thick that you're hardly prepared for him to add another one so quickly, prying your pussy open when he pushes them deeper inside of you. 

“You're clenching so tightly around your daddy's fingers.” Jack curls them, trying to gauge where he should touch you. He knows he found the right place when your legs start to buckle. “Is this your weak spot, babydoll?”

He presses his fingertips exactly where you need him to so you beg him, “right there, please touch me right there.”

“Cum as much as you'd like.” He wants to see you wrecked. 

You cum so hard when he pounds his fingers right where you need him too. You cum again when he smacks your ass while his fingers are still inside of you. 

“More, please.” You haven't felt this good during sex in a while. It seems like you and Jack are quite compatible. 

And he is happy to give you what you want as long as you give him what he wants. “Do you want daddy's cock buried in this tight pussy?” 

“Yes.” You repeat the word over and over as he continues fucking you mercilessly with his fingers. “Please, I want your cock. I want to cum on your cock.”

“You're going to cum on my fingers first. I want to see you squirt.” He will make you. He's well aware of where he needs to touch you to make it happen.

And he likes your nervous response, “I've never…”

It's his turn to get you all flustered. 

“Then you will now.” Jack grips your ass with his free hand for leverage as his fingers start moving quickly side to side, stirring up every inch of your pussy with the pads of his fingers. 

You can't seem to stop the orgasm that hits you hard enough for you to see stars in your vision. It crashes through you uncontrollably and you squirt when his fingers pop out of you. He likes the sound of you panting from the intensity of cumming that much.

Jack likes knowing that no one else has made you cum like that before. 

You're in a bit of a daze, your head swimming from the rush of pleasure, which is why you don't register him grabbing your hips and pulling you down onto his lap. It isn't until you feel the tip of his cock pushing against your entrance that you wake up from the bliss, startled. 

“You can take it.” He eases you down onto his cock. “Lean on me, babydoll.” 

You lean your back against his chest as you sink down onto him. You didn't even get a good look at his cock but you can feel how big he is, stirring you up inside like his fingers had. 

You breathe out a sigh of relief when he hilts, impressed you managed to take him all the way. You haven't felt this full…ever. He must be the biggest cock you've ever had.

“You took me so well.” He praises you, his hand resting on your lower belly, his fingertips pressing down on where he's resting inside of you. “Do you feel how deep I am?”

You nod, gripping the edge of the table, needing some kind of leverage so you don't collapse from how good he feels buried inside of you. Your eyes stare at the wet spot in the tablecloth, where you came. 

Heat rises to your cheeks at the sight. 

Did you really cum that hard? 

You feel Jack's lips kiss a line from your shoulder to your ear, distracting you from the thoughts swirling your mind. Then, he whispers, so low into your ear, “now imagine how good it'll feel to squirt on your daddy's cock.” 

You might not survive that. 

You may have initiated this but usually it's more fun to just mess around with someone before killing their ex. You normally don't cum this much, sometimes not even at all. It's mostly supposed to be a memory to touch yourself to afterwards.

But right now, it's looking like Jack is going to be a memory you'll likely never forget. 

So you might as well make it unforgettable. “Can I turn around?” 

“Why?” He wonders aloud. 

“I want to kiss you.” You're honest. 

Now Jack is wondering why his heart skips a beat at how cute of an ask that is. He lifts you off of him and helps you straddle his lap while facing him. He guides his cock back inside of you as you wrap your arms around his neck, pressing your chest flush against his, letting him enjoy the sight of your breasts in that low cut sweater of yours.

He wants to rip it off of you. He wants to see you naked.

You can tell what he wants, which is why you lean in and whisper against his lips, “you can have me naked in my bed after this.” 

“You want to fuck more than once?” Jack wasn't sure if that was still on the table. 

“If you can make me cum like that again, I don't see why not.” You nip at his bottom lip before giving him a kiss. “I like you, Jack.”

Jack reaches up with both hands to cup your face, liking how you relax into his touch. He likes you too. Much, much more than he should. 

He barely knows you and yet he wants to see you again and again. 

Because you make him feel at ease.

You kiss him so naturally, like your lips were made to be kissed by his. The two of you sit there kissing in that booth, your hips rolling against his, grinding his cock deep inside of you. You ride him just like you wanted to, your lips never wanting to part from his. 

You definitely will need to do this again. You're enjoying yourself too much not to fuck him again.

Somewhere along the way, Jack tosses you back down onto the table so he has more space to pound his cock inside of you. He's getting closer to his orgasm, so he needs you to get close to yours. His thumb swipes your clit back and forth as he fucks you, making you rasp out his name beautifully. 

“I'm going to cum, Jack.” You can't hold back any longer. “Please cum with me.” 

“I want to see you cum on my cock first.” He wants to see you make a mess. 

Jack starts fucking you rougher, driving his cock deeper inside of you and you nearly tip over the edge from it. But it isn't until he wraps his hands around your throat and pressing his thumbs down on the center of it that you burst at the seams, cumming so hard when you can't breathe. 

You claw at his muscular arms as he continues to choke you through every rough thrust. Jack has always liked it rough, always enjoyed the light look of fear mixed with pleasure. He finds yours to be the most beautiful he's ever seen. 

Especially when you're unable to stop cumming beneath him, your eyes so glazed over from the pleasure that he could probably snap your neck and you wouldn't even realize it. You'd be too lost in your head to notice. 

So he has to bring you back, loosening his grip on your throat just enough for you to be able to respond to him when he asks you, “do you like getting your pussy fucked like this, babydoll?” 

You nod, smiling softly up at him. “Yes, daddy. I love it.” 

“Tell me to go harder.” He's going to cum when you do.

“Fuck me harder.” You want it too. 

“Good girl.” He leans down, kissing you again as he thrusts wildly inside of you like an animal in heat, no longer holding back his need. 

You cum when you feel him pumping every ounce of his release deep inside of you, warmth filling your lower belly. You haven't let anyone cum inside of you this much in a long while.

You're in absolute bliss, which is why you don't hear the door to the bar open.

But Jack does, so he pulls a gun out of the back of his waistband and points it at the person at the door. “Get the fuck out or I'll shoot you.” 

The door slams shut immediately after that and you laugh so hard, breaking from your daze a bit. “What the fuck, you had a gun on you? While we were fucking?” 

“I grabbed it before I went to wash my hands.” He figured he should be safe than sorry. 

The bar isn't in the best neighborhood…

“Just don't shoot me in bed, okay?” You pat his chest, trying to nudge him off of you. But he won't budge. “Jack?”

“You aren't afraid of guns?” He noticed you didn't flinch when he pulled it out.

You're noticing that he's paying a little too much attention to you while his cock is still resting inside of you. Meaning you can't hide the way his question makes your body tense up.

“I grew up shooting them.” You lie because you are not going to explain to him that you took many lessons to learn how to shoot so you could kill people easily. 

“Are you a good shot?” 

“Are you going to keep your soft cock inside of me or can we have this conversation over breakfast?” You tap at his chest again and thankfully he moves this time. 

Jack puts his gun away in his backpack and then comes back to you with some wet wipes he carries in his bag. You take them into the bar's bathroom to freshen up a bit and then go to grab your things, since your shift is over. You leave behind a note saying you quit and that you don't need your last paycheck.

You aren't planning to stay in this city much longer, anyway. 

Something that proves difficult because you end up sleeping with Jack every day since then. 

Even on the day you kill his ex-boyfriend, Robby. 

You had to make sure to do it on a night where Jack was on shift, so that he had an alibi. You saw him the next morning because he has made it a habit to come over to your apartment after work now. 

A habit that will end rather abruptly soon. 

Because Jack keeps asking you too many questions you can't answer.

Like why you don't have much furniture. Or why you won't tell him your name. Or why you aren't looking for anything serious. 

For the first time, you actually feel bad for what you've done. This was supposed to be a one night stand. A little fun, to help him move on. 

That's all it was supposed to be.

But then you found the hidden camera Jack installed…

It's fresh, not even a day old. You know that for a fact because you religiously scan your surroundings for any kind of tampering. In case the cops are onto you and you need to bolt.

You realize then that Jack is not normal. 

You should've known that from the jump but you ignored the signs since you figured you wouldn't ever see him again. 

So, when you leave without a trace, Jack goes crazy. 

It's bad enough that no one has heard from Robby in days. Jack went over to check Robby's apartment but he wasn't there. He asked Whitaker if he had heard from Robby but he hadn't either. 

Two people in Jack's life have disappeared all of a sudden.

But Jack only seems to care about you.

Because a few days after you cleared out your apartment and left the city, Jack gets a visit from the police that solves what happened to Robby. They ask him where he was the night that you killed Robby and he tells them that he was at work. Then, they tell him that they found Robby's dead body at the bottom of the river. 

A clean bullet through the head. Execution style. Like a professional hit. 

Since the officers are friends of Jack's, they reveal a little extra detail that they probably shouldn't. That a similar kind of killing happened a year ago just a few cities over. 

Same exact gun. Same exact kill shot. 

Right between the eyes. 

Whoever it was made their victims look at them in the eyes as they killed them. 

“What else do you know?” Jack doesn't know if he's asking out of grief or curiosity. 

“Apparently, when they interviewed the dead person's ex, they had been convinced by some woman to break up with them a few days prior to the person dying.” The officer shrugs at Jack. 

“Did they get a name?”

“Just said to call her “baby”. Isn't that strange?” 

Jack maintains a perfect poker face because if he didn't, the officers would know that Robby's murder would for sure be connected to that other murder. But he doesn't say a word about it.

He doesn't know why he protects you.

He just does.

You have no clue how close you were to being caught, or at least put on the radar more than you should be. But you always lay low after a kill.

You have a long cooling off period, an erratic one because you only kill if the universe has you stumble on a miserable person in a shitty relationship. Another saving grace as to why you haven't been caught just yet. 

You stay indoors mostly, at the house you own under your real name. You never kill anywhere near where you live. Your neighbors just assume you're off on business all the time. 

The only regularity you have is visiting the clinic to see your friend to get tested. You're certain Jack is clean but you had to make sure. You did have a lot of sex with him before you left him. 

“By the way, how's the IUD?” 

You groan then say, “actually, can you take it out? I don't plan to have sex for a while and I'm sick of the heavy bleeding.”

You got the copper IUD recently and it has been making your periods unbearable. You wouldn't mind a break from it. 

So, you get it removed and then spend the rest of the week curled up in bed from the pain. 

It's moments like this where you wish you weren't alone. 

The life you live can get a little lonely at times but you doubt you'd find anyone who would be okay with what you like to do in your free time. 

Though, maybe you should just ask the man that's been hovering over you while you sleep for the past few nights.

Jack is very open to keeping you company.

It took him forever to find you so he definitely isn't going to let you get away from him again. 

He had to use every bit of his brainpower to remember the clinic name on your test results sheet. From there, he installed a camera across the street from it so he could catch you when you inevitably visited. 

After you did, it didn't take much for him to be able to smooth talk his way into the office by pretending to be a delivery person so he could snoop through the appointment log and find your real name. 

Along with your medical file.

And he sees that you currently aren't on any birth control. 

Giving him the perfect way to keep you tied to him forever.

You notice the slight tilt in your wall outlet. It's obviously been tampered with. But you can't figure out by who or why… 

Because no one should know where you live. The cops definitely shouldn't.

So who…would? 

You try not to show that you know there's a hidden camera there. You just go about your day like you normally would. The camera hasn't been there long. Maybe a few hours. 

Whoever put it there did it while you were asleep.

You don't know how they managed to get past your cameras. 

It would require them to have extensive knowledge of surveillance—oh fuck.

You know exactly who it is. 

Because you only know one person who is a veteran with a background in military surveillance.

Though, you can't help but wonder why Jack would go out of his way to find you.

Sure, the sex was great but you literally killed his boyfriend. There's no way he doesn't know by now. He's a smart guy. He has friends in the police since he works with SWAT. He would've figured out it was you who killed Robby.

Could he be here for some kind of revenge plot? But if that was the case, he could've killed you in your sleep. 

You doubt Jack is the torturing type. Then again...you do remember the little sadistic streak he had going on. You can still feel how much your ass stung from all of his spanking. 

But again, why would he go through the effort of going halfway across the country for you? 

What's his endgame?

Is it…you? 

You shake away that thought. Again, you doubt you could ever be in a relationship with anyone. 

He's here for some reason. He's watching you for some reason. 

You won't delude yourself into thinking it's more than some kind of morbid curiosity of his. He hasn't ratted you out to the police yet so there is something he wants. 

So, you decide to check to see if it's you he wants. Just to be sure. 

You install a hidden camera on a vase of yours and add some flowers to it to bring into your room, placing it perfectly in the corner on a cute little side table.

Then, for fun that night, you touch yourself.

You do it purposefully where Jack can get a nice view of your pussy through his hidden camera and you make sure to cum while moaning his name. 

Then, you fall asleep wearing only your favorite nightgown, leaving yourself still dripping wet between your legs. 

And sure enough, when you wake up the next morning and head out for the day so you can check your camera footage, Jack was there in your room last night. 

With a syringe. 

You stare at the video, baffled at the sight of Jack injecting you with a sedative. Then, you watch as he goes down on you for hours before he finally fucks you. 

You decide then to put in earbuds so you can listen to the audio. 

And it's full of crazed thoughts of his that surely you should not know. 

He rants about how you made him crazy for you. He talks about the things he wants to do to you, the things he will do to you. 

Like fuck a baby into you in your sleep…

He tells you that it's all your fault he's like this because you seduced him. 

So you have to take responsibility for your actions. You have to let him have you. It's only fair.

You've never encountered anyone with this kind of obsession before. 

It should scare you. 

You should be worried for your life, especially when you hear Jack say that if you don't learn to love him back, he'll kill you like you killed Robby. 

But you've always liked to play with fire. 

Which is why that night, you do the same thing you did the previous night. 

You touch yourself to the memories of Jack.

Then, for the fun of it, you say to yourself as you cum, “I wish my daddy was here to fuck me.” 

And you scream when Jack comes out of your closet with a gun in his hand. 

“Be quiet, babydoll.” He shuts you up right away when he flips off the safety. “Or I'll shoot you.” 

You weren't expecting him to be in your walk-in closet. 

How did he get in there without tipping off your camera? 

Unless…he knew about it this whole time…

Fuck. Of course Jack did. 

He wanted to see what you'd do if he spilled every sick thought out of his head. He expected you to run far away, to be afraid of him. 

But you're just as sick as he is, touching yourself to bait him.

Now, he needs to know how far you'll let him go. 

“Don't stop because of me.” Jack climbs into bed, hovering over you, his gun pointed right between your eyes. “Keep touching yourself. Let your daddy watch you cum.” 

“You only want to watch?” You slide your hand up the length of your body. His eyes follow the ripples you make of the silk you're wearing, the motion so intoxicating. “You could have more than just a look, Jack.” 

“Take it off.” He wants to see you bare beneath him. 

You obey without hesitation, slipping your nightgown off. Jack scans every inch of you, imagining how you would look with his bite marks all over you. Or with the indent of his pistol pressed into your skin. 

He drags the gun down in a straight line, from your forehead to the middle of your breasts, the cold metal causing goosebumps to form on your skin. He pushes the tip of the barrel against the very center of your body, leaving a nice little ring there. 

“I own you now.” He says as he slides the gun back up, resting it against your lips. “Your life is in my hands, babydoll.” 

But he knows his words are just words. 

Because the truth is, you own him. 

With that daring smile of yours and that seductive gaze you give him before you part your lips and pull the barrel of his gun into your mouth, tasting the harsh metal on your tongue. 

The moment you start sucking the tip of his gun, Jack kicks off his pants. He needs to be inside of you right now. 

You moan against the metal when you feel him drag his cock along the length of your slit before pushing so easily inside of you. He groans when he hilts, letting out an almost frustrated huff at how good you feel wrapped around him. 

“Did you miss your daddy's cock?” He smiles when you nod. “God, I missed you. Don't ever leave me again, baby.” 

He pulls his gun from your mouth so you can tell him, “you can kill me if I ever run from you again.” 

Jack smacks your cheek lightly with his gun as a reprimand. “Don't say something like that.” 

“Why?” You pout at him, wrapping your legs around his hips to pull him in deeper. 

“Because I might actually do it if you ever try.” Jack's threat is real and he likes how you clench around his cock in response. 

“I'd let you.” You owe him for keeping your secret. “I'm all yours, Jack.” 

“You better be.” He's sick and tired of not having someone who is his entirely. 

You place your hand on the ring he made on your chest, tracing the dip in your skin as you make your promise, “you own me until this fades away.” 

Jack smacks your hand away with his gun so he can press it back against the center of your chest, digging the mark further into your pretty skin. “Then I might as well shoot you so you can wear that scar for life.” 

“You could just buy me a ring.” You flash your left hand at him. 

You bite back a giggle when his cock throbs inside of you. “You'd marry me?”

“You'd marry me?” You ask back, earning another one of his annoyed glares. 

“Stop doing that and answer my question.” 

“I'd like a better proposal than you holding a gun to my chest but yes, I'd marry you.” You let out the chuckle you've been holding in and Jack basks in how wonderful it sounds. 

He tosses his gun aside so he can grip the sheets by your head, staring down rather fiercely at you, lust raging in his hazel eyes, “I'm going to fuck you until the sun's out.” 

You pull him in closer so you can press a soft kiss against his cheek before whispering, “just until the sun's out?” 

He scoffs at that. “You don't want to leave this bed, do you?” 

“Not while my daddy's home.” You smile brightly. 

Jack likes the thought of that. Of moving away from Pittsburgh. Of making this place his home. Of making you his home. 

“Is your friend's clinic hiring?” He asks and you laugh so loud at him. 

“Can we just fuck already and then browse job listings after?” You're aching to get railed.

“Someone's being needy.” He rolls his hips against you as a tease. “You don't like keeping your daddy's cock warm while we talk?” 

“I'd rather be cumming on it.” You grind your hips up to meet his, desperate for some more friction. “Please fuck me.” 

“I might fuck a baby into you if I do.” He's not wearing a condom and you aren't protected anymore. 

“You didn't seem to give a shit about that last night.” Your lips curve into a devilish smile that matches the one on his face.

“Touché.” He pulls his cock out of you almost all of the way before ramming it back inside, causing your whole body to shake from the feeling. “I'm going to make sure you get pregnant now.” 

Jack then makes it his goal for the night to edge you until you're whining and pleading for him to let you cum. 

But he keeps waving off your desperation, saying, “you'll have a higher chance of getting pregnant if you cum hard when I do.” 

“You're torturing me.” Your body is hot to the touch and you need to cum. 

“Payback for you leaving me.” He considers you both even now. 

“I promise I won't ever do that again so please let me cum.” You can't wait any longer. 

“Fine.” He slips out of you completely, drawing another whine from your lips. “Flip over, baby. I'll breed you like you want me to.” 

You quickly get on your knees and you feel his hand push down on your upper back, having you press your chest against the mattress, burying your face into your pillow. You dig your nails into your sheets the moment you feel the tip of his cock at your entrance. 

You cum so hard when he slams the entire length of his cock inside of you from behind, your legs quivering from the intensity of it. Your body won't stop shaking because Jack smacks your ass as he fucks you deeper into your mattress, causing tension to coil and burst inside of you. 

“Oh fuck—” You muffle your screams into your pillow when you feel his fingers pushing into your pussy along with his cock, filling you up more than you can handle. 

“You can take it.” He says with another harsh smack of your ass, which lets him slip his fingers in deeper, curling them as the tip of his cock pushes against your womb. “You're going to cum so much for me, aren't you?” 

You nod into your pillow because it would be impossible not to cum from the way he's abusing your pussy like this. You yelp when he slaps your ass even harder.

“I expect a response.” He slows his thrusts until his cock and fingers are just resting inside of you. “Are you going to cum for me?”

“Yes, daddy.” You practically pant out, your mind growing fuzzier by the second. 

“Good girl.” He rewards you by fucking you with both his cock and his fingers until you're squirting all over him. “Just like that. Keep cumming, baby.”  

“I can't—” You're going to pass out if you keep cumming this hard. “Please, I can't—”

“You can and you will.” He gets rougher now, sending you spiraling, gasping, reeling from every harsh movement. 

Jack is pounding into you with so much force that your mattress is shifting beneath you with each thrust. You're seeing stars, your vision going dark, your body bathing in constant waves of pure pleasure that can't seem to end. 

Then, you feel Jack's hand against the back of your head, shoving you down into your pillow, cutting off your air. You flail beneath him, trying to stop him, trying to breathe but you can't. 

You can only cum. That's all he'll let you do. You're only allowed to take the pleasure he gives you and that's it. 

You'll get to breathe when he says so. 

“I love my slutty babydoll.” He rams his cock as deep as he can as he pumps hot ropes of cum inside of you. “Taking my cum so well inside her tight pussy. Did that feel good?” 

He tugs you up from your pillow by your hair, letting you finally gulp in air before you reply with such delight in your tone, “yes.” 

“Want to do it again?” Jack is still hard. He could fuck you until he's soft. 

“Please.” You say all breathless and beautiful. “Never stop.” 

Jack doesn't give you a break all night, which is fairly reminiscent of all the times you two had sex before. He has too much stamina for a man his age and you have too much determination to let him think he's wrung you out. Even though he definitely has because your pussy is dripping copious amounts of his cum by the time the sun is out. 

But when you wake up from your nap, you're completely clean, dressed in a nice pair of cozy sweats. 

And there's a morning after pill next to you with a glass of water and some painkillers.

No Jack, though. 

“Jack?” You ignore the pills, getting up despite the weakness in your legs. 

There's no way he left, right?

You slowly make your way through your house and then notice that the door leading to your basement is open. 

Fuck!

Adrenaline spikes through you enough for you to move quickly down the wooden stairs to your cellar, seeing the door to your hidden basement also wide open.

Fuck, fuck, fuck—

You sprint in and see…Jack, standing in the middle of your trophy room, where you keep all the personal effects of the people you've killed. They line the walls, spanning at least a decade of murders you've done.

“You did all this?” Jack turns back to look at you, furrowing his brows at how out of breath and panicked you look. “Everything alright, baby?”

“I…” You don't know what to say. 

Because surely whatever you and him have is over, right? 

He's going to turn you in, right? 

Why wouldn't he after seeing how many people you've killed over the years…

Maybe because he's crazy about you. To the point where this doesn't bother him in the slightest.

But he can tell you're worried so he steps up to you, pulling you into his arms for a hug.

“We're okay.” He pats your head gently. “I don't love you any less.” 

“Really?” You ask, both about this and about the fact that he just said he loves you. 

“If anything, I'm impressed.” He had read through your logbook, where you wrote down the reasoning behind each kill. They were all terrible partners who hurt the people they were supposed to love most. 

“Don't say that…” You shouldn't be praised for your compulsion. 

“I'm just stating the obvious.” Anyone would be impressed that you managed to get away with this many murders. 

As fucked up as that is… 

“Jack…” You're unsure if you believe that he actually accepts the fact that you're a serial killer. 

But he reassures you. “I won't tell a soul. I'm not going to let them arrest my fiancé.” 

You are left absolutely speechless at that which makes him chuckle. 

“God, you are so fucking cute.” He cups your face with his hands, pinching your cheek. “Lighten up. I'm not leaving you and you're not leaving me because if you try, I'll kill you before the FBI gets the chance.” 

You look up into his eyes then say, “promise?” 

“I promise.” He leans down then to seal that promise with a kiss. 

Because now you're stuck with him and all his craziness.

And you wouldn't want him any other way...

a/n: freak4freak nation is back, baby! I had a lot of fun with this one (though I always have fun so this one was just super duper fun!) because I just wanted jack to be so touch starved and nuts that ofc he would be okay if you were a serial killer! that man is a lover boy fr ~ 

hope you enjoyed the read ♡

[pencil-n-pen]

—i’m always on my own

fake boyfriend! jack x eldest daughter! reader

“Know I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back I'm always on my own.” -All Them Horses, Noah Kahan

summary: your family is in town for the annual ‘parents berating their kids for their decisions’ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.

wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)

tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat

a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. i’m normal and can be trusted with noah kahan’s discography. fic has been crossposted on ao3 and is linked below :)

acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me

masterlist | ao3

“Your family’s in town?”

You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries. 

You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone. 

“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”

“Dinner circuit?”

You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”

“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”

You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”

The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.” 

“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”

“So your fucked, basically.”

Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”

Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.” 

“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”

“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”

You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”

He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”

“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”

“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”

“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”

The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”

“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”

“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”

“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand. 

Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”

Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”

“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”

Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?

You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby. 

“Mom?” 

“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”

“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“

She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.” 

“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“

“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”

You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”

“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“

“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”

“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”

Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice. 

“Can I help you, ma’am?” 

Jack. 

Jack fucking Abbot. 

Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.

Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him. 

“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”

You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures. 

Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks. 

“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”

And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway. 

“You work with my daughter?”

“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”

Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke. 

She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles. 

“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”

Proud of the money I send home, maybe. 

“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“

You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better. 

Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders. 

“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”

Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely. 

“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”

Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside. 

The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale. 

“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“

“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”

“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”

He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”

You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”

“Are those desired outcomes?”

“Mostly.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”

It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack. 

So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.

“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”

“You could.”

“Wipe out my entire family?”

“Take me to dinner with you.”

Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious. 

“Are you joking?”

He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—

“No.”

You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“

“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”

What. The. Fuck. 

“No.” You gape, incredulous. 

“No?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“

“Jack.” 

You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“

“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”

“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”

“In the ED, obviously.”

“How long have we been together?”

“Month and a half.”

“Why are we even dating?”

“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”

Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine. 

“Have you… thought about this?” 

He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”

“Are you rich?” 

There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile. 

“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”

You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”

“But you do?”

“They’re my family.” 

Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere. 

You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?” 

“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”

“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”

“Beats drinking beer in the park.”

You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life. 

On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win. 

“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”

Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”

“Flowers?”

“Naturally.”

“You pay?” 

“For every meal.”

“What’s my favorite color?”

“Navy blue. Mine?” 

You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”

Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients. 

“Will she really be that upset about it?”

“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”

Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”

“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”

“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”

Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind. 

“Deal.”

—

Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend. 

Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.

In a way. 

You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.

Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go. 

Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door. 

You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.

Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—

“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”

You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape. 

“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”

Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked. 

Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“

Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?

“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”

Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing? 

He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain. 

“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”

You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”

“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.” 

You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”

“You could swap me with someone else?”

“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”

“Touché.” 

The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically. 

“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”

“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”

Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom. 

“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”

“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”

Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go. 

He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly. 

Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.

Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”

“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”

Right. That's probably an unhinged question.

“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”

He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“

“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.

“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”

He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly. 

“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”

“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”

Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”

He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply. 

“You smell good.” 

Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold. 

“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.” 

You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain. 

The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask. 

(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”

“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”

“Fair point.”)

By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them. 

At least, that’s what he says. 

“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”

You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”

“Singing your praises, of course.”

Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable. 

The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying. 

As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body. 

The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you. 

You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers: 

“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”

Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you. 

When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves. 

Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“

You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness. 

Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well. 

If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place. 

He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby. 

“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”

Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place. 

“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”

Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”

Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack. 

“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“

“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”

Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”

Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”

You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending. 

“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.” 

Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”

Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you. 

“How’d I do?”

You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”

“Looking forward to it.” 

The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can. 

To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking: 

“Do you really wanna do this right now?”

Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs. 

Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for. 

“So. Dr. Abbot—”

“Just Jack is fine.”

“—How long have the two of you been dating?”

“A month and a half.”

“Why’d you start dating?”

You take a generous gulp of your wine. 

“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”

“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in. 

Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”

You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes. 

That’s going in the mental folder. 

“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”

“Why’d you leave?” 

“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”

You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine. 

The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.

Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear. 

“Mr. Abbot—“

“Either Doctor or Jack works.” 

Ooo. There was some bite in that one. 

Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better. 

But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions. 

This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward. 

“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?” 

Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot. 

Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe. 

“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.” 

For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on. 

But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way. 

He’s perfect. 

Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look. 

Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide. 

Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car. 

“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”

Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead. 

“Jack?” 

“They didn’t even talk to you.”

You blink. 

“What?”

“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”

You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”

He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?

“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips. 

“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“

“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”

Oh. 

“How do you know that?”

“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”

Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”

“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”

“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”

Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed. 

Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.

“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?” 

He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.

(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)

“Of course I remember.” 

There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present. 

The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)

But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone. 

Jack just keeps looking at you. 

He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact. 

He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking. 

“You’re so much more than them.” 

Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold. 

“What?”

“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.” 

You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat. 

“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“

“No.”

Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly. 

An old habit. 

Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.  

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.” 

Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“

“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.” 

“Jack—“

“Please.”

You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain. 

He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging. 

“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”

You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?” 

Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability. 

“I’ll walk you to your door.” 

The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress. 

At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.

Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him. 

(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.  

You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)

You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better? 

“You have that look on your face.”

You frown. “What look?” 

“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

“It’s freaky when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“You always know what I’m thinking.”

Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets. 

Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?” 

“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.” 

“Oh.” 

It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad. 

He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you. 

Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”

Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense. 

Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger. 

“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?” 

The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it. 

He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.” 

“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”

“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”

“Maybe I‘ll—“

“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.” 

You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out. 

Sometimes it feels like he balances you out. 

“Goodnight.”

He gives you a little smile of his own. 

“Goodnight.”

—

Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you. 

So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list. 

“This really isn’t a good time—“

“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.” 

“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”

“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“

The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room. 

“She fight back at all?”

“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.” 

“Christ.”

“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”

“Fuck. Do you think—“

“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.” 

Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.” 

“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?” 

“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”

Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”

“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.” 

“That bad?” 

“Yeah.” 

The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand. 

“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”

“It’s different.” 

“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”

“You lost me on that last one.” 

“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.” 

“Is there a difference?”

“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”

“Are you sure you want to get involved?”

“Bit late for that.”

“You could pull back.”

“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”

“She is a grown woman.”

“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”

He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone. 

“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”

Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”

The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.” 

He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up. 

“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”

“Worse than you expected?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”

“Fuck no.”

“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.” 

“I save lives too.”

“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”

“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”

“That’s what they all say.” 

Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed. 

But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.

—

The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help. 

It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest. 

But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions: 

“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?” 

And: 

“What’s Jack like on a date?” 

The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.

You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him. 

Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume. 

(“…I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.”)

It’s all too much.

Hence the avoiding.

You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner. 

But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack. 

All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack. 

You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else. 

It’s how they treat you. 

You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too. 

But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different. 

It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal. 

“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?” 

You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.

“I’m not hiding from you.”

Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”

“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.” 

“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”

You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Normal how?”

“You seemed pretty upset yesterday. You’re acting like nothing’s changed, but–”

“Nothing has changed.”

Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it. 

You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing. 

It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen. 

“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?” 

“Nothing.”

He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”

He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give. 

“I’m just worried.” 

“You? Worried? No.” 

You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”

“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”

You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face. 

“Why do you care?” 

The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place. 

You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do. 

You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense. 

Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense. 

“Why do I care about what?”

“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.” 

It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for. 

He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight. 

“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”

“But why?” 

“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?” 

You snort. “Guilty as charged.” 

Now it’s his turn to sigh. 

“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”

You frown. “It is.” 

“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.” 

You scoff. “So this is about my family.” 

He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“They are.” 

“Other people have it worse.”

“It’s not a competition.” 

You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?” 

“Because it’s a big deal to you.” 

The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you. 

It’s Jack who speaks first though. 

“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.” 

A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.

“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.

Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.” 

“We will?” 

“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.” 

“If you’re sure.” 

“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”

You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out. 

The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him. 

Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.

You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head. 

“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself. 

That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.” 

He would. He totally would. 

The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring. 

(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)

–

The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years. 

The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before. 

The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own. 

It’s as frustrating as it is hot. 

But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment. 

It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out. 

You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below. 

At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like. 

“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.” 

You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever. 

Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads  to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed. 

You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood. 

“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”

Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule." 

“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.” 

Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three. 

Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over. 

“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.” 

He smiles thinly. “None taken.” 

Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure. 

So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary. 

“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?” 

That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man. 

“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.” 

Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.” 

Your blood runs cold. 

Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”

It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough. 

“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”

“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning. 

Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”

Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t. 

“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”

Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.” 

Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”

Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch. 

“He cheated on me with my best friend.” 

At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.” 

“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.” 

Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”

Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.” 

“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.” 

Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober. 

Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service. 

By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment. 

“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?” 

“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.” 

“Oh. That was nice of you.” 

He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”

You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.” 

“That’s my girl.” 

“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.” 

“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.” 

“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.” 

You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” 

You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.” 

“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.” 

You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”

Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.” 

Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.

Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same. 

“And what about me?” 

Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.

The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.” 

“Oh really?” 

“Mmm. Nope.” 

“How come?” 

"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.” 

“You think you’re wrong?”

“Still can’t figure you out.” 

“And how can I show you that I mean it?” 

That’s. Hmm.

“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.” 

His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?” 

“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”

“If you say so.” 

“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”

“Competent?” 

“That’s the word.”

If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it. 

“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.” 

“Are you like Bob the Builder?”

“I’m a doctor, so no.” 

“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.” 

“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”

“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?” 

“No.” 

‘Then yes.” 

“You sure? I wasn’t lying.” 

“I know. But I like your cooking.”

You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.” 

It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation. 

When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment. 

His gigantic apartment. 

“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.” 

“Its not that big.” 

“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.” 

You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.

You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober. 

“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”

“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.” 

He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”

You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?

“Only if you don’t mind.” 

“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.” 

Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.

He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.” 

Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.) 

Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with  tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so. 

“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that. 

“Looking at the sparkles.” 

“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”

“You made vodka pasta?” 

He shrugs. “You said you liked it.” 

You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.” 

Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not. 

“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.” 

“M’ not fallin’ asleep.” 

“Mhm. Sure.” 

With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?

“What’re’you’ making?”

“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.” 

“Oh. How come?” 

“Because I don’t want you to throw up.” 

“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.” 

“You drink often?” 

“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.” 

“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?” 

“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.” 

“I see.” 

“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being. 

“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.” 

“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.” 

“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit. 

Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm. 

“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”

“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”

“It won’t be when you wake up.”

You whine, curling away from him. 

He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”

“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”

“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”

“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”

“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”

“I like sleeping on couches.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.” 

You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”

Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”

“It’d be weird to wake up here.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my boss.”

“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.” 

“What would we even do in the morning?” 

“Sleep.”

“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

“You’re my guest–” 

“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?” 

Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs. 

“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.” 

Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.” 

The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–

“You okay there?” 

“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.” 

He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest. 

“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.” 

Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him. 

Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline. 

You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.

“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”

His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him. 

“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment. 

“Do I?”

“Yeah. Good. Like man.” 

He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.” 

“Why do you call me sweetheart?” 

“Because you’re a sweetheart.” 

“I am?” 

“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.” 

You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.” 

“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.

You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place. 

It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating

And you love it. 

Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn. 

“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.” 

Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it. 

The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together. 

He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say. 

You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other. 

Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can. 

–

Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit. 

You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again. 

You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place. 

“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.” 

“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”

“Okay. No need to rub it in.” 

He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.” 

“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.” 

Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?” 

“...Yes?” 

“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?” 

You’d nodded. 

He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.” 

Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish. 

The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with. 

He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?

The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety. 

“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.” 

You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle. 

“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”

Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.” 

“True. But what if?”

“I’m not going to help you spiral.” 

“Why not?” You whine. 

He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.” 

You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt. 

When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention. 

But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables. 

The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times. 

Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that. 

There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.

You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.

You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.

You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.  

“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”

Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.” 

“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”

“But–”

“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.” 

Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face. 

He looks up when the door opens. “Better?” 

“Yeah. Thanks.” 

He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation. 

Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food. 

It can’t just be over like this. It can't.

When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.

“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.” 

“So it is.” 

“Guess I owe you big time, huh?” 

“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.” 

“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.” 

You lapse into silence. 

Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”

“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”

It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending. 

It felt real.

It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.

Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.

When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning. 

“What do you think?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.” 

Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight. 

“What if I’m wrong?” 

“You won’t be.”

A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.” 

He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm. 

“You do.” 

Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you. 

“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.” 

“You think,” He drawls, “I might.” 

“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry. 

Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh. 

“Come here.” 

You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you. 

Jack does love to prove you wrong.

“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.” 

Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”

“More than a little?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.” 

“Use your words.” 

“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning. 

“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.” 

You frown. “And how would you have put it?” 

“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.” 

You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work. 

You frown. 

Wait. 

“Have you known I liked you this whole time?” 

Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”

He’s known since the second week?

“Oh my god.” 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”

“Oh my god.”

“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.” 

You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place. 

“Can you take a compliment?” 

“No.” 

He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.” 

“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?” 

“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”

“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.” 

“How kind of you to share my bed with me.” 

“I have been told I’m kind.” 

You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips. 

It’s just like your dream. 

Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back. 

And you’re not alone anymore.