Mia

In love with too many fictional characters 23

[multifandomlover01]

Not Here

Sammy Bryant x Fem!Forensic Psychologist!reader

Summary: Sammy is very frustrated with Tammi and maybe doesn't handle it in the best way… and by that… I mean he gets a good friend he’s lusted after for a while pregnant

WC: ~7.8k

Warnings: anti-Tammi Bryant, alcohol consumption (Sammy is kinda drunk), Sammy is a bit of an ass, nightmare, emotional and physical affair (both Tammi and Sammy), infidelity, unfaithfulness, cheating, nudity, dubious consent (potentially not done well), cock stroking, fingering, implied but not depicted vaginal sex, breeding kink ig (potentially not done well), pregnancy (reader), don't like? aren't comfy with? That’s fine. Just don't read, don't comment, and just keep scrolling or block me, okay? Okay. Great.

Note: canon ✨inspired✨ but doesn’t fit squarely into it (canon divergent - expensive camera mentioned - what happened to it in canon doesn’t happen here), sped up events, flashbacks/time jumps

-

~One Day~

  “Why don’t we…?” His hand brushed your ass as he came up behind you.

You pushed it away immediately, thoroughly unamused by him. You were getting tired of him and his horniness (you still enabled him so you weren’t completely blameless). “Nope, we’re not doing that here.”

He held his hands up in defense as he backed off, going to sit in a chair. “Alright, I’ll behave.”

“Good…”

He smirked at you from his seated position. “How badly did you wanna say “boy” after that?”

You shot him a look. “Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The smirk had not left his face.

You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose. “Why do you do this to her?”

“To Tammi?” He asked for clarification that was not needed. He’d fucked you, then he’d been coming to your house for booty calls… specifically to have you suck his dick and to finger you or eat you out. 

“Do you love her?”

“Of course I love her!”

“So stop fucking around with me, okay?! It’s not fair to her.”

“I love her but there’s no spark anymore. We don’t make love anymore. She loves that dog she claimed to hate more than she loves me. She understands it better too. And maybe it understands her more than I do.”

“You’re still married to her, Sam! It’s not right.”

“I’m meeting with an attorney.”

“You’re divorcing her?”

“I-I can’t do this anymore with her. She’s so…I don’t even know anymore. She does these stupid fucking things and I just…she comes from a good family, right? She was always taken care of. And now I’m responsible for taking care of her. She’s used to that. It’s just…she’s an adult woman and I swear sometimes it's like she’s a child. She doesn’t really understand me or my work. I really question marrying an upper-middle class woman.”

“You think you should’ve married a cop?”

“Or at least someone with a little more worldly experience. She’s so uncomfortable around anyone who isn’t from her world.”

“You’re from a working class family.”

“Cops are “honorable”. And me making 70k a year doesn’t hurt. Middle middle class. It’s not that much of a downgrade. And she’s got her own savings anyway. Mommy and daddy love their little girl.”

“But she doesn’t work, right?”

“Nope. But she wants a really expensive camera. I dunno how I’m supposed to pay for it.”

“Hobby?”

“She’s really good at it.”

“Good enough to make buying an expensive camera worth it?”

He tilted his head at you. “What’re you getting at?”

“She flighty about hobbies? Flitting from one to the next?”

He shook his head. “No, she’s not like that.”

“She know you’re seeing an attorney?”

“Not yet.”

“But you’re still buying her a camera?”

He just shrugged. “She’s still my wife. I-I still love her.”

“Do us both a favor, Bryant. Figure out who and what you want and don’t jerk both of us around, okay? It’s not fair to any party.” If he stopped hanging around you, wanting your touch… maybe you could both walk away from this sooner rather than later.

“Alright, you’re right. I’ll…figure my shit out.”

You walked out of the room, satisfied with the conclusion of the conversation. Sammy watched your ass as you went.

“Fuck.” He whispered softly to himself, about this clusterfuck and about your ass.

  ~Some Time Ago~

  “And then she says… ‘what gun? That’s a banana, officer, I swear!’!”

Dewey’s sudden, boisterous laughter set you on edge. You could feel your shoulders bunch up. You were definitely gonna need another drink. Like…now.

You stood up from the table, going to excuse yourself when a hand found your shoulder.

“I got it.” Bryant’s voice murmured in your ear.

“I could use a break from the table.” You said awkwardly, not sitting back down.

“Join me, then. I was gonna grab another one too. I’m still payin’ for yours too.”

“Alright…”

You followed Sam closely as you weaved past people to the bar. He flagged the bartender.

“Tammi not with you tonight?” You asked curiously. You hadn’t seen her.

“She’s not really a people person. Doesn’t really “get” my people.”

“I think a lot of cop wives probably feel that way.”

He shrugged it off. “Yeah, well…she’s never really made an effort to get to know any of my buddies.”

“I’m really sorry. Is it important to you for her to be here?”

“It’d be nice, yeah.” He flagged the bartender again, frustrated. “Hello? Can’t a handsome guy and a pretty gal get some service here?”

“That’s not your wife, Bryant.” The bartender quipped.

“Does that make what I said untrue? No. I’ll have a whiskey. And the lady…?”

You gave the bartender your drink order. Now you had to wait.

“So what about you?” Sammy asked, trying to change the subject slightly. “Didn’t bring anyone tonight?”

“Oh, no. You know me… always solo.”

“That by choice or…?” He trailed off.

You sighed deeply. “God, I dunno really.”

“What, gal like you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You asked curiously.

“Good job, put together, and I meant what I said. You’re an attractive woman.”

You scoffed lightly. “I do hope you can handle that whiskey coming your way.”

He smiled and shook his head. “I’m not drunk. I swear. And I’m not…god, I’m not hitting on you. I’m just calling it like I see it, plain and simple.”

“You really think I could catch a guy?”

“Why not?” He shrugged.

Your drinks arrived. You both sipped on them. The alcohol felt good going down.

“I’m not like that.”

“Not like what? Not into the whole dating thing?”

You shook your head. “Not really. Can’t really find the time. Nothing wants to stick.”

He leant in a bit. “You puttin’ in the effort to make it stick?”

“Maybe…maybe not…” You murmured, sipping your drink again.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He teased.

“I-I…just don’t bring much to the relationship table. Guys…don’t like women who are in forensics.”

“Fuck them, okay? You’re a total badass.”

“Not really. I’m not even a cop, just a forensic-”

“Hey, hey, no. You’re a badass, okay? There’s no argument there.”

“I-”

He booped your nose. “Hey, no argument means no arguing.”

“You’re literally-”

“Look at me.” He met your gaze. “You. Are. A. Bad. Ass.”

You avert your gaze but he doesn’t let you off the hook. “Say it, sweetheart. I’m not letting this go.”

“I really wish you would…” you murmured.

“Well tough, because I’m not gonna. We’re not moving on until you say it. And I’m not gonna let you even try to argue about it.”

“It’s-” you started.

“I’m.” He cut you off.

“Not-” you continued.

“A.” He cut you off again.

“True!” You exclaimed, exasperated.

“Badass. Yes, it is true!” He finished.

You sighed heavily. “Explain.”

He indulged you. “You understand criminals better than anyone I know. You interview them. You study them.”

“What about that is so badass?”

He looked at you in disbelief. “Seriously? You don’t know?”

You shook your head, clueless, frustrated. “No. That’s why I’m asking!”

He actually laughed at the absurdity of you not knowing you’re a badass. “You literally help officers and detectives catch criminals! We couldn’t do what we do without you. And I personally think that’s badass. Come on, take the fuckin’ compliment. This isn’t a time to be humble.”

“I guess I’m pretty good at my job…and it’s a good job. It makes me feel good.”

“You guess?” He laughed loudly and it didn’t set you on edge like Dewey’s laugh did.

“I don’t really…know.”

He set his hand on your shoulder. “Well, I’m telling you, honey. You’re a badass. And you’re very good at your job. Trust me. I’ve seen you in your element and it is a sight to behold.”

“Well…thank you. I can only hope I come across as…competent.”

“You’re…impressive, not just competent.”

He downed the rest of his drink and ordered another.

“You’re sure you’re good for another?”

“I’m fine.” He laughed it off.

“Mhm…sure you are…”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “You don’t believe me?”

You shook your head. “No, actually, I don’t.”

“I can hold my liquor.” He insisted.

“I won’t ask you to prove it.”

“You don’t have to ask.”

“I will insist you don’t, then. I will not be responsible for more alcohol entering your system.”

“Lighten up a little, sweetheart.” He grasped your arm and shook you slightly.

You shoved his hand away. “Don’t be like that, okay? Don’t be like Dewey.”

He leaned in, expression intensifying a bit. “I’m nothing like Dewey.”

“How many drinks is that, then?”

He scoffed. “Are you my mother?”

“How many drinks, Bryant?” You insisted.

“Three, Jesus. Why are you on my ass, what are you, my mom? My wife?”

“Are you drinking more because of problems in your marriage?”

“Are you trying to…psychoanalyze me right now?”

“I’m asking because I’m a concerned friend, Sam.”

“I’m fine.” He gritted out.

“This why Tammi didn’t wanna come? Didn’t wanna see you drunk?”

“Shut up!” He hissed.

“No! You’re a mess, Bryant. Switch to water.” You got up to leave but Sammy stood up abruptly.

“I-I’m sorry, alright? Fuck, I’m so sorry.” He looked so pathetic, with his puppy dog sad eyes. “I was an ass, okay? Can you forgive me?”

“Drink water. Sober up.”

“Alright. I’ll switch to water.” He conceded.

You both sat back down at the barstools. The bartender switched Sam to a big cold glass of water which his body thanked him for sipping.

“God, what was I thinking touching you like that?” Sam’s muffled voice came as he had his face in his hands.

“Just don’t do it again, okay? And keep drinking water.” You commanded him.

“I swear I won’t do it again.”

“Make sure you don’t. Or I’ll smack you.”

“I hear you.”

“I’m driving you home. And don’t you argue with me about that.”

“Hypocrite.” He huffed.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I’ll only let you drive me home if you admit you’re a badass.”

You sighed deeply. “No, Sammy…no.”

“…yes…” he teased slightly.

You huffed. “Fine. I’m a badass. Happy? Can we go now? I’m exhausted.”

“I don’t believe you but I’m also exhausted so yeah, we can go.”

He settled his bar tab and yours and followed you out of the bar and toward your vehicle. Luckily, he’d caught a ride with Nate so he wasn’t leaving his vehicle here. He’d informed Nate he had a ride home and he left.

He got in the passenger seat of your vehicle and you began to drive to his home.

“Actually… could you take me to a motel?” He spoke up.

You looked over at him. “You’re sure?”

He nodded. “Don’t wanna go home. I’m sure.”

“Have a preference for a motel?”

“Nope. Just…away from home.” He looked out the window.

“You really wanna spend the night in a motel? You’ll be alright alone?”

“I’ll be fine. I’m a detective, remember?” He waved you off.

“You sobered up?”

He looked at you and considered this, then nodded. “Enough. You’re driving, right? So what’s the matter?”

“I wouldn’t leave you alone…drunk…and lonely…”

“I’m not drunk.” He insisted. “I’ve been drinking water.”

“Are you emotionally okay to be alone, though?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s not that big of a deal. I just need a break for a night.”

“You were drinking quite a bit.”

“But I’m fine now!” He insisted.

“You never answered my question as to why you were drinking. You usually don’t drink so much.”

“If I say it is because things are a little tense at home?”

“You just wanna cool down?”

“I swear to God. I just want some time alone. I’m sober and I’m an adult.”

“Alright, Mr. Adult.”

You pulled into the parking space of a parking lot of a definitely suspicious establishment.

“This okay?”

“It’s good enough. Thanks.” He got out of the passenger seat.

You watch him walk towards the motel check-in front desk. He really tried not to stumble at all but you definitely notice him almost trip on the curb leading up to the door.

You’re out of the car and walking up behind him.

“I told ya I was fine.” He said, pausing at the door, but he didn’t look back at you.

“You tripped on the curb.”

“So that means I’m drunk?”

“Look me in the eyes and tell me you’ve sobered up enough.”

He stepped closer to you. He looked you right in the eye.

“I’m sober enough.”

“Prove it. Walk in a straight line.”

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“Do it, Bryant.” You insisted.

He hesitated and looked at you for a few seconds to determine if you were completely serious. You were very serious. He let out an exasperated sigh and moved away from you to walk in a straight line.

He didn’t fall on his face or his ass but he wobbled a bit and lost his footing/balance slightly, his feet spreading to steady himself.

“We’re getting a double.” You declared as you entered the motel front desk/lobby.

He is hot on your heels. “I think I’m just taking whatever they have. You are getting in your car and you’re going home. We aren’t doing anything.”

“Do you have any doubles?” You asked the woman sitting behind the desk, ignoring Sammy.

“We’ve only got singles here, honey.”

“Only singles? We need a double.”

“Only got rooms with big queen beds in them. Why do you need a double? You two make a handsome enough couple.”

“We’re not a couple.” You quickly corrected her.

“So you’re also not…?”

“No. We’re not anything, just work colleagues.”

“Then a single should be fine.”

“I don’t want to sleep with him. Period.”

“Tell me how you really feel.” He scoffed. You shot him a look. He put his hands up in defense.

“You’re just gonna have to make it work. I’m sorry.”

“Just shut up and take the bed, alright? I’ll sleep in a chair or something.”

“There’s no chairs in our rooms.”

You and Sam looked at the woman at the same time, then at each other at the same time.

“I’ll sleep on the floor.” Sammy offered.

“Your back will literally be sobbing. You don’t have to do that.”

“Oooor…you could just go home.”

“No.” You said adamantly.

“Then it looks like we’re sharing a bed. You made it. Lay in it.”

You gave him a hard look as he got cash out to pay for the room.

“I’m gonna need more than that, honey.”

Sam looked sheepishly back at you. “Help pay for the room you’re staying in?”

You chuckled and shook your head. “Sure. Fine.”

You got cash out of your wallet and covered the rest of the fee.

The lady gave you both a room key.

“Thank you.”

The room is even sadder than you ever could’ve imagined.

“Yeah, no way I’d leave you here alone.”

“TV. Pay-per-view. I’d have been fine.”

“Oh! Yeah! Sure.” A beat. “Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Neither of us has any change of clothes or toiletries.”

He looked at you, this dawning on him. He started to laugh. “No. We don’t. I’m gonna have a walk of shame tomorrow.”

You started laughing along with it. “How’re you gonna explain that?”

“I dunno. I really should’ve thought this through.”

“We both should’ve. There’s only one bed!”

“Right! There is!” You both keep cracking up.

“We have to sleep in these clothes.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m stripping down to my boxers.”

“Wha-Sam! No! Not when I’m in the bed.”

“What? I’m not gonna touch you.”

“You’d better not.”

He put his hands up defensively. “Don’t worry. I won’t. You tired? I’m exhausted. Come on. Let’s just sack out.”

He flopped down on the bed. He patted it.

“C’mere, baby.”

You grimaced at him. “Don’t “baby” me…”

“Come on. Get on the bed.”

You scoffed and hopped into bed next to him.

“You keeping your clothes on?” You asked him. He’d said he’d be stripping. And he was still clothed.

He smiled dickishly at you. “Want me outta them?”

You frowned. “Shut up. Keep ‘em on.”

“If you want me outta them so bad…” he tugged his shirt off.

“I really don’t. Put your shirt back on, Bryant.”

“It’s hot as shit in here. The A/C is broken and I’m tired. I’m keeping my shirt off.”

“Keep your jeans on, then.”

“Nope. Those are coming off too.” He had already undone his belt and put that aside so he moved to unbutton and unzip his jeans. He wiggled out of them, and in the process of doing this, his foot touched yours.

You squeaked. “Don’t touch me!”

“Calm down, I didn’t touch you.”

“Your foot did.” You shot back.

“My foot? You’re freaking out over my foot. My socks aren’t even off yet.”

“DO NOT TAKE YOUR SOCKS OFF!” You barked.

He smiled. “Oh, they’re coming off, baby.”

“Stop calling me baby!” You huffed.

“You’re the one insisting on sleeping in a bed with me.”

“That is so not the entirety of what’s happening here and you know it.”

“Simply…go home…if you don’t like sharing a bed with me this fucking much.”

“For the last time, I am not leaving you alone tonight, Bryant.”

“I’m literally so sober right now, I think I’m gonna cry about it actually.”

“I literally do not care.”

“So shut up about my feet, okay? And my clothes? Aren’t you roasting in that? Come on, show some skin.”

You frowned deeper. “No. I’m sleeping in my clothes.”

“You are going to be so uncomfortable. Meanwhile…” he’d finally managed to wrestle his jeans off, “I am going to be so comfortable.”

He maneuvered to take his socks off so the only remaining item of clothing on his body was his boxers. You shifted away from him to the other side of the bed. You’d decided to sleep above the covers while Sam got up to pull them back to get under them. He was just right there in his boxers. You tried not to take a peek at him before he got under the covers. Luckily, your back was already to him as you were lying on your side now. Over the covers. In your clothes.

He graciously shifted to face away from you, so your backs were facing each other now.

You couldn’t get comfortable so you shifted around.

“Could you stop please? I’m trying to sleep.” He huffed.

“Sorry…” you murmured.

“If you can’t get comfortable, maybe lose some clothes and get under the covers? At least lose the clothes. How aren’t you boiling?”

“Shut up. Just let me get comfy. Go to sleep.”

“You won’t be comfy until you’re wearing less clothes and I can’t go to sleep until you stop moving therefore I won’t shut up.”

You’re on your side facing him and he’s facing you now on his side. His soft cheeks are dusted pink, his head resting on his arm. His eyelashes are batting at you. “Go to sleep.”

“No.”

He scoffed dramatically. “And just what am I supposed to do with you?”

“You’re supposed to let me look after you.” You murmured.

“We’re in this motel bed together, aren’t we? I told you that you could leave…”

“You’re supposed to tolerate my presence. Not badger me.”

“I do much more than merely tolerate your presence and you know it. And I only badger you out of love.”

You scoffed. “Oh, is that what it is?”

“…yeah…it is. Come on. Get some sleep. You need it.”

“I look tired to you?”

“Very.”

“Shut up.”

“I will when you go to sleep.”

“Okay! Okay! I’m going…but I toss and turn! I can’t help it!”

He knows you’ll never get to sleep if he keeps badgering you so he holds his tongue and just leaves you be (thankfully).

He drifted off to sleep before you did, with you following and stilling after him. He was a pretty light sleeper on account of being a police detective so he’s grateful you’d settled down. At least for a little while.

You soon started to toss and turn. He was awakened pretty quickly by your fit. You then started to murmur. But you remained asleep.

“No…no…please no…”

Sam is immediately more alert when it becomes obvious you’re distressed in your sleep. He slid closer to you as you continued to squirm and murmur.

“Don’t hurt me. Please.”

Sammy put his hand on your shoulder and shook you slightly. “Hey…hey, wake up.”

You did not awaken immediately, continuing to react to whatever nightmare you were having.

Sam scooted closer to you, his concern for you growing.

“Hey, hey, come on, sweetheart. Wake up for me. Wake up.” He shook harder and even chanced a tap to your cheek.

You gasped sharply as you came to consciousness, one hand immediately clinging to his bicep. A thin layer of sweat could be felt by you at the back of your neck.

“Hey, hey, it’s just me. It’s Sammy. You’re alright.” He soothed you. “Quite the nightmare, yeah?”

“…yeah…”

“Well you’re safe with me, okay? Just take a few deep breaths for me, alright?”

You took a slow deep breath in, held it, then exhaled slowly.

“That’s it. Just breathe.” He spoke calmly, his hands holding your shoulders. “Do you need water?”

You nodded. Water sounded like a very good idea.

“Okay. Hey, you’re safe now, okay?”

You nodded as you started to calm down a little. “Okay…yeah, okay.”

After making sure your breathing had evened out, he got up and put his pants on. He then went to the little table to get his wallet and keys and room key. “I’m gonna go find you a bottle of water, okay? You gonna be okay here by yourself? I won’t be long. I promise. Call me if you need me before I’m back, okay?”

“Okay.” You heard yourself say but your voice sounded weak.

He left you alone in the room while he went to look for some vending machine that would dispense a Dasani or Aquafina for him to bring back to you.

You tried to focus on your breathing.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

That man couldn’t hurt you anymore. That man was dead. You’d seen him go down. You’d looked down at his body. You’d seen where the bullet had hit him in the head.

But the silence in the room was suffocating to you. It’s too goddamn quiet. How can it be in a shitty motel where people should be rowdy? You panicked and grabbed your phone to call him.

“Sammy?” You asked after he’d picked up immediately.

“You okay?”

“Where are you?”

“Right down the hall. Stupid water’s stuck in the vending machine.” You could hear the thud of his kick to it. “Ah-ha! Got it!”

“Great. Now get your ass back here.”

“I’m coming. I’m coming.” He hung up.

He was entering the room soon enough with the bottle in hand.

“You okay?”

“Just give me the water.”

“Okay, Grumpy.” He held it out to you.

You scowled at him as you took it from him.

“I’m not grumpy, I’m rattled. I had a nightmare.”

He took his pants off again, then sat upon the bed. “Feel like talking about it?”

You gulped water. “No.”

“Sip…sip…” he told you.

You gave him a stern look.

“Please?” He asked softly. “For me?”

You frowned at him but sipped the water. He lightly rubbed your arm.

“Feel better?”

You nodded. “A little.”

He rubbed your knee now. “What can I do to make you feel better?”

You looked into his eyes. “Would it be inappropriate to ask you to hold me?”

“I wouldn't care if it was. Come here.” He opened his arm and he held you against him.

“Thank you. I really appreciate this.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“You’re a good man, Samuel Bryant.”

This made him frown. “No, I’m not.”

“You’re a great friend, what do you mean?”

He huffed. “That’s exactly my point. I want to be more than your friend. I’m a married man but God help me, I want you. You’re emotionally vulnerable right now and I feel selfish wanting to keep you in my arms just because I want you against me.”

“Oh, Sammy…” you sighed, “what am I gonna do with you?”

He chuckled dryly. “I honestly have no idea. Maybe flog me?”

You chuckled softly. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Wouldn’t know until we tried.”

“Which we will not be doing.”

“What, are you more vanilla when it comes to sex?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Actually, I would. That’s why I asked.”

“Well I’m not telling you.”

“Shame.”

“Shut up, Sammy. Just hold me.”

He swallowed thickly. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good boy.” You whispered softly. You weren’t being serious. You were just saying it.

This caused him to stiffen, though.

“I’d be so good to you.” He spoke softly in return.

You sighed. “You can’t just say shit like that, Sammy. You’re married.”

“I know that! Doesn’t change the fact that I’d treat you like a fucking queen.”

“You have to stop talking. I told you to stop talking.”

“You’re the one who called me a good boy.” He murmured.

“Well I won’t ever do it again. Noted.”

“I-I liked it, though.”

“Jesus, Sammy, come on.”

“What?! I’m sorry? I can’t help it.”

“I am not your wife.” You reminded him.

“I know that.” He grumbled. “I said I couldn’t help it. But you can’t deny that we get along fairly well.”

“Except for when you’re too drunk and won’t admit it.” You chided.

“How often does that happen, though? And you’re only angry because you care about me, right?”

You furrowed your brows. “I still don’t see that as us “getting along”, though.”

“Most of the time, we get along, right?”

“Most of the time, yeah.” You agreed.

“I just feel like you get me better than Tammi ever will. You know how to handle asshole cops while she doesn’t even wanna meet them. You’re more comfortable living in the world while she’s comfortable pretending the world isn’t as bad as it actually is. She doesn’t try to understand the stress of my job while you absolutely do because you see it all the time. You’re so different than she is.”

“And that’s alluring to you?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“That’s the worst part, isn’t it? Us being friends who fit so well together?”

“Not like she’d suspect it. It’s not like she knows you at all.”

“Sammy.” You chastised slightly.

“It’s true. I don’t think she even knows your name even though I’ve mentioned you to her several times. She never bothers to remember names. It’s like they’re my people, not hers, therefore they’re not important. Makes me feel unimportant if my friends are unimportant to her.”

“You’re not unimportant, Sammy.” You tried to console him.

“To her, I feel like I am. But you? You’re always genuinely interested in what’s going on in my life.”

“Generally speaking, that’s how friends work.”

“You really don’t see me as more than a friend?”

“Again, you are a married man.” You reminded him.

“Is that what’s stopping you?”

“I can’t pursue a relationship with a married man. That’s just not who I am.”

He sighed deeply. “Yeah, I know that.”

“I’m sorry, Sammy.”

“‘S not your fault.” He stroked your arm up and down.

“Maybe I should-” you slowly straightened up.

“Don’t. Please.” He whispered softly as he tried to keep you attached to him. “I need this. I need you.”

“You can’t have me, Sammy.”

“Why not?” He asked through watery eyes.

“I don’t need to answer that.”

“She withholds sex over every little thing or she’ll use it to get what she wants. It’s maddening. I’ve tried talking to her about it like an adult but she’s just not receptive to it.”

“Am I supposed to feel so bad for you, I’ll have sex with you?”

“What?! No, no. I didn’t mean that. I’m just venting. I don’t have any ulterior motives, I promise.”

“We’re all fucked up, Sammy, aren’t we?”

“Yeah… we are…” he whispered softly.

You let him lift your shirt over your head. The skin to skin contact was warm. It was hot even, as he held you to him. His lips met your temple.

“I’m sorry.” You murmured. “I don’t mean to take advantage of you.”

“I think we’re both sober enough for this at this point.”

You chuckled softly. “Sober but stupid.”

“Very, very stupid.” His lips ran down your jaw. “We really should stop. You’re right.”

“You don’t want to, though, do you?” You asked softly.

“God, no. But you seemed to have reservations about it. If you’re not sure, we shouldn’t be doing this.”

“I do want you, Sammy.”

He groaned softly. “Now you shouldn’t be saying that.”

“We can’t help how we feel.”

“But we can help what we do.” He lamented.

“Humans make mistakes, though.” You whispered.

“Am I a mistake worth making?”

“Am I?” You countered. “You’re the married one.”

“Absolutely.”

Your lips were on his before you could think better of kissing him. He reciprocated it more enthusiastically than you were expecting.

“Whoa, slow down there, cowboy.” You laughed against his lips.

“Nuh uh. Don’t tell me you haven’t felt this connection between us. You said you wanted me too.”

“I do want you. And I do feel it.”

“I’ve wanted you longer than I’ve been able to admit to myself.”

“Me too.”

Sammy smiled at that. He dove in for another kiss. Not satisfied anymore by you beside him on the bed, he tugged you into his lap, hands planted on your hips.

“Comfy?” He asked you.

“Are you?” You asked him.

He smiled that boyish smile of his. “Sure am.”

His hands caressed your waist, your back. He leant in to kiss your neck. “I’ve dreamed of holding you like this.”

“You have?”

“Mhm. You haven’t dreamed about my hands on you?” He murmured against your neck.

“Well I uh um…”

“It’s okay if you have or if you haven’t.”

“God, it’s so embarrassing.”

“You’re already in my lap. How much more embarrassing is any of this going to get?”

“I just doubt you’ve had a sex dream about me.”

“What makes you think I haven’t?”

“Well, you have Tammi.”

“But I told you I’ve wanted you. I’ve dreamt about you naked, on top of me. I’ve jerked off to you.”

You could feel his cock harden in his boxers underneath you. You shifted a bit and he hissed.

“You feel that? That’s for you. That’s from being in a bed with you. That’s from you being in my lap. That’s from thinking about the dreams I’ve had about you.”

“I really make you that hard?”

“All the fucking time.”

“All the… Sammy…” you sighed.

“I know, I know… it’s… bad.”

“You really can’t help it?”

“I’ve tried. But no, I can’t help what you do to me, sweetheart.”

“I wish I, too, could help how I feel.”

“How do you feel about me, hmm?”

“I’ve always thought you were very handsome and sweet.”

“Oh, just handsome and sweet, huh? Not sexy?”

“Well I also may have had a sex dream about you.”

“So you find me attractive?”

“I find you very attractive, yes.”

“Well I find you irresistibly attractive.”

“Yeah, I can feel it.”

“Do you wanna see it? Can I take it out?”

“Show me your cock, Sammy. I wanna see what’s going inside me.”

He groaned. “Jesus, sweetheart. You’re gonna kill me.”

“Don’t die yet, you haven’t fucked me.”

He laughed. “That’s true. I’ll try to stay alive for that.”

Your crotch further back from his (his hands were on your back to steady you), he tugged his boxers down a bit to fish his cock out. It was about average girth but it was slightly above average in length. And it was thickened… just for you.

“Touch it, sweetheart, please…”

You reached out your hand to wrap it around his length. He hissed sharply when your hand made contact with his cock. “Like that, Sammy?”

“Just like that, darling. Fuck. Squeeze a bit harder.”

You obliged him and strengthened your grasp on him. You tugged up and down, stroking him slowly.

“Look at me while you touch me.” He requested. You lifted your eyes to meet his. He smiled. “That’s it.” He continued. “Lemme see those eyes.”

His tip leaked precum as you continued to stroke him.

“You gotta stop.”

“Why?” You slowly retracted your hand. “Am I do-”

He cut you off when he saw your concerned expression. “Jesus Christ, no! No, that’s not it, honey. I’m gonna bust my nut too soon if you keep at it like that. And I don’t wanna do that.”

“Oh… okay…”

“Why don’t we get the rest of these clothes off of you, yeah?”

“Yeah, okay.”

He unhooked your bra. Your breasts were on full display to him now.

“Oh, wow.” He marveled at them.

“I know… they aren’t symmetrical…”

“What?” He did not peel his eyes away from your chest.

“They’re not symmetrical. They’re asymmetrical.”

“Oh… okay? You honestly can’t even tell.”

“My left breast is clearly smaller.”

“Well I still think they’re sexy.” He said it like it was some great duty he was taking upon himself, finding such ugly breasts to be mouthwatering.

“Why thank you.” You thanked him graciously.

His hands squished and squeezed them. “Goddamn, these are amazing.” He lightly pinched your nipples until they were hardened buds.

“Glad you… approve…”

“What kinda men have you been with, sweetheart, that aren’t appreciative of these?”

You huffed lightly. “You don’t wanna know.”

“Anyone I should know about?”

“Nothing like that, no.” You shook your head. “Just… bad compatibility.”

“You deserve someone who gives a shit about you.”

“…right…”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Conceptually… you’re correct…”

“Conceptually? How about practically?”

“In practice… I’ve never really experienced a um…” you lowered your voice to a mumble, “satisfying relationship.”

“I’m sorry, did you just say: “I’ve never really experienced a satisfying relationship”?”

“Yes?”

“Well that’s just a damn shame, then.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

“I mean that you deserve to be loved and taken care of. You deserve to be satisfied.”

“Yeah… sure, I do…”

“Hey, you do. I could satisfy you, you know.”

“Oh? Could you now?”

“Mhm. I could. I’d love to satisfy your needs, actually. You just have to let me.”

“I’m just not so sure how capable I am of satisfying your needs.”

“I’m a man, sweetheart. We aren’t exactly the most complicated.”

“You’re saying it wouldn’t take much?”

“Not when it’s you, no.”

“T-Tell me what you like.”

“A soft woman’s hand on my cock, firm grip, tugging up and down.”

“Like what I was doing before. What about a vagina?”

“Oh, any old one’ll do.” He joked.

“Oh, so you like older ladies?” You joked right back.

He laughed adorably. “That is not what I meant and you know it, missy.”

“Do I?”

He tickled your sides. “Yes, you do.”

“You’re sure I’m not too young for you?”

“You’re not. And I can prove right now just how similar to my type you really are.”

“Alright, Bryant, prove it.”

“Gladly. Let’s get these jeans off, shall we?”

He gently maneuvered you off of his lap so he could get your jeans unbuttoned. He tugged them off over your thighs and down your calves.

“There we go.” He smiled.

“Here we are…”

“I should take your panties off too.”

“Oh um I guess so…”

“Hey, sweetheart… look at me.”

Your gaze met his. “You don’t have to be afraid of anything with me. You know I think you’re gorgeous, right? I don’t give a shit about any stretch marks or rolls or pudge. And don’t you dare compare yourself to Tammi. I’m supposed to be showing you that you’re my type, aren’t I?”

“Yeah… you are.”

“So lemme see all of you… please. I promise you’re safe here with me. The last thing I am going to want to do is judge you, especially when you’re naked. For me.”

His eyes practically pleaded with you to get to see all of you naked and beautiful. He’d verbally beg you if he had to until you relented but he’d collared enough sex pests to know the difference between him and them. Your comfort mattered to him. He’d wait until you gave him the go ahead. Sex just wasn’t enjoyable for him if both parties weren’t on board.

“Alright. Let’s get ‘em off, then.”

His face lit up as he grasped the waistband and slowly tugged those off you as well. Both of your clothes laid in a pile on the floor.

“You wanna come sit back in my lap?”

“If-”

“It is. I do. C’mere, sweetheart.”

He was tugging you into his lap again and you were both naked now. You settled into his lap.

“Hello, beautiful.”

“Hi.”

“Comfortable again?”

“You got a hold of me?”

“Why would I ever let you go?”

“You know what I meant.”

“Sure, sure… still don’t plan on it.” His hands squeezed the flesh of your ass, moving you forward so your bare clit dragged against his bare cock.

You gasped sharply. “Sammy…”

“Yeah, sweetheart? What do you need, hmm? All you gotta do is ask. I’ll give you anything you need.”

“Kiss me again.”

He chuckled softly. “I offer to give you anything and you want another kiss?”

“It felt nice.”

“Just nice?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

He liked you bossing him around a bit like this. “Yes, ma’am.”

He happily obeyed you and cupped your face firmly before bringing your mouth to his. His hands ran up and down your back and gripped your hips. He wanted to keep you as close to him as he possibly could. His cock was hard and his tip was swollen in between your bodies.

“Lemme touch that pretty pussy, baby.” He rasped in your ear.

You started laughing. “God, that’s how you’re asking?”

He frowned, brows furrowing. “What’s wrong with how I asked?”

“Lemme touch that pretty pussy, baby.” You imitated the raspy tone he’d used and kept laughing and laughing.

He removed his hands from your body. “Well if you don’t want me touching you…”

“No, I do, I do. I dunno why I found that so funny. I’m so sorry.” You rubbed his shoulders.

“Lie down on the fucking bed, sweetheart, and I’ll show you who you’re laughing at. You won’t be laughing, then, not when I make you cum.”

“If you can manage to do that.” You teased as you maneuvered yourself so you were laying on your back on the bed.

He chuckled and shook his head. “You really shouldn’t have said that, sweetheart. Now my pride is on the line.”

“So come show me what you can do.”

“With pleasure.” He smiled as he covered your body with his own.

He knee spread your thighs apart before he bracketed your legs with his. His hand found its way between your thighs to run through your folds and run at your clit. He rubbed it nice and even and slow.

“There? See? You like that? That’s good, innit? I told you I’d be so good to you, sweetheart. I’ll make you cum so hard, you’ll see stars.”

“You talk a… good game, Bryant.”

“You think this is all just talk? Nuh uh, baby. I’m gonna make you squeal and that’s a fucking promise.”

His lips met your neck as he continued to work over your bundle of nerves.

“After I make you cum with my fingers, I’m stuffing my big fat cock inside of you. Would you like that? My big cock stuffing you so full?”

“Y-Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Maybe I could give you a real big load.”

“You should use a condom, Sammy.”

“Don’t have one.”

“So go get one.”

“Lemme make you cum, then we’ll talk about it.”

“We’ll talk about it now, Samuel.”

He frowned but removed his fingers from you. “Fine… we’ll talk about it.”

“We shouldn’t have unprotected sex.”

“You’re clean, aren’t you? Because I’m clean.”

“You’re married, Sammy.”

“I know that. A-And Tammi and I have been trying for a few months now but nothing’s been happening.”

“It might just take some more time.”

“We fuck like rabbits when she’s ovulating. If it hasn’t happened yet…”

“It still could.”

“Can’t tell you how many times I’ve looked at ya and imagined what you might look like pregnant.”

“Sammy…”

“Come on. Just think about my thick raw cock inside of you.”

““Raw” sounds gross.”

“Raw-dogging sounds gross to you? Because it’s the sexiest thing to me, sweetheart. I promise it’ll feel so fucking good, especially when I spill my white hit load right against your cervix so it’ll reach your womb.”

“Yeah,” you scoffed, “because that’s how that works.”

“It is.” He insisted.

“And you would know how, oh dear childless friend of mine?”

“Ouch. You wound me, peaches. Unprotected sex is how babies are made: I know that’s true. Are you on birth control?”

“… no…”

“Perfect.”

“What about Tammi…”

“Pretend she doesn’t exist, alright? Just let me have this. Let me have you, all of you tonight.”

“This is so wrong.”

“So why does it feel so right?” His fingers slipped inside of you.

You sighed.

And you were so goddamn tired and lonely. And here Sammy was begging to worship you.

How could you say no to him?

  ~Some Other Day~

  You marched right up to his desk. “We need to talk, Bryant.”

“Well, I’ve-”

“Now, like urgently.” You insisted.

You both moved into a secluded room.

He crossed his arms as he stood in front of you. “What’s up?”

“I’m pregnant.” You cut to the chase.

He was shocked, blinking a couple of times. The pregnancy thing had been a kink to him more than anything else, really. He’d been absolutely shocked when you agreed to fuck him with no birth control or condom or plan b pill. He’d been taking a huge risk, obviously (you’d technically consented to letting him cum inside you, though and you seemed to have enjoyed rawdogging it with him) but now that you were saying you were pregnant? “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

“You’re sure it’s mine?”

“You’re the only man I’ve had sex with recently.”

“I’d been trying with Tammi… I told you that.”

“And then you have unprotected and penetrative sex with me once and just like that,” you snapped your fingers, “I’m pregnant.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Fuck…yeah…”

You put both hands. “I’m not saying anything about anything…”

“No, you’re right. It was probably Tammi, then.”

“Do you still want to go through with the divorce with her?”

“Yeah. I do. It’s just a cumulative thing, you know? It’s not just you. It’s not just because you’re pregnant. It’s not just because she wasn’t getting pregnant. I-it’s just…everything, I guess…”

“Did you ever do any kind of fertility testing?”

“Tammi refused to believe anything was wrong with either of us. She held out hope that it would just work somehow. But I don’t think it would’ve, even if we would’ve waited until the one year mark.”

“There’s no shame in infertility.” But there might be in infidelity. There’s 3 i’s in both words. And you doubted that was lucky.

“No woman in her family has ever had trouble getting pregnant. She’s got like three sisters. I think she’s got three aunts too…lots of cousins…”

You took a deep calming breath. “This isn’t fair to her. What’re you gonna do, leave her to help me raise my child?”

“Fuck, I-I dunno! Fuck…” he shook his head and paced.

“I’m not asking you to do anything, Sammy.”

“I know. And I’d never ask you to get rid of the baby but if you want to have it… I couldn’t not support it.”

“Are you gonna tell Tammi I’m pregnant by you?”

“I have to. Like you said, it’s not fair to her. I just dunno how she’s gonna react.”

“You won’t know until you tell her, I guess.”

  ~Two Weeks Later~

  He frantically knocked on your door on a Saturday at 10am.

“Sam, what is it?”

“She’s in love with her photography teacher who apparently is in love with her.”

“I’m sorry, what?” It was too early and you hadn’t had coffee yet.

“She’s taking some classes at this community college and she’s in love with her instructor.” He paced your living room floor.

“You’re kidding me.”

He stopped briefly to look at you. “No. I’m not. He “just gets her”.”

“What does she plan to…?”

“Amicable divorce. She thinks we were doomed now anyway. She wasn’t even mad I was unfaithful.”

“Seriously? She’s not mad?”

He shrugged. “She’s happy we’re both gonna be happy. I think deep down we’ve both known for a while we didn’t work all that well together. Doesn’t excuse my unfaithfulness but… humans make mistakes. I begged her to stay, to try to make it work. I apologized, and so did she, tearfully, but she wanted out too.”

“Still feels pretty shitty.”

“It’s not like she’s not reckless as fuck.”

“But did she ever break her marriage vow?”

He shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

  ~Two Weeks Later~

  “Motherfucker!” He exclaimed as he came into your home.

“Hello to you too?”

“She fucked him. We were still married and we were both unfaithful, how about that?”

“Jesus, Sammy, I-I…”

“Hey, no. You don’t have to say anything. I was way too strong that night. We’re both fucked up. Fucking powder keg that I’m surprised took this long to explode. What a goddamn mess!”

“She really fucked him?”

“Looked me right in the eyes. Serious as a heart attack.”

“So um… you’re both still okay with the divorce?”

“Yep. She doesn’t seem to give a shit.”

“So does that mean…?”

“Would you even have me? What a clusterfuck this has been?”

You cupped his cheeks. “Of course I will have you, Sammy.”

“Do you even want a child? My child?”

“If I really didn’t, I never would’ve let you cum in me.”

“You didn’t want to let me at first.” He murmured, averting his gaze to the floor.

“I would’ve kicked you in the balls, you know, if I really wasn’t ok with it.”

His puppy dog eyes met yours. “Promise?”

You smiled and nodded. “Promise.”

He sighed. “I still feel like a complete asshole."

You put a hand on his shoulder. “You should… because you were.”

  ~The End~

[mia-nightsky]

The one bed trope has me locked in everytime. I can’t get enough it

[liltrinkets]

power outage in your little oceanside apt and when the lights flicker back on at like 10:45 pm andrew cody is sitting at the foot of your bed

[s-oulpunk]

McFly July Day 26: Echoes in the Ravine

Featuring my dear friend @mia-nightsky <3

~~~

If Emerson visits the ravine at the right time of night (moon high in the sky, fog thick and suffocating, crickets chirping their nightly lullaby) she can make out the paper thin barrier between her world and the next one.  She leans her weight on the ledge of the bridge, train tracks cold and dead beneath her shoes, and looks into the fog like a mirror.

At first it is her own face staring back at her.  Parallel versions of all the lives she could have lived.

Then it is a girl who could have been her twin, with brown eyes and a smattering of freckles and brown curls that are only a shade or two lighter than Emerson’s are.  The girl is using the fog as a mirror herself, her lower lip trapped between her teeth as she fumbles with her curls, tying them up in a high-pony with a bright red scrunchie.  All around her Emerson can make out the fuzzy shape of a dorm-style bathroom.

“He’s just helping me out,” she is saying, “that’s all it is.  I already failed stats last semester, I’ll be a laughing stock if I fail again.  Besides,” she uncaps a small bottle of chapstick, “you know how obsessed Tricia is with him.”

“Oh, God,” says a voice to her left.  Another female voice.  In the midst of brushing her teeth, from the sound of it. “You know what?  I went to the farmer’s market with them last weekend.  Biggest mistake of my life.” The voice pauses to spit into the sink. “Total PDA show on Tricia’s side, had her hands all over him.  Alex was asking about you, though.  Where’s Juliet?  Why didn’t Juliet come?”

Juliet ducks her head to stifle a smile. “He probably just wanted to double check my stats homework.”

“I’m sure he did.  I think that’s how Alex P Keaton flirts.”

“Math equations?  Real sexy, Mila.”

“I’m just saying,” Mila comes into view so she can snatch up Juliet’s mascara, “he’s at our dorm a lot.  And it’s never to see Tricia.”

The next time Emerson visits the ravine, it is once again Juliet’s face she sees in the fog.  She is sitting in a dorm room this time, with her head in her hands and a textbook splayed out over her desk.  Loose sheets of paper are scattered across the desk and the floor.  There is a boy sitting next to her.  He looks just like Marty – same blue eyes, same boyish smile – if Marty ever made the mistake of wearing sweater vests and a tie.

“I should just write a cheat-sheet or something,” Juliet says. “Stick it up my sleeve.  Chances of getting caught have to be low, right?”

“No, no, no,” says the boy, “you don’t need to cheat.  You can pass this test.  Look,” he leans closer, pressing himself into her personal space as he takes her pencil from between her fingers, “you’ve almost got it.  You just need to–”

“Alex, it’s no good.  I’m not going to remember any of it.  Everything you say, it just – it goes in one ear, out the other.  My brain isn’t capable of holding any of it.”

Alex’s face falls. “Everything I say?”

Juliet sighs. “Not just you.  Anyone who tries to talk to me about math.” She slumps back in her seat. “Look, I appreciate you trying to help me.  I really do.  But it’s a lost cause, it doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“It is not a lost cause.” Alex points the pencil firmly in her direction. “You just need a change of scenery.  Come on,” he stands with one hand outstretched, “let’s take a walk around campus.  Clear your mind.”

“What, really?”

“Yeah.  I’ll buy you a latte on the way.  Wake your brain up.”

A smile flickers over Juliet’s face.  She takes Alex’s hand in her own. “Yeah, alright.”

The final time Emerson visits the ravine, she brings Marty with her.  Showing him all the other sides of herself – all of the other lives they could have lived – had been a frightening prospect.  Who knows what version of Emerson the ravine would show him, and who knows how it would shift how he thinks of her.  But showing him a glimpse into an entirely different universe?  What’s the harm in that?

Only it isn’t Juliet who they see in the fog.

It is a different girl this time, with her curls cropped short and a golden heart locket strung around her throat.  She is situated behind a coffee bar, her eyebrows pinched in concentration as she brews a row of pour overs.  When she looks up, her eyes lock directly with Emerson’s.  There is a single, heart-stopping moment where Emerson feels sure that the girl is smiling right at her.  And why wouldn’t she?  Doesn’t she know her from somewhere?

But, “Mia!” The girl chirps. “You made it!”

A second girl leans up against the opposite side of the bar. “Of course.” Mia slides her sunglasses to the top of her head. “Oh, love your shirt.  Very Classic Penny.”

Penny poses with her hands on her hips to show off her outfit: light-wash jeans and a black fitted tee-shirt with yellow lettering: BACK TO THE FUTURE.  The DeLorean is splashed across her chest. “Thank you!  I’m trying to get in the headspace for McFly July.”

“Love it.”

“You want a coffee?”

“I do, but,” Mia eyes the menu warily, “I don’t know what.  I’m intrigued by this campfire drink but I don’t know if I’ll like a coldbrew.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it sweet and creamy for you.”

Mia clasps her hands together in a thank you. “Also, girl.  Last night my parents told me that they’re gonna give me their old TV.  We’re finally going to have a real TV for our movie nights.”

“Oooh.  You gotta pick something good to christen it with.  Something with your man.”

“Wait,” Mia hides her grin behind one hand, “you’re so right.  I have to pick a Shawn Hatosey movie.”

“Yup.  Yuppp.  We watched a movie with my man last time, it’s only fair.”

“You say that as if I don’t love our Michael J Fox movie nights.  Even though For Love or Money was…” Mia pulls a face.

Penny nods along, “it was no Doc Hollywood.  Here,” she balances an overflowing drink precariously between both hands.  Cream dribbles off the ridge as soon as it is set down on the bar, and Penny snatches up a nearby towel to clean off the edges. “Just give me like,” Penny glances at the clock, “five-ish minutes.  I’m almost off.”

“Take your time.” Mia pops one of the marshmallow toppers into her mouth as she vanishes with her drink.

Penny snatches another drink ticket off the bar.  Her eyebrows quirk.  Emerson watches in fascination as she moves through the motions of the drink: coffee beans, grind, into the filter, a steady pour of hot water, sugar, cream.  She finishes by stirring the cream until it is bursting over the ridge of the cup in a frothy dome.  And this time, when she looks up, Emerson has no doubt that Penny is looking right at her.

Penny sticks the name carefully on the front of the cup and slides it onto the bar.  She calls out, “Emerson!”

[mia-nightsky]

When bestie recreates our irl convo in their oneshot AND mentions ur celeb crush🥵

[voidsagent]

first titus post !! (i still need to watch RON2 so sorry if this is wrong but it’s just a random thought that popped into my head) but anyways…

i feel like titus & reader would be SO feral for each other. almost like a morticia & gomez type relationship. titus absolutely worships the ground reader walks on.

he probably meets them during a hunt, one of the last people standing. but when he finally gets to them they aren’t scared, but there’s rather desire in their eyes—intention. strong & almost feral as they stare titus down. so he doesn’t kill them, instead he proposes.

from then on they’re practically inseparable; connected at the hip and absolutely distraught when they aren’t together. reader hanging off of titus’ arm during meetings, dinners, parties, whatever it is. he adores it.

much to everyone’s dismay; they aren’t shy about affection either. titus would have reader up against the wall or in his lap, mid make-out session; titus teasing reader—making them almost beg to be kissed.

titus would be open mouthed, hovering over reader’s neck; breath fanning over their skin as he dips his head down before trailing back up towards their face—eyes guiding him before he really knows where he’s going.

reader would pull him closer, till he’s almost touching their forehead with his. eyes full of lust as they speak; “kiss me. it’s torture titus.”

titus would smirk softly, still hovering; “the only real torture would be living without you, my love.”

then he finally gives in, reconnecting his lips with theirs; hands in his hair as they bite at each other’s lips. not even caring if they’re drawing blood, if anything it just adds to their eternal desire for each other.

anyways, this got a lil longer than i meant to…👀😏

[mia-nightsky]

I absolutely subscribe to the Morticia and Gomez relationship dynamic for anyone who is with Titus

[thatcorporategirlie]

nothing good happens after 2 am

18+ account - minors do not interact

jack abbot x f!reader Word Count: 11.8K Rating: E

Summary: Jack came on too strong, so you broke up with him. But now you're left wondering…why did you end things with a man that you're actually totally in love with?

Warning: (MDNI 18+) ex's to lovers, angst, language, emotionally constipated reader (low key self sabotaging), love avoidance, fear of vulnerability, mentions of a miscarriage (not descriptive), descriptions of smut, alcohol, tipsy reader, feelings, mutual pining/yearning, steamy kissing, pet names, mentions of injury during car accident, teenagers causing grey hairs (driving under the influence), cool fun aunt vibes, hurt/comfort, mean girls movie references, sexual tension, more steamy and horny kissing, smidge dirty talk, fluffy/happy ending cause its me, loverboy!jack

A/N: This story is a love letter to all the aunties out there. I hope people enjoy <3 dividers by @saradika-graphics

Your colleagues were discussing the renovation timeline for the Carter residence. On your screen was the shared design board for their master suite, filled with images of tufted headboards, marble tile samples, and serene grey palettes. But the elegant visuals swam before your eyes. All you could see was the stark, antiseptic white of an examination room; all you could feel was the cold, metallic touch of stirrups against your heels.

"...and we really need to confirm the plumbing fixtures before the tile guy starts work in the ensuite," said Leo, your senior project manager. He tapped the table with his pen, directing his gaze down the line, and called out your name. "…you sourced those beautiful matte black shower sets. The client loved them, but the wife is now concerned about water spots. What's your take on the maintenance versus the aesthetic? Should we pivot to a brushed nickel?"

Your name was repeated, and Leo's voice cut through the fog. Everyone was looking at you.

"Sorry," you managed, your voice strangely thin. "Could you repeat the question?"

"Are you with us?" he asked, not unkindly, but with a note of professional impatience.

"Y-yes. Sorry. Just… a lot on my mind." You offered a weak smile that felt like it might crack your face.

The meeting droned on for another ten eternal minutes before it ended. You moved on autopilot, gathering your notebook and pen, your movements slow and heavy. You walked back to your cubicle and sank into your chair, the world feeling muffled and distant.

"Hey." It was Laura from the next desk over, leaning around the partition. A look of concern replaced her usual easy-going smile. "You okay? You looked like you were on another planet in there."

You opened your mouth to give the standard easy lie.

I'm fine. Just tired.

The words were right there, polished and ready. But they didn't come out. Instead, your throat closed. You stared at your computer monitor, the sleek black surface reflecting a version of you that looked terrible.

"I don't know," you whispered.

The confession hung there, and Laura's expression softened, but she didn't press. She just gave a slow nod, a silent offer of space.

You turned back to your screen, but it wasn't a file you saw.

You were sitting on the crinkling paper of the exam table, a thin gown over your lap. Dr. Montgomery was washing her hands at the sink, her back to you. You came in for the bleeding, the cramping that felt like a fist twisting inside you. Dr. Montgomery turned, her face a careful mask of professional compassion that did nothing to soften the blow.

"I know the bleeding was more than usual, and the pain concerned you," she said, her voice gentle. She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. "The ultrasound was very clear. What you are experiencing... it's a miscarriage. Your body is passing a pregnancy. I'd estimate you were about six weeks along."

The words landed like a physical blow. The room tilted.

A pregnancy?

The concept was so foreign, so impossible, it simply bounced off the numb wall of your shock. You hadn't been trying. You hadn't even suspected. Your period was always irregular. The fatigue, the nausea you blamed on stress...

"But I'm on the pill," you heard yourself say, the words sharp and too loud in the quiet room. You looked up at Dr. Montgomery, searching her face for an answer, for a mistake. "I take it every day.. I don't... I don't know how this happened."

The statement hung there, less a question and more a plea for the world to make sense again.

"No form of contraception is one hundred percent effective, even with perfect use. It's rare, but it happens. The body can be unpredictable. That doesn't make it your fault."

"O-okay," you stuttered.

"I know you're probably in shock," Dr. Montgomery continued, watching your face. "It's a lot to process. Miscarriages, particularly this early, are far more common than people think. I have some numbers for you—for counseling, support groups. There's no right or wrong way to feel about this."

You stared at your hands, clenched in the thin material of the gown. A strange, hollow laugh threatened to bubble up. Feel? How were you supposed to feel about losing something you never knew you had? Grief felt like a costume that didn't fit, meant for someone else, for a planned nursery and broken dreams. Your reality was confusion, a dizzying void where a secret had been and was now just... gone.

"I don't... I don't know how I feel." The admission was pathetic, but it was the only truth you had. "I'm in shock."

Dr. Montgomery nodded. "That is all perfectly normal. Shock isn't just about sadness. It's about the entire system trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. There is no timeline for this. Be gentle with yourself." She handed you a printed sheet with numbers and websites, the paper crisp and impersonal in your trembling hand. "Go home if you can. Rest. Your body needs it. And your mind will catch up, in its own time."

The memory of this morning faded, replaced by the solid, unyielding reality of your desk. You took a long, shaky breath and turned back to your computer screen, where a 3D rendering of a client's living room waited. You mechanically clicked on the sectional sofa, adjusting the fabric swatch to a calming seafoam green. You typed notes into the project file with numb fingers: Client prefers matte finishes. Source organic linen for throw pillows. The words were fucking meaningless. The afternoon passed in a blur of fabric samples, paint codes, and vendor emails, each task a tiny island of normalcy in a sea of static.

At exactly 6 o'clock, you shut down your computer. The drive home was a series of autopilot turns and stops, the city passing by your car windows like a silent film. You pulled into your driveway, the familiar sight of your front door offering no comfort. You collected the mail from the box—a utility bill, a furniture catalog, a flyer for a pizza place. Inside, your house felt immense and heavy. You dropped the mail on the kitchen counter.

You walked into the living room and sank into the cushions, the fabric feeling strangely coarse against your skin. You pulled your phone from your bag, your thumb moving on its own to your messages. You typed a name at the top: Jack.

The cursor blinked in the empty text field, a tiny, demanding heartbeat.

Your fingers hovered over the screen, the words forming and dissolving in your mind like mist. How did you even fucking begin?

You typed, your movements stiff.

Jack. It's me.

You deleted it. Too formal. You weren't formal.

You tried again, the truth coming out in a blunt, clumsy rush.

I had a doctor's appointment today. I was pregnant. I didn't know. I'm not anymore. But, I thought you should know.

Your thumb hovered over the send button. The sentences sat there, black and brutal on the bright screen. Was this a text message kind of thing? Or a phone call? Was there an etiquette for informing your ex-boyfriend that you were pregnant with his kid and then oh oops, your body decided to play fucking Russian roulette on you.

You didn't send it, lowering the phone and the screen darkening as it rested on your thigh. Why would he want to hear from you? You had broken up with him a month ago, and you were pretending you were fine.

Jack wasn't like any guy you had ever dated before. He was a disruption to your entire design philosophy of love—a philosophy built on safe distances, and men who communicated in vague subtext and last-minute plans.

You met him through one of your clients. Dana was an ER nurse, tough as nails with a heart of gold, and you helped her turn her dated home into a functional, calming sanctuary after her brutal shifts. She threw a small get-together once you finished the interior design on her home. Jack was there, and he was one of her colleagues from the hospital. He was handsome in an intensely unfair way, with beautiful hazel eyes that missed nothing and a quiet steadiness that felt like an anchor in the noisy room. He found you by the window seat you designed for Dana and her husband, a cozy nook for them to decompress.

"Dana said her home finally feels like a place where the adrenaline can drain away," he'd said, his voice calm and measured, a stark contrast to the usual party chatter. "That's a rare gift to give someone."

An hour later, Jack asked for your number, and his gaze was direct and unwavering. He called the next day. He took you to a quiet, unpretentious restaurant. He was direct. No games. He listened, really listened, when you talked, and his questions were insightful. He kissed you like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth when he dropped you off at home. Jack waited a respectful but not distant couple of dates before he took you back to his place.

That night, he fucked you in a way you'd never been fucked before. It wasn't just the sex (though that was transformative). His deep, purposeful strokes seemed to reach something untouched inside you, and his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that felt like being seen for the first time. It was the way he took command of your pleasure. It was the way he worshipped your body with his mouth and hands. He knew exactly where to apply pressure, where to linger, leaving you utterly shattered and reassembled in his arms.

He asked you to be his girlfriend a week later. Was this how men in their 40's were? No slow burn, no months of "seeing where things go," just a decisive, full-throttle commitment? A month later, he bought you the exact expensive electric toothbrush model he used, in a different color, and it was already charging in his bathroom holder next to his. He didn't just give you a drawer at his house after 2 months; he cleared out an entire section of his walk-in closet, saying, "Hangers are better than a drawer. Things don't get wrinkled." After 3 months, he surprised you with a weekend at a rustic-but-luxurious cabin in the Laurel Highlands.

You were curled on the oversized leather sofa, the fire crackling, a blanket over your legs. Then he turned his head, his gaze finding yours in the flickering light.

"I love you," he said, the words leaving his lips as a simple, undeniable fact, like stating the time or the weather. Your heart didn't flutter; it seized. A cold, sharp panic shot through your veins, freezing the cozy warmth of the moment. Your smile felt stiff, plastered on.

 I love you launched after a mere 12 weeks?

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. You could see the exact moment he registered your panic—a slight tightening around his eyes, a microscopic shift in his posture.

So…you kissed him because you didn't know what to say—but you didn't say it back.

After returning to Pittsburgh, your panic made you pull away. You created distance with flimsy excuses about a crushing work deadline, about needing "headspace" to focus. You became short over text, cancelling plans at the last minute. One night, you started a fight over something trivial—and in your fear, you ended it. It somehow felt safer than confronting the terrifying, perfect weight of his love.

The words "I think we need to break up" tasted like shit in your mouth. "This is all going too fast for me. I'm… just not in the same place as you.”

He didn't yell. He just went very still, his hazel eyes analyzing you.

"Okay," he said, his voice flat.

You broke up with the most substantial man you had ever known because his love felt too real, too fast, and you weren't sure you were built to handle it. The truth was you loved him too, and that was the most terrifying part of all. Because love, in your experience, was a prelude to loss. It was a vulnerability you couldn't afford. Letting him go now, while it was still early, was a mercy. For him, and for you. Staying would only mean watching him eventually see the real, flawed, frightened you—and then, he would inevitably leave. That was the unspoken script you knew by heart. So you took the pen and wrote the ending yourself, a tragic but controlled finale.

He would have been a good father, you suddenly thought. What would you have done if you were still pregnant? Would you have kept his baby?

You didn't even know if you wanted kids. The future had always been a vague, hazy concept you preferred not to examine too closely. In an instant, ugly sobs racked your body. You cried until your throat was scraped raw and your head throbbed. But the terrible truth was you didn't know what you were grieving. Was it the ghost of a child who would have had his calm eyes and your stubborn streak?

Or… were you simply, finally, grieving Jack?

You decided not to contact him. 

Of course, the responsible thing to do after a secret, soul-crushing loss was to get blindingly drunk with your girlfriends days later. You laughed too loud, you danced with a frantic energy, and you still hadn't told a soul. By last call, the world had a pleasant, fuzzy edge. You ordered an Uber, fumbling with your phone. You were going to type in your address… but your fingers (traitorous and memory-laden) didn't type that. They typed in an address your heart knew by muscle memory: Jack's. It was a silly, drunk girl idea. He was probably at work. But a small, desperate part of you whispered that maybe, just maybe, he had a rare night off. You weren't falling-down drunk, but you were floating, untethered enough for grief and cheap vodka to steer the ship. That's why you had the dumb, beautiful, catastrophic idea to tell the driver to take you to him.

It was 2:07 am when the Uber pulled up to his familiar house. You stepped out and stood on the sidewalk, the night air cool against your skin, while you stared at his house. The liquid courage was rapidly souring into pure, cold terror.

What were you going to say?

You hesitated outside his door, and then finally rang his doorbell. When you didn’t see any lights turn on after a minute, you let your knuckles fall against the wood, three soft, uncertain taps. The silence on the other side stretched, long enough for you to start backing away. Then you heard the deadbolt turn.

The door opened, not all the way, just enough to reveal him. He was in a worn gray t-shirt and sweatpants, hair slightly mussed since he had clearly been fucking sleeping. His face shifted from mild, late-night annoyance to blank shock, then to something unreadable. His eyes scanned you quickly, taking in your slightly smudged makeup, your dress that was way too short, and the way you swayed just a fraction on your feet.

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. All the rehearsed lines, the drunken confessions, evaporated. You just stood there, exposed, waiting for him to shut the door. He didn't. He let out a long, slow breath, his shoulders dropping slightly.

"Are you drunk?"

A weak, defensive laugh escaped you. "I was," you joked, the words feeling hollow. "But I'm feeling pretty sober right now."

It was the truest thing you said all night. The sight of him, the reality of being here, had burned away the alcohol's haze. His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist, and he pulled you inside, your body stumbling across the threshold. You automatically toed off your heels, and he guided you, his hand now a steady pressure on your lower back, to the familiar couch. You sank into the cushions, the soft fabric smelling like him, like home. You watched him move to the kitchen, his back to you and the muscles in his shoulders tense. His gait was slightly uneven, a subtle hitch in his step that you hadn't noticed earlier. You felt guilty since he had to put his prosthetic back on when he answered the door. He took a tall glass from the cabinet, filled it with water, then snatched one of those powdered electrolyte packets from a box on the counter. Jack ripped it open with his teeth, poured it in, and grabbed a butter knife to stir the powder.

He walked back over to you, holding the glass out.

"Here. It'll help with the hangover you're building."

"Thanks," you mumbled, the word slurring at the edges as you took the glass. Your fingers brushed his, and you fumbled, nearly dropping it. You took a gulp, and the flavor was aggressively artificial, a shock to your system. He finally sank into the armchair opposite you, the leather sighing under his weight. He dragged a hand slowly down his face, his fingers pressing into his closed eyes.

"Okay," he sighed, the word heavy with exhaustion. He dropped his hand and looked at you, his gaze clear and utterly drained. "Why are you here? And let's skip the part where you were just 'in the neighborhood.' or some bullshit."

You set the half-empty glass on the coffee table with a soft click, the sound too loud in the tense quiet. The words were there… so you forced them out.

"I just..." the words were thick and sticking in your dry throat. "I miss you, Jack."

He let out a short, humorless sound—a scoff that was more like a punch to the gut. He leaned back in the armchair, his expression not angry, but chillingly detached.

"You miss me," he repeated, analyzing the statement.

"Yes."

"You're drunk, and you're lonely. That's not missing me."

You flinched and stared at your hands. They twisted together in your lap, and you felt like you were unable to meet the ice in his gaze.

"I deserve that," you finally said. You wanted to tell him everything. But… the voice in your head was a familiar, cruel critic.

It hissed at you now, slick and poisonous.

Tell him about the miscarriage? It sneered. So he can do what? Console you about the child you two accidentally created? That's what you want, isn't it? You want to drop this bomb so he has to catch you. You walked away from him, and now that you've failed at that too, you come crawling back to make it his problem. You don't get to use this pain as a key to unlock his kindness. You forfeited that right. You deserve the cold. You deserve to choke on the words you were too afraid to say when they actually mattered.

The voice was so loud, so convincing.

It painted your desperation as manipulation, your grief as a weapon. So you sat there, trapped in the suffocating silence. You just stared at him, your eyes wide, the war inside you rendering you utterly mute. He was waiting. You could see the question in his eyes, the last frayed thread of his patience. But… the words wouldn't come. The critic had won.

"I'll get my keys," he said, his voice devoid of all inflection. He stood up, the movement sharp. "Let me drive you home."

You took a shuddering breath, the tears you'd been holding back finally spilling over.

"I know you don't want me here," you blurted out, a desperate, wet hiccup catching in your throat. You stood up and wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand. "And I know that I don't really have the right to show up here."

"You don't…" he started, then stopped, correcting himself with a brutal honesty. "It's not that I don't want you here. It's that I can't handle you being here. There's a difference."

You swayed slightly on your feet, the emotional vertigo merging with the physical. You wrapped your arms around yourself, a feeble attempt to hold the pieces together.

"I know. And I'm… God, Jack, I am so sorry. For how I ended things. For the way I did it." You swallowed hard, your apology feeling pathetic and small. "I got scared. I see something real, something good, and my first instinct is to run. I push people away before they can get close enough to really see me... or before I can disappoint them."

"Why?"

"Because the higher the high, the harder the fall…" you hugged yourself tighter, the room feeling both too large and too small. The answer was a miserable, well-worn truth you'd carried for years.

He was quiet for a long moment, absorbing your words.

“I know I’m not making any sense… but I don't miss you because I'm lonely or drunk," you paused, gathering the shattered pieces of your nerve, and the truth tumbled out—inaudible. "It's because I love you."

"What?" he asked.

A hysterical, fleeting thought crossed your mind: Of course he didn't hear it. The universe wouldn't let you be that brave. You looked at his frowning face, his eyes searching yours for the answer he missed. So, you took a deep, shuddering breath that seemed to come from the very bottom of your soul.

"I said," you repeated. "It's because I love you, Jack."

You watched the shock ripple across his face, and you closed the distance between you in three quick, unsteady steps. Your hands came up slowly, framing his face, your thumbs brushing over the stubble on his jaw.

"You've been drinking. You don't know what you're saying."

"Jack," you whispered, your voice thick. "I know what I'm saying." You tilted your head up and pressed your lips to his. For a few suspended seconds, he didn't pull away. Then, with a rough, shuddering sound that was half-surrender, half-agony, he kissed you back. It wasn't gentle. It was a hungry, claiming thing, a 1 month drought breaking in an instant. His hands flew to your waist, gripping you hard, hauling you flush against him. The kiss deepened, turned messy and hot. Your mouth opened under his, and the taste of him (familiar and devastating) unraveled you. A soft, needy whimper escaped your throat as you felt yourself get wet. His tongue swept against yours, blurring into a white-hot haze of sensation and want. You could feel the hard line of his body, the frantic beat of his heart against your own.

But just as you were losing yourself in it, just as your hips pressed instinctively against his, he tore his mouth away. The kiss broke with a sharp, wet sound. Jack’s hands, which had been gripping your hips with bruising intensity a second before, came up and pressed firmly against your shoulders, creating a space between your bodies. His breath was coming in ragged pants, his lips swollen, eyes dark with a storm of desire.

"We can't... I can't do this," he said, the words strained.

"Why not?" you pleaded, the question a raw wound.

"Because when you left… you didn't just walk out the door. You took the sun with you. Do you have any idea what that's like? To have every color... drain out of your world?"

"Jack, I—"

"It’s not your fault," he interrupted, his voice softening into a weary rasp. "I know I came on too strong. I saw a future with you, and I just charged at it. I didn't stop to see if you were running beside me or if I was just dragging you along." He let out a short, humorless breath. "I'm sorry for that. Truly."

The apology was so unexpected and so utterly…Jack. It was a fucking knife twist.

"But…" your voice broke. "I love you. I want a future with you too."

"Sweetheart," he said, the old endearment slipping out, rough and achingly familiar. "You've been drinking.”

"Ugh, stop saying that!" you snapped, the words sharper than you intended. “Don't you dare use it as an excuse to dismiss this! Dismiss me, fine. Tell me to go to hell, fine." You jabbed a finger in his direction, the movement jerky. "But don't you dare pretend that what I'm saying is bullshit!"

He rubbed a hand over his face, a slow, heavy drag from forehead to chin, as if trying to scrub away the entire night.

"I'm not saying it's bullshit necessarily." He didn't meet your fiery gaze, instead looking at a point on the floor near your feet. "But—"

"But what?" you pleaded, eyes glossy and slightly unfocused. They locked onto him with a fierce bleary intensity.

"I can't just switch the color back on with you. Not yet. Maybe not ever."

A cold, hollow ache bloomed deep in your chest, spreading outwards until your fingers felt numb.

Maybe not ever.

Maybe not ever.

Maybe not ever.

The repetition of it echoed in the fuzzy chambers of your mind.

"I'll take you home." He shoved his hands into his pockets, his posture closing off. "Seriously, you need to get some sleep. Sober up." The instruction was quiet, devoid of malice, but it was a dismissal all the same. "This... this isn't a conversation for tonight."

"Don't bother," you said, your voice surprisingly steady, though it felt weak. "I'll get an Uber. I've... I've embarrassed myself enough for one night without needing a chauffeur to underscore the point."

"Hey—"

You ignored him, your focus entirely on confirming a ride. You blinked hard, as you shoved your feet back into your heels, your movements hurried and graceless.

"Seriously, I can drive you home," Jack said, his voice closer now, edged with a frustration that wasn't anger but something more helpless. You stood up as the confirmation chime from your phone sounded at the same time.

"Car's here," you stated, opening the door, not turning around, and already walking toward the curb.

He rushed out after you, the door swinging shut behind him. "Wait—" he started, but the bright headlights of a silver sedan swung around the corner. You didn't give him another chance and just pulled the car door open. slid into the backseat, pulling the door closed with a solid, muffled thunk.

Through the window, you saw Jack standing frozen on the sidewalk. The Uber driver, a middle-aged man with a podcast playing softly, said your name to confirm the ride, and you nodded. You kept your eyes forward, refusing to look back as the car pulled smoothly away from the curb. The ache in your chest tightened into a hard, cold knot. The hum of the car, the murmur of the radio, it all felt miles away.

You let your head fall back against the seat, finally allowing the tears to fall silently, the passing streetlights painting fleeting stripes of gold across your closed, stinging eyes.

For weeks, a slow, quiet ache had taken up residence in Jack's chest, a persistent bleed he couldn't stop. That night (your confession) it replayed on a loop.

I love you.

The problem wasn't the memory; it was the question that poisoned it. Had you meant it? Or was it just the whiskey talking?

It was 2:21 am and he was currently standing beside a gurney in a private bay, his focus entirely on the teenage girl before him. She had a deep, bleeding laceration on her forehead and a rapidly swelling bruise around her eye from the airbag. A cervical collar was in place as a precaution. School's out, he thought. The summer months always brought a specific, grim tempo to the OR. Teenagers with time on their hands and poor impulse control as their only guide.

"Just hold still for me," Jack said, his voice calm but firm as he examined the wound under the bright light. "This is going to need a few stitches to close properly. Dr. Ellis is going to get a CT scan to rule out a concussion." Nearby, Ellis was reviewing the girl's chart on a tablet, nodding. "Ambulance report says she was alert and oriented at the scene. GCS 15. We'll get the scan for definitive clearance."

"Local anesthetic is drawn up, Dr. Abbot." Nazley was setting up a suture tray, laying out the sterile instruments.

"Have the parents been contacted?" Jack asked, not looking up from his work, his focus on the wound edges. "Just got off the phone," Mateo said, hanging up the wall phone nearby. "Parents are out of town. She's staying with an aunt. The aunt is on her way in now, said she can be here in 15 minutes and gave verbal consent to proceed with whatever we need to do."

"You'll feel a little pinch and then some pressure," Jack injected the anesthetic around the edges of the laceration gently. "Your friend who was driving is getting an X-ray on his arm. We'll know more soon."

As if on cue, the curtain to the bay rustled aside. Shen and Crus walked in.

"Update on the driver. X-ray is back," Shen said with a tablet in his hand. "It's a confirmed, non-displaced fracture of the distal radius. A clean break. Ortho is with him now. He's stable and alert." Shen paused, his eyes locking onto Jack's, then flicking to the girl on the table. She was staring at the ceiling, a single tear falling through the grime on her temple. "But the tox screen came back. We found alcohol in his system."

Jack let out a soft, sharp tsk from between his teeth. He shook his head slowly, his lips pressing into a thin, grim line. "Is he going to get in trouble?" the girl asked.

"Yes," Jack grunted. "But, if it's his first offense, he'll probably just lose his license for a year and get to pick up trash on the highway every Saturday. Community service is a real blast. Very scenic". Jack picked up the needle holder. "You'll feel the first stitch now." The first stitch went in with a precise, sharp tug. The girl's breath hissed between her teeth.

"I'm so gonna be grounded for, like, the rest of high school," she mumbled, the words thick with self-pity and the dawning reality of parental wrath. "Being grounded implies there's a home to go back to," Jack said, as he placed another neat stitch. "It implies people give a shit about you. That's not the worst problem to have," He tied off the suture.

A faint, almost unwilling snort of watery laughter escaped the girl.

"Look at it this way," he continued, his voice taking on a darkly pragmatic, almost amused edge. "You weren't driving. So, technically, you're having a significantly better night than your friend. He gets a cast, a court date, and a lifelong lesson in poor decision-making." Jack placed another stitch. "You get a cool scar and a thrilling story you can maybe embellish later, and a very, very long lecture from your aunt—and later your parents—about picking better friends. You're looking at a few weeks without your phone. Maybe a few extra chores.  It's a better deal. Trust me."

"A scar?" the patient blurted out, her voice rising an octave. Her breathing became rapid and shallow, bordering on hyperventilation. Jack let out a slow, patient breath. He finished the stitch he was working on and then deliberately set his tools down on the tray.

"Look at me. Breathe." He waited for a beat until her wild eyes focused on his. "It's not forever. I'm using the finest sutures we have. With proper care—keeping it clean and using the ointment we'll give you—this is going to fade. In a few months, it'll be a faint line. In a year, you'll have to squint to see it." He made eye contact, holding her gaze. "Now, the stiller you hold, the straighter and smaller this temporary mark will be. Deal?"

She stared at him, her panicked breaths beginning to slow, hitching on a sob that was more relief than fear. She gave a tiny, jerky nod.

"Deal," she smiled, and then squinted her eyes. "You look familiar."

"I do?" Jack blinked, his brow furrowing just a touch.

"Yeah."

"I don't think we've met. I'd remember. I'm pretty good with faces."

Suddenly a voice from the hallway outside the curtained bay was muffled but unmistakable—a nurse's firm, professional baritone trying to block someone. "Ma'am, you can't just—" Then, came a second voice. Sharper. Panicked. And it shouted the girl's full, legal name. His head snapped up, his eyes, wide and suddenly stripped of all professional detachment, locked onto the curtain. Every muscle in his body went rigid because he recognized the voice.

"What the fuck," he breathed. He was already turning, his stool scraping back violently on the floor as he stood up. The commotion outside intensified. The nurse's voice grew more insistent.

"Ma'am, I need you to wait in the family area. The doctors are with her now." But the other voice, rose above it, raw and frayed at the edges with a terror. "That's my niece! She's a minor, let me see her!"

Jack's hand shot out and yanked the faded blue privacy curtain.

And there you were.

Your gaze, locked on the arguing nurse, snapped toward the sudden movement. It swept past the opening curtain, past the medical bay, and landed directly on him.

"Jack?"

Then, from behind Jack, a small, shaky voice pierced the stillness. "Auntie?"

Both of your heads turned in unison toward the bed.

"I can explain," she whispered, the words trembling.

After Jack confirmed your niece was fine and finished her stitches… the adrenaline that had been holding you together drained away all at once. In its place, a cold, sharp fury ignited in your chest, so sudden and intense it stole your breath. The fear was gone. Now, you were just pissed the fuck off. Especially when you noticed that your niece wasn't in the oversized, comfortable sweatshirt and pajama pants she had left your house in. She was wearing a black, sheer-mesh top over a tight, silver bralette, and impossibly short denim skirt. The outfit screamed "party," not "sleepover at Hannah's house."

"You said you were going to a sleepover," you stated, each word precise and icy. "You lied to me to go to some party, get drunk, and God knows what else!"

"Her tox screen came back clean, actually," Ellis muttered.

"Shut up," Jack mouthed at Ellis.

"What are you wearing?" you gestured sharply at her, your hand slicing through the air toward her outfit.

"It's just clothes! Everyone dresses like this!" she defended.

You leaned a hip against the bed rail, crossing your arms.

"Uh-huh. Sure. It's very scholarly." You let the silence hang for a beat, your eyes not leaving hers. "Who's it for?"

Your niece's mouth opened, then closed. She looked from you to the ceiling, anywhere but at you. "What? No one. It's not for anyone."

"Honey, I know the look," you growled. "I invented the look! I wore a skirt shorter than that in 2008 for the captain of the hockey team. I froze my ass off that night. So, I know the 'I'm trying to catch a specific person's eye' outfit when I see it."

Your niece stared at you, a flicker of genuine surprise breaking through her defensive pout at the oddly specific memory. Mateo let out a low, amused chuckle from his spot by the monitors. Jack's head snapped toward him, his eyes narrowing into a sharp, warning glare.

Keep it the fuck professional

He held her gaze until Mateo gave a slight, chastised nod, the smirk vanishing from his face as he turned back to her charts with exaggerated focus.

"He's... he's not an athlete," you heard your niece say.

You raised a single eyebrow, your expression shifting to one of dramatic, knowing suspicion.

"Oh. I see." You leaned back, tapping a finger against your chin. "Not an athlete. The plot thickens. Let me guess... the brooding artist type? Smells like cigarettes?"

"He's a musician," she mumbled, looking down at her hands.

"A musician!" you declared. "He's a singer?"

"He... he plays guitar," she rolled her eyes.

"Ah! A guitarist!" you announced, throwing your hands up as if she'd just revealed a profound truth. "Of course! Slightly better than a bassist, marginally worse than a drummer."

Shen choked slightly on his coffee, a laugh muffled into his fist. Jack crossed his arms tightly over his chest, and despite his stern demeanor… his lips twitched slightly at the corners. He was always so attracted to the fact that you could use sarcasm and humor even during the most serious of situations.

"Okay, I get it!" your niece snapped. The tears were gone, burned away by a surge of defensive anger. She glared at you. "I messed up. You've made your point. No need to be so over the top about this. You're being so dramatic!"

Jack, sensing the nuclear family drama reaching critical mass, cleared his throat softly.

"You know, we're just gonna step out for a minute," Jack said, voice calm and diplomatic. "Let you two... do your thing." You gave Jack a single, curt nod. He gathered a chart from the counter and motioned for everyone in the room to leave. They clearly wanted to stay and watch the fight, but he wanted to give you some privacy. He was the last one out, but as Jack reached the doorway, he paused. His hand rested on the frame, and he turned back.

"You're lucky to have an aunt who loves and cares about you this much," he said, his words directed at your niece, but his eyes were already shifting— his focus landing squarely on you. You hadn't seen him since that fucking embarrassing night when you made a fool of yourself.

"She seems like a good kid," he said. Then, he let the door click softly shut behind him, leaving you both alone.

The silence that followed was thick.

"Dramatic?" you repeated, taking a deliberate step closer to the bed. Your eyes locked on hers, and you could see a flicker of uncertainty replace her anger. "You think this," you said, your voice trembling now not with suppressed laughter but with unraveling fear, "is me being dramatic?" You leaned in, your face now just inches from hers. "I got a phone call from the hospital at 2 fucking am telling me that you got into a car accident with a random guy. I drove here not knowing if you were conscious. I'm not your legal guardian, so they wouldn't tell me anything over the phone. 'Are you family?' 'I'm her aunt.' 'Are you listed as an emergency contact?' 'No, but—' 'We can only release information to parents or legal guardians.' Well, guess what? Her parents are 2 thousand miles away right now. So what can you tell me? The person who is fucking here!"

Her lower lip trembled.

"Why did you get into that car with that boy? You're smarter than that. I know you are. And why, for the love of god, didn't you call me? I have always told you, the one rule, the only rule that matters, is that if you're ever in a bind, you call me. No questions asked. No judgment. Just... call. And I'll come. I'll always come."

"I was going too," she swallowed hard. "The truth was… he seemed perfectly fine. He was laughing, he was walking straight, he was making sense. Everyone was saying I was overreacting, that he was just buzzed. And I started to feel… lame and stupid for worrying."

You sank slowly onto the edge of the hard plastic chair beside her bed, your shoulders slumping. Reaching out, you took one of her hands in both of yours, your thumbs rubbing gentle circles over her knuckles.

"Look," you began, your voice softer now, stripped of its earlier sharpness. "I know you and your friends see me as the cool, fun aunt who doesn't snitch about their secret tattoos, piercings, and relationships. And… I mean, I would be lying if I said that I didn't do my share of monumentally stupid shit in high school. I did." You looked up, meeting her watery gaze directly, your expression deadly serious. "But I never, ever got into a car with someone if I even suspected they had a sip of alcohol. Not once. That wasn't a rule from my parents. That was a rule I made for myself."

She nodded.

"Come here, you little shit," you murmured.

She didn't hesitate and buried her face in your shoulder. You wrapped your arms around her, holding her tight, one hand cradling the back of her head. You could feel the dampness of her tears through your shirt, and you pressed a kiss to her temple.

"You scared the living hell out of me," you whispered into her hair.

"I know," she mumbled, her voice muffled. "I'm sorry. Really."

Finally, she pulled back, sniffling and wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand.

"So," she said, her voice still a little wobbly. "That's the guy you were dating?"

"Yeah. That's him," you busied yourself smoothing down her rumpled hospital gown. "How did you know?"

She gave a small, knowing shrug. "Saw his badge. And... I recognized him from the picture you sent me."

A slow, reluctant smile touched your lips as the memory surfaced—the empty cartons of Chinese food, the truly awful monster movie roaring on the TV, and Jack, snoring softly on your couch before the credits even rolled. You had taken a picture of him (he didn't know), and you sent it to her as a secret, a piece of your private world.

Might bring this one around soon… you had texted her.

But… that never happened.

"He's really funny and nice, Auntie," she said softly, leaning her head back against the propped-up pillow. "I like him. Do you think you'll get back together?"

"I don't know." The ache in your chest was sudden and sharp, a physical tightness that made your next breath feel shallow. You couldn't talk about Jack, so you changed the subject.

"So. This boy. The one who caused all the… excitement," you rolled your eyes. "What's this stupid boy's name, anyway?"

Her face instantly transformed, the previous softness replaced by a vibrant, eager light. She leaned forward, wincing only slightly. "Tyler," she said, the name bursting from her with giddy energy. "His name is Tyler. And he…" she bit her lip, "...he kissed me tonight," she finished in a rushed, breathless whisper.

You stared at her. The dreamy look in her eyes—it was a mirror. A perfect, agonizing reflection of your own younger 16 year old self, diving headfirst into infatuation with a charming smile and zero forethought. Falling for some boy who wasn't exactly the best influence. The kind of kid who'd drink and drive.

"Tyler, huh? Well, I'm sure when your Mom and Dad hear about this, their first thought will be, 'We must invite this fine young gentleman for dinner!'"

You watched the horror solidify on her face from your sarcastic comment. The giddy afterglow of the kiss was gone, completely incinerated by the cold blast of consequence. And, honestly, there was no way your brother would be into wanting to meet this kid. There's no way he would be fine with his daughter having a crush on the kid who caused her to get hurt.

"Which reminds me… let's give them a call." You stood up, the chair screeching back, and pulled out your phone. Your thumb found her mom's contact. You hit dial. It rang once, twice.

"Hello…?" Your sister-in-law's voice was tiny through the speaker, laced with confusion and a hint of sleep. You felt bad because they were on a long-overdue romantic getaway vacation in Belize while your niece was staying with you. "Why are you calling so late? Is everything okay?"

You closed your eyes for a second, pinching the bridge of your nose.

"Um…"

You were jabbing at the button for the salt and vinegar chips. The machine whirred, clunked, and nothing happened. You sighed, leaning your forehead against the cool glass.

"Stupid piece of…" you muttered, giving the machine a half-hearted kick with the toe of your shoe.

"Pro tip: the one on the third floor by psych only takes exact change, but it always delivers. This one's a heartless bastard. I think it enjoys watching the suffering," a familiar voice said from behind you.

You turned. Jack was leaning against the wall a few feet away, arms crossed, looking amused. He pushed off and walked over.

"Listen," he said, his tone shifting to doctor mode. "We got the scans back. She doesn't have a concussion."

"Oh. Good. That's… really good," you managed, the words feeling inadequate.

"It is," Jack agreed. "But we're gonna keep her overnight. Just in case. Standard protocol."

"Yeah," you said, a weak, humorless laugh escaping you. "Her parents are gonna love that medical bill. 'Happy Anniversary' to them.

"You should go home," he said gently. "You look exhausted."

"Is that your professional medical opinion, Doctor? Or your way of saying I look like shit when I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown?"

"You never look like shit," he insisted, and his voice was completely serious.

"I'm too wired to go home," you admitted and then wrapped your arms around yourself. "I'll just… crash in the waiting room once I feel tired."

Jack studied your face for a long moment.

"I can get a cot brought into her room, so that you sleep in there with her," he reassured. He knew how much your niece meant to you, and he knew how scared you must have been tonight.

"Really?" you asked, the word coming out small and hopeful, betraying how much the idea of leaving her alone terrified you. "I thought no overnight guests were allowed in the rooms?"

"Fuck that. I'll put the order in. It'll be there in twenty minutes."

Your vision was suddenly completely blurry.

"Hey," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Everything's okay. She's safe. The scary part is over."

He didn't ask. He just stepped forward and opened his arms.

And you broke. The dam holding back the night's terror and relief and sheer fucking overwhelming responsibility finally shattered. You stepped into the hug, burying your face against his scrubs, and the tears came hard. After a minute, the storm passed. You pulled back, sniffling wetly, your face a mess. A fresh wave of embarrassment washed over you.

"Sorry," you mumbled, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "I'm getting snot all over your scrubs."

"They've seen worse than your snot, trust me." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled packet of tissues, offering it to you. "Here."

You dabbed clumsily at your eyes, then your nose. A few strands of your hair, damp with tears, were stuck to your cheek. As you sniffled, Jack's hand came up again; he gently brushed the wet hair away from your skin, his fingertips tracing a soft path from your temple to behind your ear.

The harsh fluorescent light caught the subtle flecks of emerald and moss in his irises.

You took a half-step back, breaking the gentle contact. "I'm… I'm sorry I ambushed you that night. It was fucked up." He opened his mouth, likely to offer one of his easy dismissals, but you cut him off, "No, seriously. It was. I was a mess, and I dumped it all on you." You swallowed hard, holding his beautiful, concerned gaze. "But I really did mean what I said. Every word of it."

His Adam's apple bobbed visibly.

You looked down at your hands, twisting the now-soggy tissue. The words felt like shards of glass in your throat. "And there's… there's another reason I came over that night."

"What reason?" His brow furrowed.

"I had a miscarriage," you forced yourself to meet his eyes again, the green now seeming like a deep, troubled sea. "…the week before. I didn't even know I was pregnant until the OB-GYN told me," you let out a gasp that bordered on a sob. "And I'm realizing I'm probably saying this at the worst possible fucking time, with my niece in a hospital bed down the hall, and…" you gestured vaguely at your own tear-stained face, at the whole chaotic scene.

"Why didn't you tell me the day you found out?" he swallowed hard, as if fighting down a wave of nausea. The thought of you alone, carrying that secret and that pain while he sat across from you that night (fucking oblivious) made his stomach clench violently. "I would have… God," He cupped your jaw, his thumb pressing gently against your cheekbone. "I would have… I would have been there. Properly."

"I-I don't know," you choked out. "I guess… I guess I was punishing myself."

His expression shattered.

"I wish you hadn't done that", he pulled you tight against his chest, as if he could physically pull the lingering pain out of you and into himself. He couldn't stop his tears from falling and getting lost in your hair when you kept apologizing—he begged you to stop. Then, his lips pressed a firm, lingering kiss to the crown of your head. He held the contact for a long, trembling moment before he reluctantly eased back.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, the words gruff, almost desperate. His thumb stroked your cheek, a shaky, repetitive motion as if to soothe himself as much as you. Jack realized he could have been a father (if you had chosen to keep the child) and that was something he was still processing. "Is there anything I can help you with? Do you need anything?"

"I'm okay. Really. I'm doing better now. It was just... super hormonal at first. A real shitstorm of feelings. Questioning my fertility, you know, all the fun fucking stuff." You tried to inject a note of dark humor into your voice.

"Listen to me," his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that brooked no argument. "A miscarriage does not mean something is wrong with you. It is not a verdict on your body or your future."

"Can't you tell I'm great at catastrophizing?" you joked. "Gold medalist, right here. I’m great at taking a situation and immediately spiraling it into the worst possible, most permanent outcome. It's a real talent.”

"You can't live your life like that," he shot back. "You can't let the fear of what might happen dictate everything. It's a fucking prison."

"Logically, I know you're right. But knowing something in my head and... and feeling it in the pit of my stomach are two very completely different things."

"You're the smartest person I know, and you're telling me your stomach's outvoting your brain?" he teased.

"Apparently," you sighed dramatically. After more conversation, he couldn't seem to let go of the concern lingering in his eyes. He kept checking in on you, softly asking if you wanted to sit down or just be held. Each time, you reassured him and insisted you were fine—you promised him that you had processed it, and felt like you were finally moving forward. Despite your words, he still reached for you again and again, pulling you into comforting hugs.

Just then, Shen’s voice cut through the hallway.

"Yo, Abbot! Incoming. One critical head injury, possible spinal. They're rolling in now."

Jack's head snapped toward the sound. Shen stood a few yards away, a chart in hand, his brow furrowed in clear, blatant confusion as he took in the intimate scene of Jack's hands on you. A war flashed across Jack's features—duty versus need.

With a ragged sigh, he turned back to you to lean in and press a firm lingering kiss to your forehead.

"Fuck—I gotta go," he murmured against your skin, his breath warm.

"It's okay," you reached out to gently squeeze his arm.

"Go sleep. Please," he begged, nudging his nose against yours.

"You got it, Doc."

Jack stood on the front step of your townhouse, his finger having just left the doorbell. It had been 2 days since he'd discharged your niece, handing you a prescription and a stern look, telling you to keep him updated. The texts that followed had been brief—your updates on her pain level and him checking in. So here he was making an excuse about examining your niece's stitches that felt flimsy even to him. He shifted his weight nervously. In his hand was a modest, cheerful bouquet of sunflowers and daisies wrapped in brown paper.

Your niece looked up at him when she answered the door, her small face marked by the healing sutures on her forehead and the large bruise beneath her eye. She recognized him immediately, her eyes widening just a fraction.

"Dr. Abbot," she stated.

He crouched down, bringing himself closer to her level, the flowers rustling slightly in his grasp.

"You can call me Jack," he said, his tone warm but measured. His eyes, however, were already moving in a clinical sweep—assessing her forehead, the color and swelling of the bruise, and the alertness in her gaze. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay." She shrugged one shoulder, a gesture that looked both innocent and strangely mature. "But my parents are due back tomorrow from their vacation. They cut their trip short, so I'm preparing for a lecture that will last until I graduate college and a probable ban on anything fun."

Jack's mouth quirked into a half-smile. "Ah, the parental debrief. A tough crowd."

"Are those for my aunt?" she pointed at the bouquet in his hand.

They are actually for you," he said, offering them to her.

She took the offered bouquet carefully, bringing the bright blooms to her nose for a tentative sniff. A small, pleased smile touched her lips before she looked back up at him.

"She's taking a shower," she announced, as if revealing a minor secret. "But you can come inside. It's fine."

Your niece stepped back, holding the door open wider for him. Jack rose from his crouch and crossed the threshold, the familiar, faint scent of your townhouse—something subtly sweet, like your perfume he loved so much—washing over him. He followed your niece, watching as she went straight to the kitchen counter. She pulled a simple glass vase from a lower cabinet, filled it at the sink with a focus that made him smile, and carefully arranged the sunflowers and daisies. She placed the vase in the center of the dining table with a satisfied nod.

Turning back to him, she clasped her hands in front of her. "Would you like some water?" she offered, her tone impeccably formal.

"Sure," he chuckled. "I'd love some water. Thank you."

She nodded and turned to get a glass, her small frame moving with purpose. As she carefully filled it from the filtered pitcher in the fridge, she glanced over her shoulder at him.

"You know," she said, her voice casual but her eyes sly, "I didn't realize doctors still made house calls."

Jack leaned a hip against the counter, accepting the water she handed to him with a grateful nod. The comment was playful, but also perceptive. Had you told her about him? Or was he just 'Dr. Abbot' (who happened to have a concerningly detailed knowledge of your preferred takeout order) that signed off on those discharge papers the other day.

"They usually don't," he acknowledged, taking a sip. "But this is a special exception."

She smirked, leaning against the opposite counter.

"Right. Special exception." She drew out the words just a little.

Just then, the sound of footsteps came from the staircase. Your voice, slightly raised with exasperation, floated into the room before you did. "Are you on your god damn phone? You're in deep shit, remember? I told you, and your parents told you no phone—"

You appeared in the archway to the living room, and the words died in your throat. Jack's gaze snapped to you. You were standing there, a bath towel wrapped securely around your body from chest to mid-thigh. The towel was modest, but it outlined the shape of your breasts and hugged the dip of your waist. Beads of water trailed down your collarbone. He knew exactly where they were heading, knew the taste of your skin there. His mouth went dry despite the water in his hand.

"Jack," you said, your voice a mix of surprise and something softer. You adjusted the towel at your chest, a reflexive, self-conscious gesture that made his stomach tighten. "I—uh—didn't know you were here."

He cleared his throat, setting the water glass down on the counter.

"House call," he smiled toward your niece, who was watching the exchange with keen interest. "Checking in. She passed with flying colors."

"Good to know," you answered.

"Well, since my warden has descended," your niece said, motioning toward you, "For my last supper, we were gonna order some sushi and re-watch the OG Mean Girls. You should join us, Jack."

"Oh, I think Jack," you shifted on your feet, the towel feeling suddenly very small. "—I mean, Dr. Abbot—has better things to do," you said quickly, your voice a little too high.

Jack's eyes never left yours. He caught your nervous energy. He wanted to chase it.

"I would love to," he said. "If that's okay with your aunt."

The direct question, asked in front of her, pinned you. You swallowed, then gave a small, almost nod. "Sure. That sounds... nice. Let me just go get changed."

You turned to head back upstairs. A knowing smirk played on your niece's lips as she looked directly at Jack once she heard your bedroom door close.

"By the way. I totally love that necklace you got my aunt. Her birth month constellation necklace," she winked at him.

Jack felt a hot, sharp thrill cut through the awkwardness.

So she knew.

You could not believe that Jack had never seen Mean Girls before.

The sushi was spread out on the coffee table, and Mean Girls was queued up. Your niece had claimed the middle cushion of the sofa, forcing you to sit on one side and Jack on the other. She was the buffer, but she also felt more like a chaperone. As the movie played on, the initial awkwardness began to melt into something warmer, more comfortable. Jack found himself asking questions, genuinely engaged. You'd explain a nuance, and your niece would jump in with a modern example, creating a running commentary. Jack's arm was stretched along the back of the couch behind your niece. His fingers, however, were just close enough that the very tips occasionally brushed against the sleeve of your sweater where it lay over the sofa back.

When Aaron Samuels asked what day it was, your niece chimed in perfectly on cue with, "It’s October 3rd," A few scenes later, during the infamous "She doesn't even go here!" rant, Jack let out a genuine chuckle, shaking his head. During a lull in the action, Jack leaned forward slightly to look past your niece at you. He picked up a piece of salmon nigiri, then asked, his tone one of genuine, baffled curiosity.

"So," he began, "is this… is this really what high school is like for a teenage girl? The… the burn books, the war over a guy, the relentless social calculus?"

You and your niece turned your heads in perfect unison, locking eyes with him. There was a beat of silent understanding between the two of you, a shared female exasperation that spanned generations. Then, in perfect harmony, you both deadpanned:

"Yes."

The simplicity and synchronicity of your answer made Jack lean back, a look of mock defeat on his face.

"Jesus. I'm suddenly very glad I was a teenage boy."

As the credits began to roll after the final "Junior Plastics" scene (where Cady jokingly imagined them being hit by a school bus), your niece let out a contented sigh.

"That," she declared, grabbing the last piece of spicy tuna roll, "never gets old." She stood up, gathering empty plates. "I'm gonna go load the dishwasher and then go to bed. Thanks for joining us, Jack."

"My pleasure," Jack replied. He meant it. The normalcy of it, the domestic bubble of takeout and a movie, was a stark, soothing contrast to the chaos of the ER. For the first time in weeks, the constant, low-grade tension in his shoulders had eased. He was exactly where he wanted to be. With you.

"Hey, Auntie," your niece paused in the doorway to the kitchen with the plates, "I'm sorry you've had to take time off from work to look after me. Or, shall I say, be on house arrest with me."

"Dude, stop. I needed this,” you offered her a warm, reassuring smile. "Seriously. It's been kinda nice just... relaxing at home. No commute, no deadlines. I'm honestly just going to take the rest of the week off even though your parents come back tomorrow."

"Oh, so basically," she said, her tone dripping with mock insight, "if my 'accident' hadn't happened, you wouldn't be enjoying this lovely little 'time off' right now. Is that the story we're going with my parents?"

"Nice try," you let out a short, genuine laugh. "Now go load the dishwasher."

She glanced between you and Jack, her smirk returning. "Anyway, I'm beat. Don't stay up too late talking about…" with a final, knowing wiggle of her eyebrows, "….whatever."

You rolled your eyes.

"Love you, goodnight!" she sing-songed.

"Love you more. Goodnight!" you chirped back.

Both of you heard her loading the dishwasher, and then her footsteps faded up the stairs, followed by the sound of your guestroom door closing. The sudden absence of her bubbly commentary left a thick, intimate silence in the living room. You heard the low hum of the dishwasher beginning its cycle in the kitchen and the faint, rhythmic thump of your own heart in your ears. You could feel the heat of Jack's body from across the space your niece had occupied. His arm was still resting on the back of the couch.

He didn't move it. Instead, he turned his head to look at you.

"She's something else," he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. He shifted then, just slightly, turning his body towards you. The movement brought his knee within an inch of touching yours on the cushion. His gaze dropped to your throat, to the constellation necklace he bought you, then back up to your eyes.

You smiled, feeling a flush of pride. "I'm sort of obsessed with her.”

"You're great with her. It's obvious that you're a big part of her life. I loved seeing you two together tonight." He paused, a faint, almost imperceptible tension tightening the line of his jaw. "I guess... before, it never felt like you wanted me to meet her even though I knew how important she was to you."

Jack had always known you were close to your family—how you'd often talked about your niece with a warmth that made it clear she was a central part of your world. He remembered you explaining that you and your brother had quite the age difference, and that you'd barley been in high school yourself when your niece was born. While you could technically be her mother, your niece clearly saw you as a big sister.

"I didn't," you confessed with a pained expression, "because I knew if she met you, she'd get attached to you."

"And that's a bad thing?" he frowned, a deep crease forming between his brows.

"No," you cut in softly, shaking your head. "It's just…remember, I'm really good at catastrophizing."

You knew all too well how kids could latch onto someone they cared about, especially when it came to someone their family was involved with. You remembered how she had been so visibly upset when your last relationship ended—how her small face had crumpled with sadness at the thought of never seeing him again.

Jack exhaled slowly. "You can catastrophize all the scenarios you want. Hell, you can build a hundred endings in your head." He reached out then, his hand finding yours where it rested on your own knee. His fingers slid between yours, lacing them together with a firm, possessive grip. "But I'm not going anywhere."

The tight coil of anxiety that had lived in your chest since you met him began (hesitantly) to unwind.

"Okay," you whispered, turning your hand in his, and pressing your palm more fully against his.

His other hand went to the delicate constellation necklace at your throat. His touch was startlingly gentle as he hooked a single finger under the chain. He tugged, just enough to pull it away from your skin for a moment before letting it fall against your collarbone.

"So," he murmured, his eyes locked on the point of contact. "No work for you for the rest of the week?"

"Nope."

He dragged his finger along the chain, tracing its path across your skin, the pad of his finger brushing the sensitive hollow at the base of your throat. A shiver you couldn't suppress raced down your spine. He felt it; a faint, satisfied smirk touched the corner of his mouth.

"Well," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky, intimate register meant only for you. "In an interesting turn of events, I happen to be off for the next couple of days, too." His gaze flicked down to your parted lips, then back up, holding you completely captive.

"Would you like to go on a date with me tomorrow?" he asked, yanking you over to straddle his lap and wrapping his arms around your waist, looking up at you with heart eyes.

You nodded deliriously.

"That is so fetch," he said with an utterly disarming perfect grin.

A snort escaped you, followed by a full-bodied, helpless laugh that shook your entire frame against his. Jack's eyes crinkled at the corners, his own laughter mingling with yours.

"Fetch, huh?" you murmured.

"Trying to make it happen," he breathed back, his gaze dropping to your lips.

And then he was kissing you. It started soft, a sweet, lingering press of his mouth against yours. But then the kiss deepened, turning hungry and consuming. One of his hands tangled in your hair, angling your head just so, while the other pressed firmly into the small of your back, arching you against him. You could feel the hard, eager length of him straining against his jeans, which was a thrilling pressure right where you needed it the most. A low, desperate sound escaped you, vibrating into his mouth. Your own hands were frantic, sliding under his shirt to feel the hot, smooth skin of his back, your nails scraping lightly down his spine. He groaned, the sound raw and needy, and his tongue sweeping against yours in a deep claiming rhythm that made your head spin. The kiss turned messy, wet, and perfectly frantic. Jack broke from your lips only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw to your throat, sucking a mark high on your collarbone that you know would bruise.

"We can't," you breathed, the protest weak even to your own ears. The rational part of your brain screamed about the teenager upstairs, the squeaky couch springs, and the sheer insanity of this. But that part was drowned out by the roaring in your blood, by the feel of his hard cock against you, and by the desperate, primal look in his eyes.

"We're not," he countered, his voice a low, velvety rumble that vibrated through your chest. But his actions betrayed him. His hips arched up, grinding against you in a slow, torturous rhythm that drove a ragged gasp from your throat. "We're just kissing."

A breathless laugh escaped you, cut short as his mouth found the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin.

"This type of kissing is a felony in several states," you managed to say.

"Only the boring states," he murmured against your skin, his tongue soothing the slight sting. He shifted, one hand sliding to your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip. The position opened you up to him completely, the thin barriers of clothing now feeling utterly, agonizingly insufficient. A ragged gasp tore from your throat, and he captured the sound with his mouth. After a few more kisses, you pulled back just enough to see his eyes. They were closed, his long lashes dark against his skin. He looked wrecked, beautiful, and like he was holding onto his last shred of sanity by his fingernails. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart where your chest was pressed to his.

"What should I wear on our date?"

His eyes fluttered open. The want was still there, a banked fire, but it was tempered now by a dawning, rueful awareness of your niece upstairs. His thumb stroked a gentle arc over the bare skin of your thigh where his hand still rested.

"Preferably nothing," he said with a playful edge.

You snickered, shoving lightly at his shoulder, though you made no move to dislodge his hand or your leg from his hip. "Charming. I was thinking more along the lines of that little black dress you always pretend not to stare at."

"I don't pretend," he countered smoothly, his smirk deepening. "I stare openly and with great appreciation. It's the polite thing to do."

You tilted your head. "Well, my boyfriend always did have excellent taste in what I wear… and I love him very much."

His heart slammed against his ribs, a wild, dizzying rush flooding his chest. You said it the other night when you were tipsy, but this… this was different. This was real. This was you, clear-eyed and deliberate, calling him yours and saying you loved him. The happiness that swelled inside him was almost too much to contain, a bright, aching pressure behind his sternum that made his throat tight. His fingers flexed against your thigh, the heat of your skin grounding him as he fought to keep his expression from cracking wide open.

"Oh, you do?" A slow, disbelieving smile curved his mouth.

"I do," you answered.

Jack's hand slid higher on your thigh, thumb stroking lazy circles that sent sparks racing up your spine. "Careful with that kind of talk," he grunted. "A man might start getting ideas."

"What kind of ideas?"

Jack's grin turned wicked. "The kind where I peel that little black dress off you with my teeth as soon as I pick you up for our date tomorrow."

You shivered, nails digging into his shoulders. "Jack…"

"Seems you'll just have to wait until tomorrow," he teased, voice thick with promise. "When I can make good on every filthy thought running through my head right now." He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. "And when I can tell you properly that I love you, more."

[mia-nightsky]

This story had me on a roller coaster of emotions, it’s amazing.

[abbotless]

ANDREW CODY — Missing you.

“looking at the feeling, i know what you’re missing.”

pairing: andrew cody x fem!reader

cw: established relationship, reader gets naked and wears makeup, hurt/comfort if you squint, reader takes a shower with pope in the room, cursing, slightly suggestive language but no smut, avoidant behavior from the reader, mentions of smurf being evil but when is she not, uhhh sorry im not 100% what im supposed to put here first time writing a fic

word count: 3k

You woke up alone.

The broad beefy arms that normally wrapped around you and the face that tucked perfectly into the sweet spot where your neck and shoulder met were gone. And what was left was a singular pillow and the side of the blanket that made it seem like you’d just imagined someone was sleeping there, but you knew. You knew your boyfriend had just neatly arranged both before he left on a job, unable to leave it behind unkept.

This hadn’t been unusual; Pope had been gone recently, sent on a number of jobs by Smurf. The times you saw him were few and far in between, in the late nights and early mornings. You had suspected it was due to your new presence in the Cody house. You had begun staying over more often, and this was Smurf’s attempt to separate you and Pope and remind you of his loyalty and priority to his family over any fleeting romance. Over you.

And what could you really do about it, you two were staying under her roof. And even if you weren’t… Smurf always got her way.

You got up with a sigh; Pope’s old shirt swaying around your thighs as you shuffled out of his room. You wiped at your bleary eyes as you came to in the bathroom.

“Fuck.” You cursed at your appearance in the mirror, you were supposed to shower last night and remove your make up. But Pope had come home earlier than expected and you jumped at the chance to have him to yourself. Now your eyeliner and mascara had smudged giving you a messy and unintentional smokey eye. You stared at your appearance a little longer, listening to the silence within the Cody compound which told you that it was just you in the house. Alone. Again.

You didn’t care. You told yourself. Smurf could isolate you all she wanted and you’d stick it out for your sweet boy if it meant proving your loyalty. You snapped out of your head, god you were starting to become paranoid, maybe Smurf had gotten to you….

You opened the bathroom door to go grab some extra clothes and a towel from Pope’s room when you heard the front door open, a ruckus filling the Cody compound.

You heard Craig’s boisterous laughter filling the air. “I’m telling you, man, you’ve been off your game.” You heard the second eldest state. You scurried into Pope’s room; while you didn’t normally avoid the rest of the Cody family, you weren’t too sure you wanted them to see your impromptu raccoon makeup.

“I’m not off anything.” You heard your boyfriend’s muffled response. You imagined his gruff face and frown on his face as you dug through the collection of your clothes he had sorted into a specific drawer the more you began staying over.

“It’s 9 in the morning, Craig.” Deran complained out as you heard the familiar sound of a beer being grabbed from the fridge. “And where are you going?” He called out to someone.

“Bed.” Pope single-wordly replied, as you heard his footsteps began approaching the room.

“Ooh say hi to the missus for me,” Craig teasingly called after him, sipping on his beer. Pope ignored him, opening the door to his room, expecting to see you still in bed. He froze in the doorway at the sight of your back digging through the wardrobe, closing the door softly behind him.

“What’re you doing….” He softly asked, afraid.

The sight of your back and the sound of clothes being dug through, triggered a memory of Julia that he didn’t want to think about. It was after a particularly bad fight between her and Smurf when they were teens. He remembered her packing her things, furiously crying, mumbling about finally ‘running away’ and urging Andrew to come with. He remembered how he stood there watching unable to choose between his twin and his mother at the time. He remembered she’d come back after 8 days but still too stubborn to say anything to Smurf for another week.

“Just looking for my clothes, baby.” Your reply snapping him out of his trance as you continued digging for a specific shirt. You loved your boyfriend, but you couldn’t figure out how he organized your things for the life of yourself.

“Why…. Where are you going…” Andrew hoarsely called out. He worried he was losing you too. He couldn’t, not when he had been working so hard recently…

“What? Nowhere… I gotta shower babe.” You huffed exhausted, giving up on finding the particular shirt.

When had you left all this clothes here? You could’ve swore there was more of your clothes here than your own place. You looked back, curious at Pope’s silence, and instantly recognized his tense posture.

“Andy, baby, what’s wrong?” You stood dusting off your hands, getting up to meet him at his spot by the door.

“Are you leaving?” He whimpered looking at you sadly, tilting his head to the side, his frown curling down.

“What? No. I’m showering, where did you get that idea from?” You said, flabbergasted at your boyfriend’s outburst. He melted as you put a hand on his chest in comfort and another on his face to hold him.

Rubbing at the apple of his cheek with your thumb, Pope’s hands gently curling around your waist. His hands taking up your sides as he brushed his own thumbs against your midriff. “What’re you looking for…” He grunted softly, looking over your shoulder at the open drawer.

You chuckled awkwardly at the mess of the once organized clothes. “My polka dot shirt…” You offered him a bashful smile. He nodded and obediently went to his drawers, pulling it out with ease.

“This one?” He offered the top to you with an outstretched arm.

You nodded embarrassed by your obliviousness. “Thank you, Andy…” You kissed his cheek before turning around grabbing the towel and bottoms you had already found.

He took a silent step closer to you and when you turned around to leave your chest met his. Your eyes widened slightly as you tilted your head up to make eye contact with him. He gave you one his signature Pope Cody looks, like a shark locking on its prey.

“Andy?” You asked softly. He melted as you saw past his mask, the glare and pout often mistaken for a frown aimed at your lips, silently urging you for a kiss. You giggled bouncing up on your tiptoes, pecking his lips.

He let out a displeased growl, sending a callous hand from your hip to the back of your neck, trying bringing you closer. However your towel and clothing in your hands got in between the two of you which made him frown as you two pulled away. You smiled softly up at him, mumbling a confession before you realized the impact. “Missed you so much,”

He froze looking down at you. “Sorry…” He gruffly spoke. “Been busy…” As he bent down trying to plant another kiss on your lips but you turn your head slightly, dodging him. His kiss landed on your cheek, earning a whine from the bigger man as he rubs his face into yours.

“I know…” You mumbled, trying to remind yourself of the task at hand. You tightened your grip on your items and took a step away. “Okay, gotta shower before Baz takes all the hot water.” You joke trying to relieve the tension, but as you make your way to the door you can feel Pope following you like a shadow.

You turn around shooting him a playful look. “What’re you doing?”

He deadpans you with his arms behind his back, not answering. Your boyfriend was such a weirdo sometimes. You loved it, the corners of your lips upturned. You began walking away again and you hear the footsteps behind you, ignoring him. As you reach the bathroom, you turn around to shut the door but as you do your boyfriend catches it with a hand. “Andrew…” you scold him with his first name, an action you rarely did.

“I missed you too.” He confesses softly, nudging the door open, trying to follow you in.

“That’s good, honey, but I’ve gotta shower.” You laugh softly trying to brush him off but your boyfriend urged forward, he was seriously like a puppy. You place your hand on the door trying close it, but he leaned his forehead against it. Pope kept his fingers gripping on the edge of the door preventing you from closing it.

“Don’t go.” He whines under his breath, trying not to beg in the middle of the hallway in front of the others. “I’ll be good, promise, missed you so much baby….” Pope urges gently pushing against the door. You were no match; not only against his strength but against his pleading too, so you gently let up.

You giggled as he came in; the Cody bathroom was by no means small, but with Pope’s closeness the two could’ve fit in a porta-potty together. To anyone else, Andrew Cody invading their personal space was a form of intimidation. To you, it was a form of affection. You pointed him over to the toilet to sit and he nodded.

You began taking off your clothes but when you turned around you were met with your boyfriend grabbing yellow dish gloves from under the sink. Without hesitation, Pope began wiping down the toilet lid, but not before getting distracted with the countertop.

You let out a soft endearing smile, only your boyfriend could have a naked woman in front of him and still be more concerned about the state of the bathroom countertop. You shook your head, rolling your eyes playfully as he finished wiping down the toilet lid to sit on. You opened the glass door to the shower, turning it on and waiting for the water to heat up as you watched him sit on the toilet lid awkwardly.

He began wringing his hands together, looking anywhere but you and your body. You smiled teasingly, grabbing his hands and gently rubbing them. “You’ve seen me naked before, Andy.” You reminded him.

“‘m know….” He grunted, looking down at the tiles following the edges. He noticed the dirt that piled up in the grout. He glared at the dirt disapprovingly and put a deep clean of the bathroom on his to-do list, when he had the time. Before he could list another item, he gruntled at the tug of the curls at the base of his neck, causing him to look up at you.

You smirked down at him. “Then look at me. What’re you nervous for…” You said playfully leaning down to plant another kiss on his lips. He groaned softly at the kiss, trying to follow you as you pulled away but you tugged him back by his auburn curls as punishment.

“Nothing.” He said softly, anxiety flatlining as you showered him with affection. You smiled at that as you gave him a final kiss, before leaving for the heated up shower.

He sighed softly as you disappeared into the steamy glass. He was relieved he could breathe again but already missed seeing you. “How was the job today?” He heard you shout over the rushing water.

“Fine.” He grunted softly under his breath. Craig’s words from early still striking him. Off his game. He was never off his game, he was just off. That was his personality. The only reason he would be ‘off his game’ is because—

“Huh???” You shouted back, unable to hear his mumbling over the shower head.

Pope, frustratedly, shouted a little too loud. “Fine!!” After a few seconds, he gruffly apologized. “Sorry…” He didn’t want to talk about the recent jobs because he hadn’t even wanted to do them, Smurf had made him and he needed the money.

You pursed your lips at his response, he’d been touchy on the subject of work recently but it was all he did, before continuing. “You didn’t get hurt, did you?” You asked him.

“No.” He replied truthfully, crossing his arms as he sat up straight, facing forward, watching your body through the wet glass. It was beautiful, the way your body moved even if it was distorted with steam and condensation. He admired you both sexually and as a work of art. In his eyes, no one could ever compare to your beauty, no one even registered as an option, the day you agreed to be his.

A comfortable silence filled the air as you began washing your hair and Pope continued to admire you through the glass. He began, “Y’know I was thinking…” he trailed off.

“You were thinking what? I didn’t hear you.” You popped your head out of the shower, curiously, thinking you missed what he had said. He froze at your face, the mascara and eyeliner had began to run with the water down your face. You looked more like a horror movie monster than a real person.

Regardless, he melted looking up at you from his seat on the toilet, a rare and small smile graced his normally monotone face. A warm giddy feeling, one that he had rarely ever felt in his troubled life, began igniting in his chest at realization of the comfortable domestic air between you two. Yes. He was sure.

“Can you get me my cleanser on the counter? Should be the white tall bottle,” You interrupted his thoughts. Pope nodded, obediently grabbing the bottle he had seen you used every night before bed. A blush ran through his freckled face as his hand made contact with your wet one.

He let out an internal sigh as you dipped back into the shower he sat back down on the toilet lid patiently waiting for you to finish. “You were saying?” You called out to him, and Pope tensed up again at his train of thought.

“Was wonder if you…” Pope began to grumble. You had turned the shower off to hear him better but what you heard made you freeze.

“..wanted to move in together.” Pope’s eyes began darting around and he wrung his hands together at the sudden silence from both you and the shower.

“…like… away from here? Our own place…?” You wondered softly, staring at the water drops running down the green tiles.

“Yeah..” Pope shrugged as you said it aloud. “Been working more jobs, got some money saved up from my cut.”

You purse your lips. “That’s why you’ve been gone? ‘Cause you were saving for a place….” You gasped, he could see the shock through the glass. He nodded even if you weren’t looking at him. “Well what about Smurf?” You sputtered.

“Let me deal with her.” Pope grumbled at the thought of his mother. He knew she wouldn’t like it, she’d have less control over him if he wasn’t under her roof.

But he also knew everyone else in the family knew you were good for him and honestly couldn’t wait to get you two lovebirds hitched and out of the house. So, they could throw more parties without him threatening to shut them down if you were disturbed. He could have Baz, Deran, and Craig whittle away at Smurf’s stubbornness if they tried hard enough.

“Okay…” You murmured softly under your breath. “Let’s do it, let’s move in together.” You announced, more to yourself than him, in the shower.

Pope’s head shot up from the stain on the drywall he wanted to scrub away to your form in the shower. He stood abruptly pulling open the glass door and sticking his head in. You jumped at his suddenly action reflexively covering your body as he had a small smile in his face.

“Aw, but I’ve already seen you naked sweetheart.” He teased, smirking, reminding you of your previous words. You hit him playfully, laughing as you wrapped your wet arms around him as you kissed him happily. He smirked into it leaning into you, placing a hand on your waist and another on the tile wall behind you, leaning over you.

As he tried to pull you closer he placed a hand in your hair, he froze at the soapy lather in your hair. Shit. You’d both forgotten that you were in the middle of a shower. You smiled up at him bashfully, gently pushing him back onto the drier side. He whined softly at the colder air, leaning his forehead against the door, he wanted you so bad it hurt.

“Andy.. that’s glass,” You reminded him that you could see his smushed forehead against the glass, gently running your fingers over the opposite area where his forehead rested. Pope grunted, eyes closed as he, returned back on his spot on the toilet lid and crossed his arms. You laughed softly turning the shower back on to finish washing your hair.

Pope finished fixing the pillows on the white couch. Taking a step back looking at the couch as he backed up standing next to you. “Don’t like it…” He murmured into the side of your head as he kissed it.

“Don’t like what, Andy?” You patiently chided for clarification.

“Pillows… they’re off…” He mumbled to himself.

You laughed at your boyfriend’s comment “Well why don’t we finish building the skate ramp and decorating the pool patio, first.” You murmured back reminding him of the unfinished projects around the house. You leaned up, kissing the corner of his mouth as he wrapped your arm around your waist giving you a proper kiss.

Together you and Pope had found a house that was perfect. It was close enough that Smurf approved and it allowed Pope to continue working Cody family jobs, but it was also far enough that you didn’t have Deran and Craig randomly squatting in your house. You required that it came with a pool, knowing Pope’s love for the one from his family home, even if Pope insisted all he wanted was for his dream house was one with you in it.

author’s note: hi the idea of Pope being so clingy he follows the reader into the shower not to have sex and just be there was sooo cute to me i had to write, the thought has been plaguing my mind and no one’s wrote about it so i made this blog to post this…. hopefully you like my writing enough to stick around… my names kia and i love shawn hatosy… but i dabble in other media too but am too lazy to make a intro… maybe another time… not proofreading im lazy !!! also feel free to send request but no guarantees unless it really resonates with me

[di1fluvr]

Professor!jack who teaches a class about anatomy and uses readers body as an example

YES YES BRING ME THERE!!!! i think i tweaked it just a little bit but thank you for the request anon!!

professor!jack abbot who likes to use your body as his example during your tutoring sessions...

cw: 18+ MDNI, fem!reader, pet names, implied age gap, dubcon undertones, power imbalance — professor/student, groping, fingering, all in all — jack touching up on you, use of anatomically correct terms for body parts

word count: 917

yes, of course it's perfectly normal to be completely naked in front of your professor during office hours. it's all in the name of getting a good grade.

pushed up against jack's body, your back pressed into his chest. feeling his breathing match up with yours. he leans back against the large wooden desk in his office, the door locked long ago and the paper shade pulled down. lights dimmed enough for you to see the shape of his hands holding on to your hips. "just like we practiced, sweetheart." the name rolling off his tongue so naturally.

pressing his hand under your breast, lightly grazing the curve of it.

"what muscle is this?"

"uhm— external oblique?" your shaky breath makes your words quiver.

he hums with approval, it stirs that fire deep in your core. jack takes a deep breath to savor the smell of you so close to him.

"and here?" a large hand glides up between the valley of your breast, finding its place holding on to the crook of your neck. not a harsh grip, but making himself known. his thumb lightly presses down to feel your racing heart beat.

"sternocleidomastoid?"

"good", jesus was his voice intoxicating. you could listen to him talk all day, which is why you were able to stomach his three hour human anatomy class and human physiology. 

"i know this one is hard for you sweet thing, just try and think hard for me. can you do that?" nodding obediently as his hands slip back down your body, tickling your navel, before settling under your belly button. it makes you shake with anticipation as he presses down on soft, plush flesh. growing closer and closer to your aching core.

you try to rake your mind for the correct words, lost in the jumble of thinking about how close his fingers are to your needy clit. what the fuck is it called? not the pouch, not your tummy...

"getting lost in there?" he catches you lost in deep thought. "want a hint?"

"no— i know it."

"i know you do doll, you always get it right when we do it this way." this way— referring to you coming into his office in the late hours of the afternoon, stripping off all your clothes, and letting him prod at your body.

"rectus... abdominis?"

"veeery good, sweetheart" your heart explodes and your walls flutter around nothing.

his hands finding new residence above your ass, fingers digging into the flush skin. he doesn't even have to ask.

"gluteus medius”

“and…” his hands trailing to the bottom curve, capturing the mound of flesh in his hand and giving it a firm squeeze. it makes you mewl at his touch.

“gluteus maximus”

oh how jack wishes he could turn, bend you over his desk and take you now. always so smart and obedient for him. letting this sick, old man use your body as a guise to help you learn the muscle groups. if he wants this to go on longer than it already has, he has to be smart about it.

“lets try some reproductive anatomy, yeah sweetheart?” even though that chapter in the textbook passed many weeks ago. he lodged his knee between your thighs to prompt you to spread your legs a little more for him.

hesitantly nodding, eyes following his fingers as they reach to the top seam of your slit. jack can feel the heat radiating off you, along with a growing slick that would soon spread to your inner thighs if you didn’t clean up soon. thick, warm fingers tracing the silky skin around your pussy. he teases your clit, only getting close enough to brush it ever so slightly. your head lulls back, resting on his shoulder as you struggle to keep your eyes open. humming a moan behind closed lips.

“i didn’t say take a break, did i?” he asks you again where his fingers are defiling you.

“labia minora”

“and here?” a thumb presses down on the bud.

“Fuck— the… the clitoris!” giving a more prominent moan when he starts circling around your clit.

“such a smart girl, you know everything already. why bother coming around here. hmm?” jack wanted to hear you say it.

“b-because i like learning from you, professor.”

a deep groan, almost growl, sets in the back of his throat. he pulls his thumb away from your clit, now poking at the entrance of your cunt. collecting all of the drool of your cunt and spreading it around. your knees buckle and threaten to give out from under you. 

“maybe we should discuss more internal anatomy… i know a few ways that will really help you explore your body…” he mumbles into your ear.

two fingers pushing past your folds and culling against your walls. he took in every crevice and muscle. the delicious feeling of you clamping around his fingers and jack wondering what it would feel like around his cock. he wanted to go slow— educational and clinical. but he couldn’t help himself; pumping his fingers deep inside you at a pace that felt like bullying. making you listen to the sinful sounds your pussy makes as he pulls you closer to coming undone on him.

“not too loud baby… can’t let anyone else know what we do during office hours, right sweetheart?” he coos into your ear as you unravel around his fingers. twitching in his hold as his clothed bulge ruts against the curve of your ass.

taglist: @abbothecary @sas10100 @thatonedindjarinfan @cats-coffeeandbooks @lushfruit @jcks29 @iramagnus @mohabbot123 @ghostlyobservationpost1679 @fthomas2 @uhhhhokayyyyy @meetmeatyourworst @theory-saturn @shawnhatosysrightbicep @escapingrealityalways @10ava01 @amiraa07 @bloessom @mfstargirlsworld @kaylapfarr @xoxabs88xox @ilocuras24 @thisisjustmyface @cathrinexxxv @thisisjustmyface @starwberry11 @cosmosnkaz @tamzyn-xx @killora1708 @teenwolfbitches28 @midnitewaves @67-angelofthelordme-67 @superawesomecool @macbaetwo

[fangirl-dot-com]

Lacy, oh, Lacy

summary: the three times jack abbot compared you to someone else vs. the one time you were exactly who he wanted but couldn't have anymore.

tags: jack abbot x reader, angst, deep insecurities, jack compares you to samira, robby, and his late-wife (I named her alice), a few scene changes but it's for the plot, trying out [name] but if I don't like it, it's back to y/n for all of you, jack is lowkey an asshole on accident (thinks he's meaning well by complimenting others, but tears you apart in the process), medical inaccuracies, hurt/no comfort (at least for jack), eventual breakup, special end scene guest star, age gape (28-32/50), heavily inspired by lacy by olivia rodrigo (which I suggest listening to while you read) and all the feels that come with that, 18+ MDNI

notes: this hurt to write, and this better hurt y'all in the best angsty way possible! just a reminder that my requests for the hatosyverse are open, and that I'm doing smutty blurbs to build my writing abilities, enjoy!

word count: 7.4k

You didn't understand how you'd been able to score Jack Abbot.

Somehow, the universe decided that you'd be his match, the one he chose to go home to at the end of a bad shift, the one who'd been able to give him the most comfort during his darkest days. You knew what you'd be getting into: the PTSD, the depression, shifts where he felt more like your boss than your partner. But you believed you could get through it; Jack was older, and you liked to think you were mature enough to handle anything thrown your way.

For almost a year, your relationship bloomed in stolen glances across the Pitt, hidden moments in supply closets, and late-night baths spent at his house trying to bury yourself next to his heart. Jack was it for you, and you let yourself dream about a future, ring on your finger, possible children running around the house you shared. The two of you rarely fought, often choosing to apologize for anything under the sun before arguments grew too large for your feelings.

Never once did Jack make you feel inadequate, even if you had voiced early on that you truly didn't understand why he picked you. Compared to his gorgeous salt-and-pepper curls and freckled skin and large stature, you felt plain. Your hair was always pulled into a slick ponytail, makeup caused acne breakouts after 12-hour shifts, and what little time you had to yourself, you spent it at home, reading a book, instead of going out with friends and colleagues. People looked at you without so much as a second glance. Jack, on the other hand, made heads turn and nurses blush if they somehow caught his attention long enough for him to send a look their way. You couldn't remember the last time you went through a shift where a female (or sometimes male) patient failed to make a comment about the sexy, silver fox doctor.

You never made it more than it was: harmless flirting from people Jack would never think about again once they got discharged.

After, you and he had gone through the HR meetings, the contract signings, and the swearing that your relationship wouldn't get in the way of saving lives or have Jack start playing favorites. To further this, around the 9-month mark of being Jack's, they plucked you from the safety of the nightshift and dropped you right into Robby's hands. But this was how it was going to be from now on; there was no point in arguing as long as you got to keep Jack.

For three months, you persevered. Finding a groove with an already well-oiled shift proved to be harder than it looked. People talked. Nurses gossiped. Doctors speculated. You, through it all, kept your chin high. Their words didn't get to dictate your relationship. During handoffs, Jack still swept you into his arms and kissed you like a man coming back from war. He still told you that dinner was in the fridge once you got home and napped. He still continued to send updates during his shift, text messages from the separate night-shift group chat made after your departure chiming loudly while you ate. And most important of all, he still loved you.

However, nothing could have prepared you for the three times you felt the most unloved. I care, I care, I care, like perfume that you wear, I linger all the time, watchin', hidden in plain sight, ooh, I try, I try, I try, but it takes over my life, I see you everywhere, the sweetest torture one could bear "Hey, Dana," you called out while swimming through the chaos only brought on by a 4th of July shift.

At her name, Dana looked up over the thin frames of her glasses, pausing momentarily to look your way before going back to her board. "Please don't tell me that the 36 hot dog guy is back."

You shook your head, hands coming to rest on top of the vinyl counter. "Not that I'm aware of."

"Thank heavens. What can I do for ya, hun?"

Leaning in, you did a quick glance around the department. "I heard Jack was here early?"

Her eyebrows almost rose to her hairline. "Yeah; he came in with one of his SWAT buddies. GSW to the man's neck, but it looks like he's going to be okay." She reached over and grabbed a tablet. "Actually, can you find Jack for me? He wanted an update ASAP."

Your fingers drummed against the counter anxiously before you took the tablet from her. "I was just about to ask if you'd seen him."

Dana glanced over your shoulder and stuck out her chin in the same direction. "Saw him duck into Room 15. Might be taking a breather; Lord knows he needs one after that raid." She gave you a knowing look, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Maybe you're exactly what he needs."

A rush of heat flooded your face, eyes darting away from hers. "I'll see if I can find him."

You turned away before she could say anything more, hands desperately holding the tablet to your chest. Your shoes squeaked against the tile floor, steps bringing you closer to the room Jack was supposedly in. Once at the door, you raised a hand to draw the curtain away, but the sound of voices—plural—had you stopping. Saliva pooled between your teeth as you listened closely.

"—is the hospital going to pay for it?"

There was a pause before Jack clearly grumbled, "I'll pay for it."

You slowly moved to the side next to the wall where the curtain didn't completely cut the room off. Through the slot, your eyes widened at the sight of a Jack, shirt off, pale chest, wound-care swab twirling in his fingers with Samira sitting in one of the chairs. In the next beat, she stood and walked right past the curtain slot, completely oblivious that you were right behind it. She stopped near the wall and grabbed a pair of gloves before snapping them on.

His brows furrowed. "What are you doing?"

She smiled before rounding to stand behind him. "What you clearly can't."

Begrudgingly, he handed over the swab.

"Did you make a chart?" she asked while dipping the cotton end into a wound cream.

Jack crossed his arms, and his shoulders rolled and dipped. "No. This can stay off the books. Don't need the paperwork from the hospital or police department."

Samira paused. "Would you rather me go get Dr. [Name]? I'm sure she could do this much better than I could."

"No," Jack responded, shaking his head. "She'd just panic about this. There's no need to throw her off her game."

Your stomach flipped. He thought you'd panic? Sure, you'd be worried, but it wasn't like you hadn't seem him hurt before. Whatever wound he had on his back wouldn't be the worst thing he'd come home with after a SWAT shift.

"Isn't she your girlfriend?" She began dabbing at his back, the swab coming back bloodied.

"Yeah, but it's different with you. I don't have to worry about you taking your time or being indifferent about this." He winced at a deeper brush into the graze. "She's not like you, Dr. Mohan. She wears everything on her sleeve. Really, she could learn how to be more level headed like you, Dr. Mohan. I've seen the way you handle traumas. We wouldn't be so in the low if we had about 10 more of you."

He ended with a chuckle like what he just said didn't feel like a knives to your stomach.

Is that what he really thought about you? That you should be more like Samira and her ability to stay cool through anything thrown at her? With a blink, your eyes glossed over.

Jack turned his head, neck twisting to he could meet Samira's eyes. "You won't tell her about this, right? Our little secret?"

You didn't stay to hear what she said, choosing to turn around before you could watch any longer. It was incredible that you were able to stay for so long, submitting yourself to a new kind of torture. Walking back to the nurses station, your steps slowed as if molasses coated the floor, its stickiness clinging to your shoes.

At your oncoming presence, Dana looked over. "Did you find him, hun?"

You forced yourself to not look back at the closed curtain. "Yeah, but he's in the middle of something right now. I'll just catch up with him later."

The tablet gave a small thud as you placed it back into the holder, and you desperately tried to find another patient to busy yourself with, specifically one furthest from Room 15. However, before you could grab one, a hand wrapped around your elbow and tugged.

"Hey, I need you for the incoming trauma," Langdon said as he dragged you with him. "Twenty-year-old female, unconscious for an unknown matter of time."

You nodded silently, allowing him to keep walking you like a dog on a leash until he stopped in front of the ambulance bay sliding doors. Your lungs expanded in a deep, wavering breath.

Now was not the time to panic. You could do this. You could be like Samira. You could show Jack that you could handle a trauma.

During your internal pep talk, the doors slid open, giving way for the gurney and two paramedics.

"BP is 140-over-92 and climbing. No relevant medical history. She woke up once on the way over and vomited before passing out again."

You quickly followed Langdon into the first trauma room and helped transfer her over onto the bed. Immediately, numbers started being shouted while you started your initial exam.

When nothing seemed to blare any red flags, Langdon started impatient as the woman kept deteriorating. Through it all, you willed your hands to stay steady, your mind calm while you mentally went through what could be the matter. You took a step forward, body positioning near her head so you could look at her pupils one more time, and that's when you smelled it: the acrid, fruity smell puffing out of her mouth as she struggled to breath.

You jerked back quickly. "Dr. Langdon, is there a history of diabetes or hyperglycemia? Her breath smells like rotting fruit."

Langdon looked over at you before leaning toward her face. He hissed a curse before barking for a blood sugar test. Your eyes widened when the screen flashed a 450 mg/dL.

"She's experiencing diabetic ketoacidosis," you breathed.

"Let's get her on an insulin drip, now," Langdon hissed, face pinched until he looked over at you with a softer expression. "Great job catching that and staying calm." He chuckled slightly. "Never seen you like this but keep it up."

You knew his words were meant to be encouraging, but all they did was send bile up your throat. Without saying anything more, you tore off the gloves and shoved them deep into a biohazard bin. You wanted to cry, wanted to find the nearest restroom and tug at your hair.

But that's not what Samira would do your mind provided; the thought ugly and green. She'd shrug it all off and keep working like nothing was the matter.

Your teeth ground together, shoulders squaring in tandem. If everyone would rather have you calm, you'd be calm. You'd tuck your heart away rather than show it to the patients who needed someone that wore it on their sleeve. You picked up another tablet at the nurses station and got back to work.

The rest of the fourth went by in a tornado. Systems went down after a cyberattack; fireworks boomed off in the distance; you stayed busy. Each of your patients were in and out at a lightning speed, and by the start of the night shift, you were ready to go home and cry your heart out into a pillow.

You'd seen Samira every so often in between patients and a small lunch break. Like always, she smiled at you and waved and chatted when she could, but her actions made you want to wither up like a dead flower. You couldn't help but stare at her, thinking that you should be more like the woman in front of you, mind comparing your features to hers at a rapid speed you couldn't stop. She somehow looked like an angel in the middle of a place jokingly nicknamed one of the seven layers of hell, skin clear and hair somehow perfectly put in a bun. You tried your best to match her enthusiasm, but the poison had already been drank.

On the contrary, the only time you really saw Jack was at the start of handoffs. He had helped with one trauma before going to the on-call room for a needed nap, and you hadn't wanted to talk to him then, scared of how he'd act around you.

"There you are, sweetheart," you heard him say as you finished up converting with Lena about the man in Room 5. "I've been looking for you. Thought you might have left without saying goodbye."

You winced slightly. "No; I've just been busy."

Jack hummed and smiled warmly at you, but the expression was tainted by his words earlier. "I heard. Langdon's been nothing but praising you for earlier. I'm proud of you."

"Sure you are," you muttered too lowly for him to catch. Your lips thinly stretched into a smile that didn't meet your tired eyes. "Thank you, Jack," you settled on instead.

His hazel eyes scanned over your face, and his smile slightly dropped. "Are you okay, though? You look a little down."

"I'm fine," you shot out. "Today's just been long, and I'm ready to get home."

Jack nodded. "I left food in the fridge for you, so make sure you eat it after you sleep for a bit."

"Got it."

He looked at you expectantly before rolling his eyes. "Come here."

Like it had been etched into your DNA, you listened and fell into his open arms, face tucking into his chest. He squeezed you tightly before placing a kiss to your temple.

"Proud of you," he said. "You do such a good job. We need so many doctors like you, my perfect girl."

Perfect felt like a twist of the knife, because if you were so perfect, why had he told Samira that he wished you were more like her? I feel your compliments like bullets on skin. Dazzling starlet, Bardot reincarnate, well, aren't you the greatest thing to ever exist? As the weeks went on, Jack's words never left your soul, the damage irreparable in everything that you did.

Second guessing yourself had been a struggle you'd dealt with since an earlier age. Normally, Jack would be able to quiet all those thoughts; he had chosen you; he loved you. But now, as you second guessed everything you did, you also second guessed everything Jack said. You picked apart every encouragement, every compliment, every sweet promise he whispered in your ear.

What he said now couldn't be taken at face value, and you wondered if that feeling would ever go away. You'd asked him about the bullet graze a few days after the 4th, acting completely oblivious to what you knew. Like you thought, Jack assured you that he got it handled and for you to not worry about it, like that did anything to settle the rolling feelings in your stomach.

You tried your best to move on, knowing you'd only bring yourself down more if you dwelled too long about really how much Jack's words had affected you while he never said anything directly to your face. The idea that he wanted you to be like someone else made your heart clench tightly to the point you often wanted to call off work, hoping that you could just wallow in self pity for hours and hours.

But the Pitt did not care for you like that; it demanded twelve hour shifts and grueling doubles. So every day, you rolled out of bed before Jack got home and pulled up your big girl pants.

You worked through it. You'd learned how to stay calm, how to not panic under duress, and it killed you to admit that you'd become a better doctor because of it. You hardly ever hiccuped during a trauma, gaining compliments from the surgeons and Robby for your techniques that were close to flawless. For the smallest second, you would preen under their words before the ugly, repulsive reminder that they might not be real swallowed you down in a nasty gulp.

"Dr. [Name] follow me please," Robby called as he brushed past the nurses station where you were currently typing away at a chart, hands clutching a chart out in front of him to read. "Quickly."

You pushed up from the desk, chair rolling far behind you from the force of your legs. Not wanting to lose him, you rounded the counter and jumped into his long stride.

"Yes, Dr. Robby?" you asked.

As far as you knew, there weren't any incoming traumas and it was too late in the day for him to have questions about your patients that were currently waiting for a room.

Robby paused in front of an empty trauma room. "Jack just let me know that he found a man in need of medical attention and is bringing him in before handoffs, and I thought you could help him out." He handed you the tablet, already ready to go with updated information.

You took a quick glance over this. "Um, Dr. Robby, it looks like he'll need a pericardiocentesis."

"It's good that you know exactly what he'll need. What's the issue?"

Your eyes looked from the screen to his brown eyes. "I've never done one before."

He simply smiled at you and patted your shoulder. "That's why Jack's going to lead you through it. I would stay, but since he's coming in early, I'm going to head out."

You tried to quirk a smile. "Got a hot date waiting for you?"

A low chuckle shook his shoulders. "You got jokes. My bike needs some repairs, and today's the only day I can get it into the shop. But I know you'll be just fine. Your improvement in traumas will only grow if you step out of your comfort zone."

The automatic sliding doors slid open, and Jack plus a nurse wheeled a man through on a gurney. Jack's eyes lit up at the sight of you, but his brows pinched when he noticed Robby's bag slung over the taller man's shoulder.

"You leaving early, brother?" Jack questioned as he stepped past the two of you.

Robby's hand gently rested on your shoulder. "Yeah, but you two will have this handled."

You inhaled deeply, the weight of his hand and words pushing down on your chest.

Robby was counting on you. Don't fuck this up. Don't panic.

With the tablet tucked under your arm, you walked into the trauma room before pulling on a pair of gloves. Jack had already cut through the man's shirt.

"I need two 18-gage needles, one 9cm and one 15cm, a guidewire, dilator, and 8Fr pigtail catheter." He looked up toward Jesse. "Let's give him 10ml lignocaine 1%."

You quickly gather what he needed and placed him on the dressing that covered the side tray.

"Okay, Dr. [Name]," Jack said, lips twitching upwards at using your official name, "I need you to place an ECG electrode on the pericardiocentesis needle with a crocodile clip and insert. Once the tip touches the myocardium, the trace should show immediate ST elevation. Once that comes up, insert the wire to aspirate the fluid."

His words tumbled through your mind much too fast to the point that you wondered if he didn't know you'd never done this before. You pursed your lips as you tried to remember everything. In the grand scheme of things, your training provided everything that needed to be done.

Yet, there was a big difference between studying and actually doing the procedure.

You kept your breath steady as you readied the needle, clamping on a clip before turning the pointed end toward the man's chest. The first part went smoothly, and the needle went right through. However, instead of the consistent beeping that should have followed if the needle was in properly, an onslaught of alarms sounded through your ears.

You had missed something.

Jack whipped his head toward you and sneered. "You went too deep. I told you that the needle needed to touch the myocardium not go all the way through. Give it here."

He didn't even wait for you to transfer the needle over, hands already grabbing at it. His head bent down so he could see what was happening. With a practiced ease, he maneuvered the needle exactly where it should have been.

"Fuck," he whispered, "Robby wouldn't have done that. I don't know why he handed this off to you if he knew the patient would need a pericardiocentesis for tamponade."

You thickly swallowed pooling saliva to clear your throat. "Sorry."

"Just—" He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. "I'll finish up here. You go home."

You jolted just a bit. Go home?

"Jack, I can still assist. You're going to need—"

"We have it covered. Catheter is in place, and you'd just be standing around. You're good."

Suddenly, a wave of anguish flowed through your body. It was happening again. Jack had just added fuel to the ever growing fire of jealousy and self-loathing. The feeling sized your chest, and you stepped back from the bed, shaky hands ripping off the nitrile gloves.

You couldn't help the stressed wheeze that pushed from your lungs.

Don't panic. Don't panic. He didn't mean it. He was just stressed. He didn't know that you'd never done that before.

Numbly, you walked back to the nurses station and sat back down in front of the computer, but your hands didn't raise to the keyboard. Your mind had already taken over, spewing rotten things about yourself that you could fix.

Be like Samira. Be like Robby. Jack won't keep wanting you if you aren't like them.

Your tongue ran across your dry lips in an attempt to wet them, but even your mouth had gone parched.

"Is charting really that bad?" you heard Dennis ask you as she sat down at a computer to your left. "You look like someone just told you they flushed your fish down the drain."

In a jerky motion, you turned towards him and did your best to compose yourself. "Oh no. I, uh, I didn't do well on a procedure with Dr. Abbot, and he asked me to leave."

Dennis at least had the decency to look sorry for you. "I bet you didn't do too bad. What was the procedure?"

"A pericardiocentesis," you said shyly.

He nodded slowly. " Shit, that's like one of the first things Robby let us do." He turned towards his own chart. "I could probably do them in my sleep by now."

Because he wasn't looking at you, Dennis missed the way your shoulders dropped and tears welled in your lash line. Jack's comment had been bad, but he just completely shattered any confidence you had left for the day.

"Right," you muttered. "Of course it'd be that easy if Robby taught you."

And you'd be right. On the night shift, patients like that rarely if not ever needed such a complex procedure. You could only think to one time that a woman came through almost needing one before they were able to use a different method to get her stable enough to be transferred to the OR.

With keys clacking loudly, you quickly finished up the chart before turning the whole thing off. You didn't even try to find Jack before you left, choosing to slip out before he even noticed you'd left without saying goodbye.

Once you were home, you stormed past the fridge and went straight to yours and Jack's shared room. Your scrubs hit the floor, and you didn't even bother to put on pajamas. The bed dipped under your weight as you pulled the duvet up over your body in a sad attempt at being comforted by its weight.

Sleep came quickly, only being interrupted by the door opening, a signal that Jack had gotten home. Blearily, you listened to him walk around the room before his edge of the bed sunk after he sat. The familiar hiss and pop of his prosthesis preceded him turning to lie down. You kept still as he scooted closer before wrapping an arm around your middle and molding your back to his chest.

"Sorry if I woke you up," he muttered sleepily. "Tried to find you before you left, but I guess I missed you. Wanted to say good job for that trauma. You helped so much."

You clamped your eyes shut, squeezing a fresh round of tears that dripped down your cheeks to puddle on your pillowcase.

After Samira, you had done your best to convince yourself it had been a slip of his tongue. But now after Robby, you weren't too sure that Jack would keep you around for much longer before finding someone better. Because there was no way you could ever amount to someone like Robby.

It was impossible. I care, I care, I care, like ribbons in your hair, my stomach's all in knots, you got the one thing that I want. Ooh, I try, I try, I try, try to rationalize people are people, but it's like you're made of angel dust. You were trying but failing to pretend Jack's words and comparisons hadn't left a giant, bleeding gap in your heart. Before everything happened, you never ever wondered if Jack loved you. Except now, you waited with bated breath for him to just drop the bucket and break up with you. You walked on eggshells around him.

Don't panic. Be put together. Keep your heart to yourself. Be calm like Samira. Don't fuck up. Know how to do your job. Be confident like Robby.

Those thought became your mantra and lifeline. No one seemed to think twice about your recent personality change. They loved the way they could count on you, the way you had an answer ready for everything. To the day and night shift, you were the epitome of composure. But behind closed doors, you were falling apart and into a pit you didn't think you'd be able to climb out of.

Jack didn't help with that either. You guessed he didn't even know what he had done to you, going on with his life like he hadn't given yours so many potholes that you couldn't continue on without falling behind. Everything you did was carefully thought out, every patient you talked to met a version of you that didn't reflect what you felt inside or outside.

You avoided mirrors the most, their reflections showing you exactly what you weren't. You weren't Samira with her lovely thick hair and clear skin. And you weren't Robby who carried years of trauma like it was apart of his body.

You were you, and you loathed it entirely.

You hated the glances you caught between Jack and Samira across the department. You hated the way they looked like they knew what the other was thinking before they spoke. You hated how you felt like on onlooker to a relationship that wasn't even happening.

You also hated the way Robby changed from a mentor to an idol. He had soon morphed into someone you wanted to so desperately be to the point you lost yourself in ambition.

And the worst part? You held nothing against them personally.

They didn't know what Jack had said. They didn't know that you were dying on the inside every time they raised you up during shifts. Bits of you crumbled away while they continued to glow.

Every morning you woke up, you wondered if the day would provide the straw that broke the camel's back with the way you felt like a stretched out rubber band waiting to fly.

A soft, savory aroma wafted through your kitchen. You absentmindedly stirred the spatula through the sauce, eyes glancing back and forth from the pan to the recipe. The instructions were written in beautiful, slanted cursive with curled letters that danced together. You'd found the card mixed in with a bunch of recipes Jack kept in his drawer. With a quick read told you that the owner of this one was his late wife, and the heart next to the title had you guessing if this was a favorite for the two of them.

Without thinking, you plucked it from the drawer and started working. After a week of back to back cases that ended in more loss than wins, a homemade meal was exactly what you and Jack needed after a day off. He was currently out getting his truck washed, and you wanted to be finished by the time he came home.

Quickly, the separate parts of the recipe—the chicken and veggies basting in the oven, the sauce on the stove top, and the wine chilling in the fridge—all came together right as Jack walked through the door.

"Hi, baby!" you called out as you pulled the pan from the oven. "Dinner's almost ready!"

You picked up on Jack's slightly clompy gate as he got farther into the house.

"Smells good," he said, walking over to stand behind you. "What did you make?"

Suddenly, you got nervous. What if it didn't taste correct? What if Jack didn't want you to make something so special between him and his wife. What if you ruined everything.

You didn't meet his eyes and poured the sauce over the top of the chicken. "Uh, a recipe from the drawer. It looked good, and we already had the ingredients."

He grabbed the card and held it up to his face, and you held your breath. When he didn't seem to get angry or sad, you counted it at a win.

"There's a bottle of white in the fridge if you want to get it out," you offered.

Jack stayed quiet. You didn't dare look even as the sound of a cork popping echoed in the room. While his immediate lack of response didn't cause concern to rise, your stomach still churned. To mirror him, you also didn't speak while you set the table.

He sat down, and so did you, your chairs facing the other like you'd done so many times in the past. Your heart pounded against your sternum as he took the first bite.

Loudly, he smacked his lips, setting his fork down at he chewed. The noise felt like nails on a chalkboard in the silence.

After a minute, he finally spoke. "Did you change anything in this?"

Your racing heart plummeted to your feet. "No. I kept it just like the card had it."

His brows furrowed. "Really? It tastes different than how I remembered it last."

You dug your nails into the fabric of the table running. "Does it not taste good?"

Jack looked up from his plate with wide, hazel eyes. "No, no, it's just different."

"But not good," you scoffed.

"I'm just trying to say that maybe you missed something. I know Alice's handwriting isn't the easiest to read."

"I know how to read cursive, Jack," you spat lowly. "I followed every single instruction on the card. It's the exact same recipe."

"It's not that big of a deal, sweetheart," he tried. "Maybe if you had a bit more practice like her, it might have come out the same. You're a good cook, don't get me wrong, but—"

Your hands slammed on the table in frustration, causing Jack's eyebrows to pinch as his words died in his mouth. He went to keep talking but stopped when he noticed the frustrated tears fall from your eyes.

"I'm done," you breathed, eyes darting around the room.

"Done?" Jack echoed. "What are you done with?"

"Everything," you hissed. "I'm done with this—" You gestured to the food with a wave of your hand. "I'm done with-with you. I'm done with it all."

You pushed up from the table and walked away, leaving Jack to scramble out of his chair and follow you.

"Sweetheart, what's going on?" he loudly asked, but you ignored him.

By the time he made it into the bedroom, you had already ripped out a suitcase from the closet and were pushing clothes into it without making them neat.

"Hey," Jack said gently. "Look, I'm sorry for saying that. I didn't think it'd upset you this much, but you don't have to leave."

You paused in a mid-throw of your shirts and spun to face him. A disbelieving laugh bubbled wetly through your throat. "That's the problem," you muttered, "you don't think."

He crossed his arms, biceps resting against his chest. A need to defend himself bloomed in his stomach. "What's that supposed to fucking mean."

You threw your arms up with an exasperated scoff. "Oh, so now you're concerned for what I'm saying. Maybe you should be concerned more with your words." You sucked in a deep breath. "Just go on and say it."

Jack took a step forward. "Say what?"

"That you'd rather me be someone else!" you screamed. "That-that I'm not enough by myself for you anymore." Pants heaved in your chest. "I'm sick and tired of standing here stuck listening to you compare me and wish that I'd be like or act like someone else."

Your words stole the breath from Jack's lungs as confusion and dread washed over him. "What?"

You closed your eyes and dropped your shoulders. "I heard you; I keep hearing you."

In another step forward, Jack was within two feet of you. He swallowed thickly, but you beat him to more words.

"On the fourth," you began to explain through tears, "I saw Samira patch you up, and I heard the way you told her that I could learn how to be more level headed like her."

A chill crept up Jack's spine. "Sweetheart—"

"Don't," you ordered. "Don't do that where you try to make it all better. I heard you loud and clear, Jack. And that's fine. I knew I could be more calm during traumas, so that's exactly what I did, but apparently—" You chocked out a laugh. "That wasn't enough for you."

He shook his head, hazel eyes swimming with guilt already.

"And I really thought that if I could be anything like Samira, your words wouldn't hurt as much. But then you had to go and tell me that you wished Robby had been there instead of me to do a pericardiocentesis." Your breath shuddered in the next exhale. "Did you even know that was the first time I'd ever been asked to do one? And instead of teaching at a teaching hospital, you threw me to the side saying Robby—the fucking chief attending—could have done the job. No fucking duh, Jack."

You threw a hand in the direction of the kitchen. "And now this? I thought that maybe I could be like Samira or study enough to be like Robby, but h-how am I supposed to compare to the woman who had your love first." You turned back toward the bed and haphazardly packed suitcase. "That's unfair to me. So, like I said, I'm done."

A pleading sound ripped from Jack's throat at the sound of your suitcase zipper closing.

"No, sweetheart, please. Let me fix this; tell me how to fix this," he begged.

"That's just it, Jack. I don't think this can be fixed. I've spent weeks with your words in my head wondering how I can be the perfect person for you. And I don't know if I can keep going on pretending."

Jack's body shook under a small sob as everything came crashing down. He absolutely had no clue what he had done to you, but thinking back, he understood that his careless words wracked irreparable damage to you and your personality.

"I'm sorry," he managed, voice breaking in a whisper.

"I know you are,' you responded, "and somehow that makes it hurt worse. Because while you were trying to compliment everyone else, you made me feel inadequate in every aspect of my life." Your fingers wrapped around the suitcase handle and tugged it off the bed. "I can't stay with someone who keeps hoping I'll be a conglomeration of all the best parts of others; that's not me. And I'll be honest, I don't even really know who me is anymore."

He inhaled sharply, eyes tearing from your face to look down at the floor. "So this is it? You're leaving?"

Another round of tears spilled down your cheeks as you choked on a sob of your own. "I don't want to, but I need to."

"But I love you," he croaked, eyes coming back up to meet yours.

"You love the best parts of me, Jack," you said, already moving to walk past him. "And that's never going to be enough to make me stay."

Your shoulder lightly brushed by his as you walked out of the room and all the way out the front door, leaving Jack behind in a house he realized he didn't want empty. You poison every little thing that I do, Lacy, oh, Lacy, I just loathe you lately, and I despise my jealous eyes and how hard they fell for you, yeah, I despise my rotten mind and how much it worships you Jack didn't truly realize what he'd done until almost six months after you left him crying in his bedroom.

Your absence in his life gave him a lot to think about, and the only conclusion he could come up with was that you were absolutely right. It didn't matter if he'd compared you to others unconsciously; he made you feel like that: worthless, in need of self change, inadequate; the list went on.

He'd seen the small changes too late.

The next shift he worked with you, Jack tracked every minuscule thing you did, and it felt like one big punch to the gut. He saw the way you constantly checked your hair, ponytail pulled tight enough to give you a headache, skin, and scrubs and the way you straightened your stethoscope so it rested perfectly across your collarbones.

His stomach dropped when he watched you pause before a trauma and gulp down air before heading inside like someone who needed to take control before it could get out of hand. Before him, you weren't like that. Yes, you could be nervous to mess up, but you didn't act like you had to be the smartest person in the room.

He did that to you. He made you feel the need to change. And it killed him. It killed him once he learned you transferred over to a specialty in orthopedics, and his mind made him think you did it just to get away from him.

He was slightly correct, but not entirely.

You needed a fresh start, somewhere where you knew no on had any high expectation of you. And somehow, orthopedics gave you just that. And you thrived in the environment, only coming down to the Pitt when they needed a transfer or second opinion. Sure, you had to accompany Park the Shark more than you'd liked to, but through your time there, the old you was coming back, the one who worked through her panic instead of shutting it down, the one who only got frazzled when she cared about patients and their needs.

It was never weakness you showed, and you had to learn that all over again.

Someone helped you see that along the way as well.

"What do got here?" Park asked while snapping on a pair of gloves, eyes predatory as he walked into Trauma Room 1.

Jack looked up with pinched brows when he realized that you didn't walk in behind the larger man. "Where's Dr. [Name]?"

Park didn't even acknowledge his question. "For fucks sake man, you didn't even pack this right."

"You should know how to put a detached leg together even if I missed the pressure of the wrapping by an inch," Jack shot back.

"Abbot, you should know that I can't fucking put your patient back together after you decided to play Barbies. It's not as easy as popping a joint back in place."

"Dr. [Name] could do it."

Except for the monitors, everyone went quiet. Jack tore his eyes away from Park and looked back down at his blood soaked gloves. Reality crashed down on him as he realized he just did to Park what he'd done to you. Even if he knew he probably didn't hurt Park's feelings at all, it sucked to know that he was still so quit to throw out words like that.

Park's shoulders rose in a shrug. "She could, but she isn't here right now. She switched shifts and won't be in until 7." He smirked. "Think she said she had plans with someone."

An ugly roar of jealousy clawed at Jack's insides, nails sinking deep in his gut.

You were with someone?

He went through the motions of his shift, mind still on the fact that you weren't on call because someone had taken your time and attention away from the hospital. His knuckles turned white around the tablet he held while going through handoffs. He didn't know if his body was still trained to look for you, forever waiting for your soft lips against his, but Jack couldn't help but keep his head on a swivel and ears open to catch the sound of your voice.

Like a laugh in his face from the universe, your laugh fluttered through the ER, and his head whipped hard enough that his neck hurt in order to find you. When he finally saw you walking in, his heart dropped to his feet, because there you were, smiling brighter than he'd seen in a long while, hand enclasped with a man's.

Jack swallowed thickly. He instantly hated the way his blood boiled at the sight. He looked back down at the tablet after your voice seemed to draw closer to where he was standing.

"Andy," you sighed wistfully, "you didn't have to walk me all the way in here. I know you're weary of the germs."

"I know," the man—Andy (you gave him a fucking nickname?)—muttered back, wide, hazel eyes looking down at you like you hung the moon. "But I wanted to."

You pouted playfully. "You're so sweet. Am I going to see you tomorrow morning, or are you working again?"

He hummed. "My morning's yours if you want it."

"You know I always do."

Jack watched the corner of the man's mouth twitch into an almost-there smile, and he had to look away when his head started leaning in toward yours.

The small smack of your lips on his made bile gurgle in Jack's stomach.

"Okay, you gotta go save lives."

You giggled again. "I just put people back together, and technically, Park's the one doing all the procedures. You know my hands start shaking."

From the corner of his eye, Jack watched him lift your hands to his lips and kiss the tops of your knuckles.

"Just breathe and know that you alone can do this. You were the one to get into the program, so they want you, shaky hands and all."

Jack's heart clenched to the point of a physical reaction to the pain. He should have been the one saying that to you, standing in your corner and building you up one compliment at a time.

But now, he had to stand on the sideline and watch a man (someone who scarily looked a bit like him) give you all the praise and love you deserved. And while Jack could do everything in his power to let people know how good of a doctor you were, it wouldn't ever be the same, forever stuck loathing the moment he lost you without knowing.

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[mahoganybimbo]

thinking about this weird freak again...I wish I was normal about him

I don't subscribe to virgin!Titus (though I do understand it and will read anything you guys write about it bc it's great food), but the way he's so clearly touch starved and wants/craves love in that way😵‍💫that little thing he does with his fingers on her lips, yeah....and his eyes closed? he thinks this is romantic as hell....unfortunately, I get it

[thatfanficstuff]

Forgotten - Rabbot x Reader

Michael Robinavitch x Chronic Pain!Reader x Jack Abbot

synopsis: Your boyfriends are drowning in an understaffed ED while you drown in a pain flare

warnings/Notes: discussions of chronic pain and migraines as well as treatment. everyone's journey with chronic pain is their own. Flangst, my favorite. This is much longer than i intended.

wc: 5.4k

You hadn’t seen your boyfriend in three days, which was a feat really when you considered you had two of them and you all lived in the same house.

Flu season was a bitch for patients and doctors alike. You knew that. They were covering shifts for sick colleagues so you tried not to complain, tried not to add to their burden. But sometimes, just sometimes, you felt like you could disappear and they wouldn’t even notice. They hadn’t even sought you out to say hello or goodbye or thanks for the food. It was hard not to take it personally. Especially when you’d been in a pain flare for days and hadn’t felt like doing half of things you had been.

You sat on the edge of your bed and scrolled through the texts on your phone. You’d noticed their responses to your texts getting shorter if they weren’t being ignored completely. As you scrolled you realized you were always the one that initiated the conversation, always sent the first message. Maybe you were just annoying them.

All of you had your own rooms, but you were used to them climbing into bed with you or dragging you into their rooms to sleep with them. Jack hadn’t been getting home until midmorning and Robby was closer to midnight some nights. You were already at work in the home office by the time Jack arrived home but he hadn’t popped his head in to say hello once. Hadn’t found you to say goodbye. You’d tried to stay up for Robby one night and woke up on the couch shivering in the chill at the two in the morning, telling you he hadn’t even noticed. A quick glance in his room showed him passed out in his bed. You could have crawled in with him, with either of them, but you weren’t certain they wanted you to anymore.

The last time you’d seen them, Robby had just seemed irritated that you were in his space and Jack hadn’t listened to a word you said before saying “That’s nice, sweetheart. I’m gonna get some sleep.”

So, you decided to stop. Stop messaging them first, stop seeking them out at home, just stop. The days passed and they didn’t seem to notice. You continued taking care of them for a few days, leaving food to make sure they ate, washing their scrubs, etc. You knew these back to back shifts were hard on them but you were hurting mentally and physically and just so, so tired. You knew you should talk to them, make them see you, but you didn’t want to burden them with anything else.

So, you called your best friend and packed your things, biting back your tears as you walked out the door.

Jack was the first to notice that something was wrong.

He came home just after ten from an extended shift. The house was quiet but that wasn’t out of the norm as you shut yourself up in your office to work. He opened the microwave and frowned at finding it empty. You always left them something, worried they wouldn’t eat unless you fed them. He checked the fridge only to find it devoid of a meal as well. Maybe you were annoyed that he hadn’t eaten the meals the last couple of days, grabbing something at work to combat the hollow feeling in his stomach during his long shifts. He grabbed a protein shake, too tired to do anything else.

As he headed for his bedroom, he paused outside your office, hesitating, wanting to see you, wondering if perhaps you hadn’t been up to cooking today. When your condition flared, you didn’t feel like doing much of anything. But if that was the case, you were more likely to be curled up on the couch. He sighed and eventually moved on without knocking. He didn’t want to bother you just to say hello and goodnight. After a shower, he had just enough energy left to collapse into his bed and crash, far too exhausted to realize it was Saturday and you shouldn’t be working at all.

When he woke a few hours later, he went looking for you, wanting to apologize for not eating the meals you’d undoubtedly left him. Besides, he just missed you. These long shifts were killing him. You didn’t answer his gentle knock at your office or bedroom doors. A glance in the garage showed your car was gone. He looked in the kitchen to find no note. He frowned. None of this was like you. He glanced at the time and cursed under his breath. He couldn’t worry about it now. Half an hour later found him standing by the hub talking to Robby.

“I’m telling you man, something’s not right,” Jack said.

Robby huffed. “Why because she didn’t make you breakfast? Maybe she just forgot.”

“Okay, but she didn’t leave a note. She always leaves a note. She knows we worry.”

Dana looked between them as they talked wondering how two incredibly intelligent men could be so fucking stupid. You’d been in her guestroom for two days now and they were just noticing something was up? No wonder you left their asses. Idiots. She made a sound of disgust.

Both men’s heads snapped in her direction. “What?” they asked in unison.

She arched one brow and pursed her lips. “Nothing. Don’t mind me.”

Robby and Jack turned to look at one another and reassess. Dana was your best friend. If she was pissed off at them, that meant you were as well. Shit. “Okay, well what did she say the last time you talked to her?”

“I think she told me to have a good shift,” Jack said with a frown, pulling out his phone. That had been five days ago and he’d responded with a terse thanx. “Uh, Mike, when’s the last time she texted you?”

He pulled out his phone to find much the same scenario as Jack. You usually texted them multiple times a day just to let them know you were thinking of them. “Oh.”

Jack raked his hand through his hair. “Okay, okay. Did anything seem off when you saw her?”

Robby shook his head. “I’ve been too tired when I get home to do anything but shower and crawl in bed. My bed. Figured she’d come to my room if she wanted.”

Jack’s brain short circuited and he froze. “Michael, when is the last time you physically laid eyes on our girlfriend?”

Robby sighed and ran a hand down his face. “I don’t know. Earlier this week? I’ve just been so fried I haven’t been seeking her out. What about you? What’s she been like with you?”

“I haven’t seen her either.” His voice was quiet, worried.

Robby’s gaze sharpened. “Like since when?”

Jack bowed his head as he thought. “Jesus. It’s been a week. At least. She sat at the table with me while I ate but I was too tired to even process what she was saying. I didn’t stress about it because I figured she had you.”

“And I was the same way. Fuck.” Robby’s eyes went wide and he pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. “Fuck!”

Dana hummed in acknowledgment of their idiocy.

Jack turned to her immediately. “She’s obviously said something to you. What did she say? How mad is she?”

She glanced over the top of her glasses, entirely unimpressed. “Since when has that ever worked with me, Jack Abbot? You want to know how mad she is, try talking to her. If she’ll listen. I’m going home. You two better get your shit together.”

Handoff with Lena complete, Dana grabbed her things and headed out the door without looking back, Robby and Jack’s eyes trailing her as she went.

“Oh, our girl must be furious,” Robby muttered.

“Yeah,” Jack agreed, swallowing the lump in his throat.

Robby left his shift when he was supposed to for the first time in two weeks. This matter with you was more pressing. Your car was still gone. He knocked at your office out of habit as he opened the door. Everything you needed for work was gone. Shit. His footsteps carried him quickly down the hall. He threw open the door to your bedroom to find a neatly made bed. Your suitcase and a large amount of your clothes were missing.

Robby pulled out his phone, nearly dropping it in his haste. He called Jack who answered immediately. “Is she home?”

“She’s gone, Jack.” Robby’s voice broke on the words. “Her office is empty. Half of her clothes are gone.”

“Shit,” Jack said. “Trauma’s coming in. See if you can reach her.”

Robby tried to call first. You sent the call to voicemail three times before he gave up.

Next, he sent you a text. Baby please pick up the phone. I want to talk to you. I need to make sure you’re alright.

I’m fine, came not even a minute later.

He heaved a sigh of relief. At least you responded. I don’t think you are. Please talk to me.

You haven’t cared if you talked to me in weeks. Why should now be any different?

God, you always knew exactly what to say to make your point in the sharpest way possible. Please. He didn’t know what else to say.

I moved out two days ago. You didn’t even notice.

Two days? That can’t be true surely. Jesus. He knew you well enough to know that he and Jack had been horribly wrong. You weren’t pissed. You were hurt. That was so much worse. They’d hurt you. They were going to lose you and they’d deserve it.

I don’t know what I can say to that. There’s no excuse for it. I’m sorry. I love you. I love you so much.

Okay. Goodnight Michael.

No, no, no. That couldn’t be your response. This couldn’t be the end of everything. What the fuck had they done?

Baby please. Just meet us at least. Let us sit down and talk about this. Please.

The two of you will never have the time for that. I can say yes but it will never happen so why bother. I’m done talking.

Please talk to me.

Please don’t leave us.

I love you.

Just give us a chance

All four messages were left on read.

Jack tried next.

Robby hadn’t told him how things had gone until handoff, not wanting Jack to dwell on it all night. While part of him understood Robby’s reasoning, the rest of him was pissed off. If he’d known, maybe he could have gotten you to respond. It wasn’t logical, you weren’t any more likely to talk to him than Robby but Jack couldn’t just give up.

He sent the first text as he walked to the truck.

Honey I am so sorry. Please talk to us.

He tossed his phone on the passenger seat. When he pulled in the drive, he was disappointed to find no response.

I love you. I miss you.

He took a shower to scrub the day away. When he got out, he found that you had responded to his texts with a link. He clicked on it and was taken to a local housekeeping service that did cleaning and laundry. His brows snapped together and a muscle twitched in his jaw.

What’s that?

Figured that’s what you were missing. You can probably find someone to make meals for you too. Or doordash.

Jack scowled. What the fuck? I don’t give a shit about any of that. I miss you. I want you. Not some fucking maid service. Why would you think that?

Are you telling me that you didn’t notice stuff wasn’t getting done before you noticed you hadn’t seen me? It’s been days Jack. Days.

Look I know things haven’t been ideal lately. Mike and I have both been working more than we should have. We just have to get through this and then things will go back to normal.

I don’t want normal.

What?

When was the last time either of you texted me first? Took me on a date? It was a long time before the flu.

Jack frantically scrolled through his texts knowing you had to be wrong. The two of you talked all the time. Another message from you came through.

You just got off shift. You should get some sleep. Goodbye Jack.

Jesus fucking Christ. Now he understood what Robby had been talking about. You were talking like this was over. He wasn’t ready for this to be done. Didn’t think he would ever be.

I’m fine Honey. I’m worried about you and hating myself for fucking this up.

I can’t do this anymore Jack. Not right now.

He tried to text you two more times before switching to phone calls. The third time he called he went straight to voicemail. He raked a hand through his hair and tossed his phone on the bed before dropping back to lay flat. He pressed the heels of both hands against his eyes. How the fuck were they going to fix this?

Two days passed of them trying to call or text and getting no further response from you. They’d managed to learn from Dana that you were staying with her and were ‘doing just fine. Now fuck off’. Jack and Robby stood at the hub just before seven going over the schedule, trying to figure out who would be willing to shift around so they could head over to Dana’s together to beg for forgiveness.

Dana hurried through the bay doors and made her way straight to them. Both of them turned at her unusual behavior. “What’s up with you?” Robby asked.

“I need you both to behave like fucking adults or I’ll get Gloria down here,” she snapped.

Jack’s brows shot up. “Who pissed in your cornflakes?”

“Stow it, Abbot.” She glanced over her shoulder, eyes scanning the department. “Whitaker, grab a chair. Patient being dropped off in the bay.”

Both men straightened at that. “Dana,” Robby said drawing out the word.

She pursed her lips and sighed. “She’s been in a flare for days. Meds triggered an intractable migraine. Neuro told her to come here.”

“Is she okay?” Robby asked then immediately said, “Don’t answer that. Stupid question.”

“How long?” Jack asked already heading for the doors.

She huffed out a breath knowing they weren’t going to like the answer. “Three days.”

Jack stopped and turned back. “Three fucking days? And she’s just now coming in?”

“I can’t imagine why she would be hesitant.” Dana rolled her eyes as she moved past him to meet Whitaker at the door.

“What’s open, Lena?” she called over her shoulder.

“Five is all yours.”

Robby and Jack froze as you were wheeled inside. You had an icepack pressed over your eyes, the elbow of the hand holding it resting on the arm of the chair. You were curled in on yourself and had an empty bucket in your lap. Dana shot them a look as she pushed you past them and into your room.

As much as they wanted to invade the room, to check on you themselves, they waited. Dana emerged nearly twenty minutes later. “I’ve got her in a gown and got an IV started for fluids. She’s checked in and waiting for a doctor. She said you can come in.”

They stepped forward and she held up a hand. “Don’t upset her or I’ll kick your ass.”

Entering the room quietly, their eyes immediately fell on you. You were curled on your side, icepack still laying on your head. They split, each one taking a different side of the bed. Jack sat on a stool and wheeled it to your side, clasping your hand in his. You sucked in a breath at the contact and immediately started to sob.

Robby had pulled a chair up on your other side, placing a heavy hand on your back. “Shh, baby. It’s okay.”

Jack touched the icepack to find it warm. He moved it aside so he could see your eyes. He wiped away your tears with his thumb. “Why are you crying, honey?”

“It hurts.” You practically whimpered the words. “It hurts so bad. Nothing is helping.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” he said.

Before he could say anything else, Dana came back into the room hands full. She sat the tray full of medication aside and hung a bag of saline to run into your IV. “Doc Reynolds sent in the order for a cocktail.”

“What’s he giving her?” Robby asked as he put on his glasses and headed over to the computer.

Dana ignored him and started filling syringes with meds.

“Well?” Jack asked.

Robby glanced over with a frown. “Toradol, Reglan, Zomig, and Decadron.”

“Jesus.” Jack watched Dana inject the drugs into your IV. “Must be particularly stubborn, huh?”

Another tear ran down your face in answer.

Dana glanced at Robby. “You working or calling someone in?”

Robby ran a hand down his face. “Shit. Yeah. I’ll take care of it.”

She nodded and moved to the computer to make her notes.

Robby went back to your side and kissed your temple. “I’ll be back, sweetheart. Just let me get things settled out there.”

“I need to do handoff,” Jack said, looking between you and Robby.

You turned away from him, careful not to tangle your IV. “I’m fine. Just go.”

The pain in your voice pierced through him. “Honey—”

“Go!” you yelled then winced.

Dana’s gaze snapped over to Jack. “You heard her. Out.”

When he hesitated, she said, “Now.”

“We’ll be back,” he said at the door, turning back to look at you. Dana had her hand resting on the side of your face, talking to you in a low tone. He sighed and left the room, sliding the door shut behind him.

“I feel like we just failed a test,” Robby said, voice tired.

“Yeah.”

You didn’t want to be a bitch, to be unreasonable. You knew your temper was shorter because of your migraine, because of the pain that you had been drowning in for days. The truth was you’d been in a flare for two weeks at this point. You’d been careful with your meds but eventually they’d caused the headache you’d had since you left their house. Stress undoubtedly playing a large part in both the flare and the migraine. You’d only admitted to it three days ago. If Dana knew you were going on five days, she’d beat your ass.

But you’d told the neuro the truth. He’d told you if the cocktail didn’t work, they’d have to admit you for stronger meds. You knew that of course, this wasn’t your first trip to the hospital for a stubborn migraine, but you hated it. All you’d wanted from the beginning was to curl up with one of your men and let them take care of you.

You missed them and they always seemed to make everything better. Well, they used to. It’s why you’d told Dana they could come into the room. You’d hoped they’d choose you. Take care of you. Prioritize you. But once again the Pitt won.

It wasn’t rational. They needed to do their jobs. They were attending physicians. Lives literally hung in the balance. But you didn’t want to be rational. You were tired of always being understanding. Of always letting yourself take a back seat. You were tired of always being the second choice.

Your heart ached when you thought about how long it took for them to even notice you were gone. They didn’t need you. Didn’t want you. Not really. You’d been crippled with pain for days and they hadn’t known, hadn’t cared. Had never once asked how you were doing. Dana had told you that you could stay as long as you wanted but you knew you were wearing out your welcome. No one wants a permanent houseguest.

You wondered how much money was in your savings. You didn’t check the balance often as you were afraid you’d spend it, so you left it and just added to it when you could. You’d need enough for a deposit and first and last month’s rent. Jesus, you hated apartment hunting. Hated apartments. You’d gotten used to the quiet neighborhood where you lived now. You didn’t want to think about it right now, it certainly wasn’t helping your headache.

Your head had that floaty feeling that told you the meds were working. Your thoughts were a little slow and time passed in weird increments but you were still aware.

Dana popped back in after almost an hour had passed. “How you doing, doll?”

“It’s definitely better, but it still hurts.”

She pulled you up on the computer. “Instructions here for another round. After that…”

“Yeah, I know.”

She patted your leg. “I’m going to get you some more fluids and something to drink. Need anything else?”

“Another icepack?”

“Sure. I can do that.” Her gaze ran over you as she crossed her arms over her chest. “They’ve stationed themselves in the hallway, you know.”

You frowned at her. You’d assumed they were working. Hell, Jack might have gone home for all you knew. “What?”

“I told them they couldn’t come back in, not after they made you cry.”

“They didn’t. I was crying because it hurt.”

She hummed in agreement. “And then you were crying because they told you they had to go back to work.”

“That’s not their fault.”

“It is. If they didn’t keep picking this place over you, you would be more understanding when they didn’t have a choice. And that’s okay. You’re allowed to be upset. They fucked up.” She sighed. “But they love you. And you miss them. That’s okay too.”

Another tear ran down your cheek.

“Do you want me to send them in?” Her voice had taken on that mom tone of hers that always made you feel comforted.

“Yes, please.”

She nodded once and patted your leg again. She stepped past the curtain and out the door. You heard her say, “I’m getting another bag of fluids. She needs water and an icepack. I’ll let you deliver them. Don’t upset her.” Then she shut the door.

Jack appeared first, cup of water with a straw in hand. “Just chilled. Don’t want to shock your system.”

“Thanks.” You licked your lips before leaning forward to take a sip. You hadn’t realized how dry your mouth was until then.

He sat it on the table when you finished, his hazel eyes running over you. His hands gripped the railing. “How are you feeling? You look better.”

“Still hurts but it’s better. Dana’s bringing me more drugs in a bit.”

Before he could respond, Robby came into the room. “Hey, sweetheart. One icepack as requested.” He snapped it to activate it and kneaded it before handing it over. You pressed it to the back of your neck with a sigh.

“Here,” he said and folded your pillow so it would keep the icepack pressed where you wanted without you having to hold it. Your eyes closed in relief.

“Where are you at on the pain scale?” Robby asked as his fingers found your pulse on your wrist.

You huffed out a breath without opening your eyes. “Already have a doctor, Robinavitch. If you’re going to stay, you can’t doctor me.”

You could feel him wanting to argue without looking at him. Could practically feel it vibrating under his skin.

“Okay,” he said instead, hand shifting to lay on yours instead.

You opened one eye to look at him in disbelief.

A small laugh fell from his lips and he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Honey, I would do about anything you asked to keep you talking to me.”

You hummed and closed your eye. They settled to either side of you, each of them holding one of your hands. Jack kissed the back of the one he held, then Robby kissed the inside of your wrist on the other. Your lips twitched in amusement.

“You can talk. I meant it when I said I was feeling better. Another dose should kill it completely.”

“I’m going to lecture about one thing, then I’ll shut up,” Jack said.

You cracked your eyes to look at him.

“I don’t care how upset you are with us, you don’t wait three days to come to the hospital when you’re hurting like this.”

Your nose wrinkled before you could stop it. Damn it.

Robby’s gaze immediately narrowed. “How long?”

“It started before I even left the house.”

“What?” Jack snapped, the sharpness in his tone making you wince. “Sorry, sorry,” he immediately apologized, rubbing your hand with his thumb.

“Your doctor know that?” Robby asked.

“Yes.”

You could tell there was so much he wanted to say but he simply nodded once and said, “Okay.”

“I kinda like the you that’s trying to stay in my good graces,” you said. Guilt flashed through his eyes but you couldn’t bring yourself to feel bad for your words. They’d earned them.

Dana came in and hung another bag of saline. Jack slid out of the way so she could give you the next dose of meds. She looked between the men when neither of them said anything before looking to you in question.

You grinned. “I told them they couldn’t doctor if they wanted to stay.”

She laughed. “Good for you,” she said before putting them out of their misery. “Same meds as last time. If it works, she can go home under supervision. If not, she’s heading upstairs.”

“Thanks, Dana,” Jack said, voice rough with worry.

She gave you a nod and left.

“Don’t you guys need to go back to work?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even.

“Nope.” Robby leaned back in his chair, hand still on yours. “We put in for some of our PTO.”

“And Gloria’s just going to let you do that?”

“She doesn’t have a choice. Told her to get some temps in if she needed,” Robby said. “Neither one of us uses our time. Plus, we’re way over the hours we were supposed to be working the last two weeks.”

Your eyelids began to feel heavy as the new meds swamped your system.

“Hey, open your eyes, baby,” Jack said.

You blinked at him.

“This round working? Can we take you home?”

“Yeah, Jack. Take me home.”

You weren’t certain how much time passed before you became aware of your surroundings again. As you blinked away the slumber, you realized you were in Robby’s bed. Huh. At least you weren’t in the hospital. Seeing a glass of water waiting for you on the nightstand, you pushed yourself up on your elbow. You were halfway done downing it when the door opened slightly, Robby’s head popping into the gap. His concerned expression melted into a relieved smile. “Hey, you’re awake.”

You didn’t answer as you finished your water. You felt so dehydrated which was stupid considering how much fluid they’d given you at the hospital. Robby stepped into the room tapping on his phone which he slid back into his pocket when he saw you’d finished the water. He took the cup from you and set it aside. His fingers instantly found your wrist but he paused, “Can I doctor you for a second?”

“Sure,” you said, a smile teasing your lips.

He’d just finished checking your pulse when Jack stepped into the room. His gaze ran over you, assessing before giving you a bright smile. “Hey, baby. How you feeling?”

“Better. Much better.”

“Good.” He held a fresh glass of water out to you. “Mike said you were thirsty.”

“Thank you.” You took a drink then set the glass on the table. Your attention shifted to Robby who sat on the edge of the bed, fingers still on your wrist. “Will I live, doc?”

He nodded his head but didn’t look at you.

You tilted your head with a frown. “Michael, are you okay?”

“I’m sorry.” The words were quiet, broken. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Your brow furrowed as Jack sighed. “I thought we were going to give her a chance to get her bearings before we got into this.”

Robby sniffed, finally releasing his hold on you only to wipe the moisture from his eyes. “Sorry.”

“Let me go to the bathroom,” you said and Robby hopped up, offering you a hand to help you out. “We’ll talk when I get back.”

You took your time in the other room, taking the chance to wash your face and feel a bit more human. Despite the obvious pain fatigue, you looked better than you had in days. Finally, you took a breath and stepped back into the bedroom. Both men stopped talking as you opened the door and stood from where they’d been sitting on the edge of the bed.

Robby cleared his throat after Jack nudged him. “I’m, uh, sorry about before. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s fine,” you said, cutting him off. “I’d rather get the conversation out of the way if it’s all the same to you.”

“Oh, thank god,” Jack said, shoulders dropping as tension flowed from him.

You pressed your lips together to keep from snorting a laugh at the incredulous look Robby gave him. He muttered under his breath while he shook his head. He took your hand and led you over to the chair that sat in the corner of the room. “Sit. We have a couple of questions and then several things to say.”

Your gaze moved between the two of them. “Did you practice this or something?”

“Well, you were asleep for almost twenty-two hours,” Jack said.

You were only slightly surprised by that information. The meds always knocked you out. Usually not quite that long but you’d expected it. Jack sat on the edge of the bed in front of you while Robby stayed standing.

“First, Dana said you were in a flare before the headache. How long?” Jack asked.

You sighed, knowing they weren’t going to like the answer. “A couple of weeks.”

“Jesus, sweetheart. Why didn’t you say anything?” Robby said.

“What was I supposed to say? Hey, I know you’re incredibly busy at the hospital right now and barely have time to sleep but could you take care of me?”

“Yes,” Jack said without hesitation. He slid forward on the bed a bit. “That’s exactly what you should have done.”

You rolled your eyes. “Be serious, Jack.”

“I am.”

His tone was so sincere you could do nothing but look at him.

“I don’t know when you started believing that you were less important than us or our jobs, but you are not. And we’re so incredibly sorry for anything we’ve done that made you feel that way,” Robby said.

Hot tears rolled down your face before you could stop them. He swooped in immediately making hushing sounds as he wiped the tears from your cheeks. “Don’t cry, baby. You’ll get another headache.”

You sucked in a breath and tried to regulate your emotions. “I know.”

“Listen,” Jack said. “Mike and I have talked about this. We don’t want to start over. We all have to much history for that. But we do want to prove to you that you’re still our priority if you’ll let us.”

You thought about it for a moment. You loved these men. Yes, they’d hurt you, but there was reason you’d fallen in love with them in the first place. Maybe you all just needed a reminder of what that was. Finally, you nodded. “I’d like that very much.”

And prove themselves they did. They cut their hours, focused on making your relationship a priority. As Robby said, the three of you were hopefully going to be together long after they retired. It wasn’t long before your relationship was stronger than it ever had been. To the point that, though you maintained your own rooms on the off chance you needed the space, you all slept in Robby’s king-sized bed most of the time, whether he was home or not.

And the next time you had a flare that lasted for longer than a couple of days, they took turns taking care of you the way you always did for them. They loved you, and they never let you doubt that again.

Rabbot Masterlist

[s-oulpunk]

McFly July Day 16: Weird Day at Western Union

Windshield wipers beat against the rain.  It is really coming down now, pounding against the windshield in great, big golfball-sized splatters.  Joe would never admit it to his colleagues, not in a million years, but he can’t help the creeping fear that there is only so much his poor car can take.  Eventually the rain will grow too strong and – crack – the glass will splinter into a massive spiderweb.

Joe squints, leaning in closer to the wheel.  His chest presses uncomfortably against the ridge.

Is this the place?

Between the thick cloud cover and the sheet of rain, is impossible to see any of the street signs.  Joe lifts his foot from the pedal.  The car moseys slowly along the road.  It should be right around here…

As if on queue, lightning flashes across the sky.  LYON ESTATES is spotlighted with dazzling brightness.  The tightness in Joe’s chest unlocks.  Thank God.

He pulls the car up next to the sign.  He continues to squint into the steady downpour as he slides the gear into park.  Is there anyone out there?  It is too dark to tell.  This is why all his buddies at Western Union told him not to bother.

It’s a hoax, Frank had said, mouth full of his morning blueberry muffin.  Crumbs had been sticking to his beard. A joke somebody thought would be funny and now we’ve all fallen victim to their mockery.

Even Todd, Joe’s usual partner in crime, had agreed, we should have thrown that crap out years ago.  Do us all a favor and toss it in the gutter.

Joe’s hand loosens around the steering wheel.  He should be home right now.  He should be enjoying a heavy pour of whiskey on the rocks, not freezing in his ass off in this crappy dump of a car.

The only person who had supported him was their office secretary.  Personally, Mia had said, arms ladden with paperwork, I want to know the secret behind that dusty old letter.  I bet it’s a pretty good one.

Joe bets it is too.

He reaches behind him for his umbrella and, before he can talk himself out of it, swings his legs out of the car.  He is drenched within the three seconds it takes to get the umbrella open.  His frozen fingers stumble with the latch.

Woosh

The umbrella flies open.

Joe white-knuckles the handle in one hand, gripping the letter with the other.  It has grown damp and soggy in only a matter of seconds.  Leave it to him to destroy something that has lasted in near perfect condition for 70 years.

He steps hesitantly out into the road.  Is anybody out there?

Yes.  He can see a shape for sure now, nothing more than a dark lump in the middle of the road.  His stomach drops.

“Mister McFly?”

Another flash of lightning zig-zags through the sky.

The sight of the body, lit up in all its glory, sends Joe scrambling backwards before his mind is aware of the distance his feet are carrying him.  The umbrella and the letter both fall from his hands.  Adrenaline unlike he has ever felt is races through his veins.

Road kill.  That’s the word that comes to mind.  It is the only word to come to mind.

The body’s lower half is crushed to a paste, legs splayed out in every wrong direction like a raccoon on the side of the highway.  The upper half is charcoal burnt and red blistered.  Skin sags onto the asphalt like melting wax.

Joe takes another stumbling step backwards.  Phone.  Where can he get a phone?

There is a diner down the road.  He had seen it in passing, windows lit up with a yellow glow against the darkness of the night.

He dashes for the car with his feet slipping against the asphalt.

“Do you have my letter?”

Joe chokes on his breath.

The voice crackles and pops, like the bonfires on the beach from Joe’s childhood.  Except that’s not quite right.  More like a wildfire, blazing silently through the trees before anyone realizes it is about to descend on their rooftops.

Joe turns, the bones of his neck creaking.  The body is staring straight at him, eyes blazing blue against the flaky layer of skin.  It brings Joe back to being sixteen.  He is sitting at his grandmother’s dining table as smoke fills the kitchen.  The lasagna Grandma Beau pulled from the oven was covered in a hard layer of cheese, moulded together from the heat.  No sooner has he thought it when the boy’s skin begins sloughing off the same way the cheese had sloughed off the lasagna, all in one, firm layer

But the boy is smiling.  Teeth stained red and lips burnt to nothing.  The left side of his face sags.  The skin there flakes away, revealing disjointed molars and black-stained gums.  The boy grasps the asphalt with one hand and hauls himself closer, sandbag legs dragging behind him.

“Hey mister,” the fire roars dangerously close to the house, “you got my letter?”

Joe’s brain snaps.

He takes the remaining steps to the car at a run, heart hammering against his ribs and hands outstretched.  His fingers splay out with the webbing stretched impossibly far.  He slams against the side of the car hard enough for stars to dance in front of his eyes.  He doesn’t let that stop him.  Joe launches himself into the car blindly, still unable to see anything beyond a faint outline as he shifts the car into reverse.

And down the road, a pair of bone-crested fingertips close around a soggy letter.

[mia-nightsky]

When bestie throws u in as a character in their oneshot🫦

[astarlinggirl]

my head is full of poison

andrew cody x fem!reader

summary: andrew sees you talking to j and spirals, letting the poison spill out as words he can't take back.

wc: 6.8k words

warnings: 18+, jealousy (dilemma over an age gap moreso), punching a wall, tending to wounds, switch!andrew and reader (but very much dom!andrew mostly, he just needs assurance), oral (m!recieving), good boy, fingering, coming untouched, one mention of good girl, hurt/comfort

series: you seem pretty sad for a boy so in love

a/n: this is basically my version of an andrew cody character study that i started in s5 once we got more of his backstory. initially it was meant to be short but alas, i got carried away listening to the song on repeat. divider credits: @strangergraphics | soundtrack: the cure by olivia rodrigo

Deran’s bar is busy tonight, loud enough that all the conversations blur together into one. It makes Andrew’s fingers twitch, press against each other to calm the noise scratching at his brain as he enters again. He had only stepped outside to take a phone call from Craig, had only been gone ten minutes at most, but when he comes back through the doors, his eyes find you instantly.

You're sitting at the bar where he left you, but now, next to you, is J.

Not just talking, but laughing. Comfortable.

Your elbow rests against the counter, your body turned towards him, completely absorbed in whatever story he's telling. J says something and you immediately roll your eyes, shoving his shoulder with a grin. 

Andrew’s fingers twitch against his side, quicker. He tries to stop the poison from talking, from seeping into his brain. 

The sight shouldn't bother him, and it doesn't. Not in the way people assume.

Andrew knows you aren't flirting, knows you aren't interested in J. He knows, with absolute certainty, that if he walked over there right now, your face would light up the second you saw him. The problem isn't that he thinks you'll leave him for J. The problem is that he understands exactly why somebody would.

Because J is normal. Or at least as normal as any Cody gets.

J can hold a conversation without having to force the words out through gritted teeth, the words clogging at the back of his throat. J doesn’t bore his eyes into someone till the point that they leave. J’s hands don’t twitch when the noise around him gets too loud. J doesn’t scare people. Not in the way that Andrew does. 

Worse, J isn’t in his forties and still trying to figure out how to let somebody love him.

You laugh again, the soft sound carrying across the room to where he stands by the door. Andrew's jaw tightens.

Suddenly he's aware of every year between the two of you.

Maybe somebody your age would understand you better. Maybe somebody who hadn't spent their entire life emotionally stunted would know what to do with all your softness. Maybe somebody without blood permanently dried beneath their fingernails would be able to give you what you deserve.

Someone like J.

He's closer in age to you. He would understand half the words that come tumbling out of your mouth, all those strange little internet references, the videos you show him on your phone that leave him staring blankly while you laugh so hard tears gather in your eyes. 

Sometimes as you're sitting pressed against him on his couch, you'll mention a movie, a song, a memory from your childhood, and Andrew will realise he has absolutely no idea what you're talking about. Because while you were growing up, he was already well into adulthood. While you were discovering who you wanted to become, Andrew was learning how to survive another day. 

The poison bubbles in his chest. 

Andrew has always felt like in a room full of people, there’s some invisible barrier that separates him from them. Their eyes - if not widening in fear - skip past him, as though he isn’t even there. When he was growing up, the eyes used to follow Baz first. People gravitated towards him without effort, while Andrew simply existed beside him; a shadow, an extension, never quite anything on his own. As he grew older, he accepted it, the fact he'll always be on the other side of the window. 

So Andrew became Pope. He let others puppeteer his body.  

And he thinks, he knows, that you're the only person who's ever looked directly at him, through the wall, and seen something worth staying for. 

Which is why the sight of you with J hits him squarely in his chest.

What happens when you finally see him properly?

Not the version that opens doors for you or holds your hand as you enter his truck or kisses your tears when you cry. The real version. The broken and violent one. The one that's spent decades rotting from the inside out.

His jaw clenches so hard at the thought that a muscle pops out. Suddenly, it's too hard to breathe, every little noise a hammer hitting his brain, and anger rises up his chest. 

Before he can force himself to leave, before he can turn away and disappear into Deran’s office where nobody can look at him, you glance up. And see him. 

Your entire face lights up, a smile spreading so quickly across your features it almost hurts to look at.

You lift your hand and wave.

For one terrible second he wants to believe it, wants to believe he's worthy of it. Wants to believe somebody like you could really look at somebody like him and feel joy. Then his gaze flicks back to J.

The poison wins.

His lips press together, his shoulders lock. 

He needs to leave before his hands do something terrible. Before the poison inside him, clawing desperately for somewhere to go, spills onto J through bloody fists and broken bones. Before he solves another problem the only way he's ever really known how to.

And without a word, without even looking at you again, Andrew walks straight past you and J. 

It’s for your own good. You don’t need to see him like this any more than you have, you don’t need to suffer. 

Fuck.

Stop.

Andrew drags both hands over his face before clutching at his hair, head bowed.

The alley is quiet and cold, but it does little to soothe the fire in his chest. 

Sometimes, he thinks that you’ll never be able to stitch him up, not completely. Not in a way that cleanses him wholly, not in a way that sucks every toxin from his bloodstream.

And worse, sometimes, he thinks you'll keep trying anyway. That you'll dig your hands into him over and over again, trying to pull the poison out. 

And eventually you'll get sick too. Rotten from the effort of loving somebody like him. 

"Andrew?"

His eyes squeeze shut.

"Andrew, are you okay?"

He hears your footsteps approaching slowly, cautiously, the way somebody might approach a wounded animal. The thought makes the ugly thing in his stomach twist more. 

Your hand settles gently against his arm.

Andrew jerks away immediately.

The movement is sharp enough that your hand falls away completely. The poison gets louder, itching, clawing at the back of his throat.

The words leave his mouth before he can stop them.

“You sure J doesn't mind you comin' out here to talk to me?”

“What?”

Andrew can hear the sheer confusion in your voice. 

“You know what I mean,” he grits out. “You seemed pretty busy in there. Laughin’ with him. Talkin’. Probably about shit guys your age talk about.”

The second the words leave his mouth he hates them. Hates himself.

“What? No, he was telling me a story from high school. About smoking a joint behind the football stands.”

“Oh,” his laugh is humourless. “Now you're thinkin' about smokin' weed with him too?”

There’s a pause then, a long one. Andrew hates it. 

Say something. Save me. Suck the poison out, please.

“Andrew, look at me. Turn around.”

There's an edge to your voice now. His fingers twitch erratically on his side. 

But slowly, he turns around, looks directly into your eyes. They're still looking up at him with a softness he knows he doesn’t deserve.

“Andrew, honey,” you begin carefully, “I wasn't planning on smoking weed with him, okay? We were just talking.”

His throat tightens. Suddenly the softness in your voice, in your face is too much. You can see him. 

“Don't talk to me like that.”

Your face falls, brows creasing. Andrew hates himself more. 

“Like what?” 

“Like I’m some–,” He swallows hard. “Some kid that needs to be managed.”

“Andrew, I'm not doing that. I'm just telling you what happened.”

“You are.” 

The poison speaks for him.

There's nothing you can do. He's rotted, wretched, you're better without him. 

“I know I’m just some charity case to you or somethin’. Bet you were talkin’ about me with J.” 

He knows he sounds like a petulant child, the one he accuses you of considering him to be. He makes the mistake of keeping his eyes on yours, eyes that are brimming with tears.

“What?” Your voice comes out barely above a whisper. “Is that really what you think of me?”

Andrew presses his lips into a hard line, looks down at the ground. Immediately he wants to take it back, wants to hold your face in his palms and tell you no, everything he said was a lie and he’s just terrified this won't last and that you’ll leave him. 

But he won’t, he can’t say anything.

Saying it would mean admitting how terrified he actually is. And terror has always been harder for him to feel than anger.

“Andrew,” Your voice breaks slightly. “Tell me what’s wrong, please.”

He refuses to make eye contact with you, refuses to see the hurt he’s caused. 

But you are nothing if not insistent. 

“I think you're spiralling and pushing me away because you're scared,” you begin again, gently. “And I came out here because I care about you."

That makes his heart clench. Because that's the problem. You care, you care so much it hurts. And one day he's going to ruin that.

One day you're going to wake up and realise caring about Andrew Cody is exhausting. That no matter how hard you try, no matter how many nights you spend curled against his side or mornings tangled in his sheets, there will always be a pane of glass separating him from everybody else. No matter how much of himself he gives you, the same invisible barrier that's followed him his entire life will settle between the two of you too, and eventually you'll realise what everybody else already has. 

“You don't know what you're talkin' about,” his voice comes out harsher than he intends. “You think you do, with your degree, and your grades and your-your brain, but you don’t.”

Your breath hitches. 

But the poison is louder.

He needs to stop in the voices in his head. Needs to make them shut up.

He stalks up to you, close enough so you have to arch your neck to see him, close enough that he can see the slight tremble in your bottom lip.

“You'll never know me.”

He sees your face crumple. Your eyes widen in surprise before something hard settles over them.

“Fuck you, Andrew.”

The words come out shaking.

And then you turn and leave, the door swinging shut behind you.

He’s done it. He’s spread his poison onto you. The one good fucking thing in his life, he’s ruined it. 

That burst of emotion sparks in his chest, and suddenly it's too hard to breathe, to think. Suddenly he’s seventeen again and Baz has taken Julia away from him. Then Catherine. He feels that same awful feeling of something precious slipping through his fingers while he stands there powerless to stop it.

He closes his eyes to calm himself. 

Breathe. Just breathe.

Don't do something stupid. Don't do something Pope would do.

But all he sees are flashes of your eyes looking up tearfully at him. Tears that he caused. 

Poison, that’s what Andrew was. 

He paces along the alleyway, once, twice. Your expression replays over and over inside his skull. The confusion, the hurt, the disappointment.

On a loop. Again. And again.

“Fuck!”

The shout tears out of him. 

“Stop.”

He wills his brain to stop. For the feeling in his chest to loosen. 

“Stop.”

His hands knot in his hair.

“Stop.”

His voice cracks.

“Please stop.”

The memories don't listen. Your face keeps appearing. 

A harsh thud. Pain explodes across his knuckles.

For a second he doesn't even realise what happened.

Then he looks down.

Blood trickles over his fingers. The brick wall beside him is stained red.

The poison in his head softens immediately, the way it always does when he feels physical pain. It quietens to a dull roar, manageable now. 

He sucks in a slow breath in, then out. He rests his forehead against the wall, closing his eyes. He envisions your face, your smile on that picnic he took you on a week earlier.

Five months. Five months of being yours, and Andrew still occasionally caught himself looking at you when you weren’t paying attention, trying to understand what exactly happened. Trying to understand how somebody like you ended up choosing somebody like him. 

He'd made sandwiches. The ones with the jam you liked.

You'd spent the morning sitting on a lookout above Oceanside, the ocean stretching endlessly below.

You'd been lying on your back with your head resting on his arm while his fingers idly traced shapes against your wrist. He'd been quiet beside you, content to listen to the waves and your voice.

“I had this huge Greek mythology phase when I was like… fifteen.”

Andrew hummed beside you, faintly amused. 

“‘Course you did.”

You'd elbowed him lightly.

“Shut up. It was serious. I think I was just, like, coping with how much I felt.”

He glanced down at you, but said nothing. He liked listening to you talk. Liked how animated you got when something mattered to you.

“Orpheus and Eurydice destroyed me. I mean, people hate him. Like, oh, he ruined it, he turned back, he broke the rule, whatever. But–” You'd sighed, eyes fixed on the clouds drifting overhead. “I think it's one of the most human things. That he turned back.”

Andrew remembered watching you then. The way your fingers moved when you spoke. The crease that appeared between your brows when you were thinking.

“The most tragic version is the one where he makes it out. Fully,” you swallowed. “And he's just so excited to tell her about the sun. About what he saw. About life.”

Your voice softened.

“And she hadn't made it yet.”

A pause.

“So she disappeared. Because in trying to share something stupid and tender, he lost her.”

Silence hung, soft and breathless. Andrew often didn't know what to say when you talked about things like that, things that he had never heard of. But he liked it, seeing the way your brain worked. Your voice filled spaces that had spent most of his life empty.

You'd turned to look at him, expression suddenly sheepish.

“I don’t know. I just think– it makes sense to me. That kind of love.”

Andrew didn’t speak, just stared, giving the barest tilt of his mouth. And you warmed under the weight of it.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, shifting your head on his arm. “You know I talk a lot when I’m comfortable. I don’t mean to rant–”

“Don’t apologise.”

Your eyes had lifted to his. Andrew had thought about it for a second, searching for words to let you know that he understood you, valued you.

“It sounds like...” He'd paused. “Like he loved her so much she was all he could think about.”

You'd smiled, that soft one he’d secretly hoped was only reserved for him. Like he'd finally understood exactly what you meant, understood you. Something warm had settled beneath his ribs.

“Exactly.”

Then you reached up and brushed a curl behind his ear, your fingers grazing his skin.

Andrew had gone completely still. But he hadn't stopped you.

At the time he'd mostly been focused on you rather than the story itself, watching the way your face animated when you spoke about something you loved, but now the words come back to him with painful clarity.

A week ago, you'd been lying beside him talking about Orpheus, about a man so consumed by the thought of losing the person he loved that he reached for her too soon and lost her anyway.

Standing here in the alley, his knuckles split open and your tears still burned into the back of his eyelids, he realises he'd spent the entire night looking over his shoulder, waiting for proof that the worst thing he believed about himself was true. Waiting for proof that you'd eventually leave, that he wasn't enough.

For the first time all night the poison had quietened enough for him to see the truth.

You hadn't come outside because you were angry. You hadn't come outside to defend yourself. You'd come outside because you cared about him. You'd said his name softly, reached for him, and tried to pull him back from the edge he was standing on. 

And he'd looked at that woman standing there with tears gathering in her eyes and somehow chosen to believe the poison in his head over her. Somehow, impossibly, you'd looked at Andrew Cody and decided he was worth loving, and tonight he'd almost thrown that back in your face because he was too terrified to trust it.

“Fuck,” he whispered, clenching and unclenching his fist, letting the pain ground him.

And for the first time that night, Andrew wasn't just scared that you were going to leave him, he was scared that he'd actually given you a reason to as well.

Even after all these months, finding your way into Andrew's mind still feels like standing on the wrong side of a pane of glass, seeing him perfectly while never quite being able to reach him.

You wipe furiously at your face as you push back through the bar, keeping your head down and your eyes fixed on the floor, praying nobody, especially not J, notices the tears gathering faster than you can clear them away. Your chest feels tight, hollow and by the time you reach Deran's office you're already taking deep breaths. 

The door clicks shut behind you. You lean onto Deran’s desk and close your eyes, putting your head in your hands as you try to take deep breaths.

One breath. Then another. Then another.

But it doesn't help, because the words are still there.

You'll never know me.

The thing is, you've never wanted to possess Andrew. Never wanted to pry open every locked thing inside him or drag his secrets into the light. You've spent five months being patient, listening when he spoke, sitting beside him when he didn't, learning the shape of his silences as carefully as you'd learned the shape of his smile.

It's the fact that you came outside because you loved him, because you saw him spiralling and wanted to help, and somehow it still wasn't enough.

Somehow he looked at all the care you'd placed in his hands and decided you couldn't possibly mean it.

You'll never know me.

The words replay again. You squeeze your eyes shut.

Maybe that's the cruel part.

You know you'll never know all of him. No one ever fully knows another person.

Like no matter how softly you hold him, no matter how carefully you love him, there will always be some part of him standing on the other side of a locked door, convinced you'll leave eventually.

It’s worse because your mind immediately blames yourself, that the problem lies in you. The voices come back, the ones that whisper that maybe love is something you're always reaching for but never quite able to hold, that maybe you'll never be enough to make somebody stay.

As you inhale shakily, the door opens quietly in front of you.

You don't look up, even as you hear your name mumbled softly, the way Andrew only ever says it when he's scared.

Your chest tightens.

You hear the door click shut behind him, followed by the slow sound of his footsteps crossing the office, hesitant and careful.

You still refuse to look up, refuse to acknowledge him. 

“M'sorry.”

His voice cracks. The apology hurts almost as much as the argument.

“I’m so, so sorry.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your palms into them so hard you see little stars.

“I didn't mean that.”

You can’t help but let out a shaky laugh at that.

“But you did, Andrew. Maybe you didn't mean to hurt me, but you meant what you said.”

When you finally look up, his face is scrunched with distress, eyes glassy and red around the edges. His fists clench and unclench at his sides, fingers twitching restlessly as though he doesn't know what to do with himself.

You know he startles at tenderness sometimes, like somebody handed him something fragile and he's terrified he'll break it.

And you've been gentle.

God, you've been so gentle.

Because beneath all the rough edges and sharp words and anger sits the only man who's ever consistently been gentle with you.

The only man who's ever looked at your strange little tangents and endless thoughts and treated them like they mattered. And so it hurt, it hurt when he thought that you’ll leave him, that you’ll never be enough to understand him. 

“I understand you,” you whisper. “I do. I understand this ache inside of you, and how badly Smurf fucked you up, and why you think the things you do sometimes."

He sucks a breath in at that.

“And I care about you.”

Andrew's face crumples. You watch him take a step toward you.

Immediately, you lift a hand.

“No. Stay there.”

His entire body goes rigid.

You know that if he comes any closer right now you'll fold immediately, and there are things sitting inside your chest that need to come out first.

“You think you're the only person with things in their head?" you ask softly. "You think you're the only one who has a voice telling them awful things?”

His brow furrows in confusion. 

“I know it isn't the same as what you've been through. I know that.”

A tear slips free, and you wipe it away angrily. Your throat tightens.

“But I have things too. You know I do.”

Andrew's eyes never leave your face, pooling with tears now. Guilt. 

“You think that voice telling you people would be better off without you is unique?” Your voice breaks. “Andrew, I’ve spent most of my life feeling like I'll never be enough for anybody.”

“I spend so much time worrying that everybody eventually leaves. That eventually people get tired of me. That one day they're gonna wake up and realise I'm too much work.” 

Andrew closes his eyes, squeezing them shut like you've hit him.

“It’s why I've always felt like I was seen by you. And when you said that stuff tonight, when you said I'd be better off with somebody else, I just- I felt–,” your voice breaks. 

You cover your face again to muffle your sob. 

You hear Andrew moving across the room, ignoring your earlier instruction entirely.

He drops to his knees, hard, the sound reverberating in the quiet of the office. 

“Andrew, get up–”

“I’m sorry."

He presses his forehead against your chest, breath uneven. 

“M'so fucking sorry.”

You keep your head in your hands, not having the courage to look into his teary eyes. 

His arms wrap around your waist, tight.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whimpers into your chest. 

Again. And again. The words become increasingly broken each time they leave him.

“M’sorry, I didn't mean it.”

“But you did.”

“I know, I just–”

His voice cracks completely.

"I know."

You feel him press his face harder against you, like he's trying to disappear.

“Didn't want the poison gettin' on you.”

The words are muffled, barely audible. You still at that, at the thought that even in doing all that he was caring about you. 

His shoulders shake harder.

“Seeing you with J–”

He swallows, voice breaking off into a whimper.

“I just kept thinkin' you'd be better off with somebody like him.”

That gets your hands to fall away from your face immediately.

Your heart breaks, because somewhere along the way, Andrew had convinced himself that the way you loved him wasn't enough to drown out the things his own mind spat at him when it got quiet.

Both your hands come up to cradle his face, firm enough that he can't look away, your palms warm against his cheeks as you gently force his eyes back to yours.

“Andrew, honey, no.”

His eyes are red and wet when they meet yours, lashes clumped together with tears he's trying desperately not to let fall.

“Don't you do that," you whisper, your own voice breaking. “Don't you ever decide what I deserve for me.”

Your thumb brushes over his cheek gently.

“I chose you.”

His breath catches.

“I choose you.”

He whimpers, face scrunching up. For a long moment he simply stares up at you like that, like he's trying to fit the words somewhere inside himself, words that he’s felt never belong there. 

His lips press together and tremble. 

One tear slips free. Then another.

You wipe them away immediately with your thumbs, your heart aching at the way he instinctively turns his face into your touch, nuzzling into your palms. His hands come up to wrap around your wrists, holding them tight.

That’s when you look down and see it. Dark bruises are blooming across his right knuckles, the skin split and raw, fresh blood drying in the creases of his hand.

You gasp his name softly, “Andrew.”

You lift his hand carefully between both of yours, turning it over gently, your thumb barely brushing across the broken skin.

“Baby, what did you do?”

Shame floods his face immediately as he looks away from you, his brows furrowing. 

“I’m sorry.”

He tries to pull his hand away, ashamed, but you don't let him.

“Andrew, hey, it’s okay–”

“M'sorry," he repeats, his voice cracking this time. “I always ruin things. I don't... I don't know how not to.”

The end of his words dissolve into a shaky breath as he shakes his head. You feel your chest cave in.

“Hey,” you say softly, urging him to look up at you. “Hey, s'okay, honey. I’m not mad.”

You bring his injured hand up carefully, cradling it against your chest.

“Let me fix it, please. C'mon. Let me clean you up.”

Before you can move, his other hand comes up, clutching your wrist tightly, fingers suddenly tightening around you.

“Wait.”

His eyes search yours frantically. The panic returns to his face so quickly you feel your own heartbeat quicken.

“You're not gonna leave me... right?”

The question comes out as a broken whimper, so quiet that you can barely hear it.

“You're not- you're not gonna leave?” He repeats, voice a bit louder. 

Your heart shatters.

Without thinking, you move closer until your foreheads are touching, feeling his shaky breath fan your face, one hand cupping his cheek while the other remains wrapped around his bruised knuckles.

“No, Andrew.”

You brush your nose gently against his.

“Never.”

His eyes flutter shut. Yours do too. 

“Never,” you whisper again.

Andrew looks down at you as you kneel between his legs, your positions now switched on Deran's sofa. The first aid kit sits open beside you, strips of gauze and antiseptic scattered across the floor as you gently cradle his hand in both of yours, wiping away the dried blood from his knuckles with tenderness.

The noise inside his head has quietened now. Not disappeared. He isn't sure it ever truly will.

But the poison has retreated to something distant, a dull, hollow murmur instead of the deafening roar it had been only half an hour ago. Quiet enough that he can finally hear your breathing again. Quiet enough that he can watch the concentration etched across your face as you work without the voices twisting every expression into something sinister.

Your face is clear of judgement, or pity, only sheer understanding. 

Andrew thinks, maybe for the first time, that the glass between himself and the rest of the world has finally begun to crack. Before, even with you, there had always been pieces he'd kept tucked away, corners of himself he'd convinced himself were too ugly to survive the light. Not because he didn't trust you, but because he didn't know how not to.

Over the past five months he'd told you things he'd never imagined saying aloud. About Smurf. About Julia. About Cath. Words spoken in hushed whispers in the night with your bodies tangled under the sheets, his face buried safely in the crook of your neck or hidden against your chest where he didn't have to look at you while he spoke. You'd never rushed him. Never filled the silences. Just carded your fingers through his curls and listened until the shaking stopped.

But never like today. Never with him kneeling on the floor, arms wrapped around your waist, begging you not to leave him with tears in his eyes, looking like a frightened boy. 

The thought alone makes shame curl low in his stomach momentarily, before it dissolves into something warm, before it becomes poison.

He'd let you see him at his smallest, at his most frightened. 

And somehow… you'd stayed.

His eyes drift back down to your hands.

You dab carefully at another split across his knuckles before smoothing ointment over it with featherlight touches, treating him with the same gentleness you'd shown from the moment you walked into his life. Like he wasn’t something broken to something to recoil from, but something to hold a little more carefully.

He knows this conversation isn't over, knows that once when his brain isn’t so hazy, or yours so tired, you'll ask him about tonight. About the things he'd said, about the poison. About why seeing you laughing with someone else had unraveled him so completely.

But for the first time in his life, the thought doesn't fill him with dread.

Because he has faith that you'll listen, that you'll let him stumble over his words, pause for him, let him lose himself halfway through a sentence while your hand rests in his curls. That you'll answer with those soft, placating whispers that somehow never make him feel small.

It makes heat rush through him, down his spine, molten and hot. 

He tries not to get hard, but he can’t help it, not when you’d wrapped his bloody hands with such care. Especially not now, when you look up at him from under your lashes, and press a kiss so gentle and full of care against his bandaged knuckles. 

You see the tent in the pants as you drop his hand gently, and smile softly, smirk, even. Looking up at him, you rest your palms on his thighs, rubbing gentle circles over the denim.

Somehow, you always know what he wants without him saying it. 

“Do you want me to make you feel better Andrew?”

He nods, please.

He hadn't had sex with you, not yet, but you’d done other things, things involving his mouth pressed against you, lapping your slick, or your hand barely wrapping around him as you jerked him off. His relationship with sex and intimacy was always complicated, but you made him feel safe. 

You understood when he wanted to bury his fingers into you and exert his frustrations, be rough, but also when he wanted to quietly nuzzle his face into your breasts, licking, as you cooed at him. 

It felt nice, surrendering control, making something uncharacteristically warm bubble in his chest.  

“Words, Andrew,” you say more sternly. “Do you want me to suck you off?”

His cock twitches under his pants at your words, and he nods.

“Yes please, m’sorry.”

“No need to apologise, honey," you coo as you unzip his pants. He lifts up to help you pull them down along his boxers. 

Your breath hits his cock immediately as it slips out, slapping against his stomach. 

Fuck. 

He lets out a whine when you purse your lips and spit, a thin line of saliva connecting your mouth to his cock. You don’t break eye contact as you wrap a hand around him, spreading your saliva and precum down his length.

The poison becomes a dull thrum barely discernible as you slowly jerk him off. 

“Yeah, you like that Andrew?”

“It feels so- so good.”

“Good boy.”

His hips jerk up, cock throbbing. 

“Fuck, say it– say that again,” he whines.

“Say what?” you smirk as you bring your tongue down, lapping at his tip. “That you’re my good boy?”

He whimpers, the sound breaking into a loud moan as you slip him into your mouth.

“Fuck- s’warm.”

He has to force himself not to jerk up into your mouth, pleasure spiking, as you take him in, deeper, and deeper. 

You bob your head slowly, up and down his cock, fingers wrapped around what your mouth can’t fit. 

He clenches his fists on his sides in the gruelling effort to not touch you. 

You notice, somehow attuned to him even now, and take your mouth of him. 

“It’s okay baby, you can hold me,” you say, panting slightly as you gently bring his hands to your head. “Help me out. Be my good boy, c’mon.”

He groans, buries his hands in your hair, holding tight, as he slowly pushes your head down on him. 

“Just like that, fuck,” he moans. 

You suck him even harder, letting him control your movements over his cock. Spit dribbles down the corners of your mouth, onto his thighs.

“Fuck– fuck you feel s’good.”

You moan at his praise, the sound vibrating against his cock. He grunts as his hands guide you, his own thighs twitching.

Your eyes stay on his, reddening at the edges. And just as he feels like that bubble of pleasure is about to burst, you pull off suddenly.

He whines. 

You shush him gently, gently stroking him in your hands as you pant. 

“Don’t worry, keep going honey, okay?”

You press a kiss to his drooling tip, keeping your eyes on his.  

“I’m never gonna leave you.”

He moans your name, loud, closing his eyes. Fuck. 

You’re never going to leave him. 

He feels that familiar burst of heat, fingers flexing against your head, before his hands push you onto his cock again, hard. 

You gag slightly, but don't stop bobbing your head, and the sound turns him on more than it should.   

As he opens his eyes, he notices your hand has travelled down to between your legs.

Fuck, are you touching yourself?

The fast movement of your hands suggests that yes, you’ve got a hand buried in your cunt. The idea of sucking him off bringing you pleasure makes something hot shoot up his spine.

His hands tighten in your hair, a thumb rubbing your forehead.

“Fuck, m’gonna come, fuck!” 

He babbles curses as his hips jerk up once, twice, before he moans loudly and comes, face scrunched, staring at you the entire time. 

You twitch under him, moaning as his cum fills your mouth, some of it dribbling down the sides of your mouth. 

He leans back, panting. Silence, warmth fills the room.  

You slip him out from your mouth, and swallow before lapping at your hand and wiping your mouth. Cleaning yourself up. 

His cock twitches between his thighs as he pants, eyes boring into you.  

He can’t control it then, the urge to have you close. He wanted it, needed it.

“Take your clothes off and c’mere, please,” he grits out as he pats his thighs.

You nod, stripping and straddling him, thighs pressed on either side of him. He immediately wraps his arms around your waist, feeling your warmth.  

He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours as he breathes you in, your musk, him on you. 

You giggle against his lips, “You're like a puppy, you know?”

Warmth spreads across his cheeks. Even after rendering him speechless, after sucking him off, you still managed to make warmth bloom in his chest. 

He shakes his head, muttering a quiet “shut up” before he presses his lips to yours. 

You moan into his mouth, bringing your hands up, one cupping his face while the other buries itself in his curls. 

“Take your shirt off, please,” you whimper into his mouth. 

Without taking his eyes off yours, he grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head before tossing it aside. The moment it's gone, he's reaching for you again, one arm tugging you closer. 

Your lips move against each other sloppily, unhurried. 

The poison retreats to a distant murmur, drowned beneath the weight of your presence until all that's left is you. Your hands in his hair. Your soft moans against his lips. Your tongue sliding against his.

His other hand drags down your breasts, your stomach, until he reaches your mound.

He sucks in a deep breath when he feels your slick, immediately rubbing slow circles on your clit.

“You’re so wet, baby. S’all for me?” He asks softly, seeking assurance even as he has you pressed against him.

You nod, eyes hazy.

“Yes Andrew, s'all for you, honey.”

His expression softens almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth threatening the smallest smile. The warmth blooming in his chest has nothing to do with his own desire and everything to do with being wanted, with being looked at as though there is nowhere else in the world you'd rather be.

“Gonna make you feel even better,” he mumbles as he brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking them to taste your slick. His cheeks hollow, and you whine, “please, please inside me Andrew.”

He smirks slowly at that, at how desperate you sound for him, as he brings his hand down. His thumb continues rubbing slow circles as he presses two fingers at your entrance. 

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

He pushes them in, and you let out a loud groan against him. Thrusting his fingers in and out against your warm walls, watching your face scrunching up in pleasure. His own cock twitches up, hardening under your ass.

Both of you pant against each other as he brings you closer and closer to your release, fingers speeding, jerks his own thighs up to rub his own cock against your soft skin. 

“Yeah, you like that?”

“Fuck– yes! Please don’t stop,” you moan as you grind your hips against his hand, riding his fingers. His hand tightens around your waist, guiding you.

AS he circles your clit faster, he presses his fingers against the spot inside you that always makes your back arch, makes you moan harder.

Andrew isn’t one to dirty talk too much, but he thinks of how gentle you were with him, how good you were to him, and the words just slip out.

“Such a good girl for me. My good girl.”

You moan, the loudest you have all night, eyes drooping as your hips move faster against him, hands tightening in his curls. 

He feels your cunt clench around him so tight he halts his movements. And then you come, pulsing around his fingers, brows furrowed and eyes closed. 

Fuck, his cock pulses, twitches. 

Seeing you reach your peak is always Andrew’s greatest pleasure, watching the way your face scrunches, the way your moans change their cadence. 

And he can’t help but lean forward, pressing his face against your neck, tears pooling in his eyes as his pleasure snaps, and he comes untouched. He thrusts up abruptly against your ass, groaning loudly as he covers it in his cum.  

The room falls quiet again as he slips his fingers out of gently, save for the sound of both of your pants.

You twitch against him, still catching your breath, and murmur a quiet, "come here." 

He lifts his head immediately at the sound of your voice, letting you guide him upward with gentle hands. You cup his face and press a slow, lingering kiss against his lips, your foreheads touching when you part.

Then your thumb brushes beneath his eye. He hadn't even realised tears had slipped as he came again. You wipe them away with impossible care, smiling at him as though they aren't something to be embarrassed by.

“M'not gonna leave you, yeah?" you whisper. His lashes flutter.

“Especially not for J.”

The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself.

“...Still don't like him,” he mutters.

You let out a little giggle, the sound small and tired and impossibly beautiful, before shaking your head and tucking your face into the crook of his neck.

One arm circles your waist, the other cradles the back of your head.

He buries his face in your hair and closes his eyes.

With the way he feels the poison quieten with you, with the way you understand him, maybe you could stitch him up, piece by piece. He’d still have scars, Smurf made sure of that, years of violence made sure of that. But maybe they didn't have to keep bleeding forever.

And maybe, a scarred thing can still be tended to, can still turn out to be how Andrew feels in moments like these, something dangerously close to whole.

i think i lowkey really cooked with the metaphors and all in this (thank you ms olivia - your brain is amazing). i also still think i'm still trying to get his voice right during smut, and i have no clue if the positions were right bc im chud and have no experience, apologies. anyways this is for andrew, who made it out, and is living with the love of his life halfway across the world, down undah (with me).

[se7entyrell]

coach!robby who does his absolute best to keep you away from his old nemesis jack, because he knows exactly how abbot's mind works. especially since the two of you have been hooking up since he became your coach.

tennis player!jack who's a little washed up, but still making his rounds on the tournaments and winning occasionally. he makes most of his money from books and ted talks, but he can't quite quit tennis yet

tennis player!jack who seeks you out at a tournament. you're young, pretty, and robby's newest protege. turns out, you're in need of a friend and confidant. a position jack is more than happy to fill.

coach!robby who has to watch jack win you over, and knows he's got to do something about it if he wants to keep you

which is how you end up in a hotel room in sydney, overstimulated to the point of tears between two tennis legends

[mia-nightsky]

As a former tennis player, this is fucking hot

[loves-alibi]

Michael says Jack is lonely. Maybe that's why neither of you saw what was happening. (f!reader)

He takes up so little space in your home. You suppose it makes sense. Jack does have his own, one he and his wife built, just as Michael and you did. Jack isn't staying with you for pleasure. From the moment Michael broached the topic, talked about how Jack has to return to an empty house every morning, you knew how necessary this arrangement was.

Still, Jack moves like a shadow. Because of their schedule, Jack is rarely around when Michael is home, only making his presence known around mid-afternoon. That's around when Jack decides to end his daily five-hour retreat into the guest bedroom. You know he doesn't sleep. During the day when you're home alone with Jack, working in the office right down the hall, all you can hear is sheets rustling and the bed creaking.

When Jack emerges, it's a different story. He's present, friendly, and willing and able to tell a goddamn good story. Sometimes, conversation flows so well that you have to remind yourself that Jack is still mourning and may need space during his few hours of free time, but your attempts to not overwhelm him typically end with Jack finding you wherever you're holed up to keep chatting you up.

You find it easy to be with Jack, to talk to him. Not that speaking with Robby is difficult, but he's at work so much, and when Michael does eventually come home he's just so tired. You never want to burden him with your problems on top of everything that he already dealt with at work.

With Jack, you see him after he's just woken up. A little venting-session comes more naturally when you know it's not going to be the straw that breaks your husband– or Jack's –back. It's the same reason why Jack always talks to you when he returns from work in the morning. You're awake enough from sending Robby off to the hospital to be an eager, enthusiastic listener.

Needless to say, you like Jack. You have no reason to think that anything was unusual, not even when your friends began to make comments. They joke that you're basically having an emotional affair. The first time one of them says it, you laugh so much you nearly pass out. You tell Michael about it on the ride home. He doesn't laugh when you mention the ridiculous little comment, but he does say how glad he is that you're getting along with Jack.

You don't tell Jack about it, though. Not even the next week, when Jack wakes up on your day off with a nice bottle of Kentucky Bourbon. You think about it though, in the moment right before you convince yourself that day-drinking isn't bad for you if you do it with a doctor. Fortunately, it doesn't sour your afternoon, which unfolds with laughter and good company. By sundown, you and Jack are huddled on one end of the couch, talking in hushed tones about, of all things, your weddings.

Jack holds it together fairly well. Despite the grief and the alcohol, his voice is solid when he talks about his wife. Perhaps he's always like this, but you prefer to think it's the comforting hand you place just above his knee that helps Jack speak so freely.

He talks more of their marriage, of his wife. You smile and nod along, sniffle when the emotions become too much for you. Eventually, your head falls to the side, resting against the bicep Jack has thrown over the back of the couch. Jack stops speaking then and observes you. He takes so long to do so that your heart begins to pound in your ears. Then, he speaks.

"You know," Jack brushes a strand of loose hair behind your ear. "You look like her."

That's the moment you first question it. For a fleeting second, but in a full, coherent sentence, you think— now, that's unusual! Quickly,, the thought passes. The brief contact– the comment –gets swallowed up by the booze metabolizing in your stomach, and in the matter of seconds you've entirely forgotten about it in the first place.

When Michael returns that night, he finds you with a lazy grin and a blushing Jack at your side. You point to the nearly empty liquor bottle and tell him to catch the fuck up. He does. Like you, Michael lets the liquor quiet those thoughts of why his wife was getting drunk with his best friend. Though, perhaps the bitterness linger, because when Robby fucks you that night, he makes sure that you don't swallow all those pretty noises you used to make before Jack moved in.

When you truly question the arrangement is at the start of a long weekend. You and Michael have off and decide that the best way to spend the day is by doing nothing, so you lay in bed, snoozing the daylight away. At least, that was the plan.

Ten minutes to nine, the sound of the front door opening and closing reaches your bedroom. It wakes you, but you know well enough that it's only Jack coming home from his double shift. Then, the door to your bedroom opens.

There isn't ample time for you to sit up before a warm body slides into bed behind you. Michael is free to jolt upright. He looks ready to kill before his face falls.

"Morning, sweetheart," Jack's voice fills your ears as arms— also Jack's! —wrap around you. When you attempt to remove yourself, Jack tightens his hold, "Jus' wait a bit. Wanna hold you when I…" Jack's breathing evens. You think he's fallen asleep, but when you try to slip away, Jack utters a name.

His wife's name.

Michael curses softly in front of you. His face is twisted in pain, but as much as your heart aches for Jack, you would very much like to not be spooned by your sleep-deprived friend in front of your husband.

"Michael—"

"Don't," your husband grunts. The blankets pool at his waist. You're still frozen in bed, muscles taught at Jack's hands glide along them. They're lazy motions, ones you've felt countless times from Michael when he's come home from a shift half-dead and almost entirely asleep. "Is he hurting you? Are you… uncomfortable?"

"No," you shake your head, slowing your breath to hopefully stop your heart from pounding like it is. Your effort is made useless when Jack's hand, the one that had been resting on your abdomen, shifts upwards. "Michael," you gasp, voice thin as you try not to look as affected as you are. "He's touching my…"

Your husband's eyes fall to your breasts, once barely covered by your nightgown and now encompassed by Jack's large hand. You feel the calloused pads of his fingers through the silk negligee. Michael's eyes darken, but you find no anger there. None, not even at the sight of another man's hand on you.

When his gaze find your face again, you find his expression that of worry. "Do you want him to stop?" Michael asks.

"What?" Your face heats as you stutter, "M-Michael, he's touching my tit!"

"That's not what I asked, baby," Michael says softly. "It's okay. If you don't want him to stop, that's okay."

Your mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. It feels as though your brain has stopped working entirely.

Michael just smiles, truly smiles. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, and you're reminded of the same motion, done by hands so similar to the ones brushing your concealed nipple.

Michael leans down, his lips brushing yours as he whispers, "If it means anything, I like seeing his hands on you."

[se7entyrell]

pretty when you cry🍒🌅 [act one/three]

(andrew 'pope' cody x reader)

1971. Running from a past you're desperate to forget, you find yourself waitressing in the pits of LA's seedy underbelly. When you're offered a gig at Oceanside Videos, making 'adult' films, it feels almost too good to be true. Maybe it is. Pope is the first person you meet from that world - one of the biggest names in porn, and completely and utterly elusive. Except to you he seems like an open book. He's kind, thoughtful, and makes you feel alive in ways you thought were no longer possible. But how can you possibly fall in love in an industry that runs on you both having sex with other people?

warnings: 18+, mdni! this is the most explicit fic i have ever written, minors absolutely do not interact. it also deals with some sensitive and upsetting themes related to the porn industry - if you'd like more specific warnings, please reach out! graphic sex (mostly with pope, but she makes videos with other men too), including unprotected pinv, cunnilingus, blowjobs, use of sex toys, issues with safe-words while filming (not by pope), rough and non-consensual scenes played out in the context of making a porno, domestic violence (not by pope), graphic violence described outwith the domestic violence context, drug use by multiple characters, discussions of overdose, suicidal ideation, age gap (early 20s/mid thirties), time-accurate biases towards sexuality+women, smurf is creepier than canon and micromanages her sons doing porn, pic below is just for vibes and reader is not described w/c: 11.6k

main masterlist // pope masterlist

Deep in the San Fernando Valley - approximately halfway between Encino and North Hollywood - lies Oceanside Videos. In the late thirties, it had been an office building - an insurance agency, or something equally boring. The war had put paid to that, and the hulking property sat in near desolation for twenty years.

Apparently, the local government had wanted it demolished. Thought it was an ‘eyesore’ to the local nature, even though plots were being bought and built on faster than anybody could keep track of.

Whatever happened, the paperwork didn’t go through in time, and it ended up in the hands of Janine ‘Smurf’ Cody. A former cocktail waitress with five kids to different men (other than the twins), no one really knew where she got the funds from.

Nobody dared ask any questions.

Not with the Cody reputation hanging over the place.

Rumours of gangs, the mafia and more swirled, all while quiet renovations were made to the lot. When it finally opened it’s doors in 1967, controversy was rife amongst the community. Sure, Los Angeles was all about the hippie counterculture, and sexual liberation, but none of the local Angelinos were thrilled about a porno production company opening up just a few streets over from their schools.

Gone were the tiled floors, and lines of identical desks - replaced instead with plush velvet furniture and shaggy carpets. They even created their own backlot, filled to the brim with whatever sets the common porn film may need. Fake schools, houses, offices - Smurf thought of it all.

Including her stars.

The girls were largely nameless at first - pretty things who needed to make some quick cash. Very rarely would someone hang around for more than one or two. Julia Cody tried it very briefly, before getting into a fight with her mother and storming off set, never to be seen again. The only reason they know that she’s still alive are from the postcards she occasionally sends Pope. Last he heard, she was living up in a commune in San Francisco.

The boys, however?

Almost entirely Cody.

Deran’s an easy sell. As Los Angeles becomes more comfortable with homosexuality, there’s considerable market for men. Helps that Deran enjoys the work, too. He’s never once complained.

Baz had been the first best-seller. His initial videos did so well that Oceanside starting hosting their own premieres for each picture they produce - it’s a decidedly seedy affair, full of people you wouldn’t want to run into past midnight on Hollywood Boulevard. Despite being the only non-Cody, Baz is on such an upward trajectory that he pulls everybody else up with him. Oceanside Videos goes from being a bunch of nobodies, to challenging the biggest and brightest of the European porn industry.

Craig is Smurf’s dark horse. Where the other boys have hard lines, and lists of things they categorically will not do on film, Craig hasn’t found a kink that didn’t call to him yet. His audience trends nicher, more hardcore, but he has his fans anyway.

And finally, Andrew himself.

Initially dismissed by Baz and his mother, nobody really thought he would have much draw. He’d never been great with girls growing up, and it’s easy to imagine that awkwardness carrying in front of the camera. It’s a slow start. He’s a little stiff at first, doesn’t know quite where to put his hands. Baz jokes that it must be his first time.

But by 1971, the fourth anniversary of Oceanside, Pope has eclipsed them all. Turns out, girls love the brooding thing he’s got going on. His broad shoulders, deep voice, and signature curls combine in the most lethal way, making him the biggest earner of the seventies so far.

Especially now that Baz has stepped back a little. It’s Pope’s world, and everybody else is just living in it.

Except he doesn’t seem to know how to live in it at all.

There’s the Laurel Canyon mansion - bought only to get some distance from his family. With the rest of them shacked up in Beverly Hills, the half-hour drive between him and them is a godsend. When he spends all day with Smurf, the last thing he needs is to be around their ragers that last until the next morning.

He knows she’d rather he lived nearby - ideally on the Cody compound itself, but she’s in no position to make demands. Not when he’s her biggest money-maker these days.

There’s also the Cherry Red 1969 Mustang. Admittedly, that was one thing he’d really wanted. Having spent his childhood admiring the cars that sped by Venice Beach, it was one of the few luxuries he allowed himself to fully enjoy. He couldn’t not enjoy it - not when he’s cruising along Mulholland Drive, blasting the new Doors record at full volume.

Where the others revel in their fame, and abuse it in whatever ways they can - Pope seems to shrink in on himself. He has no real interest in the hard drugs - after a brief stint on cocaine in the mid-sixties, he eventually swore off it entirely in favour of weed.

He’s not a virtuous man. Has never claimed to be.

He just hates feeling out of control.

That tends to surprise people. They hear the stories about Oceanside, about the parties and the arrests and the smashed hotel rooms, and they assume Pope must be the worst of them. The scary one usually is.

While Baz disappears into bedrooms with aspiring actresses and Craig seems determined to ingest anything handed to him, Pope spends most parties lurking at the edges. Nursing the same beer for hours. Watching everyone else unravel, while he plots his exit route.

It almost adds to the charm.

Nobody ever truly knows Andrew, outside of his family. That excites people, and draws them in further. Makes them buy his movies.

Today is no different than any other day in this industry. His pants are down around his ankles, his hair thoroughly mussed while they film the literal climax of the picture. Pope’s barely paying attention, hips snapping against some girl from Wyoming while she whines and whimpers under him. Or was it Missouri? Maybe Kansas, actually.

Either way, it’s somewhere he has absolutely zero interest in visiting.

Her lipstick is stained across his jaw and collarbone, but not his lips. Never his lips. One of Pope’s little quirks, as Smurf would call it, is that he doesn’t kiss on the lips.

He’ll eat a girl out until she cries, and coat his lips in her cum, but will flat-out refuse to go any closer than the neck with actresses. A few girls have tried, claiming either to be lost in the heat of the moment, or just not thinking at all, but he always dodges it. It’s also the surest way to be kicked off an Oceanside set, and have your contract suspended.

He doesn’t need kissing to make a film good. Great, even.

Most people find that difficult to understand. The assumption is that someone who lives their life surrounded by sex must always want more of it, when the reality is almost exactly the opposite.

Pope spends ten hours a day discussing chemistry, attraction, boundaries, consent, comfort levels, camera angles, and performance. Every expression is analysed. Every touch is planned. Every intimate moment is broken apart and rebuilt until it serves the scene.

By the end of the day, there is very little mystery left in it.

None of it translates to personal interest. Unfortunately, every few productions, someone decides that the chemistry they created together on camera must mean something off camera too.

It never does.

Pope’s not sure he’ll ever feel a need for sex outside work again. Often he feels he must be broken in some horribly fundamental way. Craig and Deran would screw anything that moves, and while Baz claims loyalty to Cath and Lena, Pope’s walked in on him with more than one barely-legal model.

Smurf’s always said he was wired a little differently.

He knows what that means.

Wrong. Freak. Weirdo.

When Julia was still here it was manageable. She knew, even if she didn’t quite understand.

But now she’s gone, and all he has left are Smurf and porn.

*****

Somewhere in Huntington Beach, you also feel like you’re wired differently. Growing up in Dallas in the fifties, you were surrounded by conservatism. Every woman in your family aspired to be no more than a housewife, and every man saw more of the local dive bar than he did of his own children.

Ever since you could talk, it hasn’t felt right for you. Dallas was all about keeping up appearances. Your mother spent her days fighting dust, starching shirts, and making sure the kids were seen and not heard. Your father and uncles were ghosts who smelled of stale tobacco and cheap whiskey. The only thing worse than their absence was their presence.

You spent your childhood hiding in the branches of the backyard pecan tree. From up there, the neat rows of suburban houses looked like a grid of tiny boxes. You would stare at the horizon where the flat Texas earth met the sky, wondering how far you would have to run to find some semblance of peace.

Eventually, the answer came to you, in the form of a biker blowing through town the summer of your seventeenth birthday.

Jim De Costa.

Allegedly. Now, you’re not sure that’s his real name. But at seventeen, he could have told you his name was Jimmy Dean, and you would’ve believed him wholeheartedly.

He was the most worldly person you’d ever met - somehow on top of every book, record and movie going, despite living out of motels and inns as he travelled aimlessly. He’d been to Paris, was friendly with an upcoming band called the Eagles who we swore were going to be the next biggest thing, and had seen JFK get assassinated the last time he was passing through Texas.

The beauty of hindsight is the fact that you realise it’s a load of horseshit within a year. Unfortunately for you, by that point you’re across the country, and entirely dependent on him.

The warning signs were there, of course. You just chose not to see them. There were the sudden late-night departures from motels when the manager asked too many questions. There were the gaps in his stories, and the way his mood could turn from warm to freezing if you asked the wrong question. But back then, you were too drunk on the open road to care. You packed your life into a single canvas bag and rode away from Texas without once looking back in the rear-view mirror.

For a while, it felt exactly like the life he'd promised.

You woke up in different states every few weeks. Oklahoma bled into Colorado, Colorado into Arizona.

It quickly became apparent that nobody cared if you were underage. Not if you paid cash, kept quiet, and stayed out of trouble.

Every morning brought a new horizon. Every night brought a new story from Jim. He knew a guy in Nashville who'd written songs for The Mamas and Papas. He'd smuggled liquor across the Canadian border. He'd once spent three days stranded in the desert with nothing but a hunting knife and a canteen.

Some of the stories seemed too random to be made up. Like his tales of some hippie guy up in San Francisco - a Charlie Manson who could hypnotise women, and convince them to do whatever he wanted.

But the details would change every time, and soon even the most mundane stories felt like lies.

Maybe there was a small part of you that recognised the contradictions from the beginning, but admitting they were lies would have meant admitting you'd thrown away everything for a stranger.

The first cracks started to show in Nevada. After eighteen months of floating aimlessly, money grew tighter, while Jim grew meaner.

At first, it was little things.

He started keeping hold of the cash. Said you were careless with money. Said you didn't understand how expensive life on the road could be. Whenever you asked how much you had left, he'd laugh and tell you not to worry your pretty little head about it.

The charming drifter who'd swept you off your feet began disappearing for days at a time, returning with bruised knuckles and pockets full of cash. If you asked where he'd been, his smile would flatten.

If you asked twice, he'd stop speaking altogether, and you learned quickly that silence was worse than shouting. Silence meant days of cold shoulders and locked motel bathroom doors. It meant him sleeping with his back turned to you. It meant wondering what you'd done wrong this time.

Eventually you'd apologise just to make it stop. Even when you had no idea what you were apologising for.

The first time he put his hands on you, it barely registered.

You were arguing in a motel outside Albuquerque. About what, you can't remember now. Most of your arguments blurred together eventually. You only remember reaching for your bag.

His grip had been rough and his voice low, as his fingers wrapped around your wrist, tugging sharply. You remember letting out a cry, dropping whatever you were reaching for.

The bruise had lasted for days.

He said you needed to listen to him more.

As though you had forced him into the assault. He apologised afterwards, naturally. Profusely. He bought you dinner, held your hand across the table, and told you he'd been scared of losing you.

You had believed him, and accepted his excuses, because the alternative was a far more terrifying pill to swallow. That maybe Jim wasn’t your knight in shining armour.

The shift happened so slowly that you didn’t notice the lines being redrawn. It started with a heavy shove during an argument at a party, causing you to stumble into a couple standing behind you. He had caught you by the elbow and laughed it off.

Soon, it turned to throwing things. He didn't aim at you, at least not at first. Instead, a heavy glass ashtray would shatter against the drywall right above your shoulder. A coffee mug would explode against the kitchen cabinets, spraying sharp ceramic shards across your bare feet. The message was clear. You understood exactly what those flying objects meant. He would always have power over you, and was totally unafraid to wield it.

Every incident came with an explanation. He was stressed about money. He was exhausted. He’d had a rough life before he met you, and his nerves were shot. You had just caught him at a bad moment.

The first time he hit you, you left.

He’d spent the entire day drinking, eventually talking you into hitting a few parties, even though you had cramps and could see the whole thing far enough. According to Jim, the bartender was flirting with you, and you were letting him.

On your end, you were just trying to order another round.

Conscious of the fact that everybody was staring at you both, you had dragged him outside, begging and pleading for him to stop with the yelling. That he was scaring you. That you were sorry. When you tried to pull away, he used his free hand to strike you across the face - a heavy, open-handed slap that split your lip against your teeth and sent a coppery taste flooding into your mouth.

You slid down the wall when he let go, your knees hitting the concrete while he stood over you, shouting words that felt like background noise compared to the loud throbbing in your jaw.

You made it a week on your own before he came crawling back. And like the weak, spineless girl you were, you took him back, and things stayed much the same for another two years, before you called it quits for the last time.

Now, you’re standing at a bus-stop in Huntington, with a single bag of belongings, and no idea what you’re going to do next. The reality of your situation is settling in, and you dig into your pocket and pull out your crumpled dollar bills, counting them twice just to be sure. It’s barely enough for a couple of dinners, much less rent or bus tickets.

But you have to get out of here.

If you stay, Jim will find you, and you’ll end up exactly where you started.

Letting out a shaky breath, you make your choice. Stepping away from the bus stop, you look at the shimmering black asphalt of the highway stretching north. To Los Angeles.

You think about your vague, half-baked dreams of Hollywood as a child. Maybe this is where you were meant to be all along. Your heart pounds against your ribs as you raise your right hand, sticking your thumb out toward the oncoming traffic.

*****

The neon sign outside buzzes with a low, wet hum that always gives you a headache by midnight. A far cry from the bright lights of Hollywood, The Velvet Troubadour had been the only place to offer you a job without asking too many questions.

Most places wanted to know about your education (none), work experience (none), and what had brought you to the city (a desire to disappear).

The Velvet Troubadour, not to be confused with the infinitely more successful club in West Hollywood, s a dim, sticky dive on the edge of the city that serves cheap rye to men with heavy eyes, while a rotation of bored girls dances on a small wooden stage under a pink spotlight.

The uniform is an absolute joke. In what can only be described as a cross between a bikini and a maid’s outfit, you’re expected to prance about in five inch heels with a smile plastered to your face for the whole shift. Every time you bend over to pick up an empty glass, you feel the weight of twenty stares anchoring onto your back. You hate the way the cheap fabric smells of stale sweat and cigarette smoke, no matter how many times you scrub it in the sink of your rented room. You hate the mandatory heels that make your arches ache before the dinner rush even starts. Most of all, you hate the way the manager, a sweaty man named Lou, looks you up and down every shift to make sure you haven't gained an ounce.

But the job pays in cash every night, and right now, cash is the only thing keeping you from the sidewalk.

You learn the specific art of laughing at a terrible joke just long enough to secure a dollar tip, while keeping your body just out of arm's reach. Whenever a hand strays too close to your hip, your muscles go rigid. A cold spike of panic shoots through you, giving you flashbacks to Jim. You sidestep the reach with a practiced, icy smile, your knuckles tight with tension until you make it back behind the bar.

Almost all your customers are men. Comes with the territory, given the kind of place you work at. Which is why you notice her as soon as you step out from the dressing rooms. She’s commanded the entire back corner - there are a few men in tow, but it’s clear she’s in charge.

Lou appears at your back, and you flinch. Old habits die hard. “Go take care of her, yeah? Start her with a round on the house.”

“Who is she?”

Her hair isn’t a natural blonde - it’s bleached and fried in a way that can only come from years of heat damage. Maybe decades, based on the leather-look of her skin. But you get the sense that the blonde might be so deeply ingrained in her sense of identity that she wouldn’t know what to do without it.

“Head of Oceanside Videos,” He replies, as if you should already be familiar with what that is. When your expression remains blank, he lets out annoyed huff. “They're the biggest porn production company in Southern California. Name's Smurf. Call her Ms. Cody.”

While you don't know much about porn, you do know about California - particularly the fact that the Valley is infamous for its adult film industry. For this lady to run the top production company in the area, she must know her stuff.

“Got it.” You begin the walk over, suddenly very conscious of the height of your shoes. Men love the stumble, the slight sway as you bend down to place their drinks on the table. Makes them feel powerful, when they can put their hands on your waist, murmuring a quiet, “hey there,” into your ear.

With the way Smurf appears to be sizing all the girls up, you feel a strange urge to please her blooming in your chest.

You flash her your best and brightest smile. “What can I get for you all tonight? First round is on the house tonight.”

Normally when you take orders, you scribble a couple of letters to keep you right, but something about Smurf keeps you from reaching for the notebook in your pocket. In years to come, you’ll wonder how your life would’ve turned out if you’d just written the orders down.

You repeat them like a mantra on your way to the bar, and are filled with relief when she nods at you approvingly as you bring them back. You’re about to ask if they need anything else when she beckons you over with a neon pink nail. On closer inspection, it looks almost like a claw. “You're a cute little thing, huh? How long have you been working here?”

It's said with a layer of condescension that would bother you, were you not entirely accustomed to it by now. From all kinds of patrons. “Just a few months.”

“Figured. I would've remembered you, that's for sure. Come here, sweetcheeks,” She murmurs, patting the empty spot beside her. “You like working here?”

You know what Lou would want you to say.

Oh, yeah. It's real groovy, having men sleaze all over me for minimum wage.

You know that's not going to fly with Smurf. Instead, you go for a half-truth. “It pays the bills.”

“Mhm,” She hums, like she’s not at all surprised. “Why’d you move here, honey? Movies? Music? Modelling?”

This makes you bristle a little. Why does the very nature of Los Angeles entitle people to knowing the personal lives and stories of complete strangers? Especially since one look at Smurf tells you she once had those ambitions too. Now, you figure she must live vicariously through those that she manages.

“Just needed a change,” You reply, tone inviting no further conversation.

“I see,” She replies. “Well - is this how you envisioned your life here?”

“Not exactly,” you say slowly, trying to choose your words carefully. It doesn’t seem to matter. Smurf hasn’t so much as glanced as anybody else since you sat down.

“It never is,” She says, tilting her head so the harsh light catches the heavy gold chains around her neck. Her eyes narrow as she looks you up and down, scanning you the way a pawn shop owner examines a piece of old silver. “You’ve got a look, honey. A real specific kind of look that makes people look twice.” She pauses, letting the noise of the crowded bar fill the silence between you. The clinking of glasses and the low roar of drunk laughter feel miles away.

“A look like that is worth real money,” she continues, her voice dropping into a smooth, confidential purr. “Way more than the pennies you drag off these tables. I run a boutique production company just outside the city. High-end adult features. Very artistic, very private.”

She waves a manicured hand dismissively, as if casting away the entire concept of regular work. Her long, acrylic nails click against the laminated tabletop. “I’m not talking about the cheap, dirty stuff you find in the back alleys,” she says, her tone dripping with a layer of pity that makes your stomach twist. She speaks down to you with the effortless grace of someone who believes they are tossing a lifeline to a drowning swimmer. The worst part is that you think you may be exactly the kind of girl she thinks you are. Totally desperate. “I’m talking about real production value. And I happen to be looking for a fresh face for a new project.”

Smurf reaches into her leather handbag, her rings clicking against the brass zipper. She pulls out a thick, glossy business card with embossed gold lettering and slides it across the wet wood of the table. It stops right against the edge of your tray.

“Think about it,” she murmurs, sliding back into the shadows of the booth. “A girl like you shouldn't waste her best years wiping up spilled beer.”

You look down at the gold lettering on the card, the edges already soaking up a ring of condensation from a stray beer glass. You don’t immediately reach for it, but you don’t push it away either. Instead, you look straight into her eyes, keeping your voice cool and steady.

“What’s the compensation like?” You ask. If you’re going to sell your soul to the devil, you’ve got to make sure it’s worth it.

A slow, genuine smile spreads across Smurf’s face, replacing her plastic smirk. She lets out a soft, approving hum and leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Straight to the point. I like it.” She taps a long, acrylic nail against the card. “I'll give you a hundred bucks cash just for showing up and doing a basic camera test at the headquarters tomorrow. If we both like how it looks, the real paychecks would allow you to live a very comfortable life.”

A hundred bucks would guarantee a roof over your head for the next two weeks. After spending months bouncing around the couches of acquaintances, you’ve finally run out of people to call, and have been subjected to the worst motels LA has to offer. You stand there and think it over, the heavy tray resting against your hip. You look around the dingy bar, listening to the sticky floors crunch under your shoes and watching Lou yell at a customer near the jukebox, and your decision becomes crystal clear.

This cannot be your life.

But you also aren't stupid. You know exactly what a camera test in Smurf's world means. It isn't just standing under bright lights and posing. It means having sex with a total stranger while a lens records everything. A cold wave of nausea hits your stomach, but the thought of sleeping on the street next week feels a whole lot worse. You swallow down the panic and force yourself to look casual. “I don’t have a car, so I don’t know how I’d get there.”

“Don’t sweat it, sweetcheeks,” Smurf says, her voice dropping so low that it’s barely audible. “I'll have a car pick you up right here in front of the club tomorrow morning. 2 PM sharp. Just make sure you're ready.”

You nod, already having the feeling that you might be making the biggest mistake of your life.

*****

You’re standing on the curb outside the Troubador by half-past one. After your shift, you’d barely slept a wink, too busy tossing and turning as you envisioned all the ways that today could go wrong.

You’ve only slept with two people in your whole life. How on earth is that supposed to translate to a career in porn?

The sex with Jim wasn’t even anything to brag about. He rarely made you finish, only taking the extra effort when he wasn’t hammered or in a foul mood.

Expecting a cab, or maybe a modest Volkswagen, your jaw is thoroughly dropped when a limousine pulls up to the curb. The driver’s head emerges from the front window to confirm your name, and soon a glass of champagne is being pushed into your hand as you get comfortable in the back.

The drive doesn’t take long, but you know you would’ve been walking for hours, had you tried to attempt it yourself. God, you miss having access to a car. The limousine pulls up to a stark, sun-bleached stretch of the valley, and the driver kills the engine. Through the tinted window, you get your first real look at Oceanside.

The building is an old, boxy office complex that has seen better days. It looks like it used to house insurance adjusters or dental accountants, but the new tenants have done their best to scrub away the corporate boredom. The exterior is slapped with a fresh coat of blinding, flamingo-pink paint that practically screams under the harsh California sun. A giant, modern logo reading Oceanside Videos is bolted over the front doors, the metallic letters gleaming in the heat.

You step out of the air-conditioned luxury of the car, and the thick afternoon heat hits you like a wall. Walking up the concrete path, you feel a nervous flutter in your stomach. You look down at your outfit, a sudden spike of uncertainty hitting your chest. Having zero idea how one is supposed to dress for such an occasion, you’d finally landed on a floral halter top and a pair of denim shorts, hoping the look comes across as casual and attractive. Standing here now, you start to worry that you look naïve, or worse, totally desperate.

You barely reach the top of the concrete steps before the heavy glass door swings open. Smurf is standing there waiting for you, looking completely in her element against the blinding pink backdrop. She wears a sharp, cream-coloured pantsuit that looks like it cost more than you would make in a year, and she smiles widely as soon as she sees you.

“Oh hun, look at you!” Her voice is a coo, one you imagine she might have used for any children she may have had when she was younger. She doesn’t really strike you as the motherly type, though.

The blast of cool air is an immediate relief, but the nervous flutter in your stomach only gets worse as you follow her. She leads you down a maze of long, winding corridors, where the walls are lined with framed, oversized movie posters from Oceanside’s biggest hits. The carpet under your sandals is thick and dark, muffling the sound of your footsteps as Smurf chatters away about lighting grids and distribution schedules.

She leads you through a pair of double doors into her main office, and the sheer scale of the room makes you stop in your tracks. This singular office is almost the same size as your entire childhood home. High vaulted ceilings, and a shelf packed to the brim with golden awards and trophies. But what catches your eye first is the equipment. Right in the middle of the room, a heavy Super 8 video camera is already set up on a tripod, its blank lens pointed directly toward a large, mustard yellow velvet couch.

Your eyes quickly dart to the corner of the room, where a man is leaning against the wall, shadows falling over his sharp features. He doesn’t look hugely tall, but his shoulders could fill an entire doorway, and you swallow slightly at the way his muscles bulge under his sleeve.

He doesn't smile, and his gaze is heavy as he watches you walk in.

“That’s Pope,” Smurf says, giving a careless wave of her hand as she breezes past him toward her desk. “He’s the man you’ll be filming with today. Don't be nervous, honey, he's my best-seller. He knows exactly what he's doing.”

Pope gives you a slow, single nod, his hazel eyes tracking you from across the room, but he doesn't say a word.

Smurf claps her hands together, drawing your attention straight back to her. “Alright, let’s leave Pope to his brooding. Sit down, honey. We need to talk business before we get you in front of the lens.”

Pope looks entirely unsurprised by this display, and you wonder how many girls have been paraded in and out of here before. Does he have to fuck each and every one of them, or does Smurf pick people out based on instinct?

“I-I have a few questions,” You manage, hating yourself for the waver in your voice.

“Anything, baby.”

“You make porn,” You feel like an idiot for stating the obvious, but the most rational part of your brain is still mildly terrified that you’re about to be chopped up and left on the street like the Black Dahlia. Smurf just nods, and waits for you to continue. “And this is basically an audition to work for you?”

“Correct.”

“And… what are you looking for?”

Smurf’s eyes twinkle a little at the question. “Well, that’s kind of hard to quantify. You’ve got a look I like already, which is a lot of the battle. Rest comes down to chemistry, malleability, and star quality. But you shouldn’t worry too much. My Pope will take real good care of you.”

The way she says malleability leaves a sour taste in your mouth, but you’d be lying if you claimed that sneaking glances at Pope weren’t making you feel a little hot and bothered. His bicep alone is bigger than Jim’s head.

“You mentioned compensation at The Troubadour.”

There’s no point in dancing around it any longer. You bite your lip, while Smurf pushes a contract towards you. “We work in yearly contracts, with a baseline number of films. We’d start you with one every six weeks, and if you sell well, you’ll be signed on for more. With a very generous bonus, of course. Basic salary is five-hundred up-front for each film, with a two-fifty bonus for breaking even, and another two-fifty for profits on top of that.”

You read through it quickly. There’s a lot of legal jargon, but it doesn’t look to be anything immediately insidious. At least, not on the surface.

“You've got such cute little doe eyes, kid. A real Bambi look about you,” Smurf comments, barely glancing up as she rolls a joint. Her movements slow to a stop as she considers her words, head tilting just slightly. “Actually, that could work.”

“Uh, what could work?” You ask, brow furrowed a little as you glance between her and Pope.

“Bambi. Got the innocent vibe that the public like, but it's not too out there. Easy to remember, snappy-”

You're still not quite following. Luckily, Smurf seems entirely caught up in her monologue.

“Pope and Bambi,” She muses. “Cute. Might be an easy sell to audiences. Now, are you ready to give this thing a go?”

Her expression is so expectant that you’re not sure you could say no, even if you were considering it. Luckily, your options in Los Angeles are fast running out, and you’d do anything to keep away from Jim. You nod slightly, and Smurf gestures to the couch.

Pope moves quietly, taking a stiff seat at the edge. You dread to think what a UV light would show here. If you were to shine it on the plush velvet, the shag carpet that seems to decorate every surface.

Ringing your hands nervously, you try to keep your attention on Pope.

The man Smurf wants you to fuck.

He’s handsome - that’s not the issue here. He’s tanned, like he spends most of his time in the sun, a mop of dark curls on his head. Your first thought is that they must get tugged on during sex. His arms are freckled, and you start to imagine one of his hands wrapped around your-

No. Stop.

He’s definitely out of your league.

You haven’t even said hello to him, much less anything else - and yet your future is currently reliant on you impressing Smurf enough to take you on.

You keep reminding yourself that it's better than the alternative. Wandering around Hollywood Boulevard until your next shift, or even worse. Back with Jim.

"Go on, honey," She instructs, sitting comfortably behind her desk after starting the camera rolling. "He doesn't bite. Unless you ask him to, of course. Just remember, no kissing on the lips - it's a personal boundary of his."

You nod, lip between your teeth as you reposition, lowering yourself onto his lap.

You shouldn't be nervous. Smurf told you herself that Pope is a pro. Her most popular actor. It's literally his job to have sex.

It takes every ounce of willpower to maintain eye contact, as you reach tentatively for his hands, currently stuck at his sides. You guide them to the hem of your shirt, and he complies immediately, eyes locked on you the entire time.

Now entirely bare, you're filled with more confidence when his gaze flicks down to your tits, his tongue wetting his lower lip before he meets your eyes again.

You don't even realise that your breathing has stuttered.

God, how are you meant to do this when you can't even relax for one other person?

"It's okay."

Pope's voice startles you a little, low and gravelly. It's the first time you've had anything more than grunts from him.

"Just do whatever you're comfortable with."

He seems genuine, a far kinder cadence than you were expecting, and for just a second you forget that he doesn't do lips. What a shame.

You think you'd like kissing him like that.

Instead, you tilt downwards, and start mouthing wet kisses along his jaw. It's like a switch his flipped in him - one hand cups the back of your head, while the other settles on your waist, grip firm.

You roll your hips once, as a test, then again when he lets out the softest little hiss.

You work your way down his neck, unbuttoning his shirt as you go, until you're able to push it from his shoulders. Pope uses the momentum to take over, sucking a bruise onto your collarbone.

There's a record playing in the background now. Some Gloria Gaynor single. To set the mood, you assume.

You certainly don't need music to get in the mood, not with the way Pope takes your nipple into his mouth, rolling the other between his fingers.

The moans tumbling from your lips are borderline pornographic.

Maybe you are cut out for this.

“Show her a good time, Popey,” Smurf calls, breaking the spell for just a second.

Almost like a sleeper agent, he complies immediately, lips trailing down your sternum and towards your navel. He nips at your skin before soothing at it with his tongue, all while reaching for the button on your shorts. You lift your hips up, and allow him to shimmy them off.

The no underwear is a happy accident. You don’t fully subscribe to the hippie lifestyle, but you also hadn’t packed much when you left Jim behind. After weeks of crashing, you’ve taken to leaving your few meagre belongings at the club. People only steal things occasionally, and it’s better than having to trek it around all day while you look for other jobs. Nobody’s rushing to hire a girl who’s carrying her entire life around in a backpack.

“You alright?” He asks, nose brushing your inner thigh as he glances up at you.

Words leaving you, all you manage is a nod. When he licks a stripe through your folds, you’re not sure you’re ever going to have words again. You realise that you’re in over your head when Pope moans against your pussy, the vibrations making your head spin. His hands are firm on your hips, keeping you pressed against the velvet of the couch and entirely at his mercy.

There’s a slight scruff on his chin - facial hair that’s been left for a day too long without a shave. The scratch against your clit has you seeing stars, and you find your hand reaching down to his hair, gripping tightly as a guide. The other hand finds purchase against the velvet, gripping feebly as you let out another whimper.

“S-Shit,” Your back arches off the couch, which only serves to deepen the angle Pope has. The sensations are burning hot - you’re pretty sure you can feel every single nerve in your body. It’s the fastest you’ve ever begin to even feel the onset of an orgasm.

Already, it’s swimming at the edge of your vision, blurring slightly with each dip of Pope’s tongue. Soon, it seems like it’s in reach. Just a little bit more, and….

“Stop.”

The voice is firm, reminding you of exactly who’s in charge here. You’d been so wrapped up in Pope you’d forgotten all about her.

“Ma, she didn't even come-”

The nickname gives you pause. Ma? Like mother?

Surely not.

Must be some kind of term of endearment.

“Anybody can look good while getting head - I want to see what she's like giving now.”

When he meets your gaze, your breath hitches entirely. He seems to hesitate before he moves, leaning back against the back of the couch. He’s hard in his bell bottoms already, blush dusted across his cheekbones. You reach for the buttons, doing your best to look suave and cool, but given the way your head is spinning, you’ll take not looking like an idiot.

There’s a lingering tension now. Unfulfilled chemistry buzzing between you and Pope. His cock is freed - thick, heavy, and shining in pre-cum already. You take him in your hand, pumping softly once or twice as you settle yourself between his legs, knees on plush carpet.

The first contact is your tongue tracing along the vein that runs under his shaft - Pope lets out a low hiss, chin tilting upwards as his eyes close. When you finally wrap your lips around his cock, you wonder how on earth you’re meant to fit this inside of you.

Not only is he longer than Jim - he’s considerably girthier.

Hollowing out your cheeks, you employ every tactic you’ve ever learned to make a man cum.

“How is she, Popey?”

Pope’s reply is barely more than a grunt. “Real good.”

“Star material?”

You bob your head a little, taking him deeper, and Pope shudders. “She’s got the best mouth in LA.”

Smurf hums approvingly. “High praise, Bambi. Pope’s fucked a lot of ladies in this town.” She checks her watch briefly, before sighing. “I’ve got that investor coming in half an hour. Skip to the main event.”

Slightly awed by how blasé they’re both able to be about all this, you hesitate for a second, until Pope’s hand circles around your wrist. “Still with me?”

For the first time, he offers you a small smile, and you feel yourself returning it immediately. “Yeah, I’m peachy.”

And you mean it. Really. This is unquestionably the oddest afternoon of your life, but there’s something about him that intrigues you. He seems gentle, a trait you wouldn’t have thought would be encouraged in pornstars.

He’s reaching for the rubber, and soon you’re sinking down onto him, doing your best to combat the immense pressure building in your belly with each stretch. Your forehead drops until it’s tucked in the crook his neck, while his hands settle on your waist.

“God, baby,” He moans, almost directly into your ear. “You’re so fucking tight - when was the last time somebody fucked you good and proper?”

Five minutes ago, you would have said about three months ago. Now, knowing how Pope feels, and what he tastes like, your answer is rapidly changing. “Never,” You mumble, as he starts to guide your movements.

The rhythm is relaxed, but the coil in your abdomen certainly isn’t. Your nails leave dark moons on his skin as you rock against him, head tumbling back as you whimper and whine. You catch Smurf’s eye as you do, feeling the slightest bit of shame wash over you.

What would your folks think, if they knew their little girl was out here having sex with strangers for money?

It doesn’t take long for Pope’s thrusts to turn erratic, his grip so tight you’re sure it’s going to leave a mark. One of his hands slips between you both, rubbing at your clit, and it’s enough to throw you over the edge.

A cry from you, a low groan from Pope, and it’s all over.

Chest heaving, a quiet falls in the room before Smurf’s voice cuts through the haze. “Well, I think we’ve just found our next dynamic duo.”

You leave the building with a twelve-month contract, and a packet of birth control pills. Pope stays relatively quiet as you finish up with Smurf, offering you a small wave as you make your way out through the corridors.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.

Normally, as soon as he’s finished filming, he feels satiated until Smurf calls him in next. With you? He thinks he could’ve gone for another hour, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

“You like her.”

“What?” His head whips around, gaze zeroed in on Smurf as she smirks at him.

“S’okay, baby - it was bound to happen eventually. Might be nice for you to have a favourite for a bit. The fans’ll love it, too.”

Pope knows better than to argue with his mother. That never ends well for anybody, least of all him. “When are you gonna do her first film?”

“Couple of weeks,” She shrugs. “After we’re sure the birth control’s working.” She shoots him an amused look. “Don’t worry - m’not gonna throw her to Craig on her first ever picture. You can do it.”

Pope’s expression doesn’t shift, but the relief he feels is palpable. He loves his brother, but his track record with running his female co-stars off of sets is an embarrassment to the company. “I should get going,” He grunts. “You’ve got that meeting.”

“Right. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then, baby.” As usual, despite his protests, a kiss is placed directly on his lips. He fights the childish urge to wipe at them, and nods goodbye.

While he’s assuming he’ll see you again, he isn’t expecting for you to still be sitting outside at the front door. You must have left half an hour ago - what are you doing? “You're still here?”

You jump a little at the sound of his voice, and Pope clocks it immediately as instinctual. He wonders who made you like that. “I uh, don't have a car. Was hoping to catch a lift from somebody passing by… but there doesn't seem to be much traffic round these parts.”

Smurf calls the tow trucks whenever somebody stops on this street for more than thirty minutes. People just avoid it now.

“Where are you headed? I'll drive you.”

“I actually have a shift - it's The Velvet Troubadour? Down by Venice - not the cool one in Beverly Hills. And not the cool part of Venice either.”

Pope nods. He's familiar, and not entirely surprised that that's where Smurf found you. She's always had a thing for lost and lonely girls - giving them the world and then watching them implode in on themselves when they inevitably can't handle it.

“S'a real shithole,” He comments, arms crossed over his sweater.

You snort. “Tell me about it. But I can't ask you to take me all the way there - maybe just drop me off on Hollywood, and I can try and-”

“It's no trouble. Hardly even out of my way.” A complete lie. Pope's plans for the rest of the day had been to head home and read some shitty Western by the pool. The drive to Venice is not even close to the road to Laurel Canyon, but he doesn't care.

The idea of you having to hitchhike with god knows who up here makes him feel a little ill.

When you smile at him, his conviction only grows. For all her faults, Smurf sure knows how to find the prettiest girls on the West Coast.

He can't think of any stars that look quite like you, but he could imagine you in one of those Golden Age of Hollywood pictures. Swathed in jewels, hair done to perfection, and eyes twinkling.

Instead, your claim to fame is going to be getting fucked in The Valley - both literally and figuratively, if Smurf has her way.

“Come on,” He urges, gesturing across the lot to the Mustang. His hand drops to your waist, at the sliver of skin between your top and shorts, and he tries not to think about what he was doing the last time it was there.

You slide into the passenger’s seat, and Pope hopes that Smurf isn’t watching from her office as he pulls out onto the main road.

Me and Bobby McGee starts blaring from the radio, and you let out a contented sigh, allowing your head to lean back against the leather of the seat.

Pope eyes you carefully as he pulls out onto the main road. “You a Joplin fan?”

“Isn't everybody?” You crack one eye open, watching the way his muscles flex with each turn of the wheel. “Fuckin’ shame what happened to her. Whole lotta potential just wasted like that.”

“Wasted potential’s kind of LA’s thing.”

Pope should know.

You turn your head, so that your cheek is pressed up against the seat as you look at him. “That’s a bleak outlook.”

“You disagree?”

“Just think it’s bad for the soul, to not believe that everything’s gonna work out eventually.”

Pope’s sure his soul is plenty bad by now, but he finds himself nodding in agreement. “I like that. Not sure how true it is, but I like it.”

You laugh, and it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard. He eyes you carefully as he navigates the heavy traffic. He keeps one hand loose on the steering wheel, his knuckles slightly white. The road ahead is a shimmering ribbon of heat, packed with cars, but his focus keeps drifting sideways. He watches the way the bright California light catches the edge of your profile. It shows the small, tired lines around your eyes and the soft curve of your mouth.

He keeps one hand resting heavy on the gear shift, close enough that his knuckles almost brush against your knee every time he moves into fourth. The drive down to Venice takes longer than it should, the silence inside the car growing thick and heavy as the salty sea air starts to whip through the open windows. Pope doesn't say much, and neither do you, but it’s comfortable, and he works to ignore the want bubbling in his chest.

When the car finally idles at the curb in front of The Velvet Troubadour, the place looks every bit the shithole he remembers. “Well - guess that’s you.”

The neon sign is cracked, and the afternoon sun only makes the dingy exterior look worse.

Pope shifts into park, his hands staying glued to the steering wheel as he stares straight ahead at the building. His jaw is tight. He hates the idea of leaving you here, even if he barely knows you.

“It’s a glamorous life,” You murmur dryly.

You reach for the handle, but before you slide out into the heat, you pause. Pope looks over at you, his dark eyes intense and unblinking. Lean forward, you press a quick, soft kiss right against his rough cheek.

He freezes completely. He doesn't move a muscle, his breath hitching in his chest as the small gesture catches him totally off guard. The skin where your lips touched burns hot against the cool air of the car.

"Thanks for the ride, Pope," you say with a small smile, already opening the passenger door.

He just nods once, his voice trapped in his throat as he watches you step out onto the pavement and head toward the entrance. He keeps his eyes locked on your back until the heavy door of the bar swings shut behind you, his hand rising slowly to touch the spot on his cheek you just kissed.

*****

Pope tells Smurf that he can't come round for dinner because he's got some errands to run - instead, his car practically drives itself to The Velvet Troubadour.

This is potentially the worst idea he's ever had, but his mind has been plagued with you for the past forty-eight hours. He hasn't been able to eat, or sleep, and he thinks he might be going crazy.

The stench of sweat and grime hits him as soon as he steps through the door, but he's already looking for you. You're leaning over the bar, laughing at something one of your co-workers, but a man steps in front of him before he can make his way across the club.

Pope vaguely recognises him as the owner.

"Mr. Cody! What an honour to have you here tonight - would you like a booth?"

He just nods, eyes still glued to you.

"Fabulous - I'll have Sabrina over to serve you immediately."

Pope shakes his head. "I want her."

Lou follows his gaze, before nodding slowly. In most cases, what a Cody wants, they get.

He lets Lou lead him to one of the shadowed booths tucked along the back wall, where the music is loud enough to drown out conversation and the lights are low enough that nobody can stare too hard. The owner disappears with a knowing smile, and Pope is left gripping the edge of the table, eyes fixed on the bar.

Fixed on you.

You still haven't noticed him.

He's not sure if that's a relief or an insult.

You throw your head back laughing at something, and the sound carries across the room despite the music. It settles somewhere under his ribs.

Jesus Christ.

He's lost his mind.

When Lou taps on your shoulder, turning you towards him, Pope worries for one awful moment that he's made a catastrophic mistake. But then you smile, and start to make your way towards him. You stop beside the booth, and for a second neither of you says anything.

"I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"Neither was I," Pope replies, feeling a warmth spread through him when you laugh.

"You scope out all your co-stars like this?"

It's a joke, but Pope replies seriously. "Just wanted to see you." It's the most sincere he's been towards another person in a long time. Maybe since Julia left.

"So you're saying I should feel special?"

God help him.

He's completely fucked.

"You are."

You don't have a quip ready for that one, and just glance away, embarrassed by the attention. "Can't believe you're putting yourself through the horrors of The Troubadour just to spend time with me. Can I get you something?"

Pope nods. "Whatever."

"Very specific."

"I trust your judgement."

You pour him a glass of the finest liquor the bar offers, which is firmly middle-of-the-range for any reputable establishment. When you return, his hand makes its way to your wrist. "Sit for a while."

You glance toward the bar, where Lou's already glaring, and point discreetly. "I should go."

Pope's expression changes instantly, and something flashes across his face. Disappointment.

Then he speaks. "Stay."

Your heart gives an embarrassing little jump. "You want me to stay?"

"Yeah." The answer comes immediately.

"Lou's gonna be mad."

Across the room, Lou is indeed watching. Arms folded and expression thunderous.

Pope doesn't even turn around.

"I'll handle him."

*****

The rest of the evening passes in a blur.

Every now and then you have to leave the booth to actually do your job, but he remains exactly where you left him every single time. Nursing the same drink. Watching the crowd with vague suspicion. Looking profoundly uncomfortable whenever another customer tries to start a conversation with him.

By midnight, your cheeks hurt from smiling.

By one o'clock, you're pretty sure every girl working tonight has noticed.

When Sabrina asks you how you know him, you're vague.

We met at a party.

When it hits three, Pope closes out his tab. "I woulda stayed until the end of your shift, but I have a meeting in Santa Monica in the morning." When he produces a wad of cash that's definitely too much for his bill, your eyes widen immediately.

"Pope." He presses the money into your hand, and you stare down at it. Then back up at him. "This is far too much."

"You took care of me all night."

You snort. "I brought you two drinks."

"You sat with me."

God, you think you might be a little bit in love with him. You tuck it into your skirt, and smile at him. "Thank you, Pope."

"Andrew."

"Huh?"

"My name," He says softly. "It's Andrew."

"Andrew. I like that," You smile. "Suits you."

He pauses for a second, as if considering his actions, before leaning forward to press the briefest kiss to your cheek. "I should go." His voice sounds rougher now.

You nod, because speaking appears beyond your capabilities.

"See you soon, kid."

As soon as he's gone, it's like blood in the water.

Lou abandons whatever he was doing behind the bar and starts making his way toward you with alarming speed. The staff are still cleaning around the room, stacking chairs and wiping tables, but more than one head turns in your direction. Everyone knows that look. Everyone knows Lou has spotted money.

"It was a tip."

"A tip?" Lou repeats. "A tip?"

"Yes."

"That man tipped you half a mortgage payment." You try to step around him, but Lou steps directly into your path. "Oh, that's definitely getting pooled."

The warmth that had been lingering in your chest all evening immediately evaporates, and you freeze. "No, it isn't."

"Yes, it is."

"He gave it to me."

"He gave it to an employee, while she was working, under my roof."

It's no use. You can argue until you're blue in the face, but all it takes is the threat of unemployment to have you handing it over. You're still not sure how reliable Oceanside is going to turn out to be, and you can't blow your life up over seven-hundred dollars.

Somehow Lou ends up with whatever he wants anyway. There's no point in fighting it.

Within minutes the money has vanished into the envelope where pooled tips are kept before being divided up. You watch the last bill disappear, and try not to cry.

Salvation comes in the form of a heavy leather jacket, left in Pope's booth. You figure he must have left by now, but you announce that you're checking the parking lot anyway, if only for some fresh air.

Much to your surprise, the Mustang is still sitting in the corner, with Pope's gaze held on the front door of The Troubadour.

"You forgot this," You call holding up the jacket. Embarrassment clouds his features, and he gets out to walk over to you. "Thought you had an early meeting?"

"This place has a, uh, pull," is his only response. "Thank you." Then his eyes narrow - almost imperceptibly. "Where's the money?"

Shit. You hadn't thought for a single second that he would notice in such a short interaction, and you wince slightly. "Lou took it. He pooled it."

Pope continues staring, eyes stormy.

"He said everybody has to share tips. I'm really sorry, Andrew - I tried to tell him, but you know what he's like-"

"S'not your fault-"

"I should've hidden it, or something-"

"Wait here."

You immediately shake your head, confusion flooding through you. "What? No."

"Wait here, and I'll be out in a few minutes."

You should probably stop him.

Instead you find yourself standing there watching him storm towards The Velvet Troubadour, jacket slung over one arm, broad shoulders disappearing toward the entrance of the club.

Time seems to slow while he's inside, and you find yourself pacing restlessly outside, with no indication of what's going on. When the door finally opens again, you straighten so quickly you almost pull a muscle.

Pope steps outside, looking completely calm, and then you notice what he's carrying.

Your bag. Your jacket. Your tips.

"What did you do?"

Pope shrugs, entirely unconvincingly.

"I talked to him."

"You talked to him," You repeat, incredulous.

"Yeah."

"Why do you have my stuff?" The silence that follows is not encouraging. "Pope."

Another pause.

Then finally...

"You don't work there anymore."

You think you might pass out. "What?"

"You don't work there anymore. He fired you. Or, I guess you quiet before he could."

You stare, unable to believe what you're hearing.

"I quit?" Pope nods, and you let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "You got me fired."

"He got you fired, because he's the world's shittiest boss."

"You went in there."

"Yeah."

"And now I don't have a job."

"He shouldn't have taken your money." He says it like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"That isn't how employment works, Pope." You press both hands over your face. "Oh my God."

A fresh wave of panic starts rising in your chest.

Rent.

Bills.

Food.

The money from Smurf will only go so far - certainly not far enough until she brings you in for your first picture.

"You've got a job. A better job than that. It'll be fine."

"No, I had a job. Oceanside isn't a job until I see proper cash."

"I'll get you an advance." He seems determined to solve every one of your problems, and you can't decide whether you love or hate it. "And you can stay with me, until you're back on your feet."

You stare at him, eyebrow arched. "How do I know you're not going to kill me in my sleep?"

At this, he snorts a little. "Scout's honour?"

Despite everything, you laugh. "God, I can't believe you."

"And I can't believe you stayed at that place for three whole months."

Standing there in the empty parking lot, clutching a bag of belongings against your chest, you find yourself thinking that Pope Cody might actually be completely insane.

The problem is that you're starting to find that incredibly difficult not to like that.

*****

It's a battle to stay awake as Pope drives you through the winding Canyon roads, before he finally pulls up a driveway.

It's exactly the kind of place you'd imagine Jim Morrison or Joni Mitchell living, all hidden and wooded. Pope grabs the backpack before you can, and opens the car door for you.

"I thought you had a meeting in the morning?"

"Fuck 'em," He replies, unlocking the front door. Pre-Manson, he wouldn't have dreamed of locking up in a neighbourhood like Laurel Canyon. Post-Manson, he's careful. Far more careful than the rest of his family. "They'll get over it."

Somehow, the inside of the house is even more impressive. The walls are covered in records, some you're familiar with, and others you've never heard of, while the fire crackles softly in the corner. It's warm, and lived in, and far nicer than any place you've ever spent time in before.

"Holy shit," You murmur.

"You like it?" Pope asks, and when you glance back at him, you get the sense that he's genuinely hoping you do.

"Andrew, this is insane." You want to say more, but tiredness overcomes you, and you yawn. "God, I'm such an asshole, I'm sorry-"

"Don't worry about it. It's late. I can uh, I can show you to one of the bedrooms."

He hasn't even closed the door to the guest room before you're out, exhaustion finally catching up to you, now that you're in the first proper bed you've slept in in months.

*****

It's easy to forget that there are cameras around. That this isn't simply you and Pope, in the comfort of his Laurel Canyon mansion.

You've spent the last four hours filming - firstly, the preamble. You, the girl whose car broke down in the middle of the night. Pope, the man who's happy to fix it, in exchange for a few favours.

The dialogue in the script is ropey at best, leaving you both largely to improvise. With a few exaggerated sighs, and jutting your ass out towards the camera, you've gotten by just fine.

Next had come an hour of you blowing Pope. It wouldn't have taken so long, were he not insistent on being far gentler with you than the director wants. It isn't until Smurf calls from across the room, "come on, baby. Tug her hair like you mean it," that he finally complies, mumbling an apology to you between takes.

You're endlessly impressed by his stamina. Where you'd assumed most adult film stars would rely heavily on viagra, Pope seems to bounce back just fine.

He's chattier than you expect. Each time the crew huddle round to set up a shot, leaving you perched in his lap for an uncomfortable few minutes, he's asking you questions.

Real questions.

Nothing about porn, or sex. But about you.

What you like about LA (everything). If you've driven up to Griffith for a sunset (not yet). If you'd like to go with him sometime (you would). The last part is said in a considerably quieter voice. Glancing around, you wonder if he doesn't want Smurf to hear. You get the sense she controls almost his entire life.

Finally, it's time for the main event. Spread out on a fake kitchen table, Pope stands at the end, hand on your waist and waiting for his cue. He's hard again already, leaking pre-cum against your thigh.

Were he not a consummate professional, you'd wonder if you had something to do with it.

"Doing okay?" He checks in, briefly. "Need water or anything?"

You shake your head, lip between your teeth. "I think after all this build-up, I kind of just want to get fucked."

The laugh he lets out is small, barely audible. "I think I can manage that."

A voice cuts across the set, and everything dims. "Lights, camera, action!"

*****

There’s a bead of sweat trickling down the valley of your breasts, and Pope has to fight the urge to lick it. Instead, he lines himself up against you, allowing his cock to brush through your folds once, catching your clit before he sinks in.

Your ankles lock behind his back, breath hitching as your fingers try desperately to grasp at something. Finally, they find purchase at the edge of the table, as Pope bottoms out.

It’s no secret that he’s big.

One of the biggest in the industry, if Smurf is to be believed.

Not that he’d know. He doesn’t make watching porn a habit. Why would he, when he lives it every day?

Were it not for the literal hours of foreplay today, he’d have been worried about you being able to take it. You’d struggled a little during the camera test, and the last thing he wants to do is hurt you.

You’re a sweet little thing. Experienced enough to know what she’s doing, but enough of a blank canvas for Smurf to mould however she wants. Provided she wants to sign you.

You're a good ingenue. Girl-next-door

He figures you must be running from something. A husband, boyfriend, your family - he isn’t sure yet.

You’re panting directly into his ear, various pleas tumbling from your lips as he snaps his hips against you. The table is rocking now, barely withstanding the force, and Pope finds his hands snaking under your thighs, just in case it gives way.

“G-God, Andy-”

For a single millisecond, Pope freezes. Did you just say his name? Or was it baby?

The cameras are still rolling, which makes him think it must have been baby.

It's just wishful thinking. He wants it to be Andy. In fact, he never wants to hear you say the name Pope again.

For the first time in an almost five-year career, Pope dips his head, and kisses on camera. His movements are exaggerated, hand cupping the back of your neck to pull you against him. Making sure that nobody can claim that you initiated it.

He knows that Smurf would use it against you in an instant if she felt like it.

Your lips are as soft as he imagined, and you make the prettiest sigh against him, as his tongue traces the seam of your mouth. If he were to look around right now, he’d see a jaw-dropped Smurf, along with a crew who isn’t quite sure what just happened.

It could be minutes or hours, but he's still kissing you when he comes, cock pulsing inside you as he cradles your face. You look a little dazed, lipstick smeared across your cheeks, and presumably also his lips.

"And... cut!"

The world comes screaming back, and the both of you are surrounded by your respective makeup artists, dropping robes over your shoulders.

He raises his gaze to look at Smurf, but she's entirely focused on you, smirk wide in a way that makes his skin crawl. "Oh Bambi, honey - you're going to be a fuckin' star."

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shawn hatosy at 24 and 50

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