bwoah

indefinite writing hiatus lol

[reidsworld]

welcome to reidsworld

18+ mdni - masterlist - rules - requests are closed

the creator about the author

↳ mars, she/her, twenty, canuck

inhabitants who i write for

captain

↳ logan howlett

explorers

↳ aaron hotchner, elijah mikaelson, max verstappen, spencer reid

critical transmission an important note

↳ my works may not be reposted or used in any manner without my explicit consent.

[jingabitch]

Let Love Be Enough

SUMMARY: On the day of your daughter’s wedding, you can’t avoid Taehyung.

PAIRING: ex-husband!Taehyung x reader

GENRE: angst, smut

RATING: E

WARNINGS: angst | infidelity | arguing | smut | unprotected sex | use of flashbacks im not sure about | emotional sex | crying during sex

WORD COUNT: 9.4k

A/N: i hope you guys like this!! i was pretty uncertain about posting it because it’s not really like my other work, and I wasn’t sure if i was doing the flashbacks well. Thank you to my lovely betas @taetaesbaebaepsae​ @detectivebts​ @sweetnspicy93 and @moonmintrails​, @dreamystuffers​ for the banner and @kigurumu​ and @jkeuphoriadreamland​ for encouraging me to post it!! Without them the preview wouldn’t even have made it onto Tumblr.

Keep reading

[ppersonna]

i’ll float away - myg | m

they show you how to swim, then they throw you in the deep end. what if I don’t float?  - float, the neighborhood.

↳ summary- years after the breakup, yoongi, a successful award-winning rapper with an unhealthy addiction, finds your wedding invite on Facebook.

↳ rating- explicit/18+

↳ word count- 12.6k

↳ pairing- yoongi x reader

↳ genre- idol!au, postbreakup!au, very heavy angst, smut, fluff

↳ warnings- discussions of drugs and death, penetrative sex, oral sex (m/f receiving), creampie, dirty talk, min yoongi being a mental health king

↳ a.n- hi everyone! some of you may recognize this fic.  this fic is my baby. i went through and edited it a little more and put all the chapters together to make it a one shot.  i think it flows better that way!  i hope you enjoy this.  this fic means so so so much to me and while it’s heavy, i hope you enjoy the ride it will take you on.  this fic got me back into writing and i will forever be thankful for that.

↳ this fic contains adult content, such as drug use, discussions of suicide, accidental overdose, discussions of drugs and addictions.  while this is not romanticized, or idolized, it is discussed.  please take care of yourself and proceed with caution.  18+ | discretion is advised.

‘We cordially invite you to the wedding of…’

Min Yoongi felt numb.

Yoongi always felt numb, but this felt different, wrong.  Like he was falling and had no ledge to grip.

It felt as if the world had stopped on its axis, and at any moment, gravity would turn off and he would just float, float away to nothingness.

There was no sound. Everything existed in silence.

His fingers couldn’t move. Eyes were glued to his phone screen where he stared at the wedding invite on fucking Facebook.

Keep reading

[inthelow]

SORRY, WRONG NUMBER ! — jeon jungkook (seven).

pairing: student! fem reader x student! jeon jungkook

summary: when you finally get your crush’s number, you expect the start of an epic love story— not a random guy making fun of you because he thinks the guy you’ve been obsessed with for the last six months gave you a fake number. Jeon Jungkook, the one who replies, finds it entertaining and helps you chase the guy… at least until he finds out that the person he’s been helping date another guy is you, the girl he’s been obsessed with for the last two years.

genre/warning: this is a smau fic!! with narration included in some chapter but it’s mostly messages/tweets. very unfunny jokes. this is mostly crack/fluff.

authors note: chapter so long i couldn’t put my dividers 💔💔 the tweets have to be read from bottom to top btw okay bye<33 enjoy this is a mess and i had to delete a lot of things but i couldn’t make it shorter i’m sorry 😭😭 it would be better if u open the pics to read it>_<

chapter index | previous — next

——————————

— chapter seven: holy crash-out!

——————————

messy ass chapter but life is like that we know. i might forgotten to add some people im sorry guys. 💔💔

taglist: @louxmclll @fluffysheepmaster @labbbaaa @yooniebuns @oncyanii @taetaecatboy @yawnzshit @mniys @kit9doctordreamer @asyr97 @wonderlandkook @songbyeonkim @jksusawife @lackingdopaminesince2007 @amimi-bts @unknownbeknowst @koobiiiistar @nastypinkbunny @mninotjungkook @4rmyf1cs @iiunique @oopscoop @dollyunjinz @junecat18 @gwonlvr @pprettyanna @94hobi @spenceatiny18 @mikrokookiex @urmotherlvr @akl3223 @@dim18 @bloopkook @cherrieshyy @lizka007 @hagridshaircare @jooniesthigh @star-my @iridescentshine @kookie96 @brieally @fadedmixtape @xyz77777777 @hennessysthings @snipky @taemanikoo @fullcolorfreaklight @jjanajk @badaspice

[100vern]

a word from our sponsors | knj

you’ve co-hosted a podcast with namjoon for three years; have known him even longer. the two of you have always been the picture of platonic, but that hasn’t stopped the internet from doing what the internet does. the shipping? a little weird at first, but you can understand it: two attractive twenty-somethings always in close proximity to one another, obvious (platonic!) chemistry—people have created ships for less. the fanfiction, though? also pretty funny… until you can’t stop thinking about it. 🎙️

pairing: namjoon x f. reader genre: podcast, friends to lovers au; crack, smut, fluff rating: explicit. minors do not interact. warnings: parasocial relationships galore, a m*n with a p*dcast, author abuses italics, swearing, alcohol, reader uses a pseudonym/nickname (piper) because writing the meta fanfiction scene would've been too weird without one and i refuse to use y/n, dialogue-heavy but it is a fic about a podcast, everyone is down horrendous, mentions of social media & fake r*ddit posts, ex-boyfriend yoongi but in a good, healthy way. let me know if i missed anything but mostly this is just two goofballs not realizing they're in love with one another. smut warnings: kissing, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, unprotected vaginal sex (fiction), protected vaginal sex (nonfiction), a lil squirting, mild degradation, mentions of a p*ss kink but there is no actual pee i promise (...lest?), i didn't intend to write size kink but it's namjoon so it just showed up anyway, slight dom!joon, everyone orgasms. wordcount: 17.5k credits: this was entirely inspired by that one episode of the basement yard where frankie reads the smut fic of him and joe, so credits to both that author and that podcast. spotify, for their podcast name generator. astro-seek for helping me drag namjoon astrologically. an extra special, gigantic thanks to @effortandmore for writing the meta fanfic (3k of it, no less!) and not batting an eye when i said it could have pee in it as a joke. this is as much yours as it is mine. finally, @hot-soop and @the-boy-meets-evil for reading this over for me and telling me i'm funny. author's note: happy birthday, indigo! here i am to validate every fear you've ever had that the people you write porn about may one day read it. live and on air. :)

You’ve co-hosted a podcast with Namjoon for three years.

You can learn a lot about a guy in that amount of time.

None of it is especially salacious. You know all about his family and his dog and the brand of recycled paper towels he insists on buying in bulk. You know what he’d written his grad school thesis on and what he’d looked like in the thick of it, when he was staving off his fifth mental break of the week. You know how fidgety he gets when it’s closing in on Friday night and he’s got a date—how much he stresses over which restaurant to pick, which cologne, which expensive cashmere sweater to wear.

You also know what the internet thinks about him. Intimately.

Kim Namjoon, according to the internet, is peak husband material. He has cheeks ripe for pinching and thighs small countries would go to war to defend. He has a lap that doubles as a seat and dimples people want to get baptized in. He has Instagram selfies with hundreds of thousands of likes and comment sections full of intelligible keysmashes, especially the ones he posts from the gym.

Kim Namjoon, according to the internet, is a man written by a woman.

Looking at him now, you aren’t sure that’s true, you think people just need to raise their standards. Namjoon is just… Namjoon. He’s intelligent and kind and up to date on modern feminist theory, is all. And, sure, maybe in the current political landscape that puts him far above the rest of men, but the way the internet has latched onto him is a little concerning.

“There’s another post about whether or not we’re dating,” you say, pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose.

sooo let’s be real here, we ALL think they’re dating, right?? Posted by u/pod-shipper 2 hours ago

Just like he always does, Namjoon huffs out a soft laugh, makes his way around to your side of the table. Puts his large hands on your shoulders as he leans in close to read from your screen, snorting every time he reads a sentence he finds particularly amusing. Whichever cologne he’d chosen this morning is, admittedly, very nice.

It’s sooo obvious, especially in the episodes they film and post on YouTube. The way they look at each other?? I don’t even look at my HUSBAND like that! (+1264) ↳ omg ur sooooo right! i could MAYBE buy that they aren’t full on dating, but they’ve def at least slept together. Namjoon is so 🔥🔥🔥 (+791) ↳ um how can namjoon be dating her when he’s already married to me 😌💅 (+3) ↳ For the millionth time, can we not speculate on their personal lives? This is weird and reinforces really harmful ideas that men and women can’t just be friends. (-51)

“How come they never talk about how hot you are?”

You can tell by the look on Namjoon’s face that he hadn’t meant to say that—or, if he did, he didn’t mean to say it like that, with an entire pout, eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline. “Cursed to be ugly and dumb,” you joke to ease the sudden tension, reading the comment that simply says you’d have to be the dumbest person alive to not sleep with Namjoon.

He scrunches his nose at that. Returns to his side of the table. “Yeah, I don’t think so, lots of people haven’t slept with me.” Starts to unpack all the gear from his bag before he says, “Hey, all that stuff—does it bother you?”

“What do you mean?” you answer, the corner of a protein bar stuck in your mouth. Namjoon always insists on recording at the most inconvenient times.

“People thinking we’re together,” he clarifies.

You shrug. “I dunno. Not really. Comes with the territory, I think, not to mention how much you love to overshare—”

“Hello?”

“I’m just saying,” you retort, hands raised in self-defense. “There really was no need for you to mention you blew your grad school stipend on a porn scam.” Namjoon looks affronted, like he can’t believe you’d stoop so low as to bring that up. “Or that you lost your virginity at fifteen.”

“We have a relationship podcast,” he states simply. “That’s kind of what we do, right? Talk about relationships? And the spectrum of human sexuality is part of that.”

You slump back in your chair as you quirk an eyebrow. “No one said it wasn’t, I just said you overshare. Which you do.”

“And that’s why there’s a dozen Reddit posts a week discussing whether or not we’re dating? Because I overshare?”

“Yeah, exactly. That’s the kind of behavior that leads to parasocial relationships. People latch onto that shit. Makes them think they’re your friend.” He glares. “Don’t give me that look, you know I’m right. It’s bad enough you’ve word-vomited all this highly personal information about yourself, but to not even do it under a pseudonym? It’s like you’re begging for trouble.”

Another comment he doesn’t even realize he’s making: “I don’t beg. For anything.”

To this day, you’re not sure why Namjoon asked you to co-host a podcast with him.

His reasoning had been simple: “You’re my best friend and we don’t agree on anything.” Hard to argue with that. Namjoon has seemingly endless patience, even in the face of things he shouldn’t entertain, and you… do not, to put it simply.

You’re not a cold person. Your fuse isn’t short. You’re just a little jaded, is all. Have far less propensity for bullshit than Namjoon does, so the two of you play well off each other. You end a sentence with a well-punctuated full stop and Namjoon’s right behind you to sigh and say maybe you shouldn’t be so hasty, not everything in the world can be so black or white.

Except some things are. Somewhere along the way, the podcast—which Namjoon had affectionately named Place Him Gently in the Garbage, even though some people should be shoved in there with force—had picked up a following. A big one. And now, every week, you’re inundated with emails ranging in severity. Sometimes people just want to vent after their tenth bad date in a row or share funny stories, and Namjoon lets you take the lead on those, but sometimes it’s a little more serious. That’s where Namjoon shines, all that endless patience, and people love him for it.

“What’s on the agenda today?” he asks, accepting a thick stack of papers from Jungkook.

Ah, Jungkook.

You aren’t sure what he actually does. Some kind of social media manager, which is obvious from the wildly out-of-context clips he posts of you to TikTok, and it’s his responsibility to go through the thousands of emails you get from listeners, but aside from that all you’ve got are your suspicions that he just sticks around to swindle Namjoon out of more and more money.

“I’m in a silly goofy mood,” comes Jungkook’s reply, and you let out a witch cackle as Namjoon winces. Nothing good ever comes of Jungkook being in a silly goofy mood, and that’s quite alright by you.

Fifteen minutes later finds you with a camera in your face that you greet with an unamused, flat stare. Jungkook is used to it by now. Just films for a few seconds before turning his attention to an unaware Namjoon. Head down, pen and highlighter going a mile a minute as he pores over the stack of papers with all the doggedness and eagle-eyed stare of a literature professor.

That’s the thing about Namjoon—he takes this really seriously. So do you, but not in the ways Namjoon does. He’s all skill and determination and you’re color commentary. It works. It clearly works, so you aren’t too bent out of shape about it, but sometimes you worry. Namjoon takes this really seriously and sometimes you worry that he takes it too seriously, that he carries the burdens and worries of all these strangers, that he’s trying to solve and fix things that aren’t his responsibility to solve and fix.

So he takes it really seriously and you don’t take it as seriously as you maybe should, and everything is by design. Balanced.

Twenty minutes later finds you staring across the table at Namjoon, who asks, “Are you ready?” and does one last equipment check before he launches into, “Welcome back to another episode of Place Him Gently in the Garbage with Namjoon and Piper. What’s new with you, Pipe? Any fun news?”

Pipe. It drives you nuts. Feels like nails on a chalkboard. “I see you almost every single day,” you respond dryly. “But for the sake of entertainment, I’m thinking about getting a cat.”

“A cat?” Namjoon parrots, and his eyebrows disappear beneath his fringe because he knows what that means.

You’ve co-hosted a podcast with Namjoon for three years, but you’ve known him even longer.

Since your first year of college, which is also when you met Yoongi. Yoongi, your ex. Yoongi, the person you’d been with for six years and had planned a life around. Yoongi, now one of your closest friends, because the two of you still love one another but no longer in that way, which is fine. But also—Yoongi, allergic to cats.

So, yeah. Namjoon knows what that means, and he has the good sense not to mention it. Unlike him, you’re intensely private and keep your cards close to your chest. Your listeners don’t even know your real name, let alone that you’d gone through a breakup a year ago.

“What kind of cat?” he continues, like his entire world hasn’t just been turned upside-down.

You shrug. “Eh, I don’t know. Probably one that’s been in the shelter a long time, I guess. I’m not too fussy, you know?”

“Right, a cat is a cat,” Namjoon says, thinking he’s done something. You and Jungkook gasp at the same time. “What? Why are you giving me that look?”

“Because that’s a fucked up thing to say! A cat is not just a cat. They have little personalities, just like people. You’ve got—”

“But you just said you’re not fussy,” he interjects. “And I know they have personalities and that you have to find one that suits your lifestyle! Like, you can’t have one of those really cool cats that likes to go kayaking and shit, it’d never work—”

“What does that mean? Why couldn’t I have a cool cat?”

“Hey, all you cool cats and kittens,” Namjoon mocks, and you can tell he thinks he’s done something again, but his impression falls flatter than flat. An awkward silence fills the studio. He coughs. “Anyway. Do you have pictures?”

“Yeah. I also have a list of candidates ranked by how cool their names are. Number five, Casserole.”

“That’s cute.”

“Mhm,” you agree, “but Casserole is a kitten, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that kind of responsibility.”

“They do say you should adopt kittens in pairs.”

“And that’s how they get you. You want one kitten and they talk you into two, and before you know it you’ve got, like, twelve cats. Number four, Party Girl.”

“Sick name.”

“Number three, Toddler.”

“Toddler?”

“Number two, Flat.”

“Just Flat? Understandable.”

“And, finally, number one: Human Torch.”

“Yoooo.” Namjoon laughs. “You have to adopt Human Torch. Let me see.” You pull up a picture on your phone and hand it over. “Okay, for our listeners—Human Torch is a young, male Domestic Short Hair. He has stripes. I don’t know what that’s called.”

“Tabby,” Jungkook chimes in.

“Jungkook says he’s a tabby. He’s cute. Adopt him.”

You return your phone to your pocket. “Maybe. I still think I want an older cat, but I’ll consider it. What about you, though? Any new dating horror stories to share?”

Ah, the dating horror stories. Your most dedicated shippers are convinced they’re fake, that Namjoon just makes them up on the spot to keep them off your trail. If only. Not in the if only they were fake and Namjoon and I were actually dating kind of way, but the holy shit one of my closest friends is a fucking disaster and it’s a little embarrassing kind of way.

“Not really,” he answers. “I’ve got a date this Friday, though. Trying to decide if dinner and a movie is too boring.”

“It’s a classic for a reason. What are you gonna see, My Big Fat Greek Wedding 3?”

“Three?” Namjoon emphasizes, truly sounding scandalized. “Since when are there three? I haven’t even seen one or two.”

“Okay, first of all, the original is a classic and it’s a crime you haven’t seen it.”

“And second of all?”

“There is no second of all. Repeat point one.”

He snorts. “I’m not gonna see that, anyway. Maybe the re-release of Howl’s Moving Castle.”

“Subbed or dubbed, though?”

“Are you trying to get me canceled?”

“Absolutely.”

“I like both,” he chickens out. “Now, let’s stop wasting time and get to the point of the show.”

“Talking about cats is a waste of time?”

“I—no, we’ve just got a lot on the agenda today.”

“Like what?”

“Well, there’s lots to talk about on the celebrity front—”

Namjoon loves this part. As esteemed and educated as he is, not even he is immune to good old celebrity gossip. (Inside him there are two wolves.) Lives for it. Texts you about it at all hours of the night. Sends you links to Reddit threads with hundreds of comments. Has more opinions on Celebrity Big Brother than he does on Ludwig Wittgenstein, sometimes, and when that’s the case you know you’re in for a long evening. You’ve never even seen an episode of Celebrity Big Brother.

But Namjoon loves it, so you’ve become fond of it by association. Reminds you a bit of Yoongi and his love for sports and sports anime.

“—one should we start with?”

“Whatever you want,” you answer, because you haven’t been paying a lick of attention and you aren’t sure it matters anyway. Namjoon can talk to a wall on a good day, but he’s an entirely different beast once mundane, innocuous celeb gossip gets involved.

And even though you hadn’t been paying attention, it seems like this was the right thing to say, because Namjoon smiles so wide his dimples crater his face. “Cool. Let’s start with Taryn Manning. Did you see that bizarre—”

“Who?”

“What?”

“Who is Taryn Manning?”

Namjoon looks a little dumbstruck. Even Jungkook’s arching an eyebrow at you. “Are you serious? She was in Orange is the New Black and Crossroads.”

“The Britney Spears movie?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Weird, okay. Continue.”

Your co-host shoots you a very pointed look. “I will, thanks. Anyway, she posted a video on social media talking about this affair she had with a married man. Like, she pulled over on the side of the road to record this. Said she can’t stand the man’s wife because she called her a quote-unquote lunatic.”

“I—huh, thought we weren’t supposed to say that anymore. Alright.”

“But wait, it gets even more bizarre. Listen to this quote—and this is direct. This is a direct quote from the video, I can’t stop thinking about it: ‘Don’t you ever threaten me when your husband came to me to get his butthole licked.’ Can you—”

“What? Namjoon, what in the fuck—”

“It’s crazy, right? She was gonna buy this guy a boat.”

“Namjoon, this is a family show, you can’t just talk about ass-eating unprompted.”

“No it’s not.”

“Well, you still shouldn’t talk about ass-eating unprompted. It’s unbecoming.”

“You’re unbecoming,” Namjoon fires back, because he can’t help it. The words are out of his mouth before he can think. “Sorry, that was out of line.”

You sigh. Know whatever look Jungkook is catching on his camera right now is exasperated and pointed, the corners of your mouth probably tugged up just a hint. “Unbecoming, like I said.” Namjoon scoffs. “Anyway, so this actress was gonna buy this married guy a boat and was eating his ass?”

“Yeah. Apparently it was her friend’s husband? They all went to a Taylor Swift concert together.”

“Jesus, this keeps getting worse. Big year for Hollywood cheaters.”

“It is, right? Cheaters and divorces. Something in the water, I guess.”

“I saw the astrology girlies saying a bunch of planets are in retrograde, so—”

“Can you explain that to me? Like, what does it mean for a planet to be in retrograde? Why is it causing divorces?”

“I don’t know, I’m not an astrology girlie. That’s why I said the astrology girlies. What are your big three, though?”

“What’s that?”

“Your sun, moon, and rising signs.”

“How do I find that out?”

“Ugh,” you intone, “don’t worry about it, I’ll do it myself. What time were you born?”

Namjoon rattles off a time.

You grab your laptop. Pull up the page, type in Namjoon’s date of birth and birthplace, and wait. Then you’re staring at a circle with a bunch of lines in it that also don’t make a lick of sense to you. You roll your lips to keep from laughing and school your voice into something deadly serious. “Bad news: it says you’re a virgin.”

“Virgo,” Namjoon corrects, not taking the bait. “I already knew that.”

You scroll a little further down the page. “Your moon is in Sagittarius. Oh god, listen to this, they’ve got you pegged: ‘The greatest need is to always search for something. In order to feel safe you need a philosophy or belief’—”

“Haaa, that’s not—”

“—’You need to have a goal or mission that gives your life meaning. Your faith must be voluntary and it is a paradox that fighting against dogmas may lead you to other dogmas.’ Yeah, that’s you.”

“That could apply to anyone,” he argues. “There are seven-billion people on this planet; I’d imagine a sizable amount of them would say that also describes them.”

“Hm, sounds like your faith in astrology is not yet voluntary. Did you know you’re a Scorpio rising?”

“No. I’m sure you’re gonna tell me all about it, though.”

You smile. “Correct. ‘People with Scorpio on the Ascendant need to fight against dark and destructive power in their life.’ Is that true?”

“Yeah, you’re the dark and destructive power. You keep sidetracking me and we need to get to the point of the podcast.” He grabs the stack of papers Jungkook had given him. Looks more highlighter than paper, if you’re being honest. “I guess Jungkook thought we needed a lighthearted kind of day.”

“That was nice of him, considering what he gave us last week. I guess we’re allowed to have faith in humanity today.”

To your left, Jungkook scoffs.

“Alright,” Namjoon starts, putting on his Very Serious Podcast Guy voice, “first up we’ve got a question from one of our listeners in Canada. It says, ‘Hi, Piper and Namjoon. I recently agreed to go on a blind date with a friend of a friend. She said he was a bit old-fashioned but really talked him up so I thought I was in good hands—and then he showed up to get me in a ‘67 GTO and exclusively referred to me as doll. He didn’t use my name once. I’m torn, because he was really nice and I had a good time otherwise, but this is weird, right? Should I see him agai—’”

“No,” you interject.

“Can I finish?”

“You don’t have to. This guy sounds greasy.”

Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose. “And why is that?”

“Ignoring the fact that this guy has arguably one of the lamest classic cars around, he didn’t use their name once? Not once, in all the time they spent together? That’s really disrespectful.”

“Some people are just pet name people,” Namjoon argues.

“With absolute strangers, though? It’s really giving the impression that he didn’t even know it, not to mention some people are uncomfortable with pet names. The whole shtick is super lame.”

“I agree it sounds a bit misguided, but—”

Ignoring Namjoon, you say, “Sorry you had to go on a date with the ghost of less-cool James Dean. Into the garbage he goes.”

And, just like he’s done a million times before, Namjoon rolls his eyes and says, “If you really like this guy and want to see him again, a bit of communication will go a long way. Tell him the pet name made you uncomfortable—if it did—and offer to pick him up for the next date. I don’t think he’s completely destined for the garbage, yet.”

“You’re just saying that because you don’t have a license. You probably think a 1967 Pontiac GTO is the pinnacle of romance. That’s probably like picking someone up on a Specialized Aethos to you, eh?”

“That’s a fifteen-thousand dollar bike, I’ll have you know.”

You groan. “Oh my god.”

Ep: #183 - Namjoon is a Virgin

I think Namjoon had the right idea on this one. Sure, the car can be considered lame, but I think a lot of men are deeply insecure and therefore overcompensate when it comes to dating. Women are hard to impress when they have unlimited options. You have to stand out, so I’m glad he advocated for him. Piper can come off like such a misandrist sometimes. (-649) ↳ just shut up bro namjoon would fuckin hate u (+204) ↳ Imagine caring about something like this when they’re getting a cat together 🙄 (+19)

You think about the cat thing for nearly a week.

Adopting a cat is certainly not the worst idea you’ve ever had, and truth be told it’s been a little lonely, living by yourself. No more Yoongi in your space; no more Holly. So, having a new little friend around might do you some good.

It’s just—

It’s a big commitment, and there’s also the dog sitting-shaped elephant in the room. Ending things on good terms means you’re still Yoongi’s second-choice sitter whenever he has to go out of town, and while you love Holly dearly (the two of you had adopted him together, after all), he’s a lot like his father in a lot of ways.

Should I get a cat, you type out, and it’s only been in Yoongi’s inbox a few seconds before the most unflattering picture you’ve ever taken of him is flashing across your screen.

“Are you dying?” you ask, because Yoongi doesn’t call you for much else.

And you already know what his response is going to be. “We’re all dying.”

“Lighten up, Yoongi. One might say being so existentially nihilistic before noon causes wrinkles.”

There’s a split-second pause. “It’s nine p.m.”

“Sure, but it’s before tomorrow’s noon, so it still counts.”

“Whatever. Listen, before you adopt that cat, I need a favor.”

“You going out of town again?”

“Yeah. Shouldn’t be long, though. A week at the most, five days if I’m lucky.”

“That’s fine, bring him over whenever. Yijeong’s busy?”

This pause is far, far longer. “No,” comes Yoongi’s eventual response, but it’s slow. Unsure. A two-letter word has never taken so long to say in the history of ever. “He’s, uh. Coming with me?”

Oh, you think. This is where your ex awkwardly and hesitantly breaks the news of his new relationship. You’ve known this day was coming, and this is what you get for staying friends with him. “This is a fanfiction plot,” you accuse. “Hot, mysterious man moves into a gaudy apartment complex after ending a long-term relationship and meets his equally-hot and mysterious neighbor and they fall in love.”

“I—that’s not—my apartment is not gaudy.”

“Yes it is. There’s a giant gold bust of a weird bird in the lobby.”

“Weird bird?” he parrots. “It’s a swan.”

“I see you’re not denying the in-love-with-your-neighbor accusations.”

“Am I on trial?” Yoongi retorts, and it’s such a Yoongi thing to say when what he means is, is this okay? He means, are we able to talk about this without it being weird? He means, I won’t ever say as much out loud, but your acceptance means a lot to me, and I’d like for you to give me this.

So you lower your voice and soften the edges because it’s not really something to joke about, and you say, “No, of course you’re not on trial,” and Yoongi knows what you mean. “And if you were, you'd get locked up for fifty years. You can’t lie for shit.”

There’s a beat of silence before he clears his throat, mutters a thanks that is so quiet you almost don’t catch it. “Send me pictures of the cats.”

Later on, once you’re freshly-showered and tucked into bed with a candle and a book (Eloge de l’amour by Alain Badiou at Namjoon’s insistence and request), your phone buzzes with a text from Yoongi—

Yoongi: toddler is a fucking hilarious name for a cat but so is flat Yoongi: it’s a tie for me You: Okay well pick one 🙄 Yoongi: yijeong says get both You: Both???? Is he paying my vet bills? Yoongi: kinda out of line to proposition him for money. flat is also good with dogs, js You: If he’s now being raised by you two, my perfect, well-behaved son is probably long gone. Does he even count as a dog anymore? Yoongi: me and yijeong both say fuck off Yoongi: holly too. he says he doesn’t miss you anymore and he’s not coming over now Yoongi has added Yijeong to the group Yoongi has changed the group name to #ThirdWheelChat Yijeong: Please don’t drag me into this. Also I did not say “fuck off” You have changed the group name to People Who Have Seen Yoongi Naked Yoongi: fuck you

You should’ve known something was going on with Jungkook, because it’d started like this:

(When you and Namjoon started the podcast three years ago, it was in the living room of his apartment.

Surrounded by books and plants. He loved to record in the afternoons back then—Namjoon loved to say it was because of his grad school schedule, but you’ve always suspected he just wanted to preen in the golden hour light, much like he’s doing now.

“Is this really necessary?” Jungkook whines from his spot on the couch. He’s already swindled Namjoon out of two bags of microwavable popcorn and three cans of sparkling water. “It’s a Saturday afternoon; I could be doing something so much more fun than this.”

Namjoon scoffs. “Are you saying this isn’t fun?”

“Yeah. It sucks, actually. This could’ve been an email.”

And because Namjoon is accomplished, mature, and absolutely incapable of not taking Jungkook’s bait, the space between his brows creases as he sends a murderous glare Jungkook’s way. “Stop eating my food, then. And drinking my drinks. And lounging on my couch like that—”

“I’m not lounging,” Jungkook argues.

“You’re manspreading all over the leather!”

“This is how I sit!”

“Well, knock it off! My couch is only for fun and people who think I’m fun!”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “So you fuck on it?”

“What?”

“What other fun things could you possibly do on a couch?”

Namjoon blinks. “Watch… watch a movie?”

Jungkook groans, throws himself backwards against the pillows as if he’s suffering a Victorian ailment. “Jesus. No wonder you can’t score a second date.”

“Okay, that was a little uncalled for. There are a ton of reasons a person might not want a second date, and no one is obligated to go out with me—”

“Uh-huh. Anyway—”

You clear your throat. Try to hide your own can of seltzer you’d taken from Namjoon’s fridge in the midst of his and Jungkook’s bickering. “Not trying to be rude, but I have an appointment at the shelter at three. If, y’know. You wouldn’t mind speeding this up a little.”

“Oh! Yeah, of course—”

“Oh, so you’ll speed this up for her but not—”

Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose. “She,” he begins, jerking his thumb in your direction, “isn’t needlessly complaining and actually has someplace to be.”)

It was just a quick little rendezvous in Namjoon’s living room to come up with a rough draft for the following month’s episodes. He couldn’t do it over text because he’d fallen down the steps at his office and landed on his ass on the corner of a step and his phone had been in his back pocket. Cracked clean in half. And he couldn’t do it over email because he—rightfully—knew Jungkook would ignore them because he has his inbox set up to send all of Namjoon’s personal emails to the trash.

But Jungkook holds onto things like that. Grudges. Loves to let Namjoon think bygones are bygones and pop up a few days later with some evil scheme. Hence:

“What is this?”

Jungkook smirks. Rocks back on his heels. “It’s fanfiction.”

“I can see that, but… why?”

This is where Jungkook shines: the ominous, cheshire cat grin; the aw, shucks demeanor that gaslights Namjoon into thinking Jungkook couldn’t possibly be fucking with him. “Well, you were having trouble coming up with ideas for episodes, and there’s an email in there from someone whose partner reads really expli—”

“Jungkook, this is fanfiction about me.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. Of all the weird shit you’ve seen on the internet (and there’s been a lot), fanfiction of people you know—your friends—was something you’d managed to escape. Probably by virtue of not knowing anyone famous enough to warrant fanfiction being written about them.

But you should’ve known. You really, really should’ve known.

“Oh my god?”

You’re not sure who says it. Could be you or Namjoon, but the sentiment is the same. He mouths a what the fuck at you that’s met with a shrug. You’re in uncharted territory now, too. “Where did you even find this?” you ask, taking the stack of papers from Namjoon. “And why did you print it out?”

“Because I’m going to track down whoever wrote it and get them to autograph it. Then I’m going to buy a nice frame and hang it on the wall behind him, so we never forget this historical moment in Place Him Gently in the Garbage lore.”

“It’s a podcast,” Namjoon deadpans, “how can it have lore? And how much lore can there possibly be?”

“It’s the internet,” you concede. “The lore possibilities are endless. Don’t tempt them.”

Jungkook nods sagely, well-versed in the degeneracy of the internet. “Yeah, that’s how you end up with shit like 4chan.”

“4chan? There’s Space Jam porn on there.”

As the youngest, all Jungkook can do is roll his eyes. “Sometimes explaining this shit to you feels like trying to teach old people how to rotate PDFs—”

Namjoon scoffs. “I’m not that bad. I know how to rotate a PDF.”

Wow, Jungkook mouths. “Anyway, back to the fanfiction—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Namjoon interjects. He looks at you. “It’s weird, right? Like, it’s weird that people have written this about us?”

About us.

Your scope of the world narrows to the size of a pinhead. It’d just been about Namjoon before. This is fanfiction about me, he’d said, and you hadn’t been included in that. Now it’s written about us and you’re included.

“I—what?”

“It’s about us,” Namjoon repeats.

Jungkook rolls his lips. “It’s about the two of you fucking, to be specific.”

“Can you not—”

“Fucking a lot,” Jungkook continues. “So much fucking.”

Namjoon looks at you, and it’s all you can do to keep from laughing. The look on his face is pure bewilderment, both that Jungkook has cooked up this idea and is hell-bent on executing it and that he remains employed. And maybe it’s a little bit of nerves, too, because neither of you are ignorant of the risks. Reading fanfiction about yourselves—about the two of you as a couple, specifically, or at least two people who have sex—is weird. Not something you can unread.

And maybe it’s because you’re so determined to not make it weird that you send Namjoon a cheeky, exaggerated wink, shrug your shoulders, and say, “I’ll need a couple drinks, but I’m down.”

Jungkook throws his head back and cackles wildly, and that look of bewilderment on Namjoon’s face morphs into something else. Trepidation, maybe; definitely disbelief, because sometimes he lets himself get swept away in Jungkook’s schemes, but it’s rare that you follow suit.

As Jungkook continues to laugh, you wonder if you should’ve said no.

Namjoon has two stipulations: the two of you have to film the episode completely alone, and he, too, needs to be a little drunk.

The latter? Piece of cake, considering Namjoon has become some sort of whiskey aficionado in recent years. His drinking is streamlined and to the point—he knows exactly how much and what to drink to get him where he wants to be. You can’t say he isn’t efficient.

The former, though? Borderline impossible. From the second Namjoon states his terms, Jungkook is having none of it. Argues that he’s the one who found the story and the one who cleared it with the author, so he deserves to witness the fruits of his labor.

“No,” Namjoon repeats for the nth time, “no way. I’ll barely be able to do this with just her, let alone both of you.”

And that—that doesn’t bother you, right? You force a laugh, because why would it bother you?

There are few secrets between you and Namjoon, except your respective sex lives have been staunchly off-limits. Namjoon could be a virgin for all you know, and as you study him—the way he keeps bobbing his leg, the slight shake in his hands—you wonder if that’s the reason he’s being so weird about this.

It’s just a story.

Fiction.

Most people don’t have to worry about someone writing stories about them fucking their friends. If they do, you reckon even less actually read them. So, sure, it’s a little strange, but people from all over the world send in stranger stuff all the time, don’t they? It’s literally the reason you’re in this predicament.

Eventually Jungkook agrees. His whining has gotten him nowhere, so he just throws up his hands. Posts a cryptic little “u guys won’t believe what the next patreon ep is lmao” that sends the internet into a frenzy. Doubles your Patreon numbers almost immediately, and both you and Namjoon do a good job of pretending the pressure isn’t overwhelming.

Jesus. You have to read explicit fanfiction about yourselves. On camera.

Namjoon gets caught up with work and isn’t available until the weekend, so you’re forced to sit with the nerves for a few days. Not too bad at first, but you’re nearly coming out of your skin by Thursday with the need to know. You’re well-versed in the world of fanfiction, but this is fanfiction about you: your name, your likeness, maybe even your personality.

What will they know of Namjoon, though?

Will they get it right, the way he looks with his jaw clenched? How impossibly deep his voice can go, both when it’s raspy with sleep and when he’s fully at ease? Will the Namjoon in the story be closer to the Namjoon you know, or the version of himself he presents to the public?

And you’ve known him a long time—long enough that there are few secrets between you, but you don’t know the most intimate parts. All the parts the internet loves to speculate on. All the little gaps that, apparently, need to be filled in by fanfiction.

Will they know what Namjoon looks like when he gets off?

No, you scold yourself, jerking awkwardly like you’ve been burned, and neither will you.

Because you are not going to think about this. Your thoughts are not going to go there. Namjoon is your friend, and you’ve listened to him scold an endless amount of men on the podcast for exactly this behavior. Sexualizing their friends. You’re not going to do it, too.

Maybe that’s why you’re kind of seeing double when it comes time to record. Namjoon needed an extra shot and offered you one as well. You’d necked it without a second thought and now you’re here, trying to ignore the slight tilt of the room as Namjoon adjusts the camera.

“How’s the shot look?” he asks, gesturing vaguely behind him at his laptop screen because Jungkook had refused to lend you his fancy cameras if he wasn’t allowed to be involved.

It’s a completely normal question.

It’s a question you’ve asked and answered a million times.

Except—there’s something horribly distracting about Namjoon in this moment. The outline of his back muscles through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. The way the sleeves are tight around his biceps. He’s always been a gym rat, always carries around a protein shake that smells and looks completely foul, but you can’t remember it ever being this obvious.

And you take too long to answer, because Namjoon straightens up just enough to send you a concerned look. Which does not help. You are not imagining what else might cause his brows to pinch like that, what might have his lips parting, have sweat dotting his hairline.

You swallow. Hard.

“Looks fine,” you manage to say. He’s still staring. Are you on fire? You feel like you’re on fire, which would make sense. Would explain Namjoon’s sweating and concerned stare and the fact that he cannot stop staring at you. “Maybe a tiny bit to the right if we’re being picky,” you tack on, hoping it’ll break whatever spell the two of you are ensnared in.

It works. “To the—the right, yeah, makes sense,” he rambles.

He moves it an inch to the left.

—

Things are tense, to say the least.

Recording hasn’t been this awkward since your first episode, or maybe ever. You’re sat across from one another like you always are, and usually Namjoon would be making quip after quip by now, talking endlessly until Jungkook shushed him long enough to get the intro filmed. Now, there’s just silence.

“Should we…?” Namjoon startles. Bangs his knee on the underside of the table and drops a string of curses. “Sorry, are you—”

“I’m fine,” he says, cutting you off. He gestures vaguely toward the camera. “I’ll just… yeah.”

Showtime.

You wipe your hands on your jeans, unsure of when they got so damp. Unsure of when you’d grown so nervous, too, because you’d been fine an hour ago. Had strolled in with two cups of tea and a little too much confidence, giddy at what you were about to do.

Maybe the nerves had shown up alongside the alcohol. This sounds reasonable, and you do not, under any circumstance or for any reason, think about Namjoon’s back. Or his biceps.

Namjoon makes it through the intro, dimples deep and wide as he smiles, and you also don’t think about the way his voice cracks and gets a little breathy when he introduces you. It’s only because he’d been drinking, and the flush on his cheeks attests to that. The same flush that creeps down his neck, still a little sweaty; disappears beneath the hemline of his shirt.

“—Jungkook had. Right, Piper?”

Now it’s your turn to startle, and there’s not much you can do to hide the obvious except ask Namjoon to redo the shot. Because it’s bad enough the internet already overanalyzes every move you make, every word choice, every instance you’ve stared at Namjoon a second longer than they thought you would—this is a blatant display of… affectedness.

“Sorry,” you say, “I wasn't paying attention. Can we redo it?”

You’re expecting a playful scolding. A ha ha, get it together, because that’s what you usually get. But there’s nothing aside from Namjoon studying you and nodding. Asking if you’re okay. Saying, “Is this—this is weird, right? Is it too weird? Maybe we shouldn’t—”

An out. Namjoon is giving you an out, and you should take it, you know you should take it, so there’s absolutely no reason at all you shake your head and say, “No, no, it’s fine! I think I’m just a little, uh. Drunk?”

“Are you sure? We can—”

“It’s fine, Joon,” you insist. “Besides, it’ll be good content, right?”

“Good content,” he parrots. “Yeah, for sure.” He fidgets in his seat, runs his hands down the span of his thighs. Very, very thick thighs. “I’ll grab us some water.”

You faceplant onto the table as soon as he’s out of the room. When did his thighs get so thick?

But the water helps. Cures whatever strange, insatiable thirst has come over you, because you feel much more human after a few glasses. Less drunk, too, which makes sense. Yoongi could barely escape your drunken, horny wrath when the two of you were together, so you chalk it up to a Pavlovian response.

Namjoon does the intro again. Introduces you strong and steady, not a hint of nerves, and explains, with a fresh blush taking over his upper body, what the episode’s going to be about. “Someone wrote fanfiction about us,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck. “It’s, uh, pretty explicit. Jungkook thought it’d be funny if we read it.”

You snort. “He might get fired, depending on how this goes.”

“He should get fired regardless,” Namjoon deadpans. “Anyway, we have permission from the author to read this so don’t come after us, and, as always, we’ll put all the credits in the video description.”

“Special shoutout to Jungkook, though, who was not allowed to be here with us for this momentous occasion.”

Namjoon laughs. “I’m sure he’s having plenty of fun at home.” You both pause. “That’s not—I’m not implying anything with that! I just meant—you know, like. He’s hanging out and enjoying his day off.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Moving on. I have two copies of this. Do you want your own?”

You grin, wicked and wide. “Nah, just read it to me.”

“Making me do all the work,” he huffs. “Typical.”

“There’s a stack of papers in front of you that might say otherwise.”

It’s clear you catch him off-guard. He cocks an eyebrow, opens and shuts his mouth a few times like a goldfish. An obvious question sits on the tip of his tongue: You think you’d be in charge? Instead he coughs, jerks his head to the side, and says, “I guess we’ll see.”

It sounds like a challenge.

Thirty seconds is all you get before Namjoon’s shuffling his stack of papers and clearing his throat. Asking if you’re ready and jumping right into it once you say you are. Reads the first few lines like they’re some old lecture notes, and they’re conservative and safe-for-work enough that you start to relax.

And then Namjoon reads, “A louder one wonders if Namjoon is a pet name person—if he’d call her ‘honey,’ or ‘gummy bear,’ ‘babe,’ or ‘baby,’” and you choke.

“Gummy bear?”

Namjoon laughs along with you—the weird one that almost sounds like a dog panting. “You want me to call you gummy bear?”

“I want you to call me a Lyft,” you snark. “I’m leaving.”

He continues:

And that’s how it starts, wandering thoughts, wandering fingers—the first time Piper comes to the thought of Namjoon calling her baby, pushing inside her, showing her that he definitely doesn’t beg, but she does… Well, she’s a little ashamed. She’s apparently got a reputation to maintain, anyway, not to mention a friendship.

His eyes leave the paper and lock onto you. “Or maybe you’d prefer baby?”

“Fuck off.”

Weeks after that first time, it’s become a habit, thinking about Namjoon as something more than a friend. It’s confusing and a little mortifying and it’s starting to affect her in ways she hadn’t expected. When they record, she feels fidgety—she’s jumpy when he gets close, has all the stupid obvious tells of an unwanted crush: her breath hitches when he whispers (why the fuck is he whispering in her ear, anyway? Doesn’t he know what that does to a person?) inside jokes to her so Jungkook can’t hear, her heart rate spikes when their fingers accidentally brush, she feels itchy and hot and a little embarrassed whenever he holds eye contact with her. It’s terrible, and it’s only made worse by the way he’s doing all of those things more than usual. Or, at least she thinks he is, thinks she’s not imagining the way his eyes linger on her more than she can remember happening before or the way she’s caught him staring at her lips when she chews on the end of her pencil mindlessly. 

You’ve completely forgotten how to breathe.

Namjoon’s staring again. You need to salvage this. He’s only on paragraph three and you’re already squirming in your chair and imagining things that are not appropriate. So you roll your lips, return his teasing. “Well? Do you stare at my lips?”

It works. “No,” he scowls.

“You sure?” you joke, morphing your face into something half-pout, half-duck face.

“We’re never gonna finish this if you keep making comments.”

“You started it,” you point out. “Go on, then.”

There’s some dialogue. Some prose that hits way too close to home, has you wondering who on earth wrote this and how they plucked every single thought from deep within your psyche. A pang of fear that maybe you haven’t been as subtle as you’d thought all these years. A moment to confirm to yourself that, no, you haven’t been harboring a secret, deeply-buried crush on Namjoon.

Then he reads—

And then he kisses her. It’s greedy and hot, his lips like a branding iron. She moans a little against her better judgment when he licks at the seam of her mouth, and in return, she can feel Namjoon’s lips curve into a smile against her own. It’s better than she’d been imagining it, really. He’s a good kisser—firm at the right times, soft when she needs it, careful but not cautious. He holds her jaw with one hand and keeps her right where he wants her beneath him (as if she’d want to move, anyway).  When their lips finally part, he rests his forehead on hers. It’s intimate in a way she hadn’t expected, and he looks at her as if she’s the answer to every question. Finally, he whispers, “What’re we doing, Piper?” His lips are still wet and pink and a little swollen from kissing, and she barely hears the question—she’s too busy thinking about kissing him again, about pulling his plump bottom lip between her teeth, teasing and…  “Kissing,” she says finally.  “What do you want?” he asks, sinking to his knees in front of her. And if that alone isn’t an answer to his question… “Whatever you’re willing to give,” she replies. It feels like she’s wanted this forever, this and so much more. Once she got the idea in her head, it’s hard to know if she ever felt differently, ever truly thought they could just be friends. Or, if in the back of her mind, in the dark corners that she never lets see daylight, she always knew she wanted Namjoon. Always knew she loved him.

—and everything goes right out the fucking window.

Namjoon sits with those words for a moment. Scans the paper in his hands and frowns a little when he confirms what you already know. “The rest is, uh. Porn.”

“That is why we’re here.”

“Last chance to back out.”

“I’m not scared,” you lie. “Are you? You’re the one who keeps stalling.”

He huffs. “You’re a pain in my ass,” he retorts, and then nothing is all that funny anymore.

Because Namjoon was right: the rest is straight-up porn. He’s barely able to read the part where he goes down on you with a straight face, turning a deep shade of crimson. Stutters through the part where you pull his hair, and that is not something you needed to know about your friend. You think he loses his grasp of language entirely when he reads, “When he slides a long finger into her and brushes past her most sensitive spot, she arches into him and lets his name fall from her lips in a soft cry. Piper, notorious skeptic, is a babbling, trembling mess as she gets closer to her orgasm,” because all the words are garbled together, producing nothing but gibberish. You think he’s ready to keel over and die when he reads, “Namjoon pulls away briefly, lips slick with her juices, and licks over his top one, pausing to tell her how good she tastes before he dives back in.”

“That was nice of them to include. I appreciate their attention to detail in regards to my personal hygiene.”

“This is so embarrassing,” he whines.

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “Gimme. I’ll finish it.” He hands over the papers immediately.

Except you regret it immediately. The words you’re staring at are not words you ever thought you’d read or recite in your entire life. Not even for a million dollars. “Oh,” you say instead.

“See? Not as easy as it looks.”

“This is really embarrassing,” you confirm. “I might need another shot.”

“Y-yeah. Alcohol sounds good.”

Namjoon staggers forward obligingly, looks completely fucked out and pliant, willing to do whatever she asks. She remembers the sounds he made when she pulled his hair, wonders if he likes being bossed around, if he wants her to tell him what to do, to be a little mean to him. Maybe it’s different from her dreams, maybe he will beg her. She wants him so badly, she’d do anything for him. So, she pulls his briefs down to expose his absurdly large member, already mostly hard, and slaps it. Gently at first to see how he’ll react, and when he shudders and jerks his hips, she does it again, a little harder. “Look at you,” she whispers, “such a needy boy.”  He whimpers at that, eyes pleading. “Please, Piper…” he whines.   “Please what?” “Please let me fuck you,” he begs. She wants to, wants him so much, wants to feel him stretch her open, and from the looks of his cock, thick and long and drooling with precum, he could. “Should I?” she asks. She musters all her confidence to keep the condescending tone up. It feels wrong given how desperate she is to get him inside her, but it also seems to be getting him worked up and equally as desperate. “Do you even know what to do with that big, stupid cock?”  Namjoon’s cock twitches, and he begs, “I—I’ll fuck you so good, Piper…. I know how, I promise. Just… please?”

“Oh my god,” the two of you say in unison.

You so badly want to ask if this is biographical. How Namjoon feels about a little degradation; what he’d do if someone actually called his cock stupid. Ifsomeone has called his cock stupid. You dare a glance at him and conclude that someone’s had to. Namjoon just has that kind of energy.

But you can’t ask because it’d be weird, so you keep reading.

“How do you want me?” she asks softly when their lips part. There’s a wild look in his eyes, like he’s processing all the possible options out of everything he’s considered. And then it occurs to her. “Have you imagined this before? Thought about how you’d fuck me?” she teases him as she stands, stepping into him. Piper pushes one hand through his hair, brushing it back off of his forehead and wraps her other around his dick, squeezing a little for emphasis on her words. “Yes,” he groans as she strokes him, thumbing at the head of his cock. “Tell me what you want, then. Want me on all fours for you? Want me to show you how it’s done, to let you lay back and ride you so you don’t have to put in any work?” Namjoon’s breathing is getting heavy, pupils blown wider with each suggestion. 

“I told you!” you shriek, laughing in between the words. “I told you I’d…” And then your gloating tapers off, because what happens next has your brain malfunctioning.

“All of that,” he whines as she lets go of his hair and brings her hand down to run a fingertip over his perineum. “Want all of that. Want to bend you over the table and fuck you right here. Hear your sounds in the microphone.” Even in her dirtiest thoughts about him, she hadn’t considered the microphone, hadn’t considered recording it. When she thinks about it though, it makes sense. Namjoon is exactly the kind of person that would get off to someone’s voice. So, she does. She makes a show of turning around and slowly bending over the table, sliding her upper body across it carefully until she can reach her microphone and turn it on. When she says into it, “What’re you waiting for?” she sees over her shoulder the way that Namjoon shivers.

This is… not good. You’re never going to be able to look at a microphone the same way, which is extremely not good for a person who supplements their income with a very popular podcast that requires them to speak into a microphone for extended periods of time.

This is very, very bad.

Namjoon must be thinking the same, because he lets out a strangled a-haaa that’s less of a laugh and more a plea to God, the gods, the entire gamut of higher powers that might be able to save him. No one’s going to, you think, staring down at the paper again. This godless piece of fanfiction will be preserved on the internet forever, will be seared into your mind forever, and no amount of praying is going to erase it.

“I should, uh. Just read the rest, yeah? Get it over with?”

“Mhm. Yep. Yes, please.”

Don’t say please, you almost say. You can’t take it; not after what you’ve just read.

So you put on a show. Steel your expression and your nerves and take it seriously. Use voices and sound effects and desperately try to stave off the awkwardness you know is inevitable because a smut fic is probably only going to end one way, and that’s with you acting out Namjoon having an orgasm.

Maybe you’ll have another one, too, if the author is nice.

It’s sweet, she thinks, the way he’s easy for her, takes his time with her. Strokes his fingertips along her sides and kisses the back of her neck reverently. As much as she loves it, part of her hopes he’s not always like this—hopes he’ll give as good as he takes, hopes he’ll put her in her place. She can feel his cock hard against the cleft of her ass, not even inside her yet, and still, she thinks about next time and the time after that. “Still okay?” He breathes into her ear as his tip rubs against her cunt.  “Yeah—want you, Joon.”  “Never thought I’d hear you say those words.”  “I never thought you’d record them,” she teases, eyes glancing up to the flashing light showing the mic picking up all of this as he starts his slow slide into her.  Piper falls even further forward when he bottoms out, letting her forehead rest on the table. He’s whispering filth in her ear, about how he has something to prove, how she’ll never want anyone after this, how no one can fuck her the way he does.  She hates that he’s right.  Each stroke brings a new sensation: sparklers, butterflies, nerve endings on fire as he fucks into her and licks and sucks at her neck, her shoulders, her ear. Piper can’t even think, and this is what people mean when they talk about being fucked stupid, she decides.  It’s perfect.  Every time she thinks she’s getting close again, he changes something: fucks her a little shallower, moves his hips just a little, slows down, speeds up… It’s driving her crazy.  “Come on,” she whines. “I’m so close…” At least she can tell he is, too. No longer able to sustain the dirty talk, he’s breathing heavily, letting out broken moans and sighs of her name. He’s moving rhythmically now, thrusts consistently faster.  “Oh, fuck, Piper,” he groans, “Gonna cum.” One of his hands finds her clit and he rubs careful circles over her, bringing her to her peak along with him, no more teasing.  When she comes, it’s with a loud moan into the studio mic, and that seems to be what tips Namjoon over the edge, too. His hips stutter into hers as he comes, her cunt clenching around him for what feels like forever.

You deserve an award, you think. An Oscar. You didn’t even groan when you had to read the word “cunt,” and that’s a feat in and of itself.

“Is it over?” Namjoon asks, words muffled by the hands covering his face.

“Not quite,” you answer. “There’s some aftercare, and at the end you ask if I’ll piss on you.”

Namjoon gags. “I asked you what—”

“Today’s episode has been brought to you by Stamps-dot-com—”

HOLY SHIT THE NEW PATREON EPISODE???????? Posted by u/pod-shipper 4 minutes ago NO WAY. NOOOOOOO FUCKING WAY DUDE THERE’S NO FUCKING WAY THEY DID THIS AS AN ACTUAL EPISODE WHAT THE FUCK WHAT HTE FUCK WHAT EHTU FKF DFGLKDG;L (+705) I wasn’t sure if they were messing around before, and I was quite critical of the “shippers,” but now I’m pretty convinced. (+423) ↳ we’ve been telling y’all for YEARS 😤 (+197) ↳ Glad you’ve seen the light, u/RandomAcorn2058! (+5) ↳ ugh. they weren’t messing around before and they aren’t messing around now. do you guys not listen to what they say? namjoon’s been dating, and piper got out of a six-year relationship just over a year ago. if they’ve had something going on for “years” that means they’re both cheaters, and that’s a really shitty thing to assume about them. not to mention it makes the entire point of the podcast moot. (-63) Why do you guys think Jungkook “wasn’t allowed” to be there? (+314) ↳ So they could fuck lmao it’s so obvious (+329) ↳ because it’s awkward af? would you wanna read porn about yourself w all your coworkers in the room? (+2) ↳ the “it’s awkward” excuse is sooooo lame he’s the one who found it and is the one who edited the episode, he’s gonna see it regardless. (+15) ↳ Tbh I’m more curious about how he even found it to begin with? Do they have a throuple thing going on? Like, why was he looking for smut fic about his bosses? (+38)

You do not get through recording unscathed.

You are very scathed. Perhaps the most scathed a person has ever been.

Jungkook texts the group chat sporadically throughout the week, cracking jokes and making memes at your and Namjoon’s expense which is par for the course and shouldn’t have you off-kilter, but something inside you feels deeply wrong. Feels like someone’s given you devastating news; feels like it used to back in uni when you knew you’d failed an exam and were just waiting to see how badly.

It both helps and doesn’t that the internet is so invested. All the clips Jungkook keeps posting have re-doubled your Patreon numbers, and jumping up a tax bracket never hurt anyone, you included. But all of those jokes and memes largely went unanswered by both you and Namjoon, still too close to the incident to find the humor in it from the other side.

The two of you had sex.

Not literally, of course, but you figure you might as well have with the way you’re feeling. The way you’re avoiding one another. Someone wrote a story about the two of you having sex and you both read it and something about that, days later, feels really fucking unsettling.

In a bad way? You aren’t sure. It’s not like you’re mad or upset or any other synonym. You just feel… off. Itchy from the inside out, and that’s far from the norm in your and Namjoon’s friendship. In all the years you’ve known one another, you’ve never once avoided each other, including the time you’d set him up with a close friend and he showed up 45 minutes late to their date and ghosted after.

(Unsurprisingly, that friendship had not lasted.)

Maybe it’s because Yoongi had always been there as a buffer. You aren’t of the belief that men and women cannot be platonic friends, but being in a years-long committed relationship nixed a lot of awkward interactions and assumptions off the bat. Even Namjoon had known Yoongi first. Had introduced himself to you in your shared 100-level psych course with a, “Hey, you’re Min Yoongi’s girlfriend, right?” because they ran in the same underground circles and Namjoon had idolized him from afar for years.

Pretty fucked up, then, that Yoongi’s off in Los Angeles with his hot new boyfriend and you’re on your couch, Holly at your feet, pointedly ignoring your texts.

“I’m gonna get a cat,” you say to the dog, trying to redirect his attention when he starts chewing on your sock again. Holly doesn’t offer any input, of course, and he’s a lot like his father in that way. “I can’t believe you have a stepfather. You’re a proper child of divorce now, Min Holly.”

There are a pile of unread texts you continue to ignore in lieu of showing Holly pictures of adoptable cats. A few more memes from Jungkook, one from Namjoon’s new phone asking to move the recording date a few days because “something came up at work,” one from the food delivery service you admittedly use too much offering 10% off your next order, and two from Yoongi. This reminded me of you, the first one says beneath a picture of an ice cream cone on the ground, and another one of him holding a water gun that says send me a picture of my son or else.

You eventually reply back with a picture of your middle finger, Holly nothing but a blurred brown blob in the corner of the frame.

That’s how it goes for the better part of a week. Namjoon’s work issue lasts four days. He doesn’t offer an explanation and you don’t ask for one, you just wait for the all-clear text and try to quiet the nerves once you get it.

You’ve never been nervous to see Namjoon before.

The more popular the podcast became, the more money rolled in. The more money that rolled in, the more you could afford nicer things. That meant going from recording in Namjoon’s living room to a bona fide office space. Third floor, an expanse of windows and natural light, thirty-five minute commute by train.

Today, it feels more like thirty-five seconds.

You can hear Jungkook’s witch cackle from the stairwell, and your mind fills in the blanks of Namjoon’s exasperated sigh. It helps, your brain reminding you that you know these people. You know this is Jungkook’s late gym day, so he’ll be in a pair of sweats and a hoodie that drowns his frame. You know that when Namjoon has work issues and feels like an inconvenience, he always shows up with two boxes of baked goods from the bakery near his place, and you know both of them will save the best donut for you.

So you walk in and Jungkook’s in a hoodie and sweats just like you expect him to be, and there are two boxes of baked goods next to the coffee machine. Both of them say hello and wave and, for all intents and purposes, everything is normal.

Except it isn’t.

Because Namjoon looks… different.

Not in a bad way. Not in a bad way. He almost always dresses nicely, always looks polished and put-together, usually because he’s either going to or coming from campus—fitted shirts, either of the tee or dress variety, and earth-toned cardigans; tailored trousers that are sometimes corduroy; polished loafers. Sometimes, if he’s feeling extra casual, a stark white pair of tennis shoes.

Today, he wears none of those things.

No, today torture comes in the form of form-fitting jeans and a t-shirt a little oversized so he can roll the sleeves. His hair is brushed back off his face instead of parted down the middle. He’s wearing gold jewelry that glints in the sun. A pair of off-white Converse high-tops. And, much to your horror, he’s also wearing his glasses.

According to the internet, Kim Namjoon is peak husband material, which you can usually ignore, but not when he’s wearing glasses.

You avert your gaze, convinced you’ll burst into flames if you stare too long, not to mention Jungkook will notice and that’s a ribbing you’d rather die than take. So you avert your gaze and pointedly ignore Namjoon, who’s talking about his work crisis to no one in particular. Something about a co-worker going on an unexpectedly early paternity leave, and Namjoon being asked to cover some of his courses until they could find a more permanent fix.

Jungkook asks a question you don’t catch. Because paternity leave means his co-worker and his partner had a baby, presumably via old-fashioned methods, and it’s not a direct mention of sex but it’s close enough to send you into a coughing fit you have to blame on your donut. Neither of them buy it, but Namjoon is a good enough person to look genuinely concerned. Reaches out, probably to slap your back, but the thought of him touching you is just… too much.

So he barely gets out an, “Are you o—” before you choke down whatever’s left in your mouth and cut him off with a, “Yep, all good!” before you’re scurrying off to the opposite side of the room like a little rat.

It doesn’t get any better.

Both of you are so stilted and awkward during recording that Jungkook has to be the voice of reason and call it, suggest trying again tomorrow. Luckily he has enough b-side stuff he can release if need be, Namjoon’s work emergency providing a decent cover, and he sends the two of you home for the afternoon with all the exasperation and incredulity of a disappointed parent.

Thirty-five minutes back home.

Thirty-five minutes to sit in the embarrassment of not being able to do your job. Thirty-five minutes to catastrophize and wonder what you’re going to do if you can’t get it together. Namjoon will keep the podcast, of course; you’ll be replaced with someone else. Maybe someone less cynical, maybe someone more, but undoubtedly a man. After this mess, you can’t imagine Namjoon would want another female co-host.

But as embarrassed as you are, your traitorous brain keeps thinking about Namjoon.

Thirty-five minutes to think about his glasses and his rolled-up sleeves and the way the denim of his jeans contoured perfectly to his thighs. Thirty-five minutes to think about, “Please let me fuck you,” he begs. Thirty-five minutes to squeeze your thighs together and overanalyze the way he stumbled over his words today; how he could barely make eye contact. Thirty-five minutes to draft a dozen resignation texts and delete them all.

You groan, head thunking against the train window. You’ll take a cold shower as soon as you get home.

That’ll cure you.

You get home and walk Holly so long he gives up halfway through and you have to carry him back to your apartment. You take a cold shower and actually find it pleasant once the initial shock wears off, so it doesn’t work to keep all your rogue Namjoon thoughts at bay. You make a simple dinner and don’t think about Namjoon sitting you on the counter and having his way with you. You tuck yourself into bed far too early and consider going back to therapy, because clearly something very, very bad has happened to your psyche.

Needless to say, nothing cures you.

But it’s a new day, and you’re determined to get your shit together. Yesterday was a fluke, because you’re so normal and so capable of being in the same room as Kim Namjoon.

Except—you’re not.

Jungkook’s there when you arrive, mindlessly scrolling through his phone. Barely looks up at you to say hello, and barely returns it when you do. You double-check the time, because you can count on two fingers the amount of times you’ve shown up and Namjoon wasn’t already there, jotting down extensively-detailed notes, circling and highlighting and chasing down Jungkook to ask questions.

“Where’s Namjoon?”

Jungkook shrugs. “Dunno. Not here.”

You roll your eyes. “Super helpful, thanks.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes right back. “You don’t pay me enough to also be his handler.”

You bite your tongue. Arguing with Jungkook means you’ve already lost the war. Not worth it. But it still eases your worries a bit that he doesn’t know any more than you do. That Namjoon hadn’t only texted him to say why he was running late because he didn’t want to—or couldn’t—talk to you.

So you wait. And you wait and you wait and you wait. Jungkook lets you talk to people on his dating apps and tells you about his new gym routine until your eyes are glazing over. Orders food delivery for the two of you because he gets hungry after an hour and had already eaten what was left of the snacks before you arrived. Cracks a joke that isn’t really a joke about calling the police, because Namjoon still hasn’t shown up and he hasn’t said anything and none of your texts are showing as delivered.

You’re halfway to hour two when the office door bursts open and Namjoon stumbles through, soaked with sweat and stammering over apologies.

“I am so sor—I broke my phone again so my alarm never went off and then I missed my bus? And apparently they’re not running the regular bus schedule today so the next one was a half-hour wait, but then I…”

You don’t catch the rest, because Namjoon is covered in sweat and breathing heavily and a week ago you could’ve survived this. A week ago you would’ve cracked a joke and handed him a towel and told him to get to work. A week ago you would not have been paralyzed in your seat, transfixed on the sweat rolling down the side of his neck.

You are fucked beyond belief.

Jungkook elbows you in the ribs, bringing you back to reality. “...even paying attention?” You startle, face warming in embarrassment. Namjoon still isn’t looking at you. “This is so sad to watch,” Jungkook mumbles, and thankfully it’s only loud enough for you to hear. “Like some stupid shit you only see in nature documentaries.”

Well, you can’t really argue with that, now can you?

But you’re a professional above all, so you hum an acknowledgment and take your regular seat. Pointedly ignore Jungkook. Wait for Namjoon to assume his position as well, and you’re surprised to see the space in front of him empty. No notes. No script. There’s just… nothing.

“Are you okay?” you ask, gesturing to the space in front of him when he seems confused. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a stack of notes in front of you.”

“I forgot them.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that, either.”

Your tone is light and airy, not at all accusing or confrontational, but Namjoon’s jaw clenches nonetheless. He scoffs, fires a shitty little, “Were you not paying attention when I was talking about what a horrible fucking morning I’ve had?” at you that makes even Jungkook flinch. A few moments of stunned silence, and then, “Oh fuck, I’m so sorry, that was rude—”

“Yeah, it was,” you agree, and all of a sudden you feel too big for your body. Feel like there are ants beneath your skin, feel like everything is wrong, and you don’t want to be here anymore. “It’s fine. Let’s just—”

Namjoon looks like he wants to argue, but he just sighs and says, “I—yeah, okay.”

This is where Namjoon would usually launch into the intro, a dimpled smile already plastered on his face that’d drop as he discussed another failed first date with that brand of self-deprecation that makes him so endearing. This is where he’d say what have you been up to, Pipe, and you’d try not to groan because how hard could it possibly be to add one more letter, another syllable, but Namjoon seems incapable of it. This is the part that, for three years, has been seamless and easy and instinctual, just two friends having a conversation.

There’s a red light on your microphones that indicates you’re recording. It’s on and it mocks you, because Namjoon is not doing the intro or telling you about a failed date. He doesn’t use that cringey nickname. He doesn’t say anything at all. His mouth opens and shuts and no words come out. What’s worse is that you know exactly why he can’t speak, because you’re thinking about it, too.

“So, uh,” you begin, and Jungkook makes a gagging sound from behind you. “Come here often?”

Namjoon ignores you. “Right, right, the intro…” He sucks in a breath. “Welcome back to another episode of Put Him in the Trash, I’m—”

“Joon—”

“Namjoon, and my co-host here is—”

“Joon, that’s not—”

“Piper. Wait, why are you looking at me like that?”

“That’s not the name of our podcast.”

“Huh?”

“You said Put Him in the Trash.” Namjoon just blinks. “It’s Place Him Gently in the Garbage.”

“Is it? Since when?”

“Since forever?”

He looks at Jungkook, who is hiding behind his hands. “Is she right?”

A beat of silence. “I can’t do this,” he half-shouts, half-whines. “Are you two going to be like this forever? Because if you are, I’m quitting. I’m so serious. I’m gonna quit. I can’t take it anymore. The two of you are insufferable.” Another beat of silence, before Jungkook stands at full height and lords over you and Namjoon. “Forget today. Just go home and try again on Monday. This is so—I’m seriously gonna quit.”

Yoongi comes on Saturday afternoon to pick up Holly.

Yijeong isn’t with him, which is almost disappointing. Now that he’s dating again, you were looking forward to seeing just how awkward it could get with the three of you in the same room, but he looks good. Refreshed. The trip clearly did a world of good for him, and you can’t even bring yourself to crack a joke at his expense.

He, however, has no such hang-ups. “You look like shit.”

“Weird way to say thank you.” You click your tongue and look down at Holly. “Do you see how your father treats me? You should bite him.”

“My son would never. But also, thank you.” He flops onto the sofa. “You do look like shit, though. You wanna talk about it?”

“Not with you, preferably.”

“Oh, gross, is it a dating thing, then?”

“I—no.” You pause. It’s not a dating thing, but you still feel like you’ve got motion sickness whenever you think about it. How would you even begin to explain this to Yoongi, anyway? Someone wrote a porn fic about me and Namjoon. You remember Namjoon, right? Namjoon, that I’ve known and have been friends with since college. Yeah, that Namjoon. Anyway, someone wrote fanfiction about us having sex, and it fucked me up so bad I can no longer be in the same room as him.

No fucking way.

“You look like you’re holding in a fart.”

“You know, I’m getting really sick of you. Did you just come here to insult me?”

He snorts, but his smirk dissipates a few seconds later, a familiar seriousness filling the void. “We’re okay, right? Was the Yijeong thing too soon?”

“No,” you answer immediately, leaning over to flick him on the forehead. “We’re fine, and if you’re happy, then I’m happy for you.” He still looks doubtful. “You want me to start singing ‘I Will Always Love You’ or something? It’s just… weird work stuff.”

“Depends. Are you singing the Dolly Parton or Whitney version? And real work or podcast work?”

“Podcast work, and obviously the Whitney version.”

Yoongi seems surprised by this, eyebrows disappearing beneath his fringe. “Like, the podcast with Namjoon?” He presses his tongue into the fat of his cheek when you nod your head. “Not gonna lie, I didn’t think that was possible.”

“Like I said, it’s weird. It wasn’t, like, an argument or anything.”

“How weird?”

“You’re so fake, Min Yoongi. You act like you’re so distinguished and above drama, but really you’re just as hungry for gossip as the rest of us.”

He shrugs. “I’m not denying it.”

God help you, you’re going to rip off the band-aid. “Someone… Jesus, this is so embarrassing. Someone… wrote? Fanfiction? About us.”

“About you and Namjoon?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my god—”

“About us… uh. Having sex? Specifically.”

“Oh my god—”

“Jungkook found it and thought it’d be funny if we read it for an episode.”

“Oh my god?”

“So we did? And it was really weird, which I expected, because I’ve known Namjoon for a long time, and I never, ever thought about having sex with him because we were together and me and Namjoon are friends, so yeah, it was fucking weird. But now… I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about it? And now we can’t even be in the same room as one another.” Yoongi is a concerning shade of red. “So our show is gonna get canceled, because we can only release b-side stuff for so long until people realize something’s up, and it was Namjoon’s podcast to begin with so obviously I’ll get fired—”

“Oh my god, you want to fuck Namjoon.”

Yoongi sounds like a strangled cat when he says this, which does not help the way you feel like you’ve been hit square in the face with a frying pan. “No,” you argue, though it sounds more like a question. You do not want to fuck Namjoon. “No, no. No. It’s just because it was weird.”

“Did you forget I dated you for six years? I know what you look like when you want to fuck someone.”

“You’re telling me you wouldn’t be weird if someone wrote fanfiction about you fucking your friend?”

“Not if I didn’t actually want to fuck them, no.”

“You’re a liar. Get your dog and get out of my apartment.”

Yoongi laughs as he stands. Pats you on the back in the most condescending way you’ve ever had someone pat you on the back. “Let me know how it goes. No need to give me credit for your moment of horny clarity.”

Min Yoongi is a bastard.

Unfortunately, as you come to find out, he’s also a correct bastard.

You want to fuck Namjoon.

Which is… not great, you have to admit, considering he can barely stand to be around you, so you take another cold shower and decide you’re going to take this to your grave. You’re going to spend the rest of the weekend getting your shit together, and you’re going to show up on Monday and be a consummate professional. You’re going to look at Namjoon and say, ha ha, isn’t it so funny someone thought we would have sex? I don’t think about it at all because I am so cool and normal about it.

You’ve got it all planned out. You’re going to show up fifteen minutes early with your own box of pastries. You’re going to look nice, if not a little pretentious—maybe a nice sweater. You’re going to be prepared with notes of your own. You might even be nice to the villain of the week so Namjoon doesn’t have to pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh at you.

And then someone knocks on your door.

You find Namjoon on the other side, and all your plans immediately go to shit.

Has he always been this tall? You can’t remember. You can’t remember a lot of things, including how to speak, because Yoongi had launched you into a crisis of epic proportions and now here’s the source of it, standing right in front of you. With all of his… height. And thighs. And that heady, musky cologne he always wears, that you can still smell now even though there’s an unfortunate amount of distance between you.

“Uh, hi.”

You blink. “Hi,” you parrot, and it’s a little insulting how one single word seems to have sucked up all of your brainpower. “Namjoon,” you tack on, not awkward at all.

“Sorry to just show up,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck. Very bad idea; makes his biceps bulge. You barely swallow your whimper. “It’s just—my phone’s still broken, and it felt bad leaving things how we did? So I was hoping we could talk.”

Talk. Namjoon wants to talk to you. Normally: not a problem. Currently: big problem. You manage a nod, open the door wider to let him in, and you don’t think about how jarring it is to have Namjoon in your space. You don’t think about how your legs feel like jelly all of a sudden, or what it’d be like if Namjoon bent you over the couch, or the kitchen counter, or the—

You cough. “Do you want anything to drink?”

“Oh, sure. Maybe just some water if you have it.”

If you have it. What kind of person doesn’t have water? But you tell him to make himself comfortable and get him some anyway, and you mull too long over the size of the glass. Ultimately decide on a smaller one, because if things get unbearably awkward you can excuse yourself to the kitchen to get more.

“I haven’t been here in a while,” Namjoon says from the living room, and when you look up he’s sorting through a stack of books near the window. Some he’d lent you months ago, notes jotted in the corners, sticky notes in the shape of sea animals on important pages. “You ever wind up reading this?”

The Idiot. Namjoon had raved about it when he was in the midst of his 19th century Russian phase, right after he’d read a bunch of Tolstoy and Pushkin. You shake your head—though, judging from the title, you wonder if someone hadn’t written your biography.

“It’s good. If you have the time, you should definitely give it a shot.”

“Yeah, of course,” you say, handing over his water. You take a seat in an armchair, pull your knees to your chest. Namjoon’s still looking through your books, isn’t looking at you, so it feels safe to say, “You wanted to talk?”

“Yeah.” He moves to sit on the floor, massive thighs spreading until he’s comfortable. Thank god he can’t see the look on your face. “I just wanted to make sure we’re alright. Things have felt pretty weird since we filmed the, uh.” He coughs. “Thing.”

“Right, yeah.” You realize he’s waiting for an answer, and you offer up a very rushed, “We’re fine, Joon.”

“Are you sure?”

Yeah, you’re sure: sure you absolutely cannot be having this conversation in the safety and sanctity of your own home. It’s tainted now, contaminated by all your uncontrolled horny thoughts about the man in front of you. You’ll have to fumigate. Might have to pick up and move, actually, or call an exorcist.

“I’m sure,” you assure him. “The… thing… was weird, but it’s fine. Temporary.”

“Do you think we shouldn’t have done it?”

That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Because, in isolation, reading a porn fic about yourselves wasn’t a big deal. No one got hurt. Everyone who needed to be consulted was consulted. The episode made the two of you a lot of money, and Jungkook even promised to send some of it to the author, so your bases are beyond covered.

So, should you have done it? There wasn’t a good enough reason not to, because the story itself was never the problem.

The problem is staring you right in the face. It’s sitting on your floor, a book cracked in half at the spine and forgotten in his lap. The problem is looking at you like you hold all the answers to the universe’s secrets, and it’s no small thing to be looked at like that. The problem is that Namjoon is looking at you like that from across the room but you’re wondering what it’d look like from on top of you.

The problem is that you’ve co-hosted a podcast with Namjoon for three years, have known him even longer, and you’ve just realized today that you want to have sex with him.

And you can’t say that, can you, because Namjoon came here to fix things which really does not lend itself to a hookup. Namjoon cares about your friendship and your working relationship so much he came here to try and salvage it, so you’re going to keep your mouth shut. You’re going to say, “I think it’s okay that we did,” and leave it at that. Because it is okay.

Because you’re the problem.

It feels like a small victory when Namjoon sags in relief. When he exhales and says, “Okay, good, because I think so, too.”

“It made us a lot of money,” you tack on.

Namjoon’s eyes widen as he laughs. “Right? Like, that was almost too much money. Just to watch us read porn?”

“About ourselves. I think that was the selling point.”

He stands. You do, too. “Never thought I’d be doing that,” he says, returning the book to where it belongs. “Definitely the most embarrassing thing I’ve done for money.”

“Being a man with a podcast wasn’t embarrassing enough?”

He snorts. Gets closer to the door. “Hey now.” You’re going to survive this. “Thanks for entertaining me, by the way. For a second there I was really worried we’d fucked it all up.”

Just the ending. Just one more thing to say and you’ll be done with this, and then you can take your third cold shower in recent memory and triple text Yoongi with a full-fledged mental breakdown. Maybe he’ll bring Holly back and you can register him as your emotional support animal.

And Namjoon must sense the awkwardness that’s crept back in, because he tries to cover it with a joke. Says, “Haaa, like you’d actually piss on me, right?”

Except it sounds like he’s got a mouth full of marbles.

It’s no wonder you mishear him.

Because he says like you’d actually piss on me but you hear like you’d actually kiss me, and there isn’t a universe that exists in which the following makes sense: you, stunned into silence in the doorframe, Namjoon saying his goodbyes, you thinking fuck it, last chance and saying, “Yeah, I’d kiss you.”

Namjoon stops dead in his tracks. “What?”

Your entire body is on fire. “Is, uh. Is that not what you said?”

“I don’t think it matters anymore what I said.”

“I’d argue that it does, for the sake of my digni—”

“You’d kiss me?” Namjoon… doesn’t look put off of the idea, which is surely a point in your favor. Interesting to note that his diction is crystal clear, now. Bastard. “You’d kiss me right now?”

There’s also no explanation for the way you say: “It’s only been an option for ten seconds and you’re already begging for it?”

You’d say there’s no explanation for the way Namjoon’s jaw clenches, the way he repeats I don’t beg for anything, but maybe the simple fact is: the two of you want to fuck each other. And, judging from the way Namjoon crowds your space, keeps dropping his gaze to your mouth, it seems very likely to happen.

All that fixating you’d done on Namjoon’s thighs was wasted, you think, as you take in the shape of his mouth. His lips. The way his tongue darts out to run along the bottom at the last second before he reaches out, tilts your head up, and finally presses his mouth to yours.

And you’ve got to laugh, because no piece of written fiction could ever accurately portray what it feels like. How soft his lips are. The way he touches you—gentle, but still dominant enough to have you moving the way he wants, have you backing up into your apartment so he can smile against your mouth as he closes the door behind him.

No piece of fiction would get it right, the way you’re unsteady on your feet, breathless at the way Namjoon’s kissing you. How he only breaks apart long enough to ask where do you want me in that throaty, deep voice of his. How you’re so overwhelmed you can’t decide: unsure if you want to waste the time it’d take to get to your bedroom, but if it’s only going to happen once, wanting to make it count.

So you decide to risk it. Plant your hands in the middle of his exceptionally broad chest and push him in the direction of the hallway, and if the two of you can’t wait, can’t control yourselves, well.

But the story had gotten one thing right: Namjoon does kiss like a branding iron, hot and greedy. Namjoon kisses you like there’s nothing else he wants to do in this lifetime, and it makes you dizzy. Has you off-kilter, stumbling into the wall as you try to remember where the fuck your bedroom is and why it’s so far. Just like the fictional version of you, you also moan when he licks into your mouth.

“Should I do it the way we did in the fic?” Namjoon asks as the two of you cross the threshold into your bedroom, a cheeky grin on his face. “Do it like this?” he questions, pushing you gently until you’re on the back in the middle of your bed, chest heaving as you lift your head to look at him.

Namjoon is so, so big from where you lay, just hovering at the foot of your bed. Cheeks ruddy, bulge prominent. “What’d you say you wanted?”

Takes a second to remember how to breathe, let alone what you’d read. What do you want, Namjoon had asked, right before he’d sank to his knees in front of you. “Whatever you’re willing to give,” you answer.

Namjoon smiles. Puts one knee on the bed, and the way it dips beneath his weight is unsettling. Why does he have to be so fucking large. “That’s right, baby.” Christ, you think, because there’s another thing that fic had gotten right. No one on earth would be immune to Namjoon calling them baby in that tone of voice.

The riposte biting at the back of your teeth gets swallowed whole as Namjoon grabs your ankles and drags you to the edge of the bed. “May I?” he asks, hands poised above the waistline of your leggings. You nod, and Namjoon drags down your underwear with them. “Fuck, look at you,” he groans, awe creeping into the edge of his words.

“You want me to do it the same way? Hm? You’re being awfully quiet; thought you were giving me shit about being the one in charge,” he chides.

Because you’re short-circuiting. Namjoon’s on his knees, just like you’d envisioned, and his mouth is dangerously close to your cunt. How can you be expected to think and speak under these conditions? But if Namjoon can find the brainpower to be a bastard, so can you, because what you’d read and the way he’d reacted can both never be forgotten. So you thread your hands into his hair and pull. The resulting moan is enough to sustain you for years.

“Are you gonna keep running your mouth, or are you gonna make me come on it?”

He blinks. “Jesus Christ.”

There’s precedent. Fictional Namjoon ate you out like a man starved, like he couldn’t get enough. Had fictional you writhing and insatiable, so it’s a lot to live up to, but it doesn’t deter him in the slightest. He hesitates for only a second, giving you one last chance to back out before the two of you set every last boundary on fire, and then he’s settling between your thighs and making you see stars.

Now you know what it’s like. Now you don’t have to rely on fiction, and it doesn’t matter because it’d never compare to the way Namjoon feels as he works to bring you to your ruin. The way he flattens his tongue to lick long, thick stripes; the way his lips suction around your clit. The way it feels when he groans against your core. The way he says, “Fuck, you do taste good,” like that’s a completely normal thing to say. Like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing to you.

But you need more and Namjoon knows it. His mouth doesn’t leave your cunt for a second, but his fingers find your mouth, so you put on a show. Wrap your lips around them, suck on them the way he’s doing to you, make sure they’re slick. Namjoon groans again, doubles his efforts. Slides one thick finger inside of you and barely lets you adjust before he’s adding a second.

In an embarrassingly short amount of time, Namjoon has you unraveling. Presses incessantly on a spot that has your vision whiting out. Has you trembling, a little panicked as you say, “Joon, fuck—Namjoon, wait—” as it builds and builds and builds.

You might black out for a second, because you come to and Namjoon looks… stunned. He looks like he can’t believe any of what just happened, and you blink a few times, try to come back into your body, and when you regain enough consciousness, you’re extremely aware of the large wet patch beneath you.

“Um—”

“Holy shit.”

“Namjoon, that’s not—that’s embarrassing—can you grab a—”

He shuts you up with a kiss. Presses the taste of you into your skin, and all those silly protests die in your throat, because if Namjoon was needy before, he’s desperate now. Covers your body with his own, hips dipping down low enough to press his erection into the juncture of your thigh, and the weight of him is delicious. Has you fisting the fabric of his t-shirt to pull him closer, has you pulling it over his head, his pants following. Has your hands skimming down every thick part of his body until you reach his cock, hard and aching and slick with pre-cum.

“I need to suck you off later,” you say, done with overthinking. Time to just be honest, and Kim Namjoon has a dick you need to feel down your throat. “Remind me.”

He whines, thrusts into your hand a little harder. “How could I forget that?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t know if this would be the only time,” you answer. “Did you bring a condom?” Namjoon nods, fetches one from his wallet and rolls it on.

He hovers above you again. Looks nervous, all of a sudden, like he can’t tell his lefts from his rights. All out of sorts. You’re about to tell him it’s fine, you don’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to, don’t have to do anything at all, when he says, “It doesn’t have to be.” You just stare. “The only time.”

There’s a conversation to be had. You know that. Both of you clearly have feelings you need to talk about and sort out, but you reckon they can wait. They’ll still be there in the afterglow, in the morning. So you nod, say okay, Joon, and kiss away the insecurities that still linger.

You think about the fic. Think maybe Namjoon would appreciate it if you cracked a stupid joke, just like he’d tried to do earlier. “Has anyone ever called your cock stupid?”

He laughs, breath fanning against your skin. “No. Wanna try it and see what happens?”

Might as well. You try to remember the exaggerated tone of voice you’d used. Repeat the line—“Do you even know what to do with that big, stupid cock?”—and wait.

There’s a beat of silence, and then—

Namjoon swallows thickly. “I, um. Unfortunately, I think that really works for me.” You laugh. Pull him closer. Wrap your legs around his waist as he starts to move against you. Has jokes of his own. “Please. Please let me fuck you.”

You roll your eyes, laugh tapering into a giggle. “Do you know how?” Namjoon nods, looking all too much like a puppy eager to please its owner. “Do you promise?” He nods again. “Okay. Okay, come here.”

You expect him to move fast; expect the first time to be frenzied and a little awkward. It isn’t. Namjoon lines himself up and pushes the smallest bit inside, and then he’s leaning down to kiss you. Threads your fingers together, squeezes your hand. Pushes further inside and mumbles praise just beneath your ear.

It’s dizzying, the amount of care Namjoon handles you with. How soft he is. Does nothing to ease the discomfort of the stretch, the overwhelming fullness, but he talks you through it. Tells you how good you feel, how beautiful you look. Spills a lot of words you’d probably be embarrassed to hear and he’d be embarrassed to say if this was any other time, but in the heat of the moment it all just works to unravel you faster.

He bottoms out. “Okay?” he asks, and you’re rewarded with a dimpled smile when you say you are. Namjoon is a devastating kind of beautiful.

But, as he gives you time to adjust and you give him the all-clear, he also fucks like a demon. What once was hand-holding is now your wrists pinned to the bed, your body caged beneath him as he rolls his hips at a pace that has your eyes rolling back into your head. You’ve been deceived. Lured into a false sense of security.

It’s almost a shame this isn’t being recorded, because you want to memorize all the sounds Namjoon’s making. Want to hear them for the rest of your life. Don’t want anyone else to be the reason he sounds like this, and as he ups his pace and presses his lips to your neck, you don’t want to sound like this because of anyone else, either.

Maybe one of those times in the future, you can talk him into it.

Namjoon reaches down, rubs circles into your clit. Every time you think you might be close, he pulls his hand away, smiles like the devil. You let him have his fun for a while, let him think you’re keen to lie back and take it, and then you tighten your legs around his waist and flip him onto his back.

He doesn’t think it’s very funny. Looks up at you all bewildered. “What’re you—”

“You were taking too long,” you snark. “Figured I’d take matters into my own hands.”

“Yeah? Shit,” he says as you begin to move. “Fuck, baby, like that. Ride me just like that.”

You do. Don’t change a thing, because Namjoon’s cock is long and thick enough to hit exactly where you need it to. You can feel yourself clenching, feel yourself getting wetter, and the sight of Namjoon beneath you does nothing to stave off the inevitable. He looks even better than you’d imagined: skin flushed, eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back, sweat-slick. You want to make him cry. Want to give him the entire world. You will.

Namjoon thrusts at the same time you roll your hips, and that’s what does it. Has you crying out, has stars flashing behind your eyelids. Has you saying fuck, fuck, fuck as he drives you over the edge for the second time. Has you on the brink of oversensitive as he thrusts a few more times to chase his own end, almost delirious at the way Namjoon moans as he spills into the condom.

Has you swooning, just a bit, at the dopey way Namjoon smiles at you, eyes half-lidded and crinkled at the corners.

“Was that okay?”

You snort. “Yeah, I’d say it was decent.”

“Maybe next time you could pee on me,” he jokes.

You whack him on the chest. “Sure. Or we could record it.”

Has you a little shocked at the way his cock twitches inside of you at the mention of it.

On Monday, you don’t wear a pretentious sweater.

When you stroll in, Jungkook’s already got the best donut shoved halfway into his mouth because he’s a shithead. He eyes you warily, probably hoping with all his hope that you spent the weekend finding God and getting your shit together.

And then he realizes you’ve got on Namjoon’s hoodie and he nearly chokes to death.

“What the fuck are you wearing—”

Namjoon appears at that very moment, and it’s so hard not to take credit for the way he’s glowing, the dazed smile on his face. But Jungkook notices, because Jungkook notices everything, and his gaze darts between the two of you: your hoodie, Namjoon’s face, your face. He opens his mouth, something inappropriate bound to spill out, but Namjoon beats him to the punch. “Ready?” he asks you, and you nod.

It’s seamless.

No hiccups, no awkward stuttering. Namjoon gets through the intro without a hitch, and it feels exactly like it used to. Just two friends having a conversation. It’s obvious Jungkook still wants to say something, but after suffering through last week, he stays quiet lest he makes it worse and sends the two of you back to the bad place.

“How was your weekend, Pipe? Do anything fun?” Namjoon rolls his lips, tries not to laugh.

So you play along. “No, not really, just some dog sitting. How about you?”

“Oh, you know me. Had another first date on Saturday.”

“Did you? How’d it go?”

“Perfect.”

It’s a blessing Jungkook isn’t filming this, because your eyebrows raise so far they nearly disappear from your face altogether. There isn’t even a hint of hesitation in Namjoon’s voice, and although you would’ve described it the same way, hearing him say it with such conviction has you a little stunned. “Wow. You gonna see her again?”

“Yeah,” Namjoon says, sharing a private smile with you. “I think I am.”

who the FUCK is namjoon dating Posted by u/pod-shipper 7 minutes ago This has honestly ruined my entire day. I thought all the stories he told about dating were a bit… Like, what kind of guy has a podcast about relationships but can’t seem to be in one? But you could just HEAR it in his voice how much he likes this woman he went on a date with over the weekend and I’m sick to my stomach. (+2195) ↳ bro you and me both 😭 i genuinely thought him and piper had something going on fr (+1302) ↳ Seriously might stop listening because of this! Any woman with self-respect would never let their partner host a podcast with someone they’re obviously in love with. If he gets serious with this woman, Piper will be gone within 6 months, mark my words. (+927) ↳ I wouldn’t worry about it too much! My cousin works at a really nice restaurant in the same city Namjoon lives in, and she said she saw this “date” on Saturday and that it wasn’t anything serious. (+788) ↳ Piper got a cat and Namjoon finally got a second date. Face it, it’s over. (+325) ↳ cannot believe him and piper aren’t dating.. do you think i should delete all my tiktok edits? (+4) ↳ this is unhinged lmfao i thought y’all hated piper? you’re in here bitching abt her being a “misandrist” every week and now ur gonna stop listening bc namjoon isn’t dating her? pick a lane and stay in it (-64)

Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts, and reblogs/shares are always welcome! I appreciate you very much~ ♡

[queensinxs]

his wife ── michael robinavitch michael 'robby' robinavitch x wife!reader.

summary: robby doesnt advertise his marriage. so when his wife shows up at ED to discuss their son, safe to say the residents were shocked. now they wonder how the two of you met. this throws him back to when he was a ms3.

content warnings: reader and robby w/ 2 year age gap. thought to be 22 and robby 24 when met, around when he'd be a MS3. fluff. med school robby. lightly flirty young robby. lil mention of mature content so pls mdni 18+. reader is clinical psychologist/completeting masters to be one. lowkey implied fem reader shorter than robby. im short im sorry. he adores his wife like hard. two kids.

authors notes: lowkey med school au and robby who isn't as emotuonally consipated in the show. lowkey wanna do a few bits here and there about their life but not sure lol. inspired by this meme.

word count: 4079

Everyone was aware of the chain that hung around Robby’s neck. It peeked from under his scrubs sometimes. Though, no one knew what might be on the chain. There might be nothing or there could be something. Either way, it was always tucked under his shirt.

Nobody questioned it, never really thought to. He’s a private person. Residents don’t ask about his personal life. But they get curious when he steps out to the ambulance bay sometimes, phone to ear. 

Santos thinks that maybe he’s faking to take a break. Whitaker thinks he might be talking to a relative, parent or sibling. Javadi thinks … Well, she isn’t quite sure what to think. But she doesn’t think its what Santos or Whitaker’s thinking.

So when a gorgeous woman strolled into the department, beelining towards the charge nurse with a smile, they were confused to say the least. You seemed to be friendly and familiar with Dana, greeting each other like old friends. 

The med student and two residents share subtle looks, watching the interaction. 

“Is my husband around?” You asked Dana, glancing around to see if he was nearby. It was never predictable where he might be. It’s not uncommon for him to not answer his phone when he works and you don’t blame him. It’s understandable. But it’s rare for you to show up at the department, that usually means it’s important.

The three watching noticed your eyes wandering, quickly busying themselves. Santos and Javadi looked at the same computer, as if they were reading results together. While Whitaker fumbled with the chart he’d picked up. The two women look at him in disbelief and annoyance. Smooth. 

“Trauma one. He’s in a mood.” Dana pre warned you, giving you a knowing look. You weren’t surprised by the fact, very aware how moody Robby can be when he’s stressed. 

“Not surprising.” You huffed out a dry laugh. “When isn’t he?”

“True that.” The charge nurse hiffs, knowing you'd understand more than anyone. But you’re able to diffuse him unlike anyone else. 

“Alright if I hang around?” You asked, knowing the answer but much preferring to be sure instead of assuming. 

“Of course.” Dana assured you, well aware you don’t like to presume but instead hear directly. Everyday is different in the ED. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just Levi.” You explained, not details but enough for her to understand that something had happened. Your son could get into his own mess these days, he’s 22 and at college, figuring out his life. Didn’t mean he didn’t avoid doing dumb shit. 

Before Dana could respond, her mouth hanging open before shutting as a painstakingly familiar voice rang out. 

“What’re you doing here?” You heard your husband’s gruff voice, head turning as he wandered up beside you. He pressed a kiss to your head before his eyes returned to your face. Concern was etched across his features, worried that something was wrong. You didn’t show up here without a reason. 

Javadi tried to not look invested but she was, Robby was married? Santos and Whitaker thinking the same thing. And this woman is his wife? No way. That can’t be right. 

“Your son decided that getting drunk and running around campus was a good idea.” You informed him dryly. This is the second time you've talked about this. Not that you were angry but more annoyed. You had to leave work, because Robby couldn’t, to go and get him from the police station by his campus. “Naked.”

“Why is he always my son when he does something stupid?” Robby inquired in disbelief before shaking his head immediately. It was too early for this, barely 8:30am.  “Actually, don’t answer that.”

He knew that if either of you had passed the doing something dumb gene, it was him. He had never done something quite like that but he was the more reckless between the two of you. He didn’t need to have his workplace hear about some of the dumb things he’s done in his 20s. 

Levi isn't a bad kid. Just tends to do dumb things.

Javadi, Whitaker and Santos all shared glances in utter shock. This man has a son? A kid? No way. They don't believe they’d heard this correctly. 

“Anyways. He’s alright. But he called Jack who called me.”

“Fuck.” Your husband signed, hanging his head low before looking back at you. “You going to get him?”

He gave you a look that said you gonna go or… not to rush you out but instead to figure out why you were hanging around with your shared son behind local station bars. 

“Yeah.” You nodded, pausing before you explained absentmindedly. “Letting him sweat a bit.”

“You’re evil.” He commented dryly. 

“It’s why you married me.” You grinned. 

He huffed a soft yet dry laugh. He won’t even deny it. Your nature was one of the many reasons he’d fallen inlove with you in the first place. He knows how incredible of a mother you are. He’s cherished raising children with you. He’d never seen you so soft and loving. He sometimes still found it hard to believe you had married and had kids with him. 

But he was aware that you weren’t going to let this stint slide. 

“That’s why you’re here?” He quizzed, almost a little amused, though pissed that his son had done something so stupid. This would be something you two would discuss with him later. 

“Partially. But thought I'd tell you before Jack blabs at shiftchange.” You answered, not going to have spoken to him later about this. It was too important. And you knew Jack would’ve let him know this evening. Better if it comes from you. 

Jack has been a staple in your kids' lives since he’d met Robby years ago. When Robby had started working at PTMC as an attending, you’d been pregnant with your second child. When Jack had joined a few years later, your kids were 8 and 6 at the time. He’d immediately grown attached, loving them like they were his own. They adored him, not having a day without him since (minus when he’d been in the army and deployed). 

As much as he loves them, he made it clear he wouldn’t keep things from you and Robby. Especially when it’s important. He loved them. But he loves you both too. All of you are like his family. He wasn’t going to lie. 

“Good thinking.” He nodded, appreciative you’d told him instead of letting him be blindsited later. 

“I’ll head out.” You said, wanting to get this whole thing sorted and just get back home. Not like you’d go back to the office. Thankfully your appointments were all via zoom today, it helped. “Hopefully won’t take too long but i’ll let you know.”

“Alright, thanks.” Robby replied, pressing a kiss to your forehead. It was something he always did when you’d separate for the day. “See you after work.”

“I love you.” You said softly, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips.

“I love you, honey.”

You waved goodbye to him and Dana, turning back around and heading back to your car. 

“You’re married?” Santos blurted in disbelief, unable to keep it in. Whitaker nudged her with his elbow in panic, she should not have said that. 

He looks over at her, pulling the chain out from under his undershirt. The chain dangled with a gold band hanging from it. His wedding ring. “26 years.” 

He doesn’t hide he’s married. He just doesn’t find himself needing to share that information unwarranted. He loves his wife and kids but he prefers to keep his family outside of the workplace. So if he’s not prompted, he doesn't talk about them. 

“How… when … what?” Santos stammered, in disbelief he’s been married. To you. For 26 years. 

“You didn’t know?” Langdon quizzed the three as he wandered to the desk, amused at their shocked expressions.

“Don’t act like you didn’t react the same way when you found out.” Dana mused, shooting Langdon a knowing look. 

He can’t even deny it. When he discovered his attending’s long-lasting marriage, he was shocked. The man didn’t seem emotionally capable. But must've been wrong. He’s grown to know that over the last few years when he’d seen you two interact. 

Robby is a man inlove. 

“How’d you meet?” Javadi mustered up the courage to ask, curious to hear how you’d met. Especially since you’d been married for so long. 

Robby huffed a laugh at the memory, recalling the evening you’d met. It was forever seared into his memory.

1995.

Robby was out with a couple of his med school classmates for a rare night out between rotations. Being a MS3 was intense, going from classroom to real direct-contact work with patients. 

The four of them were mostly sharing how their recent rotation had been. They’d all been put into different specialties. Paediatrics, orthopaedics, cardiology and gastroenterology. 

He was mid laugh when his eyes glanced over the room, eyes locking on you. It felt like his breath had been pulled from his lungs. 

You were out with friends for a monthly catch up. Since you’d both graduated and begun your career’s, you rarely get to spend time together. The two of you made it a point to organise a once a month where you’re both free to catch up in person. Talking on the phone can only do so much for a friendship sometimes. 

The two of you were chatting, discussing recent events in your lives. She was halfway through telling you about an incident at her new job. 

“God, can you believe it?” She said in disbelieving scoff. “I mean, who in their right mind thinks that it’s okay to show up drunk and deny the whole thing, it's just dumb to try and gaslight your boss.”

“That’s so fucked. Please tell me he was fired. Or at least suspended.” You said in disgust, already hating whoever this guy was.

“I wish.” Your friend shook her head in annoyance. She went to take a sip of her drink, to realise it was empty. “But I will say that I need another drink.”

“I’ll get some.” You said as you stood up with a chuckle, grabbing your wallet. Though you gave her a playfully pointed look. “Don’t venture anywhere.”

“No promises.” she teased, though not really planning to go anywhere. She was the type to just wander away without prompt. But honestly, so are you. She’s just worse than you, especially when intoxicated. 

You chuckled and rolled your eyes at the tease, but accepted it. It's normal for the two of you, the teasing. But you do hope she won’t venture far if she decides to. 

You made your way to the bar, sliding up between a tall man and a woman, there being a gap. They weren’t interacting so you took it as a safe spot to choose. It didn’t take long for the bartender to make it to you, barely 30 seconds.

“What can I get for ya?” He asked, leaning forward slightly to make sure he could hear you. It wasn’t too loud but to be safe. 

“Vodka lemonade and a vodka coke please.” You asked kindly, always making sure to be nice to staff. He nodded and got to making the drinks.

Robby glanced down at you when he heard the honeyed voice. Oh shit. It’s you. He made an effort not to stare at you from a distance when he’d noticed you earlier. He’s not shy but he respects you’d been with a friend and he’d been with his. He barely noticed the bartender he’s spoken to before, placing the beers he’d asked for in front of him. 

“Thanks.” He said to the guy but he made no effort to move. He glanced down at you again, at the same time your eyes had flickered up to him. You gave him a smile before looking back ahead of you, eyes seemingly glancing around behind the bar. 

Robby’s attention went back to the bartender as he dug out a few bills and handed them over. He gestured with his head towards you besides him. “Her’s too.”

The bartender nodded, not really having much of a thought as he put the money through, conversing with the other bartender for what you’d asked for to figure out the total cost. 

Your head had snapped up towards him, eyebrows slightly furrowed. You’ve had guys offer to buy you drinks, your friend too. Though never had been quite as forward as this. 

“That’s awfully nice of you.” You commented dryly, looking up at him. You were a little suspicious. But you can't help but think of how gorgeous he is. It’s not actually fair. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch.” He said honestly, offering you a grin that made your heart skip a beat. Fuck this guy. 

“But it got you talking to me.” He added a beat later, that breathtaking grin widening a smidge. 

“Ah, so that was your plan, huh?”

“No, kinda just happened in the moment.” He said with a shrug, grin not faltering. It wasn't a total lie. He had been thinking about ways he could start a conversation with you. He normally can do without ease. But you’d made him throw away the idea of using shitty pickup lines. 

“In the moment.” You chuckled, a grin of your own forming. Somehow you could tell it wasn’t a complete lie, but he wasn’t telling the whole truth. For not, you wouldn’t question it. As gorgeous as he is, you didn’t plan on hanging around long. You had your friend to get back to. 

“That hard to believe?” He teased, having noted you seemed to be somewhat amused. 

“Nope, but you can’t tell me you don’t already have a list of pick-up lines ready to go.” You joked, but half-meaning it. He was unfairly attractive and you’re sure he knew it. No doubt he could easily get a girl’s attention. 

The bartender placed your drinks in front of you. Thanking him, you turned back to the man you’d been interacting with. 

“You got me.” He chuckled, not going to deny it. “But they don’t seem like something you’d be interested in”

“Now that's a line.” You laughed, grin turning into a genuine smile. 

That smile? That nearly stopped his heart. 

“Maybe it is.” He said with a light laugh, not denying but not having intended on it being that way. But really, anything to make sure you kept smiling like that. He leant his head slightly forward towards you, speaking in a conspiratorial murmur. “Did it work?”

“I’m not at liberty to answer that.” You chuckled, unwilling to admit that maybe it was. It might just be his pretty face. But you weren’t immune. 

“Besides, I have my friend to get back to.” You added, gesturing over to your friend. When your eyes landed on her, she seemed to be occupied with a guy. The two close together as they seemed in deep conversation. Good for her.

“Ah, that's one of mine.” he chuckled, eyes having followed where you’d directed and seeing it was one of his friends with your friend. He hadn’t quite anticipated his friend chatting with yours. But it certainly seemed to work in his favour here so he won’t complain. 

“Yeah?” You quizzed but weren’t completely convinced he hadn’t coordinated that. 

“Not my doing. Promise." He chuckled, raising his hands in faux-defence, sensing you thought it may have been. He meant it, genuinely not having a single thing to do with the situation. But he thought of it as good luck. 

Your eyes drifted back to him, eyebrows raised. You looked at him for a few beats before grabbing your friend's drink and one of his beers. “Don’t move.”

He didn’t say anything as you left him, and your own drink. Not a smart move but it hadn’t even occurred to you in the moment. You made your way back to the table your friend was at, placing the drinks down in front of her and her guest. You subtly winked at her before you turned back and headed towards the drink and man you’d left.

As you slid back besides him, he felt elated. He hadn’t felt this excited to just talk to a woman in well … ever. 

“Gonna tell me your name or am i gonna have to guess?”

“Michael. But you can call me Robby.”

“I don’t see how that correlates.” You mused, raising an eyebrow at him. You don't exactly see how those names worked together. Robby? You think Robert. 

“Robinavitch.” he explained with a chuckle, eyes dazzling. 

“Ah, gotcha.” You nodded with another light chuckle. Last name. You told him your name in return. 

He repeated your name, letting it roll off of his tongue. He liked it. It was your name after all. 

The two of you converesed. You discussed your lives, work, study, friends, hobbies. You discovered he was a third year med student, just completing a rotation in cardiology. He mentioned he liked the idea of emergency, wanting to help people at the hardest point of their lives. You respected it, understood it even. You were hanging onto every word he spoke, enjoying the words rolling off his lips and interested in what he was saying. That hasn’t happened in a long time.

He discovered you had graduated with a bachelor of psychology last year, now practising as such as you worked on completing your masters of clinical psychology. You explained how you want to conduct cognitive clinical assessments for patients who think they might have ADHD, autism and anything else that might support patients understand what is going on inside their brains. You didn’t go into details but you had admitted you’d had your own struggles with mental health. That being a huge part of wanting to support others with theirs. You wanted to work in a few areas of psychology, he had gathered. 

You two spoke for hours. Literally hours. About everything and nothing at the same time. You joked, had serious topics at hand and discussed absolutely anything either of you could think of. 

You checked the time on the wall with a glance, realising it was nearing 12am. God, you’d been talking to him since about 9, knowing you’d been here since at least 8 when you and your friend had arrived. Neither of you even touched your drinks, both just sitting there useless. 

“Not to cut this short…” You said with a light huff as you got up from the seat you’d been on. Eventually the two of you had drifted to an empty table, finding it more comfortable to be seated as you chatted. But he would’ve happily stood there in discomfort if he got to hear your voice. Not that he’d admit that. “...but I should go, it's nearly 12.”

He looked at the clock as you spoke, eyes widening in surprise. It had been 3 hours? That’s how long he’d been talking to you. It felt like it had been 30 minutes. His eyes drifted back to you, not going to argue. He should probably find out if his friends are still here or not. You’d both noticed yours and his friend leaving earlier, so you didn’t need to worry about her being alone. 

“Yeah, it was great talking to you.” He said with a soft smile. He was disappointed you were leaving but he understood. And he wasn’t going to make assumptions. Not with you. Other women he may have made some sort of line, getting them to go home with him or vice versa to never see them again the next day. But he didn’t want to do that with you. 

“You too.” You replied with a smile of your own. “Bye, Michael.”

“Bye.” He smiled, his lips tugging wider at the use of his first name. Not his nickname. But his name. He watched as you waved and made your exit, eyes trailing you as you walking out the front door. He let out a small sigh, disappointed you were gone. He realised a moment later that he hadn’t even asked for your number. The thought slipped. Likely to avoid the anxiety. He;d never been anxious to ask a girl for her number before. 

Meanwhile, the cold air was a welcomed slap to the face from the heat of inside the bar. It was soothing. But you couldn’t help the disappointment you felt. You had really begun to like him. You’d spoken for hours. Not like you’d spilled your entire life story. But still, you thought something was there. Something you hadn’t felt before. Not with your exes. 

You became annoyed. Had he not felt that? Or did he? Either way, he didn’t ask for any form of contact details for you. 

With a huff, you turned back inside and marched towards him. 

Robby was shocked when he saw your figure storming towards him. He had just stood up to go in search for his friends. 

“Okay. We have something. There’s this … this… I don't know … spark. It's there.” You ranted, eyes wide as you looked up at him. You wished you could blame it on the alcohol because this was not something you did. But you couldn’t help but blurt this at him. You can be embarrassed later. “We’ve been talking for hours. Literal hours. And you don’t ask for my number? Seriously? What the fuck?!”

His eyes were wide in shock as you spoke before softening. He hadn't exactly anticipated you running back to tell him off. It was hot. A soft grin tugged at his lips at each word you said. 

“What?” You asked him in annoyance, arms now crossed over your chest. 

“Is it too late to ask for your number?” He questioned, a hint of tease mixed in the hope in his voice. He had wanted to ask but had been caught off guard by you leaving. He was nervous at the prospect. What if you’d said no? That’d have just about broken his heart. 

“You’re asking now?” You asked dryly. “Because I yelled at you?”

“First, you didn't yell. You firmly stated your annoyance.” He corrected genuinely but firmly  “second, i wanted to but i got nervous.”

“Nervous?” you quizzed, not quite believing that. He hadn’t been nervous the entire time you’d spoken to him. Not openly anyways. 

“Yeah. Nervous.” He admitted without shame. “Beautiful girl I've been talking to all night rejects me? That's nerve-wrecking.”

“Enough with the lines.” You responded dryly. He hadn’t really given you lines but that didn’t automatically exclude him from going to use them. 

“Not a line. I'm serious.” Robby said, sincerity seeping through his voice. His eyes didn’t leave yours. He wanted you to know he wasn’t trying to be smooth. Just honest. 

You stared at him for a few moments, debating if you could trust it. He sounded painfully sincere. You don’t think you can fake this kind of honestly. 

“Still want my number?”

Present. 

“I love her.” Javadi rushed out immediately, then flushing with embarrassment as she realised she said that outloud. Her hand covered her mouth in shock at her own words. 

Robby just chuckled, which surprised her and the two residents. 

“She’s incredible.” He commented fondly. His mind reeled with thoughts of you. Both from recent years and the early times of your relationship. 

“Careful, you’re sounding human.” Dana joked, though she had grown fond of the dynamic between you and the attending. He was practically a different person with you. Your kids too. 

“Don’t let my daughter hear that, she’ll use it against me.” He joked back, having broken out of his thoughts and preferring the humour based dynamic in the workplace. He didn’t need to be vulnerable here. Not about his family.

Before anyone could respond, he headed off. Intending to see a patient, check in to see how his residents are doing. But he’d instead slowed his moments and pulled out his phone, pulling up your text chain.  

Husband <3: if he claims he was dared, you’re going to let me eat you out Wife: if he says that he’s made a mistake and won’t do it again, you’ll eat me out Husband <3: deal

“I’m sorry … DAUGHTER?!” 

He heard the disbelief of his resident, ignoring the question and instead pocketing his phone continuing on his day. He’s the chief attending here. At home? He’s just a man who’s obsessed with his wife.

© queensinxs 2026.

[p1ttlings]

SWEET CREATURE!

010. daniel

warnings . . . the usual curse words, lewd talks, reader being reader

☆ ☆ ☆ authors note . . . yknow what no one had faith in reader 😒😒😒 and true story daniels DO suck i have beef with them. i made this at work lol sorry for any mistakes. guys i love it when u talk to me >_< keep doing it

☆ ☆ ☆ taglist (closed) . . . @theariespov @slytherclaw1978 @manilovewomen1 @xoxabs88xox @harhar0777 @softundermoonlight @reidsworld @true1411 @gr1mnymph @cassierins @hhusbuds @tulipbreeze @thingsthatilikeposts @heartsforts @shitface-t @firstlyferrari @vikisvendetta @marauvderss @vesperazhier @love-pluto-love @peachyfckingkeen @wylewhims @byfragonard @tinythebunni @xreader1989 @inbred-eater @verygentlementrash @sagelovesbooks @callmestgalex @robinavitchabbotslut @momdancingtomcr @pr3ttygirlavenue @5sospenguinqueen @cherryybombbthoughts @swthngs @tatoda @buttercuppy8 @cosmicneptune @buckystwilight @iansunibrow @nellefornella @cosmosnkaz @feminine-ominon @caterppillar @milestellerismybf @scream4mami @niyizh @4ngelest @4rtem4r

[reidsworld]

He wants her so baddughhh

[p1ttlings]

TODAY IS (NOT) THE DAY

summary . . . craig is the only cody you pay any mind to at the club. that is, until he’s paying you eight grand to sleep with his brother who’s been out of prison for less than a week.

pairing . . . andrew ‘pope’ cody x stripper!fem!reader

warnings . . . low-self esteem from reader, reading saying they want to die at some point (kys), ig it can be seen as sex work, stripper, half-naked reader at almost all times, weird roleplay, reader sometimes being judgmental but can you blame her, smut 18+only, oral sex, he’s bad for a moment but he gets better, p in v, no condom please wrap it before you tap it, uhm angstyyyyyyyyyyy

word count . . . 10.9k (it was longer too but i had to cut some parts >_<)

an . . . i haven’t written full-fledged work like this in literally YEARS and i definitely forgot how to so grammarly was my best friend 😫 regardless, im very proud of this! smut isn’t my forte but i had so much fun getting out of my comfort zone! please don’t hesitate to comment or voice your thoughts in reblogs! while i do it for the love of the game and not just attention, it still feels nice to be appreciated haha! thank you bbs

You get used to living in sadness. After years of torment and abuse, it’s hard not to live in it. You want self-respect. You want to look at yourself in the mirror and decide that today is the day you finally respect yourself. 

But it’s hard when the person looking at you is full of glitter, wearing nothing but a thin string on your chest and a thong so far up your ass you can’t help but want to pick it. But you can’t, not when Geronimo told you it looked unattractive to the customers of his lovely establishment. 

After an incident on the pole, you can’t dance. So, with a small limp in the huge pumps, you have to serve. It’s not as much as shaking your ass on stage. But it’ll do, at least, until your bills can no longer be covered. 

It’s not like you miss being on stage, either. You always have a nervous sinking pit in your stomach at the idea of exposing parts of yourself that your mother told you were meant to be shared with the man you love. She was also a conservative drunk, though, so the stacks of bills at the end of the night made you forget about it. Until it was time for bed, and tears fell, and you prayed to a god you’re not sure you believe in. 

The music is pounding all around the club. Tabitha is dancing now, her turn for the next twenty minutes. Usually, you’d be next; instead, you’re walking back and forth from the bar to the customers who are dropping far too much money for a few ass shakes. But, hey, you’re the one shaking ass, so you can’t exactly judge, can you? 

“Another Bloody Mary!” You order from Fatima, the gothic woman, her eyebrows furrowing.

She snorts out a laugh, “Who the fuck orders Blood Marys at a strip club?”

You laugh loudly, nose scrunching in disgust at the drink. “The same type of men who get a chub from watching our feet as we pass on by.”

The cackle she lets out makes you grin, proud to have amused her. You place the drinks onto your platter and turn. You look out at the scene ahead of you. Men. Men. Men. Only men. All watching your coworkers with those dark eyes they always carry. It's scary, genuinely scary. They know they have the upper hand here. They know that they can reach out and touch without any repercussions. Mostly because Geronimo would take their side, but also because they’re men. They always take what they want. It will never be any other way so you’ve decided to give in.  

You don't get much longer to take it in, because Geronimo is walking over to you. Staying to talk with him will ruin your mood, and you're still on the clock for five more hours; it's best not to poke the bear. You hear him call your name as you walk past him and call over your shoulder, “Can't talk. Too busy hustling. Making you those big bucks you love!” 

You only get to see a second of his disgusting mug before deciding to forget. Forgetting, it's all you can do. Plastering that disgustingly sweet smile on you for this place, you turn back to the couple of weirdos who ordered said Bloody Marys to begin with. “Here you go,” and just like that, your confidence has to shine through again. Your posture is straighter, boobs out, strutting in those too-big pumps. “Now, if y’all need anything,” your finger runs across the man’s chest. “Anything at all, you ask for me. No other pretty girl.” 

The man and his friends laugh haughtily. His hand lands on your hip, pulling you into him. You laugh prettily at the way he shoves a few bills into your panties. “Got it, sexy.” You want to throw up. You finger-wave them and turn your back to them, your face immediately falling. But it doesn’t last very long, because soon enough, strong arms wrap around your waist. A squeal leaves you, not from fear, but shock. 

You immediately know who it is. Geronimo lets the men at the club get away with a lot, but nothing so blatant. Only one man would do this. You laugh when a pair of lips meet your neck, “Craig! Off!” You smack at his buff arms with one arm, the other carrying the empty tray. 

It’s almost sad how well you know this man. He’s here every single Friday, Saturday, and on occasion, Sunday. Not sad for you. For him. He’s such a depraved freak; he has nothing better to do with his time than snort coke and motorboat the women here for fifty bucks. Not you, though. Not since the first and only time you allowed him a little over a year ago. It was too weird. Now, he never even offers to throw money at you in such ways. Only tips you when you serve him, and at times, his brothers. Today is one of those times, apparently. 

You look over Craig’s shoulders, immediately spotting two more familiar faces. “Baz. Deran.” You greet politely as the two nod their heads at you, eyes scouring the club for their favorite girls. But the faces behind Craig don’t end there. There’s a smaller guy. Smaller in height, definitely not body mass. You glance at Craig and back at the little guy. Little guy. That’s what you've decided on. 

You give everyone names for your mind and your mind only. Craig was originally ‘Hippie’ because of his long hair and beard. Baz was ‘Cheater’ because of the wife he had waiting for him at home. Deran was ‘Wanderer’ because he always looked like he was dissociating when he was with his girl. And now, Little Guy.

“And who’s this?” Immediately, you’re on the prowl for tips, circling Little Guy, looking him up and down, checking him out. He’s not as big as Craig is, but most men here aren’t. He’s got muscles, that much is clear— only when you look at him from certain angles—a sleeper build, you take notice. 

“This right here,” Craig’s arm is grabbing you, pulling you into him as if staking some claim on you, as Little Guy looks you up and down now. But his eyes immediately leave you, continuing to scope the place out. How odd, most men can’t take their eyes away from your body. The bob in Little Guy’s throat tells you it’s not because he doesn’t want to look at you, he’s nervous. And this amuses you. No man who walks in here is ever nervous. Not even the first-timers. “Is my big brother. Pope.” 

You hum, surprised by this. “Big brother?” You voice aloud, Deran snorting a laugh beside Baz, who seems to have not found his girl yet, distracted by the task. What surprises you is the way Little Guy actually looks upset by your words. Not defensive, like most men are about their height, but upset. “I mean no offense, Pope,” your tone is saccharine, as is the smile on your face. “Craig is just really old in my opinion, and you don’t look older than him.” You make a jab at Craig that has him laughing loudly, in a way that screams he’s coked up. 

“Alright, alright, Hipster.” You try for a giggle that isn't awkward, but you fail. You lightly smack his arms, and he does as you told him, releasing you. “Want me to walk you to your table, or do you need my help with that too?” You joke with Craig. 

Craig, graceful as ever on coke, clumsily bows to you. “May we have the honor of you leading us?”

A scoff of a laugh leaves you, eyes trailing back over to Little Guy. He’s still scoping out the place, as if something or someone were to come out and pounce on him. Not that they wouldn’t, the girls here can be ruthless and cutthroat about their money, and new men means more money. 

He’s got freckles all over his face—no doubt from countless days under the sun in Oceanside. Most men in Oceanside have sun-touched skin like so, but paired with his buzzcut and a stoic, bordering on psychopathic, look, it’s different. You can’t put your finger on it, but it’s there, and it’s glaringly obvious to you. 

A nudge from your side pulls you out of your analysis of Little Guy. You look up at Craig with furrowed eyebrows, confused by this sudden need for attention. It’s not that odd, seeing as he always needs female attention, but he doesn’t grab it with a nudge, only with his huge hands. His eyes trail to Pope, nodding at him for you. He seems to be overestimating your connection because you can’t read what he’s saying at all. He huffs, annoyed by your lack of understanding. He leans over to whisper to you, “Sleep with him.” 

His words catch you completely off guard. You sputter out a laugh, taking a step back from him. But you wince when you step wrong, ankle throbbing. “Fuck, fuck…” You hiss, and you grab onto the nearest thing. Or, person. It’s Little Guy.

He acts as if your touch burns him, pulling away with wide eyes. His sudden pull away makes you stumble some more. Craig catches you quickly, glaring at his brother. “The fuck is your issue?” 

You shake your head, balancing yourself on Craig. “It’s fine, Craig, I jumped him.” Once you’re on your feet, you look over at Little Guy. And the guilty expression on his face makes your breath catch. “I’m sorry, Pope.” You apologize. Usually, your apologies to the men in this place are insincere, or they don’t get any at all. “I hurt my ankle while dancing last week, and I stepped on it wrong. Panicked and grabbed the closest person. I didn’t mean to bombard you.” 

He’s looking at the floor, hands nervously rubbing at his blue jeans. He shakes his head, refusing to look at you. “It’s fine.” His voice is rough. An intense drawl that makes your skin bump and fingers clench and unclench, needing something , but you can’t figure out what.

You lead the brothers to their usual table. Your pumps are too tall for you to grab the heavy chairs, so Baz does it for you, filling up the table. “Alright, your usuals?” You ask as they all sit. Even as you ask your typical question, you can’t completely look away from Pope, glancing at him repeatedly, desperate to keep your eyes on him. To analyze him, of course, nothing else. You barely met the guy, so you can’t say it’s anything more than that. He's just so damn odd. His back won't touch the chair, and he’s sitting so stiff because of it, hands fidgeting on his knees. Weird. So fucking weird. 

But Craig shakes his head, grabbing your arm and pulling you onto his lap. You laugh, not disgusted by this for once. If it were any other man, you’d curse and hit. But it’s Craig. And he’s handsy, but he’s innocent. He whistles over to Iggy, ushering the blonde to take their orders. Baz and Deran, now with their women, order their usual with your coworker. But your attention is on Craig, arm around him as he whispers into your ear. “He just got out.”

Your eyebrows furrow, glancing at Pope again. He still won’t let his back touch the seat. You don’t blame him. Some fucked up crap has happened there. Some form of OCD, you deduce. You people watch so much that you’ve given yourselves a degree in psychiatry. You can tell when a man is depressed, or anxious, when their confidence is low, when they’re manic, even when they’re doubting their sexuality. It’s hard not to. They’re so easy. “Like,” you whisper to Craig, turning back. “From his house?” 

He laughs, shaking his head, “No,” the way you two are seated seems intimate. His hands are on your thighs, feeling you up. Oddly, it’s not sexual; he needs something to do with his hands when he’s this high. “Prison.” 

Your eyes widen, eyes searching Craig’s face, looking for the joke. You don't find it. You glance back over at Pope, and he's still being weird. It’s all making more and more sense as Craig tells you more, “was in three years. Was supposed to be six but got off on good behavior. Honey, he needs to get laid.” 

You huff, unamused. “And what’s that got to do with me?” 

He gives you a bored expression, “you’re hot. Got ass for days. Good tits. Not the biggest I’ve seen—“ he winces when you pinch his nipple through his shirt. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” 

But you’re glaring at him, upset by what he’s asking of you. “I’m a stripper, not a hooker.” 

“A thousand.” 

“What?” You pull your face from his. “I just said—“

“Three.” It certainly grabs your attention, but not enough to bite. 

“Craig, I'm not sleeping with your brother for money!” You hiss into his ear. 

He pauses and sighs, “You’re gonna milk me dry here. And not the good kind. Fine, eight.” 

As pathetic as it is, that certainly catches your attention. Eight grand. Eight thousand dollars. Eyebrows furrowed, “Why? Why are you…” you trail off momentarily before coming back to earth, “can’t you find an actual hooker on some corner? Probably worth a hundred bucks.” 

He scoffs as if your words are utterly ridiculous. “He’s my brother. I’m not letting him get crabs. You’re clean. Nice. You’d treat him well.”

You snort, “I’m nice? Have you met me?” You’re many, many things. Outside of work, sure, you’re nice. You don’t donate money, but when you’re not debating killing yourself, you’re at the local church, helping with the food bank. But that’s barely a drop in the countless bad things you do, so you don’t count it. At work? Definitely not nice. Fake nice, sure, you can fake it. But at some point, that facade starts to fade. Luckily, most of the men drawn to you are into being degraded. And it’s easy to degrade a man. 

“Oh, no, you’re a straight-up bitch.” He hums, not minding when you smack his chest. “But you’d be good for him. C’mon. Do it for the community, or he’ll be out on the prowl.” You look back over at Pope, his back still not touching the seat. 

You turn back to Craig with an amused smile, “he looks harmless.” 

He raises an eyebrow at you, “Yeah, right, harmless. As harmless as a fucking landmine. Step on him wrong and he’ll explode. You doin’ it?” 

You should say no. Just earlier, you were upset about the lack of respect you have for yourself working this type of job. But you also need the money. Eight thousand is a lot of goddamn money. Enough that you won’t have to worry about coming in for at least a week and a half. You would finally be able to rest your ankle enough to get back up on stage. 

“You got it on you?” You ask, a nervous undercurrent to your voice. You’re not a virgin by any means, but up until this point in your depressing career, you took pride in the fact that you never took anyone’s money for sex. It’s offered to you countless times. And Geronimo tells you all not to take it, but that look in his eye tells you he’s not serious, only do it on your own time. He doesn’t want to get busted for a brothel and lose the building; it’s clear that’s always been his only concern.  

He shakes his head, “nah. Not right now. I do have it, though.” And there go your plans. You scoff, making a move to climb off of him, but his hands tighten around you, pulling you back down. “I have it. I promise I do.” You huff, fingers unconsciously curling into his head of hair, yanking. 

“I’ll kill you if you don’t.” Granted, you don’t mean it. You don’t have any means to do such a thing, nor have the stomach for it. You would find a way to get payback, though. You glance at Pope, who’s still uncomfortable in his chair. You turn back to Craig, “Is he bad at sex?”

He laughs, “How the fuck am I supposed to know?”

You huff at his laugh, glaring at him. You grab his chin, making him look at you. “You promise you’ll pay me?”

As seriously as he can manage, incredibly coked up, he nods. “Yes. Promise. Have I ever let you down?” 

“A few times.” You confirm. 

He rolls his eyes at you, “whatever. I mean about money. I always got you.” And he’s right. He always pays his tabs, always tips you and the other girls hefty sums. There are lots of stingy men around here, but Craig isn’t one of them. 

“I suppose you don’t want him to know I was paid?” 

He shrugs, “don’t care. Or…” he mulls it over for a few seconds, “nah, don’t tell him. Up his confidence.” 

Still tall on his lap, you turn to look over at Pope again. Your eyes widen slightly to find that his eyes are already on you. He either doesn't seem to realize you’ve caught him or he doesn’t care because his eyes don’t leave yours. You wonder if he was confident before prison, if his years of being untouched by a woman just caught up to him, or if he was always so stoic.  

He’s a handsome man, you can’t deny that. But he’s handsome in a way that most women who overlook him are into pretty boys. He’s a grown man. The few lines on his face tell you he’s got years on him, but not too many. He’s just the right age. He’s tan, not as much as a lot of the surfers you see in Oceanside, but it’s there, and it’s clear that Little Guy’s first few days out of prison were spent in the sun. Or maybe he’s naturally tan, but you can’t tell quite yet. 

Regardless of that, you don’t believe you’d hate sex with him. He’s not hideous. Not your cup of tea by any means, but definitely not hideous. And you’re certain he won’t last long, but you’re getting eight thousand for it, so you really don’t care if he cums while sliding inside of you. 

You pat Craig’s thigh a few times before sliding off and strutting over to sit beside Pope. The seat beneath your thighs is freezing, despite the heat of the bodies around you. You cross your leg over the other, his eyes looking down at your bare legs before looking away and back up at you. “So,” you lean your elbow on the table, chin in your hand, as you grin easily at him. “Why haven’t I seen you before?” You act as if you don't know about his prison time. 

His eyes dart over to his brothers and back to you. He doesn't respond. Not for a few seconds. He’s thinking, as if he needs to go over what he wants to say before muttering it out.  And then— “you work here.” It’s awkward, out of place. 

And for the first time all night, your smile is genuine. Your lips tilt, amused. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Now it's your turn to mull over what to say next. You can't just pounce on him. Or maybe you can, you haven’t decided yet. “Going on two years now.” You explain. 

He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t show that he’s actively listening to you, as most would with a single shake. You almost think he’s ignoring you until he speaks, “been away. ‘S why you haven’t seen me. And I don't…” he clears his throat awkwardly. “Don’t like these places.” 

You raise a single eyebrow at this. A Cody man doesn’t like strip clubs? It’s a shock to you. All of the Cody sons are regulars here. Except for Deran, who only tags along with Craig on random occasions. Even Baz, who’s supposed to be a family man is here too often. 

“Why’s that?” You question. He doesn’t answer, instead, his eyes keep flickering around the club. When you realize you won’t get a response, you decide to change tactics. A few days of relaxation sounded nice, but you couldn’t dance around him. Not when you just wanted this over with, even if he’s the first man to ever make you softer around the edges, in fear of scaring him away. 

You’re standing up from the chair, hand pushed out to him, waiting for him to take hold of it. He eyes your hands, the long acrylic nails with intricate designs on them, slowly back up to your face. His back is pressed against the chair for the first time that night, looking up at you with confused and darting eyes. “Come on,” you snake your hand slightly, bracelets jingling. “Let’s go.” 

It takes him a few more seconds, but eventually, he puts his hand in yours, and he’s up on his feet. You’re taller than him in your pumps, but he doesn’t seem to mind. You can feel his brother's eyes on both of you as you lead him through the crowd. 

There's not really a spot where you can have sex with the man without cameras, but you figured he wouldn’t mind Geronimo’s beat-up couch in his office. To get there, though, you need to walk through the dressing room. It’s big, with lockers on the walls and typical wooden, glossed-over benches. There are vanities everywhere, big mirrors with lightbulbs around for better views of your makeup and checking how you look between sets. 

You look over your shoulder and at him, and you have to look away to hide your smile at the way he sniffed the air and grimaced at the smell of pure aerosol and different perfumes mixing. 

You’re surprised to hear him speak first, “This is where you change into…” You turn to face him, catching his eyes as his eyes flicker over your half-nude body. “That.”

For the first time since starting this job, you feel naked. Which, you very much are. Always are when you step foot into the stuffy club. But the way Little Guy was looking at you? It makes your stomach churn. It makes you feel judged. You know you always are. Most of the men here always look disgusted by the end of the night. As if they can’t believe who they spent time with over the past few hours. But you don’t let it get to you—you got what you needed: money. That’s all that matters. 

But Pope isn’t giving you money. Craig is. And he’s not here watching you with an intensely awkward look. If Craig ever looked at you the way Pope is, you’d smack the guy, shove past him. But it looks cute on Pope. Chin slightly tilted down, eyebrows furrowed. He looks like he's struggling to push something out, and you realize it’s his words. He can’t push his words out, at least not in a way that he wants. 

“You read people well.” He speaks when you don’t. 

The truth of his words makes you nod, pushed out of your trance. “I do.” You two are standing in the middle of the changing room now, not making a move. “Perk from the job.” You add. 

A pause. 

You speak again, and at the same time, he does. “I don’t—“

“He’s paying you, right?” His words make you still, unsure how to handle the situation. You don’t exactly care for his feelings, or you tell yourself you don’t. And yet, you’re hesitant to confirm. 

When you don’t see anger in his eyes, you decide you’re safe to speak again. “That a bad thing?”

A slow blink and then, “depends. Do you do this a lot? Sleep with the patrons?” 

The snort of a laugh you release is completely unattractive, and you regret it, but only for a split second. You don’t need to care if he thinks you’re attractive. Men will fuck anything, right? “No. I don’t. Do you?” 

For the first time, you see amusement in his dark and serious eyes. “Do I sleep with the patrons? Can’t say that I have.”

The roll of your eyes can’t hide your smile, “no, silly. Do you sleep with strangers often?”

His answer is instant, a shake of his head and— “no. I haven't…” he swallows. “Haven’t been with anyone in three years.” 

You hum, letting his words sit. Three years is a long time. You figure it was his prison stint. But he doesn’t know that you know, so you refrain from asking if anything happened there. “Are you trying to warn me that you won’t last long?” You tease. 

He huffs out a small laugh, “Yes. Not sure I know what an erection feels like anymore.”

You’re pleasantly surprised by his honesty. Seeing as he was awkward and stoic not even five minutes ago. “Well, then tell me about your last erection.” 

He looks at you like you’ve grown another head, eyes wide before he relaxes them. “What?” 

You shrug, “What was it like? Your last erection. I’m assuming it was during sex, right?” 

His nod is a bit jerky as he replies. “Yes.” 

“Okay…” You watch him. You can not watch him. “Tell me about it. With who? How hard did you come? In bed? Against a counter? Was it raw? Did you—“ 

“Are you always this vulgar?” He interrupts.

You laugh—a real laugh. “Pope, we’re in the middle of a changing room in a strip club with nothing but floss covering my nipples. And this isn’t even my worst outfit.” 

His smile is tight-lipped, looking to the side. “Yeah… guess so.” He peeks back up at you. “He payin’ you a lot?”

“Enough.” You confirm. 

He’s wearing that look again, the one that yells he can’t spit out the correct words. But you know why he’s shy about this. 

“You want to roleplay the last time you had sex.” It’s almost comical how wide his eyes get. You shrug again, “told you, I read people well, a perk of the job.” 

He releases the nervous breath he had been holding in. “You seem close to Craig.” 

You scrunch your nose softly, shaking your head. “Not really. We only see each other here.”

“But he’s around often?”

“Pathetically.” 

He agrees with a nod. “Last time I had sex was with Catherine.” He speaks her name like you’re supposed to know who she is. 

“Heigl?” You joke. 

It flies over his head. “No, Belen.” 

“Right…” your eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Anway… tell me about it.” 

He seems ashamed as he thinks back on it, and this only piques your curiosity. “Let’s sit.” You open Geronimo’s office door and let him inside. It’s a typical office. A desk, a computer, stacks of paper in thick manila folders. There's art on the walls of dogs playing card games, corny Godfather quotes, and a bear head hanging from your boss's hunting. You ignore it as you lock the door behind you and take a seat on the battered couch beside Pope. “Tell me about it.” You urge.  

He clears his throat, legs spread open on the couch. Not by choice, you notice. “We were drunk.” He begins. “It was… stupid. To her. Meant nothing.”

You’re leaning your arm on the couch, eyes stuck on him as he speaks. It almost breaks your heart to see that hurt expression on him. “You wanted it to mean something.” You add. 

“It did.” His words sound defensive as he spews them. He's not your first upset customer, though, so it doesn’t faze you. “It meant something.” 

To you, you want to tell him. But you bite your tongue. “Okay, it meant something.” You validate him. “What else?” 

“That’s all.” 

But you’re eyeing him. He’s not telling the whole truth. It’s easy to see. To you, at least. “You ever been told you’re a bad liar?” 

“No.” His tone is sincere. 

“Well, you are.” You huff. “There’s more. Tell me. Who is Catherine?” 

He’s quiet again. That same tense look. He can’t find his words. Not for a few more moments. “Baz’s wife.” 

Your head tilts, gathering your thoughts. Baz’s wife. Baz is his brother. Catherine is Baz’s wife. It clicks. “Damn.” You sigh, shaking your head. “Geez, Pope.” 

He glares at you, but you don’t find any real heat in it. “Thought strippers weren’t supposed to judge.” 

You give him a bored expression, “That’s a fake rule.” 

“You think I’m gross.” He almost sounds hurt. 

You scoff, “I don’t care what you do, Pope.” A pause. “Only a little. Not from the sex… that’s really the woman you want?” 

He doesn’t hesitate. “More than anything.” 

You almost gasp in shock, but you rein it in. “Geez, Pope.” You repeat. “You’re fucked.” 

The hum of the overhead light fills the quiet room. You’re letting him sit in his truth for a few minutes, playing with a loose thread on the couch. 

“You want me to pretend to be Catherine?” Your voice cuts the silence. 

With a shaky breath, he nods, “Yes.” 

You feel disgusting. You really try not to judge, but it feels wrong. His brother is just outside, having his own fun with one of your coworkers. You have your own moral compass about cheating. The bartenders laughed when you told them as such. You’re a stripper, and half of your clients are married. It’s the one hope you let yourself cling to, that you happen to get the unmarried ones. There are never rings. Never ties to the outside world. Not even a tan. You’re a good person. You’re not a cheater. You’re a good person. 

You’re a good person.

And yet— 

You take his hand and lead him over to the only space on Geronimo’s office wall. You press your back into it. He’s standing a few steps away from you, so you grab his hand again and pull him into you. His breathing is labored, not against your cheek. His hands are fidgeting, unsure where to place them. You grab them again and press them to your cheeks. “We can’t, Pope.” Your voice cracks. “Baz, he… he’ll… I can’t hurt him.” 

His breath hitches. His eyes are darting across your face, like he can’t believe this is really happening. “He won’t…” he licks his lips, mouth dry from his nerves. “He won’t know.” His hands on your face tighten, ghosting his lips over yours. 

“He will,” you furrow your eyebrows, and your face twists up in fake guilt. “Pope, he will.” 

“Won’t.” His teeth nip at your bottom lip. “Can I kiss you?” You wonder if he truly asked Catherine’s permission. 

You jerk out a small nod, and his lips immediately press to yours. Despite the ferocity of the placement, the kiss is soft. Deep. You don't sleep with patrons, but you have shared a few kisses with them. Nothing extravagantly deep or emotional. Mostly sloppy and open-mouthed ones that always end up with their tongue down your throat. 

Pope Cody is a damn good kisser. His hands are still on your cheeks, pulling you into him. While he does so, your hands fidget with the buttons to his shirt, needing to undo them. But you can’t grip them, not with the way his tongue is lapping at yours. 

Your brain is mush. The kiss is wet but not in a sloppy way, warm and desperate but full of a type of yearning you’ve never felt. It feels as if he’s trying to fuse you two into one. Or really, he’s trying to fuse himself and your Catherine act into one. It’s almost romantic. 

He didn't tell you he got to his knees for her, so you’re shocked when he pulls his lips from yours and kisses down your jaw, to your neck, the dip between your breasts, and to your mound. 

The thong you’re wearing is tugged off with his shaky hands, falling to your ankles. It’s helping that you’re wearing pumps so tall, he sits at your cunt perfectly. But the position you’re in is uncomfortable. And so is the pace. His face is smushed into your cunt, lapping and sucking at it wildly, not actually hitting anything.

He notices. The small whimpers you’re releasing are practiced and completely fake. And he notices. He pulls away from you, confused. “Are you not enjoying this?”

You’re caught off-guard, and you figure you’re not playing the role correctly. Catherine must have loved this. “I am! Just as good as—“

He cuts you off, “not Catherine… you.” 

Now you’re really confused. “Uhm…” you think it’s a trick, as if testing whether you’d break out of his fantasy, so he can find a way to revoke that money from you. “I enjoy what you do.” 

Granted, you met him for the first time just forty minutes ago, so saying you've never seen him this angry before seems redundant. He's angry. Really angry. He's getting up off his knees, taking a step back from you. “You hate this.” He utters it like a cold, hard fact. 

“N-no!” You need to salvage this quickly. You’re telling yourself it’s for your money. The eight grand that will sit so prettily in your bank account. But the embarrassment and anger in him are what’s pushing you to make this right. And you hate that it is. “Pope, listen to me, I really, really liked the kiss—“ 

He interrupts again. “But not the pussy eating?” He’s watching you, waiting for your answer. 

With an awkward voice, you decide to speak the truth. “No…” and you hate that his shoulder slumps even slightly. “It’s not a bad thing! You have the potential! You have the passion for it, the one most men don’t have. You can’t just slobber away at it and hope for the best.” 

That surprisingly calms him down. He pauses, lets your words sink in, and he nods. “Okay… okay…” a pause. “Show me.” 

He’s full of surprises, and you’re not sure what to do with them. You were certain this would go one way. He’d search for his release and his only. It wouldn’t be the first time a guy you chose to be with was selfish, and it wouldn’t be the last. But he wants to learn. 

“O-okay.” You hate the way your words falter. You clear your throat, trying to gather yourself. “First things first, I need to be comfortable. Back to the wall isn’t my favorite.” 

“Okay.” He’s on it. It’s his first time in this office, and he’s ushering you onto the couch. You can’t think straight. This was supposed to be his freaky roleplay about his sister-in-law, not a pussy eating lesson. 

Now, you’re sitting back on the couch, legs spread open for him. You’ve been laid bare like this plenty of times. You’re not a prude by any means. You can’t be with a job like this. But his eyes on your bare cunt make you anxiously bite your bottom lip. He’s not looking up at you, eyes fixated on your legs. “I know this feels good,” his finger ghosts your sensitive bundle of nerves. 

You shiver, “Jesus, Pope.” You scold the guy with a glare. “Just… fuck, I don’t know how to teach anyone this.” 

He huffs, finally looking at you from his spot on the floor, “You’re the one who said I’m terrible at this.” 

You defend yourself, “I did not.” You huff, trying to sit up, but he grabs your thighs, pulling you back down and into him. 

“Sit still,” he presses soft kisses to your inner thighs, making you tense up. “I’ll just do what I usually do. I’ll… I’ll slow it down.” 

You try to sit up again, but he pulls you back, “fuck, Pope. This is supposed to be for you, not—“ your breath stutters when he presses a sloppy kiss to your clit, hands gripping onto the cushions beneath you. 

And he's true to his word. He isn’t devouring as he had been before. He’s savoring you. He’s licking up every slick drop off of you, desperately searching for more.

“Wait… fuck…” You’re not sure what it is you're asking for, but you don’t want this to stop. And he knows it. Before you can think, he’s dragging you further into him, pushing your legs to his shoulders, one of his arms hooking to your waist, locking you in place. And not once does he stop his ministrations. 

Your thighs are shaking. Your mind is racing. You swear you can feel your heartbeat in your clit as he’s ravishing you. He doesn’t go all in like before. It’s clear he forgets himself at times, though, and slows down, pulling at your clit, lips puckered and sucking you into his mouth, releasing to press soft kisses to your wet folds. You gasp when he slips a single finger inside of you. Your spasming hole now has something to grip onto, and it only adds to your mewls. 

He’s lapping from your sopping hole up to your clit in fat stripes. “Pope… I… I can’t… wait… fuck.” He slips a second finger in, slowly pumping in and out of you. You’re about to warn him, tell him you’re teetering to the edge, but you don’t get the chance to. He curls his fingers once, and your orgasm crashes over you. 

Stuttered moans leave your lips, head thrown back in the throes of pure pleasure. He lets you ride out your orgasm, softer with his tongue. When he deduces that you’re overstimulated, he pulls his face away, arm slipping out from under you, placing his hands on your bare thighs. He doesn’t make a move to get up. 

Breathing labored, your chest rising and falling, you sit up enough to get a better look at him. Your eyebrows furrow as you catch him looking down at the floor. “Are… are you okay?” You ask, concerned about whatever this reaction is. 

His hands squeeze down on your thighs, flesh stinging slightly. “Yeah…” is his only response. 

You sit up straighter, legs closing as you do so. “Are you, like, overwhelmed or something?” 

“No, just stop talking.” He doesn’t let you go, hands still on you. He’s shaking, his hands tightening and untightening repeatedly. 

“Okay, now I'm really worried—“ 

“I just need to calm down.” He sneers at you. He’s not angry, he’s embarrassed. And he turns sheepish as he mumbles the next part, “got too excited. Don’t want to… release yet.” 

It takes a second for your brain to catch up to his words. And then, you’re laughing. “Crap. Crap. Sorry. I’m not laughing at you, I promise!” You’re a giggling mess, trying to get yourself together. “Fuck, I just… I’ve never heard that.” 

He huffs, annoyed by your laughter. “You’re laughing because I liked eating you out.” He glares at you. “Most women would like that, right?” 

You manage to catch your breath, the grin unable to leave your face, “didn’t say I don't like it.” But he's pouty and you like it. “Fine, fine, sorry. It was good.” You reach over to grab a tissue to clean his fingers. “We can keep roleplaying your sister-in-law.” 

He snarls, but you still don’t take it seriously. “Don’t call her that. Makes it weird.” 

You have to hold yourself back from telling him that it is weird already. To be fantasizing about your brother's wife is an odd thing. To have had sex with your brother's wife is an odd thing. They have a child together, from what you’ve gathered through being around Craig. But that’s your own moral compass. Which you know you should lighten as you’re about to have more sex with this unknown man for eight thousand. You’re not exactly the spokesperson for morality. 

You scoot closer to him, letting him kneel between your legs. And the switch is back on. 

“Should’ve been you, Pope.” You can hear his breath hitch. Your fingers run through his very short head of hair at the back of his head. You’re pressing soft kisses to his jaw. “Should’ve picked you.” 

And he’s jumping right into it too, eyes shut tight. To hide the fact that the woman he’s with right now isn’t the one he wants. It makes you wonder if love is that great. You’ve never felt it. Not romantically, at least. Barely even familial or with friends. To be so hung up on a person who will never love you back sounds draining. And embarrassing. You find yourself wishing you could cure him of this ailment. 

Your lips meet his once more. And this time, you’re in control. Your lips push against his, his hands sliding up your bare thighs to your waist, gripping onto you. “Pope…” you pull your lips from his for a moment, but he chases after you, meeting once more. Your hands reach down to his jeans, the cold metal of his button twisting between your fingers as you undo them. 

The groan that leaves him vibrates against you as you pull his jeans and boxers down simultaneously. Without breaking the heavy kiss, he slowly gets up onto the couch, lying you on your back against the battered and scratchy couch. It’s small, the two of you barely able to fit, but you’re making it work. 

He’s hovering over you now. You pull your lips from his, placing your hand over his mouth to stop him from chasing after you again. His hands are on the sides of your head, eyes wide with lust before he closes them again. To keep the fantasy going. 

Your hand is shaking slightly as you reach down between you two. The moan he draws out when gripping his hard and warm cock is filthy. You’ve never been with a vocal man before. His hips are twitching desperately already, and you know for certain now that he won’t last long at all. 

You easily guide his cock to your entrance, letting just the tip of him notch inside of you. Your eyebrows twist, a small gasp leaving you with the sense of the slight intrusion. You haven’t even so much as glanced down to see what he looks like. You can’t care for that right now. Not when his eyes are shut tight over you, eyebrows pinched, and small noises are leaving him. You’re too focused on his face. Deducing by the twitch of his nose, what he’s feeling, and how you can keep making it good for him. It's all about him. 

“Push in, Pope…” your arms are wrapped around his neck, whispering seductively into his ear. 

You didn’t have to tell him twice. His moan is loud, hitching at the end as he bottoms out inside of you. “Fuck.” 

Fuck is right. He fills you perfectly. He’s not huge, you’ve had some abnormally big dick, but you didn’t enjoy it as it was more painful than anything else. You don’t believe size matters either; it’s what you do with it that's important. But ninety percent of the small dick losers you’ve been with don’t know what to do with it, or the big ones. You almost snort out a laugh at the thought of this being a Goldilocks story, only your filthy version. 

Your soft hands trail down his back and to his ass, pushing him into you, as if your small touch could help him grind deeper into you. “Shit… Pope…” your breathing is labored as he fucks into you. The couch is shaking with every thrust, and his face is burrowing into you. 

You almost forget you’re roleplaying for a moment, and in the haze of your pleasure, you speak again, “knew you’d…” he punches a moan out of you as he thrusts harder. “Knew you’d fit me perfectly. Meant for me, Pope. Never wanted him. Only you.” 

And this spurs him on. His thrusts are becoming erratic, his moans are louder and vibrating at your neck. Shakily, his voice warns, “I’m gon— I’m gonna—“ 

You don’t let him finish. Instead, you whisper, “I love you, Pope.” 

And he shatters. His moan is loud, hips locking yours down as he pushes and pushes deep inside of you. The warmth of his cum fills you. Your pulse is racing, blocking out the way his moaning turned into full whimpers, sounding distant. 

He’s out of breath as he lays his limp body against yours, hot against your neck. He’s sweating, small dribbles of it collecting at his temple. He moves his head from your neck, your eyes widening as he leans his forehead against yours, his nose nudging against yours. His eyes are still shut, and the flutter in your stomach from his move is gone. This is still roleplaying, but you’re embarrassed. 

Embarrassed that you forgot about the role-playing for even a flicker of a second. Embarrassed that you focused so much on him. Embarrassed that you’ve accepted this deal with his brother. Embarrassed that you let yourself fall to the level your coworkers are at, always taking money for sex. And still you continue to embarrass yourself. 

“I pick you, Pope.” You’re pressing chaste yet sweet pecks to his lips. He’s not fighting you, falling into your lips when the kisses get longer and heavier. 

His breath hitches, just like you knew it would. He pulls his lips from yours, “Say it again.” 

You oblige, “I pick you, Pope.” For a second, it sounds like he's crying, and you sit up, sliding out from under him. You eye him carefully, worried, “Are you okay?”

He clambers back as well, the two of you sitting naked on the couch. The office smells of old cigarette buds and now a tinge of sweat from their rump in the stuffy office. 

The energy is tense. Like it’s dawning on you both what you just did, he’s back to what seems his normal way of acting, awkward, but that undercurrent of toughness. 

“Was it…” You clear your throat, nervous. “Was it accurate to… to her?” You ask like a project waiting to be graded. And you’re worried. Worried that the response will be bad. 

“No.” It’s blunt. And you don’t know him well, or at all, actually, but you know it’s just who he is. He’s blunt. Unsure of how to speak, maybe it’s just with women, you’ll never know. After this, you don’t plan on interacting with him again. You’ll even go as far as to ignore Craig if you need to. 

“Sorry.” You’re scolding yourself. Sorry? What do you have to apologize for? You did nothing wrong. You don’t know his sister-in-law. You don’t know what she looks like, how she talks, how she acts, how she treats him. And yet, his answer is eating you up alive. What could you have done better? How could you be more like the woman he’s in love with? 

More silence. 

“She wouldn’t say what you did.” 

His words pique your interest. You want to be careful with your words, but there’s no way around it: “If she’s not into you, then why’d she sleep with you?” 

He shrugs, “We were drunk. I was nervous for my… job. She and Baz got into an argument. It just happened.” 

“Sex doesn’t just happen, Pope.” You reach over for your thin top and put it back on, which doesn’t do much but hide the pecks of your nipples. “She must feel something for you.” 

He huffs, “Yeah, disgust.” 

You slip your matching thin panties on as well. He’s still sitting naked on the couch. You don't point it out. Instead, you plop back down onto your seat. You reach over to Geronimo’s desk, grabbing one of the joints that he confiscated from your coworker a few days ago. It’s a bit stale, but you light it anyway using his cheap lighter on the desk. You cough when you inhale, and there are bouts of smoke puffing out with every breath. You hold it out to Pope, and he shakes his head. 

You shrug and say, “suit yourself.” You turn your body fully to him. “Let me guess. Catherine was your childhood best friend, who you always loved, but she picked your brother.” 

He doesn’t try denying it. He nods, “Yeah.”

Another hit, “fuck. Sounds terrible.” 

He doesn’t respond. So you keep going. “Have you tried moving on?” 

“No.” His response may come off as blunt, but the look he’s giving you tells you he’s being sarcastic. 

“Geez,” you lightly smack his chest, eyebrows furrowing further as he looks from your hand and back to your face. “Just saying, a way to get over someone is to get under another, right?”

He laughs. It’s small, but it’s a laugh. And you smile at the sight, “I just did that.” 

You laugh as well, nodding. “Yeah… guess so.” Playfully, you ask, “So, after sleeping with me, how much closer to getting over her are you?” 

He’s quiet for a moment, as if actually mulling it over. “I was five percent over her. I’m now seven.” 

You cackle, feeling a tad smug. “I bumped you up two whole numbers? That’s amazing. Maybe we should sleep together more. Get you to at least a solid seventy.”

A scoff, “You wish.” 

And a part of you does. 

—

A week and a half of pure relaxation comes. Craig scrounged up the money a day later, said his brothers were pissed they had to chip in, but they ended up understanding. It ticks you off that they believe their older brother can’t pull women. 

Geronimo was pissed for a minute, but he got past it. Still, it doesn’t stop him from texting you every hour of the day to pick up a shift; he even adds “please,” which is completely unlike him. You don’t bother responding, you leave his messages on read every time. 

And despite needing to rest, you decide now is the right time to go to the grocery store. Out of all the chores you have to do to function like a normal adult, this is the worst one. It drags on, and there are far too many people. 

You’re pushing the rickety cart around, with nothing but a bag of carrots and a bottle of ranch so far. The choices are overwhelming you. Why are there so many types of breads?

“Almost didn’t recognize you with all those clothes on.” The familiar voice of Craig fills your ears. You turn slowly, scared to make contact with him. But it’s too late. 

“Haha.” You voice dryly, fully turning to him. He’s right. This is the most clothing he’s ever seen on you. Usually, you’re in slutty skirts or thongs, matching bras that show too much. But that’s part of the gig, and you’re not going against what pays for your lifestyle. “What are you doing here? Let me guess, the sketchy guy at the deli is your plug?”

He snorts out a laugh, running his hand through his long, brown hair. It’s greasy, as usual when he’s been on binges. “No, my plug is a hot babe.”

You grimace, feeling gross at his words. “Ew. Also, this is really weird. Maybe we should stick to only seeing each other at the club.” You voice, hoping he understands. But he’s Craig. 

He blows a raspberry, waving his hand at you. “Nah. You’re like my sister.”

“Oh, god, ew no!” You laugh, nose scrunched up in disgust. “I’ve given you countless lap dances, Craig. That’s not fucking sisterly!”

He scoffs, placing his big hand on your hip and pulling you into him. “Fine, you’re like my sexy step-sister.”

“Ew, Craig!” You’re laughing, pushing at his chest when he leans down to press kisses to your neck. “That’s just as bad!”

“It ain’t.” He’s still trying as you giggle and try to push him away. 

“Why are there so many goddamn flavors of Oreos? Did the obesity rate in children go up while I was gone?” That voice gets you. It completely stops you in your step, letting Craig fall into you. You can’t see his face with Craig over you like this, and you’re glad for it. Only for a moment because you’re shoving him off of you, desperate to look at Pope. 

He’s holding four packs of Oreos when you turn to him, watching you with that same intense look. “P-Pope. Hi.” You greet, trying your best to act nonchalant. You feel like you’re failing, and the weird glance Craig gives you solidifies it. 

Instead of greeting you, he holds the packets of cookies out to you. “Which one do you think tastes best?” 

You’re taken aback by the question, glancing at the options. “Uhm… the original?” Your look turns from confusion to a grin at the soft, ghost of a pout that falls to his lips as he glances back to the cookies. 

He hums, “I thought so too. But she’s six. She must like these, right?” He holds out the rainbow cookies. “It’s Rainbow Sherbert.” 

You shrug softly, “don’t even know what sherbert is. Or why it’s a rainbow.” 

Craig places cash against Pope’s chest. “Just buy ‘em all. Gotta talk to her.” He tries to shoo his brother away from the two of you. 

You can tell by the look in Pope’s eyes that he doesn’t like the command. And the delusional part of you wants to believe it’s because he wants to talk to you and he doesn’t want to leave you alone with Craig. But it’s too wishful thinking for you. “Fine.” He mutters, pocketing the cash. 

But before he can leave, you jump up, pushing your cart. “I’m done too. I’ll go with you.” 

“But we need to t—“ 

“No time!” You interrupt Craig, content when Pope slows down enough for you to catch up to him. The taller guy is left behind as the two of you head to the registers. “So…” you clear your throat, unsure of what to say. You know you want to say something. You feel like a lost puppy following along after him. You know you look pathetic, or you at least feel it, yet you can’t let this go. 

“What else do six-year-olds like?” He asks. 

You’re not sure how to answer. You’re not around kids often. You’re not even sure if you like them, your opinion is yet to be formed. “Barbies?” 

His nose scrunches slightly as if the idea of buying a doll pains him. “She’s not white.” 

You let out a loud cackle, completely taken aback by his words. “What the fuck are you on about?”

He eyes you as if you're the out-of-pocket one here. “Barbies are notoriously white. Lena isn't white.” He adds. 

“Okay, woke king.” You joke. You nod at your cart, “Put the cookies in. I'm taking you to a world of diversity.”

He does as told and puts down the four packets of cookies. The cart is loud as you take him down to the toy aisle. There are far too many as you take him to the dolls specifically, rows upon rows of them, all in different shapes, colors, and sizes. You grab a specific doctor doll with brown skin and hand it over to him. 

“Heard Craig say something about Catherine being a ‘crazy Latina’.” You hum. “Pretty good influence to have a Latina doctor as a doll, right? Get Lena to reach for the stars.” You grab another with the same skin tone. “Or she’s an Olympic gold medalist. Is she sporty?”

You're still going through the dolls as he answers, “Don't know.” You glance at him at the somber tone of his voice. “Catherine doesn't like leaving her alone with me.”

You pause. “Okay… is there a reason for that?”

He scoffs. Offended. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Geez. Chill out. I'm not accusing you of anything. It's just a question.” you defend. 

“It sounded accusatory.” 

“Or maybe I’m just trying to get to know you.” You huff, irritated by the interaction. 

“Well, don’t.” 

“Well, I want to.” You argue. 

“Why? Because we had sex once?” His words make your blood run cold. 

The easy smile is easily replaced with a sneer. You’re hurt. You don’t have a right to be hurt, or that’s what you’re telling yourself. You don’t know him. You met him once, and you were paid to have sex with him that same day. And you feel foolish for thinking it could be otherwise. “Right. Bye. Have fun with the kid that’ll never be yours.” You don’t even bother taking the cart, grabbing your bag, and walking away from him. Limping away, actually, and it only makes you feel more pathetic. 

—

Work is still the same when you show up two weeks later—the same desperate men, the same skimpy outfits, and the same annoying boss. 

“I know, Gero—” but he keeps interrupting you, still going on his spiel about treating his patrons with respect. “Gero, stop. C’mon, let me talk!” But he won’t stop. 

“You have enraptured one of my customers!” His Russian accent is thick, and he is always trying to use words that he has no inkling of what they mean. 

“I’ve done what?” 

“A customer is mad at you!” He snarls. “Old man comes here and asks of you day to day!” 

You huff, shaking your head at the man. “Old man? Gero, you’re not making any sense!” 

“He old! He mad! He looks like—“ and he tries to mock what you assume is how the old and angry man looks. But he looks constipated. “He angry!” 

“I didn’t anger anyone! Gero, stop overreacting!” 

“You are fired!” 

You roll your eyes, finishing up your lipstick when you turn back to the mirror. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, fat man.”

“You fired!” You get up from your chair, ignoring him as he walks after you. Your ankle is feeling much better after the two-week break, so you’re no longer serving but back on the stage. And today is the most embarrassing day of all. You and the girls here begged and begged him not to do this. He didn’t listen, and now you’re all dressed up. It’s costume night. There are white mouse ears on your head, a white two-piece that leaves very little to the imagination, and giant white pumps. Definitely the worst you’ve ever worn. “Are you listen to me?” 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” You huff as you leave the employees’ section and enter the main venue. Before going on stage, you have to walk around and speak to the men, find one to fixate on and get them to toss all their savings your way. It’s just the way the club runs. 

Suddenly, his big and sweaty hand is stopping you in your step. “Angry man.” He nods to the entrance of the club. 

Your eyebrows are furrowed in both confusion and annoyance as he pushes you behind him as if we were to protect you from said angry man. “Gero, your hands are so fucking swe—“ you freeze at the sight of Pope with his hands in his pocket and searching the club. “That’s the angry man?” 

Geronimo nods, “yes, I tell you! You do not listen to me, stupid girl!” 

You pull your arm from Geronimo’s, eyes on Pope still. You can’t tear your eyes from him. Even in his stiff button-up and jeans that are too tight, he looks good, too damn good. “It’s fine. He’s not angry. He just looks like he is. I’ll talk to him. Make sure you don’t have any angry customers.” 

You don’t get to hear what it is that Geronimo says because you’re walking away from him and towards Pope. You’re a few feet away from him when his eyes finally find you. And you see the amusement flashing in him as he eyes your clothing. “Shut up.” You huff, crossing your arms. “Why have you been asking for me?” 

But he doesn’t answer, “what the fuck are you wearing?” 

You hope your glare is lethal as you direct it to him, “I’m a mouse.” 

“I can see that.” He snorts an awkward laugh. “Why?” 

You motion to the room, where all your coworkers are dressed in different costumes. Slutty versions, of course. “It’s costume night.” 

“And you decided on a mouse.” 

“Was gonna be a button because I’m cute as a button but I couldn’t find a costume. Cute as a mouse is just as g— no, what are you doing here?” 

His lips pursed, hands still in his front pockets. “I’m here so you can apologize to me.” 

Your scoff is loud and completely bewildered, a few eyes flickering to you both. “Excuse me? I have nothing to apologize for, you short excuse of a man.” 

He laughs, loud, shoulders shaking. “Short? That’s the best you can come up with?” But he doesn’t hear your rebuttal. “You have rooms here, right?” 

You scoff, “they’re booked up.” 

And just your luck, Geronimo is walking over to the two of you. It’s clear he’s the boss, with the hideous suit he’s wearing paired with the most obnoxious gold jewelry. “How much is a room?” 

Geronimo glances at you, sees your stiff stance and you’re not sure if he’s trying to make more money or he’s genuinely worried for you but he speaks, “a grand an hour.” You almost hum in content at the high price. Usually, a room is a few hundred for the night, and the renter must include a tip to the girls. Never a grand. 

He’s handing a card over to Geronimo. And the older and fat man betrays your trust as he mutters, “room five. Is all yours, lovely couple.” 

You’re sitting stiff at the edge of the couch in the small room. He’s sitting on the other edge, watching you. But you’re not looking in his direction. You can’t. Not when you can see the hard-on at the crotch of his jeans. It’s been quiet and awkward for the past ten minutes, neither of you saying a single word. 

Your foot is impatiently bouncing and before you know it, he’s scooting up to you, placing his hand on your knee. “Relax.” 

You pull away from him with humph, “no. You relax.” You hiss back like a petulant child.

“I am relaxed.” He hums for a moment. “I spoke to my brother.” 

A glance at him and quickly away because you’ll give in if you keep your eyes on him. “I don’t care.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “I told him about you. And how I can’t get you out of my head.” And now, your head is spinning. But you still refuse to speak or look at him. “He said it’s because you were my first after three years. That I was too pent up.” 

You can’t say anything. You can’t look at him. 

So he keeps going, “I tried. With another woman. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t. You were all I was thinking about.” 

You scoff, his words infuriating you. You don’t think it’s romantic. You can’t even believe he’s telling you he’s been with another woman in just those two weeks. “You were thinking about me pretending to be Catherine, so, really, you were thinking about Catherine.” 

His hand shakily takes a hold of your chin. “Yeah… maybe. I asked her to roleplay too. It wasn’t the same.” And this makes you pause. Really, really pause. 

He does only want you so you can keep pretending to be Catherine, the woman he truly wants and loves. Not because it’s you. Not because you’ve made him laugh, not because you’ve listened to him, not because it was his first time in a long while, and not because you helped him. None of that matters to him. 

“So… you want me to keep pretending to be Catherine and have sex with you?” You ask shakily as his lips ghost yours. 

He nods, nose nudging against yours. “Yes.” His breath is warm as it dances against you. “That’s what I want.” 

You want to yell. You want to cry. You want to bash his fucking head in. 

You don’t want to let this go. Because for the first time in your long, pathetic, and miserable goddamn life, you feel something. Even if it’s fleeting. Even if it’s only in your head, it’s yours.

You press your lips to his, letting his hand run into your head of hair. After a moment, you pull from him and nod. “Okay...” 

You get used to living in sadness. After years of torment and abuse, it’s hard not to live in it. You want self-respect. You want to look at yourself in the mirror and decide that today is the day you finally respect yourself. 

But it’s hard when you’re letting Pope moan Catherine in your ear as he fucks you in the rented room. 

[wesandresons]

random pope moments that make me bark

[drcrushenderson]

You don't plan this.

At least not initially.

It starts with something innocent, like everything you do. Jack has been complaining about the [lack of] good food at the hospital, and coincidentally, you've wanted to make food content on your tiktok account for a while. So, you start to test the waters, slowly.

You have some leftover lasagna, so it doesn't start as a big gesture, just something nice enough to make his day easier, he would've picked up some for himself no matter what.

"Oh, I packed you some leftovers for your shift tonight, baby," you try to sound indifferent to it, but nothing goes missing under Jack Abbot's gaze.

"Ow, you're always taking such good care of me darling," his voice sounds lower than usal as he presses his body to yours and kisses your cheek. "Thank you."

Next morning, when he comes back from work, there's a gift card for clothes sitting right where the lunchbox you made was. The lunchbox, along with the tupper inside is cleaned and already in its place.

This is why you need to ease him into making something nice for him, because Jack had the tendency of spoiling you over the smallest thing, and as much as you liked it, sometimes it felt like you were taking advantage of his kindness.

Two months after that day, his lunchbox is almost the size of his backpack. Your tiktok account is about to hit 20,000 followers and he can't be happier, the huge lunchbox was his idea as he slowly started to ask for more food, you were sure he would cry if you asked him to get something for himself.

At first, you thought he was sharing the food with his staff and making you believe it was all him, but Lena said he would sometimes walk aroung with his food and ate every single thing you packed. Not even Shen dared to steal something from you.

"That smells so good", he says, his head peeking from behind you, his hand reaches to grab a french fry and you slap him off, it all gets captured on camera dn you already know your followers will beg for a face reveal endlessly and your excuses won't be enough to stop them.

"Hey!! No peeking," you laugh, and you should know better, you really should.

It's not hard for him to grab you by the waist and pull you away from the counter, and before you know it, he already took a massive handful of fries and there's nothing you can do about it as he shoves half of them into his mouth.

"I'll make it up to you," he whispers and kisses your cheek, now covered in salt and seasoning.

"Don't eat your lunch at home, that's how you make it up to me," he kisses your lips, probably to distract you so he can eat the rest of his fries. "You really don't want to share with your coworkers?"

"The minute I start feeding my residents they will never stop begging for more food and might show up here begging for more," he kisses you again. "You can send them cookies."

"I love you so much," you kiss his cheek a couple of times. "Can I send more for the shift change?"

"Jesus Christ," he laughs. "Just make sure I don't look crazy."

He does look crazy when he leaves.

Besides his lunchbox, he leaves with about four dozen chocolate chip cookies for his staff, and he really thinks he's gonna come back with half of the cookies. He should know better, he really should.

He forgets the small detail of his staff bein nothing short of hungry feral animals, because the tray is completely empty after 20 minutes. Damn, he didn't even get a cookie for himself!!

"You better be taking good care of your wife, Abbot," Lena says as she takes a bite of her cookie. "I'm staying with her if you ever divorce."

"Would you betray me like that, Lena?" he says, fake anger in his voice.

"Is she happily married, or just married?" Santos asks from behind him and Abbot has to control every muscle on his face to not look at her in disgust. "Does she need a wife?" she asks, laughing, two cookies in her hand.

"Hey! One cookie per person!" he complains.

"This is for huckleberry. Let me know if your wife says yes," she mumbles, still laughing as she walks away.

He comes back the next morning, as he sits on the couch, defeated and waits for you to come over, he's still savoring the cookies he never got to try.

"How was work, dear?" you ask, he pulls you into his lap and waste no time straddling him.

"They want more cookies, and asked if you can make cupcakes," he replies, nuzzling his head on your neck. "I didn't get a cookie."

"Owww, I'll bake a dozen just for you," you promise him.

"Thank you for the burgers, they were delicious," he whispers, and sounds truly defeated. "But I got no dessert."

You laugh, his grip gets tighter on your waist.

"I think we can work something out."

© DRCRUSHENDERSON. All rights reserved. Do not repost, modify or claim as yours. Tag for inspiration.

[reidsworld]

This is so cute

[scarhein]

Oh nooo I got a life-threatening paper cut looks like I need to go to hospital and have Dr. Abbot check me out

[thatcorporategirlie]

BAD JUJU

18+ account - minors do not interact

andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader Word Count: 5.3K Rating: E

Summary: You’ve been out of the game for years, but when the Cody family contacts you when J is injured during a heist… you decide to set aside your past and help.

Warnings: implied small age gap (you’re craigs age—i low key don’t know how old that man is), ex-situationship vibes (you were secret lovers back in the day), family dysfunction (reader’s dad is also in organized crime/works with smurf), angst, yearning, language, alcohol use, mutual pining, sexual tension, feelings, a pitt mention/brief crossover mention with jack abbot (i had too, reader is a doctor!!), emotionally constipated Andrew, descriptions & flashbacks of explicit smut (unprotected p in v sex, creampie), lavender shirt mention (it deserved a warning)

A/N: minor spoilers? This is set during the events of the Church Heist episode (2x05), but Pope is not dating Amy in this universe. Also, anything that doesn’t align with that episode just means I took creative liberties and made some changes. Also, I’m not a doctor, so let’s pretend what Google told me about sutures on a large wound is accurate. Thanks again to @wesandresons for da GIFs. Writing flashback sequences is always hard, so I hope you guys enjoy! Dedicated to @likedovesinthewnd for continuing to fuel my Pope obsession.

J was sprawled on the couch outside of your father’s scrapyard, his leg soaked in blood, the wound jagged and deep from the air duct’s sharp edges. Baz hovered nearby, eyes nervously flicking between the injury and the tools in your hand.

Deran was leaning against a nearby pile of scrap.

Watching intently.

You knelt beside J, your eyes assessing the damage. The bleeding was heavy, but you knew a better way than just stapling—something that would minimize scarring and promote healing. Carefully, you gathered sterilized cloths, antiseptic, and the surgical sutures you brought along.

"Thanks for coming," Deran said. "Really. I know it’s a lot to ask."

"Stop talking," you said curtly.

He had texted you earlier tonight.

I know shit’s been weird. Your brother told me you’ve been back for a few months. Julia’s son has been living with us, and he’s bleeding out. I don’t know if we can handle this fucking shit. I wouldn’t be reaching out to you if it wasn’t serious. I need you. Now.

You always had a soft spot for Deran. You met him when he was so young.

He wasn’t even in high school yet. He was in the 7th or 8th fucking grade.

You knew the stories, the things he’d had to do, the jobs he’d taken on since he was just a kid. Forced into a life he didn’t choose, pushed into this bullshit before he could even understand what was right or wrong.

In a way… all the Cody brothers had been shaped by circumstances beyond their control.

Deran looked down at J’s trembling form, his jaw tight with worry. "You know, this church heist, we didn’t want it to turn into—"

"Shut up," you cut him off sharply. "I don’t want to hear about the job. I don’t care about your reasons or your plans. I’m not involved."

"Whether you like it or not, you’re not just here by coincidence," Baz hissed at you with a hint of challenge in his eyes.

The truth was, you weren’t supposed to be here.

You had met the Codys back in high school—met Craig at some party during your senior year, and then he’d invited you to one of their infamous gatherings.

Smurf didn’t like you.

She didn’t like anyone.

But… when she found out your father owned a scrapyard, she saw potential. She added him to her 'payroll', and suddenly, your dad was making a lot more money. You went to UCSD on a tuition scholarship, but the extra cash your dad was making allowed you to live in the nicest dorm, get the best meal plan, and even a credit card—things you could have never imagined.

You even pledged a sorority.

The reason you pledged your sorority?

Smurf convinced you it was for the "experience," but the truth was, she was in it for the heist. Sororities had lots of money. At first, your father was dead set against you getting involved in anything shady.

But Smurf, with her smooth, convincing tone, had a way of making things seem inevitable. She painted a picture of opportunity to your father.

Slowly, he started to waver.

You and the Cody’s stole from the sorority funds during your second year, and the payout was good.

Really fucking good.

During undergrad, you were unofficially working for her with your father, taking your cut of the pie on different jobs, and making more money than most students could dream of.

The day you got into medical school, you told Smurf that you wanted out, to leave this life behind once you graduated.

She didn’t take it very well.

Neither did your father.

It was as if he didn’t want you to stop, even if it meant risking everything. Smurf convinced him that you were being entitled, and he surrendered any real control.

Medical school and residency took you out east.

But your pediatric fellowship brought you right fucking back to San Diego.

You didn’t speak to your father anymore.

He was in Smurf’s pocket.

You barely spoke to your brother.

He was also in Smurf’s pocket.

You carefully lifted the bloodied fabric from J’s leg and looked up at J, meeting his gaze.

"You don’t need to pretend you’re not nervous. It’s okay to be. But I need you to stay still—this will hurt, but I’ll make sure it heals properly."

J nodded.

You began working on him, pouring antiseptic onto the cloth and dabbing around the wound to clean the blood and debris. J winced at the sting, and you saw the slight tremor in his hand as he drank from the bottle of alcohol Deran handed him to numb the pain.

"So, where’s Craig?" you asked casually to try and distract J from the pain.

"He didn’t want to do the job. Said it was too risky."

Craig, the one who had always been down for any job, backed out?

You hadn’t expected that.

Over your shoulder, you caught Baz talking to Deran. His voice was low, but clear enough: "Got a text from Pope. Says everything’s alright."

You paused.

Your hand stilled slightly. You thought Pope was still in jail—caught in that bank heist a couple of years back. You’d always thought he was the most gentle and kind of the Cody boys, despite their trouble. Smurf had her claws in him, and you’d felt bad for him—always in the middle of her fucking chaos, yet somehow separate from it.

When he was locked up, you’d sent letters—hoping to reach him, to let him know someone cared—but he never responded. Now, hearing he was out, you realized it stung more than you wanted to admit.

You hated that he didn’t tell you he was free.

That he didn’t reach out.

The silence felt like a punch to your gut.

You pulled out the fine needle and threaded it with sterile sutures, preparing to close the wound. Gently, you grabbed J’s chin to keep him still.

"Ready?"

J took another big gulp from the alcohol bottle.

"Ready."

You fixed J’s wound with deep dermal sutures.

Carefully stitching.

You worked meticulously, ensuring each stitch was secure but not overly tight, threading the needle deep into the dermis to bring the tissue together smoothly.

It took time.

You were a fucking perfectionist.

Once the sutures were in place, you cleaned the area again, applied a sterile dressing, and pressed gently to control any residual bleeding.

"You’re all set. Just keep it clean and dry, and watch for signs of infection."

J looked at you with a mixture of relief and exhaustion.

"Thanks," he rasped.

Deran took one shoulder, Baz the other, and you navigated J toward Smurf’s backyard. The patio looked the same as always, and as you reached the door, Smurf herself appeared, leaning against the frame with her sharp eyes narrowing as she took in the scene.

"What happened to him?" she demanded, her gaze flickering over J’s bloodstained jeans.

"He took a bad hit. Deep wound, needed proper sutures. He’ll be—"

Before you could finish, Smurf’s eyes zeroed in on you, her expression twisting with suspicion and fury. Then she turned her glare to Baz, snarling, "And what the hell is she doing here?"

Baz held his hands up defensively. "Don’t look at me. All Deran."

"Hello, Smurf. Nice to see you too after I just saved your grandson from bleeding out," you said sarcastically.

Smurf’s jaw clenched tight, and she snatched J roughly by the arm. Without another word, she pulled him inside the house, her heels clicking sharply on the porch as she disappeared inside.

Baz sighed, shaking his head slightly as he watched her go.

"Well, that’s Smurf for you," Deran chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck.

You simply shook your head, knowing all too well that with Smurf, it was never that simple.

"I’m gonna go check on J," Baz said quietly, moving toward the house. "But, uh. Thanks," he said awkwardly.

You nodded.

Deran watched him go, then turned toward you.

"See you in another what, five years?" he muttered, voice laced with dry humor. Without hesitation, he reached out and pulled you into a quick hug.

"Is Craig still doing stupid shit?" you asked, before pulling back.

Deran’s lips curled into a tired smile. "Always. Honestly, I’m shocked he hasn’t been a patient of yours in the ER yet."

"You guys seriously robbed a church? That’s some serious bad juju right there."

"You know, you sound just like Craig."

You chuckled.

"So, how are your dad and brother doing?"

Your lips pressed into a tight, thin line and Deran could tell he had struck a nerve with his question.

"You see and talk to them more than I do."

He rolled his eyes. "Come on, you moved back here, and you’re seriously not talking to them? They’re your family."

You shot him a pointed look.

"Considering who your mother is, I’m honestly shocked you’re trying to spin that kind of hallmark bullshit on me."

"Your father’s nothing like Smurf. He actually fucking loves you. You’re not just some kid he’s using for his own crap. He cares about you—more than you probably realize."

"Then why the fuck is he still working with Smurf? I’ve asked him for years to get fucking out—and he won’t do it. And now… he’s roped in my brother."

The last words hung heavy in the air.

Enough to reveal the ache behind them.

"What are you doing here?" you heard a familiar voice say.

Your head snapped up.

Standing a few feet away was the man you hadn’t seen in years—Pope. Getting older had looked good on him. His sharp eyes locked onto yours with a quiet intensity that immediately transported you back in time.

For a moment, the world around you seemed to blur, and suddenly you were back in Pope’s apartment. You remembered the day you had been matched for residency at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

You had bumped into Pope since you were visiting your father. When you told him the news, he took you out to dinner to celebrate.

It honestly had felt like a date.

Which was funny considering you two had never really interacted much when you were in undergrad—unless it was related to a job.

He was pretty quiet during dinner, but even without many words, he conveyed a lot through his actions. You were shocked he remembered so many things about you, considering you hadn’t seen him in years.

You noticed how he had chosen a restaurant specifically because it served your favorite cuisine. You caught the subtle way he made sure the table was comfortable, adjusting the chair for you or ordering that particular whiskey drink you liked, knowing it was your favorite without you needing to ask.

His quiet demeanor masked a thoughtful attentiveness.

He remembered the small details about you.

The things that mattered.

Later that night, you two ended up back at his drinking a few beers.

"So, you’re seriously gonna go freeze your ass in Pittsburg?"

You’d shot back with a smirk, "I’ve been freezing my ass off in Chicago, Andrew."

Pope sat there, his expression unreadable.

Instead of bringing his beer to his lips, he simply held the glass loosely in his hand.

His jaw was clenched subtly, and there was a faint tension in his posture—like he was holding himself back from doing something more.

You broke the silence, curious.

"What?"

"You’ve never called me Andrew before."

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"Sorry, I didn’t mean—"

"No, I like it."

A small, almost rare smile touched his lips.

You blinked, caught off guard. "You do?"

He nodded, his eyes locking onto yours.

"Smurf calls you Andrew. So, I just assumed… you didn’t like it," you hesitated, then admitted softly, "But I think Andrew suits you."

His forehead creased, and he looked away.

"You’re right. I don’t like it when she calls me that," he murmured. "But, I like it when you say it."

Goosebumps littered your skin.

You came back to the present.

"I was just leaving," you responded. Pope’s eyes found yours, but he didn’t say anything.

You took a deep breath, glancing at Deran and Pope. Your shift at the hospital technically hadn’t ended—your colleague was covering for you, but the clock was ticking, and duty called. You rubbed your sweaty palms on your scrubs, trying to steady the tremor in your hands as you prepared to leave.

"I’ve gotta head back. Swapped out with a colleague, but I still need to get to the hospital."

Deran waved goodbye. "Go handle your thing. We get it."

You walked towards your car. As you reached your car, you fumbled with your keys, your hands still slightly trembling. Just as you unlocked the door, you felt someone grab your bicep and turn you around.

"Wait." Pope’s voice was rough.

Your eyes burned with the threat of tears, and everything inside you throbbed.

"You’ve got some fucking balls asking me to wait," you shot back. You turned toward the car, heart hurting, and tried the door handle again.

He let you go.

Without another word, you slipped into your car, and pulled out of the driveway.

Pope stood there for a moment, watching you drive away.

It had been…interesting, to say the least, navigating this long-distance 'something' with you.

Pope’s body was practically vibrating in his airplane seat, fighting the urge to bolt as soon as the plane touched down in Pittsburgh.

When you picked him up from the airport, you threw both arms around him, squeezing him so tightly. He bruised a kiss into your hair, whispering against your scalp in disbelief before cupping your face in his hands and capturing your lips with his.

It didn’t take long until you got back to your apartment for his hands to find their way to your thighs, holding you in place as he buried himself deep inside of you. He could feel the pressure building within you, feeling your cunt sucking him in. He groaned, his breaths growing heavier.

"Please… don’t stop. You feel so good, Andrew," you praised, the urgency in your voice encouraged him, his rhythm quickening as he began to lose himself in the feeling of you.

He lifted one of your legs and put it up on his shoulder and spread you open, his cock spearing into you at the new angle. The change in position made you gasp at the deeper sensation it created. Every thrust hit you just right, the pressure building inside you until you felt you might burst.

"Let go for me," he coaxed, his tone soft yet commanding. "I wanna feel you fall apart around me." His words sent you spiraling, pulling you closer to the brink. You could feel the coiling tightness of your release, winding around your core, threatening to snap at any moment.

"Andrew, I—" you gasped, the pressure reaching its peak as you watched his cock disappear into you covered in your slick.

"Just let it happen," he urged, his voice a low rumble. "I’ve got you."

Knowing exactly what you needed, Pope used his free hand to find your clit, rubbing soft yet firm circles. You cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders. His fingers on your clit, combined with his relentless thrusting had you seeing white. Pleasure washed over you in waves, causing your back to arch and your body to tremble beneath him. You cried out his name, the sound echoing off the walls.

He didn’t stop, his movements relentless as he chased his own release, his breathing ragged and deep. The sound of your lewd noises seemed to fuel him, and he groaned lowly as your walls clenched around him.

You were lost in the aftershocks of your own orgasm as he continued to pound into you. You wanted to tell him how good he made you feel, how special this was, but the words fell short as he pressed his forehead against yours, his hazel eyes clouded with passion. But you couldn’t speak.

And then, without warning, he stilled, the moment hanging suspended as he locked eyes with you, his breath ragged. "I’m gonna come, fuck, I—" His voice was raw. You could see the struggle etched across his face, the tightness in his jaw marking how close he was hovering to the edge himself.

And, you finally got your voice back.

"Inside," you urged, the words slipping from your lips with an urgency of their own, your brows stitched together. "Please." You almost whined, and that desperation seemed to tip him over the edge.

With that, his own release crashed over him, and he let out a deep groan, moaning your name. He was oblivious to how loud he was, utterly lost in the pleasure of filling you up with his spend and driving his pulsing cock deep inside your tight heat before crumbling on top of you.

As you both came down from the high, he pulled you against him, chest heaving as he caught his breath. His skin was flushed, and a slight sheen of sweat covered his chest.

"Damn," you breathed, laughing softly at the sheer intensity of it all.

You nestled into him, feeling safe and adored, his arms wrapped protectively around you. "Let’s never wait that long again," you whispered, grinning up at him.

After a summer of seeing one another almost every day. Weeks apart had felt like an eternity.

"Deal," he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, already lost in the comfort and warmth of the moment. Pope laid his head on your chest, his hands finding a home at your waist, pulling you closer.

He always craved this part with you after sex.

Just touching you and feeling your skin against his.

Pope closed his eyes briefly, trying to hold onto that memory.

After that first night when you called him Andrew, he remembered how you’d finally broken the silence with a hesitant, almost shy, kiss.

He froze.

When you pulled back, you had then apologized, softly, almost hurriedly, for making things uncomfortable, gathered your things, and headed out that door,

But then, a couple weeks later, life pulled you back into his orbit. You returned to Oceanside once you’d graduated from medical school, staying with your father until you were ready to make the move to Pittsburgh. When you showed up at Pope’s door, apologizing again, saying you didn’t want to make things weird, that you hadn’t meant to unsettle him—somehow, everything shifted.

Maybe it was the way you were looking at him.

Or the way his own defenses crumbled…

But suddenly clothes were shed with hurried desperation, and he found himself emptying himself inside of you as you whimpered into his neck while you recovered from your own orgasm.  

You spent the night.

And he woke you up in the middle of the night to fuck you… again.

And you woke him up in the morning to fuck him... again.

Then it just kept happening.

But you both knew that you two had to keep it a secret.

Because if Smurf ever found out—she wouldn’t be happy.

He could see the fear in your eyes whenever the subject of her came up.

And his biggest fear?

That she would take you away from him.

Seeing you tonight reminded him that you shouldn’t be part of this world.

You had managed to carve out a life beyond it.

Escaped the grip of Smurf’s chaos.

You’d left it behind, fled into the normalcy of medicine, of healing, of making a difference in a way that was truly yours. That was the part of you he clung to, the part that deserved peace, not to be dragged back into the darkness that always threatened to swallow everyone whole.

"You shouldn’t have called her," he growled at Deran.

"Pope, J was bleeding out—if she hadn’t showed up—"

From behind, Smurf’s voice cut through the tense air as she stepped out onto the patio.

"Don’t give her that much credit," Smurf spat, her tone cold and dismissive. "You boys could’ve figured it out without her. There was no need to involve her. She’s worthless."

Pope’s eyes darkened with disgust as he looked at her.

"You don’t get to decide what she’s worth or what she’s capable of. She’s better than this. She’s better than any of us. And she’s not yours to dismiss."

Smurf’s laughter echoed cold and sharp, a cruel edge cutting through the tense air. She took a step closer, her voice dripping with venom.

"She’s better than us? Please," she snarled. "It’s because of the jobs she did with us back in college that she graduated debt-free from medical school. She wouldn’t even be a doctor if it weren’t for me."

Her gaze sharpened, flashing with fury. "Her share of the money that she got was because of me. I was doing her a favor because of who her father was to us, and she just shoved it into her fancy education. You think that makes her better? No, it makes her just as crooked as the rest of us. You’re sitting there, acting like she’s some kind of saint—" Smurf stepped in closer, her voice lowering into a deadly whisper. "but she left her family—her father and her brother and left them behind like yesterday’s trash. She should’ve stayed. But no. She would rather be a doctor… playing hero. She’s fucking selfish." She paused, her lips curling into a cold, mocking smile. "You still think she’s better than us?"

Pope’s eyes darkened, his jaw twitching.

"Yes."

Pope could feel the anger radiating off of Smurf at his response.

He felt Smurf's hand on his shoulder, but he quickly twisted away and headed for the door.

On the other end of his cellphone, your voice bubbled with enthusiasm as you described the medical conference.

He hadn’t seen you in almost three weeks.

He was fucking miserable.

"…and Dr. Abbot presented this groundbreaking study on neuroplasticity and the implications for stroke rehabilitation." Your excitement was palpable, the passion in your tone making Pope smile, but it felt bittersweet at the same time.

"Yeah, sounds great," he replied, trying to sound engaged, but his mind was elsewhere—lost in thoughts of you.

He missed you. He realized how much he hated sleeping apart from you. It was driving him crazy. His dick was throbbing. But, it wasn’t just the sex he missed… it was the little things he had grown so accustomed to. The way you would nestle your head in the crook of his neck, the soft weight of you against him. He missed the scent of you—your shampoo, a light floral fragrance that always lingered in his nose long after you left a room. Your body lotion, a sweet, comforting smell that wrapped around him like a warm hug. The more you talked about this Dr. Abbot and the conference, the more it gnawed at him. He felt a creeping annoyance at the constraints of his life—the relentless demands of Smurf, and the endless stream of things he had to do with his brothers.

"Andrew. Are you there?" you paused, sensing his distraction. "Yeah, I’m here. Just… thinking." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry. I didn’t mean to zone out on you."

"Oh, it’s okay," you sounded a bit tentative. "I know you’ve been busy."

"You know," he started softly, "this is the last job I want to do. The payout’s gonna be huge—big enough to set me up for good."

"What do you mean, the last job?"

"I did some research— thinking about getting an HVAC technician certification. Found out you don’t need college for that, just a high school diploma to get started on the training. Maybe I do that instead of all this other crap. Maybe…"

His words hung in the air.

"Maybe what?" you whispered.

"Maybe… after this, I move to Pittsburgh."

"Really?"

He nodded slowly, even though he knew you couldn’t see him. "Yeah."

Pope's heart clenched as he heard the faint, muffled sound of you sniffling on the line.

"What’s wrong? Are you okay?"

It struck him then—maybe he’d moved too fast, pushed too hard. Maybe, after just six months of whatever this was between you, he’d assumed more than you were ready for.

Maybe you weren’t ready for things to change.

Maybe you didn’t want to be with him like that.

Not yet.

Or…maybe not ever.

The thought made him pause—a cold wave of doubt washing over him.

Finally, you spoke, voice trembling slightly. "It’s happy tears, Andrew. I would love it if you were here in Pittsburgh… with me."

"Then maybe I should book a one-way ticket," he murmured.

But that never happened because later that day, Pope was arrested for the bank robbery job.

He spent three long years behind bars, a period that felt like an eternity carved into his soul.

The first year was the hardest. 

The second year was a crucible. 

By the third year, a numbness settled over him. 

He had lost count of how many nights he stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about you and wishing he could turn back time.

He imagined you moving on, your life continuing without him.

He convinced himself that you deserved better.

He convinced himself that he was just a mistake.

He convinced himself that he was a shadow that would eventually fade from your memory.

You were standing at the nurse’s station, finishing up some chart notes when a voice called your name softly but insistently. You turned around, expecting the usual—another colleague needing clarification or a patient’s family member asking a question. But when you did, your breath caught. Standing just a few feet away was Pope.

Your pulse quickened as his presence sank in. Without thinking, you stepped away from the station, your heart pounding louder than the beeping monitors around you. The hospital corridor felt suddenly too narrow, too quiet except for the pounding in your chest.

"What are you doing here?" you asked.

"I need to talk to you."

“You know I’m at work. I can’t just—”

"I know. I just… Please. Five minutes."

You glanced around, weighing whether to pull him aside or push him away. Your mind raced—so many questions, so many feelings tangled up inside. Without thinking, your hand reached out instinctively, gently but firmly grabbing his. His eyes flicked to your grip, surprised, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he allowed you to guide him—your fingers wrapping around his.

Slowly, you turned away from the nurse’s station as you made your way toward the exit. You pulled him toward a nearby bench—something that offered just enough privacy. You guided him to sit down.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You just stared at one another.

Nerves shot through your limbs.

His jaw was tense.

You finally broke the quiet. "What’s so important that you had to come here?"

"I read your letters in jail. Every single one of them. And… I thought… you would want to know that."

You took a shaky breath, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on you.

"Look," your eyes began to water, "we don’t have to do this. What happened between us… it was a long time ago. We don’t have to rehash it. I get it… it was just a fling. Things were different back then. We were caught up in something we didn’t really understand. So, maybe it’s better if we just leave it there."

That was a lie.

You had cried yourself to sleep for months and months. You realized after you never heard from him, that maybe you had just been somebody to keep his warm bed.

Nobody special.

And that everything you had felt had just been one-sided.

His face fell. "It wasn’t just a fling to me."

He sighed so deeply you could almost feel it in your own chest.

Your hands trembled in your lap.

"I didn’t answer any of them, not because I didn’t want to. Not because I didn’t care. I just… didn’t see the point," his voice was quiet. Low.

You pinned him with a vicious glare.

"You were in your first year of residency. I was in jail. It was a mess. I didn’t want to be a distraction. If I’d responded to your letters, it would have been selfish. It wouldn’t have made you feel better. It only would’ve made me feel better—like I was doing something, like I wasn’t just letting it all slip away. But that’s not what you needed. Not really. I knew if I’d reached out, I’d just be taking a shortcut around what really mattered—letting you go, even if it hurt like hell."

His brows knit together like he was in pain, and it broke your heart a little.

You squeezed your eyes shut. Everything he was saying made sense, and you could see the logic in his reasoning, but that only seemed to amplify the ache in your chest.

"So… why didn’t you reach out after you got out?" your voice trembled and cracked as you forced the words out. "It's been a year."

"Because you deserve a life where you’re not being contacted by ex-cons, by my brothers, or people bleeding out in some messed up fucking chaos. You deserve peace. Not to be dragged back into this shit."

"Maybe I don’t deserve peace," you felt the hot tears streaming down your cheeks. "It’s not like I’m a good person. I’ve done bad shit. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just as broken as everything I try to run from." Your shoulders sagged.

He pulled you into his arms and planted a kiss on your forehead.

You melted.

You melted into him and didn't even try to fight it.

"You’re a good person. You’re fucking perfect."

You let out a broken laugh, the kind that came from somewhere deep inside.

Pope gently wiped your tears with his thumb.

"So, what now?" you managed to say between ragged breaths, still fighting the tears.

"You finish your fellowship, and I finish my HVAC training."

"You started?" you whispered, your fingers grappling at the fabric of his lavender shirt.

Pope chewed his lower lip nervously and nodded.

"That’s great. That’s great, Andrew."

The sharp beeping of your pager suddenly cut through, startling you out of the intense moment you and Pope had been sharing. Your eyes widened as you instinctively reached for the device clipped to your waistband, realizing it was your cue to return.

"I have to go," you murmured, regret flickering across your face. Without waiting, Pope gently helped you to your feet. He took the opportunity to press his lips firmly against yours for just a moment before pulling away.

You knew what this was.

A goodbye kiss.

You sniffled, then wrapped your arms around him to hug him goodbye. You saw his throat bob and his eyes filled with tears.

"I love you. I don’t expect you to say anything, but I wanted you to know. I love you," he choked out.

It was the first time he was telling you this.

Your lower lip began to tremble, and your heart stuttered in your chest.

"I know. And, I love you too, Andrew."

The words felt fragile but true.

Like a promise you both needed to hold onto.

"Let’s grab dinner when you get your HVAC certification."

He hesitated, a hint of nervousness flashing across his face. "I won’t have my certification for another year... and I don’t even know if I’ll pass."

"You’ll pass. So, I’ll see you in a year, then, Andrew."

With that, you turned and walked away.

Exactly one year later, your phone lit up with his name on the screen.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

I know it’s kind of an open-ended vibe. But I was going for realism, and dating someone in organized crime is always going to be complicated. But I’m a softie so just assume when she finishes her fellowship, she gets the fuck out of Oceanside again, and Andrew joins her.

To all my doctor peeps out there in the Tumblr verse, y’all are baddies. The amount of schooling you guys do… COULD NOT BE ME.

[p1ttlings]

SWEET CREATURE !!

002. uncle

warnings . . . reader being lowkey (high) slow af, more lewd convos

☆ ☆ ☆ authors note . . . wait i thought this was lowkey going to flop but i was in it for the love of the game not the attention and ppl are lowkey fucking with it… and now im loving the attention LMAO

☆ ☆ ☆ tag list (open) . . . @theariespov @slytherclaw1978 @manilovewomen1 @xoxabs88xox @harhar0777 @softundermoonlight @reidsworld @true1411 @gr1mnymph @cassierins @hhusbuds @tulipbreeze @thingsthatilikeposts @heartsforts @shitface-t @firstlyferrari @vikisvendetta @marauvderss @vesperazhier @love-pluto-love

[xreader1989]

Paging Dr. Rabbot

Jack Abbot x fem!attending!Robinavitch!reader

Word count: 3k Masterlist

SMUT, P in V, unprotected, 18+, MDNI

Summary: A look into your life as Dr. Rabbot aka Dr. Robinavitch - Abbot. I would say reader is like 5-10 years younger than Robby, but you can really imagine whatever you’d like. No dead wife AU. Hucklerobby hints!!! I feel like this has no plot and is just me rambling and for that I’m so sorry.

Then

You barely made it through the front door of Jack’s house before he was leaning down and removing his prosthetic. He grabbed the crutch he always left next to the door, sighing as relief washed over him.

You slipped out of your shoes and dropped your bag next to his, following him to the couch.

It was still early, luckily, after a hellish shift you were able to make it out of the hospital at a normal time.

He slumped down and you followed, pressed against his side leaning into him as you both propped your legs up.

“Does it hurt?” You asked softly.

He nodded and wrapped his arm around your shoulders so that you could fall further into his side.

“At least we’re both off tonight,” you said against his chest.

He hummed in response and kissed your head.

“Maybe once we wake up, we can go out for a nice dinner,” he said through the exhaustion.

“Yeah, that sounds great, love.”

You could feel the tension leave his body slowly, and as his heart rate evened out you could feel yourself fully relax.

You and Jack had been doing this for a little over six months. You switched to night shift a year ago due to staffing shortages, and your longstanding crush on your older brother’s best friend really excelled when you started spending all of your time with him.

What eventually lead to a dramatic confession and a lot of sneaking around lead you here.

So, now you followed your usual routine after shift.

Usually, you preferred to shower and get into bed, but some nights even that felt like too much work.

You had multiple fatal patients tonight, Jack knows the toll those take on you. You were short staffed, making his job as lead attending even more difficult than usual.

You could feel the exhaustion in your bones, so you just needed to sit and feel for a moment.

What you hadn’t intended on, was both of you falling asleep.

His arm still held you tightly, his cheek on top of your head. Your legs were curled under you and you were completely tucked into his side.

You were both in such a deep sleep, that neither of you heard the knocking, the key jiggling, or the creaking of the door.

It wasn’t until your older brother and Jack’s best friend stood right in front of you, that your eyes shot open with a gasp.

“What the hell is this?” Michael’s voice boomed through the quiet living room.

“Mikey,” you said breathily, still trying to blink your eyes open.

Jack jolted awake, trying to process the scene unfolding around him through his sleepy daze.

You had both talked about this moment, how you would tell him, gently, over dinner…. eventually.

But since your brother has no manners, apparently all of that was out the window.

“Mikey, what’re you doing here?” You asked.

His eyes flicked between the two of you, “don’t Mikey me right now. Dana texted me, said you both looked rough after last night. I decided to use my day off to check on ya. I was heading to your place next, but I see now that it won’t be necessary.”

You leaned forward, pealing yourself away from Jack’s side.

“Listen, brother it’s not—“

Jack was cut off by Michael’s laugh.

“And don’t brother me right now. What the hell?” He gestured his hands wildly between the two of you.

You looked at Jack and shrugged.

“We’re together.” You said, glancing at Jack.

Robby scoffed. “You’re his resident, it’s inappropriate.”

“Oh because you’ve never slept with a resident before? So you can do it? That’s okay?” You crossed your arms over your chest, your words had bite.

He narrowed his eyes at you, “oh real mature.”

You scoffed.

Jack put his hands up in surrender, sensing the tension only growing, “before we start saying stuff we’ll regret, let’s talk about this like adults.”

You rolled your eyes, looking anywhere in the room except your brother.

“You know what, im done.” Robby turned on his heels and walked out, slamming the door behind him,

You turned to face Jack, “let’s shower.”

Jacks mouth fell open in shock, “you just want to shower, after that? You’re not upset?”

You shrugged, “he’s going to get over it. He loves us both, and once he realizes we’re serious he’ll be fine.”

He looked at you in disbelief, “well I’m going to have to take your word for it. On grounds that I really want to shower with you right now and want to stop talking about your brother.”

You smiled as he leaned over to kiss you. You knew your brother, and you knew everything would be just fine, because you were absolutely head over heels in love with Jack Abbot.

Now

As predicted, he did get over it. In fact a week after that incident all was forgiven, and although it took some getting used to, he couldn’t think of anyone else he would trust with his sister.

The three of you were practically inseparable. Robby’s girlfriends would come and go, but you and Jack stayed a constant.

Ten plus years after the incident of Robby barging in on you both, you were happier than ever.

The rock on your finger took people’s breath away, and your band matched your husbands.

You have been Dr. Rabbot to the ER for about five years and running. It worked perfectly, there were no longer two Robinavitchs and now there weren’t two Abbots. It was a win-win.

Since it was Fourth of July, you opted to help and work a double since you knew how busy holidays could be.

And the god honest truth was, you knew you couldn’t sleep while Jack was out with SWAT.

One thing you didn’t expect to see when you looked up from your chart was him walking in with his uniform on.

To say that it went right to your core would be an understatement. If you weren’t at work you would’ve moaned at the sight of him.

He presented his case to you and Robby, all three of you jumping into action to stabilize and send his fellow SWAT team member up to surgery.

As the chaos subsided, the adrenaline left you, and you exited the room now covered in blood. You ripped off your gloves and gown, taking a deep breath.

Before you could say anything to Jack he took your wrist lightly and pulled you into an empty exam room.

He flicked on the lights and pulled the curtain closed.

“Okay don’t freak out.” He said turning to face you, pulling his vest off.

“Oh yes, because no one ever freaks out when that’s how you start a conversation,” you said sarcastically.

“I might have been grazed by a bullet intubating while under active fire,” he said way too casually.

Your mouth opened in shock, you squeezed your eyes shut, willing a higher power to grant you more patience.

“Jack.”

He flinched at your tone.

“Sit.”

He did as he was told.

“Where?”

He slowly peeled his shirt off, groaning as he used his right arm.

You pulled out the materials you needed, assessing his wound.

“Well no stitches needed, so I’m just going to clean it and cover it” you said dryly as you continued to work.

You placed the bandage across the laceration, the bruise around it a deep purple.

You snapped your gloves off and walked around the bed, facing your husband.

“I was ready to take you right there in the ER when you walked in all sweaty in your uniform. Then you tell me you got shot. It’s crazy how fast that turns a woman off,” you said lightly.

His lips twitched up at the corners, he pulled you closer by the back of your thighs. You placed your hands on his shoulders for balance, now standing in between his legs as he sat on the hospital bed.

“Grazed,” he emphasized, earning an eye roll, “So what I’m hearing is, you were turned on?”

Another eye roll.

You bent down and kissed him softly. You pulled away, keeping your face an inch from his, “it’s scary when you go out with the team like that. I picked up a shift today so I wasn’t stirring at home waiting for you.”

The honesty surprised even you, you never admitted to this out loud, not wanting to upset him.

“I’m sorry. I’ll stop,” he said back just as quietly, you were shocked, “I promise, I’m done. Today scared me enough anyways. I’m not ready to leave you just yet.”

You smiled, “well, thank god for that. Although, I’m a little offended it took you getting shot to realize that.”

He laughed at your comment, the lines around his eyes more prominent as he smiled at you.

You kissed him again, a little harder this time, carding your fingers through his sweaty curls at the nape of his neck. God you loved his curls, especially now that they were silver mixed in with his auburn.

When you pulled away he rested his forehead on yours, “don’t get me worked up in exam room two babe, I didn’t even close the door.”

Before you could say anything, the curtain slid open, revealing Robby.

“God you two can’t wait until you get home?” He said, faking a gag.

You rolled your eyes, stepping out of Jack’s embrace and handing him his shirt.

He pulled it over his head.

“Since you’re here now, I need both of my favorite attendings to help me handle the chaos of the fourth.” Robby said with a pleading smile.

Jack sighed and hopped off the bed, “aye aye captain.”

Robby turned on his heels to leave the room, “and no more funny business, I don’t want to have to come looking for you again. And I don’t need you scarring any of my residents… again.”

You laughed at the sentiment, “god, you have sex in an on call room one time…”

“Nobody knows how to knock anymore,” Jack added, shaking his head.

Robby waved you both off and left the room.

You smiled at Jack again, “thank you. For stopping SWAT. You’re putting years back on my life.”

He took your hand in his, brushing his thumb over your knuckles, “I’ll spend my days off like a normal man, enjoying his smoking hot wife.”

You smiled at him, but rolled your eyes, “you’re still in trouble for getting shot.”

He shrugged, “I’ll take my punishment once we get home in the morning.”

You feigned shock, “bold of you to assume, Mr. Abbot.”

He moved his hand to yours ass patting lightly, “I’ll take my chances, Mrs. Abbot.”

You smiled softly at him, “let’s go, before Michael sends a search party.”

He followed you out into the mess that was the main hub.

You stood at the nurses station, leaning on it like your life depended on it.

You grabbed another chart, flipping through and skimming it.

You were sandwiched between your husband and your brother. You heard the conversation spark about the sabbatical Robby was supposed to leave for today, at some point. You didn’t fully tune in until you heard him call Whitaker Dennis.

“So, you’re just gonna give Whitaker full range of your house like that for three months? Has he ever even been there?” Jack asked with a furrowed brow.

You smirked, trying to focus on the chart in front of you, knowing damn well Dennis had been there.

Robby cleared his throat, ignoring your face, “it’ll help him save on rent.”

“Yeah, plus he told Huckleberry he could keep it if he doesn’t come back,” Santos said casually from where she sat, “and then I can move in and I won’t have to pay rent either.” She said matter of factly.

Both you and Jack whipped your heads in Robby’s direction.

“Why wouldn’t you be coming back?” You both said in sync.

Robby rolled his eyes, “I hate when you do that, have I ever mentioned that?”

“Don’t dodge the question,” you said softly, tone exposing the worry you were feeling.

Robby sighed.

You could sense the sadness emanating from him. Recently, he had been so closed off, Jack couldn’t even communicate with him. You thought sabbatical might actually be good.

But now, all your doubts crept in about what this sabbatical was truly for.

You were holding Robby’s gaze, trying to get a sense of the emotions he was going through. Usually you could read him like a book, but right now, it felt like he had everything so tightly locked away not even you could get through.

“Dr. Rabbot?” You heard Javadi call from the other side of the bustling nurses station.

You didn’t look away from Robby, not yet.

“Your student is calling you,” he said softly, warning you that he was done with the silent interrogation he was receiving.

You side eyed him as you walked towards the chart Victoria was holding out eagerly.

Jack slid closer to Robby and although you couldn’t hear what he was saying, you hoped he was being honest.

~

Hours passed, and you were finally able to escape.

You mumbled something about laying down before the hand off to night shift, which would kick start your double.

You walked into an on call room, not realizing your husband was hot on your tail.

He snuck in before the door shut and locked it behind him.

You stretched your arms over your head, moving side to side, before removing your hoodie.

Jack stood in front of you, kissing your cheek.

“Did he say anything to you after I got pulled away?” You asked hopefully.

Jack could tell by your tone you had been stirring on this since it happened.

He sighed, “I made him promise to call me if he needs me. Told him we’ll be waiting for him to get back. That we’ll miss him. Told him I loved him, I don’t know. Seemed okay.”

You pursed your lips, only slightly satisfied with your husbands answer, you nodded anyway, “okay,” you gave him a weak smile.

“Now, can I interest you in a nap before we start our official shift?” He said gesturing to the bed behind you both.

You smiled for real now, “yes you definitely can.”

He unstrapped his leg and laid down first, like he always does, lifting his arm, leaving the perfect gap for you to crawl onto his chest.

Which is exactly what you were going to do, but you straddled him instead.

“Maybe we can nap in a minute… or ten,” before he could respond you leaned down and crushed his lips in a kiss.

You peeled your shirt off over your head and threw it on the floor. Jack took that as his hint to do the same.

“I already took my leg off, baby,” he said as his hands settled on your hips, gripping them tightly.

“I’ll just have to do all the work then,” you said before leaning back down and kissing him.

“We have to be quick and quiet,” he said in between kissing, “can you do that for me?”

You nearly melted right there, “absolutely I can.”

His tongue slipped in your mouth and you began grinding against him.

“I lied by the way, earlier.” You were still talking to him in between kisses, his face in your hands. You moved your hips against his again, “I was never not turned on by you in uniform. I’ve been waiting to get you alone all day.”

He smirked into the kiss.

You both made quick work of kicking your pants off.

You took his cock in your hand, it was already hard beneath you.

Rubbing it through your wet folds teasingly before lining up and slowly sinking down on him.

“All this, just from my uniform?” He asked breathily.

You nodded, your pupils blown, “if you hadn’t changed I would’ve told you to leave it on.”

He grunted at your words, if he wasn’t already hard, that would’ve done it.

The stretch was always pure heaven.

Your movements continued, up and down, almost painfully slow.

Jacks head went back against the thin pillow in ecstasy. His hands slid from your hips to your breasts, rubbing his thumbs across your already hard nipples.

You started to move faster, trying to keep yourself quiet as you took his full length inside of you.

He bucked his hips up into yours, sending you further and further over the edge. You clenched around him as he continued to meet you halfway.

You went all the way up and sank all the way back down against him, taking his entire cock at once.

If you weren’t in an on call room you would’ve screamed his name as you fully took him.

He said your name softly, mesmerized by watching himself go in and out of you.

Your wetness was coating all around his thighs as you got closer and closer.

Quiet moans and curses left both your lips as you felt the coil in your core get tighter and tighter.

“I’m gonna cum Jack” you whined.

One hand roaming his chest while the other held the headboard for stability.

His movements were getting sloppier, “yea, baby? Me too.”

His grip on your hips was boardeerline bruising you, but you didn’t care. Your nails dug lightly into his chest, leaving crescent shaped dents.

The angle he was pounding into you from was blissful.

“Fuck,” you cursed out, trying to bite back your moans as the coil inside of you snapped. You fell forward into his chest, body completely weakening as you came around his cock. He continued pounding up into you, fucking you through your orgasm.

His orgasm followed right after, a final thrust into you before he filled you up.

Both of you laid there for a moment catching your breaths.

You readjusted yourself so you were now laying against his side, with your head on his chest.

He kissed the top of your head and ran his hand over your back like he always did when you laid with him.

“I love you,” he said sweetly.

You smiled into his chest, “I love you more, now let’s sleep before we have to start our next shift”

~

By the time you both woke up, got dressed, and grabbed coffee it was already time for hand off.

Which also meant it was time to say goodbye to Robby.

You and Jack waited by his stupid motorcycle as he said goodbye to everyone inside.

When he came out, you shoved his helmet that you knew he wasn’t using into his hands.

“Did you get a nice goodbye in with Dennis?” You wiggled your eyebrows.

Jack furrowed his.

“Yup. He’s looking my house after all.” He laughed nervously.

“Be safe. Call me like at least once a week. Text me pictures everyday to confirm you’re alive.” You rambled worriedly.

He huffed a laugh and said your name softly, “I’m gonna be fine. I love you.”

He pulled you into a bone crushing hug, one you returned.

When you both pulled away, you tried not to show your tears. He hugged Jack next, patting him on the back.

He hopped on his bike and Jack put his arms around your shoulders.

“Love you both!” He said before starting the engine and peeling away.

You exhaled, watching him ride of in the distance.

“He’s gonna be fine.” Jack said reassuringly.

You smiled sadly up at him, “yeah, you’re right.”

The ambulance bag doors swooshed open and you both walked back inside to begin your night shift.

“Dr. Rabboooot” Shen sang dramatically while holding out a fresh iced coffee for you, making you smile.

“Thanks, Shen.”

Jacks hand moved up and down your back softly as you caught up with the night shift.

You knew you had to trust Robby would come home to you in one piece, even if you flew all the way out there and brought him back yourself.

But in the meantime, you knew you had two constants. One being an ice coffee exactly how you like it from Shen at the start of your shift and two being the man you fell in love with all those years ago, Jack Abbot.

[reidsworld]

Max out in q1 and it wasn’t even his fault, are we deadass…

[ao3org]

Errors Accessing AO3

We are continuing to investigate reports of slowness and errors when trying to load AO3, including errors saying that AO3 is down.

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Posted: 19:38 UTC 01 March, 2026

[ao3org]

AO3 is currently down. We do not have an estimated return time currently. We're looking into it with one of our third-party support providers and will update when we have more information. Thank you for your patience!

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Posted: 20:35 UTC 01 March, 2026

[ao3org]

We've identified the problem and are working on a fix. We expect to remain down for several more hours. We apologize for the inconvenience and appreciate your patience!

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Posted: 22:56 UTC 01 March, 2026

[ao3org]

AO3 is back up! We appreciate your patience. We've got our protections against bot traffic turned up a bit higher than usual, so some users may experience problems if they're using a VPN or similar tools.

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Posted: 00:44 UTC 02 March, 2026

[ao3org]

We are investigating reports of errors when trying to load AO3, including errors saying that AO3 is down.

Refer to our status page for more information.

Posted: 02:07 UTC 02 March, 2026

[reidsworld]

I need to read before bed and tumblr isn’t delivering rn😔

[kittyguru]

chapter 2 : hufflepuff & gryffindor common party

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tags : @carlacrazyyy @reidsworld