[slugarchives]

slug. twenty-four. she/her. latina. woman kisser, old man enjoyer.

⤷ tv shows: the pitt. animal kingdom. the last of us. criminal minds.

⤷ fic recs: #atticusreads

ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ smutty sideblog: @cowboyksser

[mcthsman]

*SEASON OF THE WOLF: a joel miller x reader story. (part five)

The giant wolf that has been killing people around town shares a very striking feature with the quiet man that keeps breaking into your home— They both have the saddest, warmest brown eyes you've ever seen.

join the TAGLIST. / SERIES masterlist. / PREVIOUS chapter.

It seems like Joel is incapable of stepping away, constantly hovering for the hours to come— Never interacting with you directly, but always paying you undivided attention.

warnings: the basics (werewolf!joel, age gap, no outbreak), law enforcement, abuse of power (acab!!!!!!!!), hunter/prey vibes, getting hunted through the woods by your hot werewolf boyfriend, they're super domestic though, characters resolving their issues like mature adults, smut (monsterfucking, oral f receiving, unprotected piv, biting, pulling out, werewolf-induced hyperspermia, size kink, creampie, we go full beast mode on this one, there's some gross stuff in the aftercare but yall wanted to fuck the wolf so now yall gotta deal with the gross goopy bloodied part of it too), body horror/gore, technically cannibal joel, murder/death of minor characters, everybody gets a happy ending.

word count: 12.4k (oops)

fox says: hello friends! oh my god guys, this is it. the final chapter! i'm so sorry for the delay, between my break and the stage fright that i always get when writing a finale, i chose to take my time and write something i'm proud of rather than rushing through it. i had so much fun writing this series, and i hope you guys have enjoyed it as well. (spoiler) it was super important for me to make sure everyone knows that reader's mental health doesn't improve because she finally got some monster cock but rather that she took the time to care for herself and how her environment was poisenous and making everything worse and i really really hope i managed to get that across. as always, please let me know how we feel about it!

also available on archiveofourown.

It seems like Joel is incapable of stepping away, constantly hovering for the hours to come— Never interacting with you directly, but always paying you undivided attention. You spend the afternoon and early evening on the couch with Sarah, watching cartoons and then watching as she played with her dolls, colored her little books and ran around the couch pretending to be a shark when she got hit with a particularly strong case of the zoomies. He sits down eventually, close enough that you can feel his body heat but not close enough to touch— Sarah is passed out on the rug in front of you, surrounded by pillows and blankets in something that is a mix between a pillow fort and a nest. 

“I’m sorry.” Joel says, his voice gravel-like. He doesn’t look at you, stares instead at his hands fisted over his thighs. “For everything.” 

You think he’s not talking just about what has happened to you. There’s a weight to the world ‘everything’ that makes you think back to his wife, to the scar on his temple and how he tried to kill himself over it. 

“I know. I’m sorry too.” You open your hand, palm up. Joel takes it almost immediately, fingers interlacing with yours. “I was scared.” 

“I was too. Had no idea where you were, what happened—” He swallows quickly, the raspiness of his voice thickening with emotion. “I shouldn’t have sprung none’a that on you. And I’m sorry about— I didn’t mean to call you—”

“It’s fine.” You shake your head. The hurt is still there but dulled, muffled by everything else: In the grand scheme of things, getting your feelings hurt by being called a dead woman’s name seems like the least of your worries. “Thank you for saving me.”

You don’t realize how much you mean it until you say it. You had wanted to die. You thought it’d feel like relief, finally letting go of all the hurt and pain and hopelessness but those few seconds of the car swerving off the road— The panic and the desperate desire to survive makes you realize that, deep down, it’s not death that you seek. 

It’s comfort. 

Joel brings your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of it. He looks you dead in the eyes, his often sorrowful eyes now clouded with a different emotion. Devotion. Love. Kindness and pain and everything in between. 

“I’ll always save you.” 

You kiss him. His lips are dry and chapped but his hands are warm when they cradle your face, a brief hesitation on his part before Joel kisses you back. One of his hands moves to the back of your neck, tangling with the hairs at the base of your skull; you crawl through the distance between the two of you, climbing on his lap without breaking the kiss. It’s nothing like any other kiss you’ve ever had— Your body molds against his with perfection, his hands gripping your body and pulling you close, his tongue pushing into your mouth. 

You’ve never been much of a kisser— It always felt like a means to an end, something to signal that you want more and you actually often find your mind wandering off, your thoughts running away from the situation but this time all you can think and feel is Joel. He kisses you slowly but unhurried, exploring your mouth and whatever he can reach of your body, trying to figure out what makes you tick. It is too much and not enough all at once, and Joel shushes the desperate little noise you make with a concerned look towards the toddler sleeping a couple of feet away. 

“Bedroom.” You beg against his lips, drinking down when his breathing falters in your mouth. “Please.” 

Joel’s hands grab both of your asscheeks, raising the two of you from the couch as if you weighed nothing— You bite down on your lip to hold back the squeal, not wanting to wake Sarah up as he quietly pads down into his bedroom. He lays you gently on the bed before coming back to lock the door; the tent on his sweatpants is impressive when he turns back to you: You’ve seen Joel naked a couple of times now and you know he’s big but you hadn’t seen him hard before and, even with his clothes on, you’re intimidated. He stands by the edge of the bed, fingertips running slowly up your calves, drinking you down just as you do him. 

The wolf never made you afraid before. Even with blood on his snout, even as you watched him tear a grown man apart, you were never scared— You were never afraid of Joel either, not in the true, primal sense of the word. But now, laying back on his bed as he watches you, you finally see the danger that ripples beneath his skin. His brown eyes are nothing short of predatory when he kneels on the mattress, aquiline nose running up the inside of your calf, his breath ghosting over your skin light enough to leave goosebumps in their wake. 

“Been dreamin’ of this.” He tells you, big hands locking around your ankles. You’re putty in his hands, giggling when he pulls on your legs, tugging your ass further down the bed. “Havin’ you on my bed. My mate. My girl.”

You open your mouth but whatever witty response dies before you can conjure it, Joel’s mouth latching into the inside of your thigh— He bites down hard and your hands fly to his hair, though you’re unsure whether to pull him away or pull him closer. Joel soothes the bite with his tongue, lapping at the indent of his own teeth before he crawls higher, pushing the soft material of the boxer shorts out of the way so he can bite again, closer to the junction of your thigh. 

You’re about to pull the shorts down yourself when Joel moves just a little higher, the bristles of his mustache tickling the softness of your stomach as he pushes your shirt up, kissing the skin as it is exposed. It’s involuntary, your body curling in and pulling away from him as you laugh, the noise pure instinct to soothe the bluntness of your movements as you shove your shirt back down.

“Ticklish?”

“Yup.” It’s true but not at the same time. Sure, you’re a little ticklish, but not like that— It’s a gut reaction, instinct telling you to hide and pull away as if he isn’t already aware of your size. Joel’s head cocks to the side and he leans back a little, searching your face.

“Okay. I won’t touch you there.” He breathes out, and you can tell Joel doesn’t believe you entirely. He doesn’t push it, however, choosing instead to bring his mouth back to yours, thick fingers playing with the elastic band of your shorts. “Can I take these off?”

You wonder if you should be offended that he’s all of a sudden walking on eggshells but you don’t; if anything it makes you a little giddy when you nod and Joel smiles against your lips as if you’ve just given him a gift. He tugs your shorts and underwear in one go, discarding them to the ground without taking his eyes off of you. Joel sits back on his knees, his hands running up and down your calves. 

“You’re beautiful.” He whispers, voice reverent as he drinks you in. “Spread your legs f’me.” 

In any other instance, you might’ve felt self-conscious about letting someone look at you so intimately but Joel stares at you like you’re the single most divine thing he’s ever seen. It fills you with enough courage to do as he tells you, your bent legs falling apart. 

“I need to taste you.” Joel says, leaning forward to press a kiss on the inner side of your knee. His eyes find yours, darkened with desire. “Will you let me?”

“Please.” 

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He makes a V with his fingers, spreading your pussy open before latching his mouth to your clit. Joel makes out with your cunt, slow and messy, the pressure of his tongue and the scrape of his teeth enough to have you squirming but not enough to properly get you off; you tug at his hair, fingers tangling with his curls, whining. 

“I want you inside me.” You breathe out, eyes rolling to the back of your head when Joel suckles against your clit. “Please, Joel, I need your fingers.”

He hums against you, a single digit twirling your entrance until you’re pushing your hips against him, bucking on the bed. Joel chuckles as he finally relents and pushes a single finger inside; even a single digit is a stretch, both from the thickness of his fingers from the amount of time you’ve gone without, desire curling low on your stomach. 

“Joel—” 

He shushes you, then, and the sound brings a new wave of wetness between your legs. “Calm down, sweet girl. Let me take care of you.” 

You try to do as he says, letting your body melt against the mattress; Joel looks entirely pleased as he dives back into your pussy, his eyes sparkling with mirth as he flicks his tongue this and that way— You can tell that he is exploring you, trying to figure out the best rhythm and pressure to have you shaking and that’s not really something you’ve ever experienced with a man before: Most of them simply assume that their moves are a universal like, always too pleased with themselves even if most of the sounds you make are fake. 

Joel is a quick, eager learner. He suckles on your clit when he sees the way your chest heaves at that, crooking two fingers inside of you and slowing down their thrusting when you bring both of your hands to your face, trying to stifle your moans. Your thighs clamp down the sides of his head when he pushes a third finger in, rubbing them slow and steady against that single spot inside of you that has you seeing stars; you choke down the noises threatening to escape from your mouth, one hand on his hair and the other trapped between your teeth, not wanting to wake up the other residents of the cabin. 

His blunt nails dig into the soft flesh of your hips, holding you down on the mattress as his fingers push in and out of you, his tongue running circles on your clit; the ball of your feet knock into his ribs as you come, body shaking underneath him— Your jaw goes slack as pleasure shoots down your spine, going fully silent as you get lost in it. Joel slows down but doesn’t stop, licking you through your orgasm before he finally pulls away. 

You tug on his hair before Joel can pull away entirely, yanking on his curls as you breathe his name. 

“Joel—” You say, and his nose crinkles a little with the harshness of your tug but he still smiles, the lower half of his face glimmering in the pale bedroom light. “C’mere. I need you.” 

Joel kisses your arm, the only part of your skin that he can reach, before gripping your hips and flipping you over; it makes you bounce on the mattress and you cackle, half from glee and half from surprise— You’ve never been with a man strong enough to manhandle you like that, and you bite down on your bottom lip, arching spine, ass in the air. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, sweetheart.” Joel mumbles behind you, the tone of his voice sending a shiver down your back. “Look at ya. Drippin’.”

The tip of his cock brushes against your entrance, catching for a second before Joel slides his cock down your slit and it has you whining, pushing your hips against him. You call out his name a little louder and Joel shushes you again, pushing just the tip inside before pulling back out; the sensation is enough to drive you crazy, biting down on your thumb to keep you from complaining again. 

When Joel finally plunges inside of you, it’s blissful. He makes a choked sound between a moan and a groan, holding himself very still. The stretch hurts at first but you wiggle against him, trying to signal for him to move— His fingers dig into the fat of your hip, his other hand coming to steady you on the small of your back. 

“Fuck— Just— Gimme a sec, darlin’.” Joel says, his voice strained. “ ‘S been a while.” 

He starts slow, his thrusting as exploratory as his mouth had been, pulling out halfway before sliding back in with enough force to punch the air out of your lungs. You arch your spine a little further, nose buried in the pillow that smells so much like Joel you feel entirely encompassed by him. All you can hear, feel, smell— It’s him, the little grunts he’s trying to stifle, the calloused hands on your skin, his scent on the pillow and in the air. You reach back without thinking, grabbing Joel’s wrist and pulling him towards you. 

Joel topples on top of you, breathy laugh against your ear before he rearranges himself, one arm next to your head, the other sliding between you and the mattress, wrapping around your hips and pulling you backwards just enough— The new angle hits different, deeper somehow, his entire weight settling on your back.

“Fuck,” he pants near your ear, chest hair brushing against your back. “You feel so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. So sweet. Made f’me.”

His thrusts have you wailing, Joel’s teeth scraping the side of your neck whenever he’s close enough— Never biting down, but teasing is enough to drive you crazy, one hand reaching back to grab at his hair, fists of curly grey and brown locks between your fingers. The arm by your face comes forward, Joel’s thick fingers closing your mouth shut: His hand is big enough to cover the lower half of your face entirely, your breathing erratic behind his glammy fingers. 

“Can’t wait to have you screamin’ f’me, pretty girl.” Joel whispers, knees digging into your thighs, spreading you even further. He stops moving, buried to the hilt inside of you. “But I’m gon’ need you to be a good girl and keep quiet, ‘kay? Don’t go wakin’ up the whole house.”

You nod and, even though Joel starts moving again, he doesn’t pull his hand away from your lips; he uses the leverage of holding your face hostage to pull your head backwards, bending your spine in a way that makes him feel even bigger inside of you. Joel whispers a string of dirty praises in your ear as his cock pistons in and out of you, telling you how much of a good girl you’re being, how much he loves your sweet pussy and all of the nasty little things he has planned for the two of you. 

You feel the change in the air before you can properly recognize what it is. Joel feels heavier against your back, his chest pressing down on your back to the point of becoming just shy of suffocating, the hair on his chest coarser, rubbing against your shoulder blades with such friction you think you might get beard burn, his thrusts sharper and not as rhythmically. 

But, above all, Joel goes silent. His breathing is still heavy, still stuttering after a particularly hard thrust, but he’s not moaning anymore, isn’t saying your say or the dirty, sweet nothings he’s been whispering in your ear all night. 

You turn your head, trying to catch a glimpse of him so you can check in and make sure everything is okay but the image reflected in the window makes you stop— Joel looks like himself and yet, at the same time, he doesn’t. His face is buried on the back of your neck, hidden away from view, but his shoulders seem broader, his hips and thighs thicker, his biceps even more defined than they already are. His hair, the soft curls still trapped between your fingers, seem thicker like this, fuller and longer.

You tell yourself that you’re seeing things. It’s the warping of the window pane, it’s the soft lighting, it’s your brain turning into mush because Joel’s cock keeps hitting repeatedly into the deepest parts of you. And then Joel’s teeth scrape against the back of your neck and he growls— A noise that doesn’t sound human at all, deep and rolling and menacing, the sort of rumbling sound human anatomy shouldn’t be able to produce.

Your cunt spasms around his cock and you shake, the orgasm hitting you like a freightrain. It’s too much and not enough all at once, your entire body set ablaze; you push back against him, head thrown back, yanking at Joel’s hair with far more force than you ought to be using. 

Your body is soft and pliant when he shifts positions, pushing one of your knees higher up on the mattress, leaving you even more open and exposed; Joel’s cock punches in and out of you with rapid precision, now chasing his pleasure more than yours in deep, long thrusts that have you drooling on the pillowcase, unable to catch your breath. 

Joel pulls out with a pained whine and you’re too tired to turn around, fighting to keep your eyes open as you listen to the slick sounds of him fisting his own cock, followed by the sticky warmth of his spend as it covers the roundness of your ass. He presses a kiss on the space between your shoulderblades just as you start to recover your breathing.

“I’ll be right back.” He says, his voice soft like you’ve never heard before; you just give him a thumbs up, smiling when you hear him laugh.

Joel cleans you with a warm towel and so much care it makes you almost embarrassed, peppering kisses to your clammy skin and saying how well you’ve done for him. He helps you redress, fixes the place where the fitted sheets came loose, and then pulls you to his chest. You slide a hand underneath his shirt, fingertips playing with the wispy hair on his chest.

“Joel?” You call out, wanting to ask him about what had happened before — how you’re fairly certain you’d seen him half-way into shifting before he somehow got it under control — but you’re unable to, because the only response you get is a loud, reverberating snore.

Tommy brings a bag with your belongings two days later. He doesn’t say anything, just drops it by the bed, pats you on the shoulder, and says ‘the old bastard reckons it’s time ya start wearin’ yer own shit again’ before he steps out of the room; you haven’t seen either Miller men all day, with Tommy busy trying — and failing, because it seems like the damage you've done is mighty permanent — to fix up the truck and Joel at work. You go through the bag carefully, pulling out your clothes — the clothes that Joel chose from your closet — and finding them a home next to Joel’s flannels. 

You wonder if you should feel like it’s some sort of violation, that Joel had gone to your house while you took care of his kid and picked out your underwear, but you don’t. 

If anything, it makes you feel seen. 

It’s the pounding on the door that wakes you up. Your mouth is parched, muscles pleasantly sore, too warm from Joel’s steady presence behind your back; Joel grumbles, not fully awake, but Tommy’s insistent knocking drags the both of you up. 

“Joel— For fuck’s sake, Joel. The cops are here.” He says through the door, his voice so panicked he can barely hide it. “They wanna talk to both of ya.” 

It’s ludicrous, but the first thing you think about is the pens you stole from the pharmacy— The used, old pens that you stole out of pettiness and you think the police are here to arrest you for it. But then, as you hastily get dressed, you think of the car accident you were in and panic sets even deeper; you’d been driving while drunk, and you fled the scene— You don’t remember any of it, maybe you injured or killed someone. Maybe you drove into some ancient protected tree. Maybe they’re here to charge you for the damage you did to the cement safeguard next to the road. 

The truth is, somehow, a lot worse. The cops — Josh McKenley and Chad Hobbs, one of them who you went to school with, the other who is a year older than you at most — kindly ask you to step outside while one of them stays inside with the men; Tommy has Sarah perched on his hip, distracting her with breakfast but you can see just how worried he is. 

McKenley steps out with you, Hobbs stays inside, arms crossed over his chest while he stares at Joel as if he is some sort of deviant criminal. 

“Josh, what the fuck is going on?” You ask, hugging yourself. You almost want to ask if this is about the car but you don’t, biting your tongue at the very last minute; the last thing you need is to incriminate yourself. 

Josh, on his part, shifts from one foot to the other, his bovine eyes scanning every inch of your body. 

“Céline called.” 

You lean back against the cruiser when your knees threaten to give out. “What do you mean?”

“She’s worried about you. Been trying to call you—”

“I lost my phone.” You bring a hand to your forehead, hating the way your fingers shake. “This is a wellness check? How did you even find me?”

“We didn’t know we’d find you here, but we figured we should look ‘round after we realized you hadn’t gone home in days. Honestly, after what Céline said, I thought we’d be searching for a body.” 

Your stomach churns unpleasantly. You can barely remember what you said to her, far too drunk to make any sense of it but you know, you know it had been bad. Josh looks at you more carefully, and you know what he sees: The scrapes and bruises that remain from your accident, fading but still there, and the way you tremble like a leaf in front of him. 

“I’m alright.” You say and, even though it’s true, it sounds like a lie. Josh cocks his head to the side. 

“We can help you. We’re going to help you. Céline told us that the guy is dangerous, that you were scared, but we’re here now.” 

“Josh—” You shake your head, but he keeps talking over you. 

“We’ll pretend that we’re bringing you in for something else, and then we go down to the station, you report him and he won’t be able to keep you here anymore.” 

“He’s not holding me hostage. I’m here because I want to.” You push the heels of your palms into your eyes. “I appreciate the concern, I really do, but Céline doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I lost my phone and I lost my job, and Joel’s letting me stay here with him while I figure something out, that’s all.”

“You’re hurt. Are you going to tell me you just… What? Fell down the stairs?” 

“Car crash, actually.” You huff. “I was driving from Céline’s place and lost control of the car. It’s fine now, nobody else got hurt and Joel and Tommy already brought the car back.” 

Josh’s eyes turn into narrow slits and you can’t tell he doesn’t believe you, but you’re sure there’s not much else he can do. There’s a heavy moment of silence while he stares you down, maybe waiting for you to crack, before he eventually nods. 

“Okay.” He says in a tone that doesn’t make anything seem okay— It’s half a challenge, half a threat. “Do you want to explain why you told Céline that he’s the one killing people ‘round town, then?”

“I never said that.” 

He hums, shifting from one foot to the other, effectively blocking your view of the house. 

“That ain’t what Céline said. She said—”

“I don’t care what she said. Do you even hear yourself? You think, what— That Joel faked the animal attacks? Josh, that’s crazy talk.”

“What I think it’s that it’s mighty interesting that folk only started dying after he came into town. And I think it’s mighty interesting that you are the only person that’s seen the animal and got out alive. If you’re not being held against your will, and if you know what happened— That’s accessory to murder.”

You laugh, then, because you can barely believe what you’re hearing; it’s not a funny, happy laugh but rather the noise of pure despair. 

“Holy shit, you’re so fired.”

“Is that a threat?” He asks, eyebrows raising high. 

“Are you seriously thinking about charging Joel for murder because Céline said so? You can’t just— Humans don’t do that. They don’t eat and tear each other apart like that. If there was a single chance that it was a person faking an animal attack, don’t you think the coroners would’ve caught it?”

There’s just a hint of uncertainty on his chubby cheeks before Josh puffs his chest again, clearly trying to seem taller and more in control than he has ever been. 

“I think it’s part of my job to do my due diligence when an accusation is made. And if you and Mr. Miller don’t have anything to hide, then you shouldn’t be so upset about me asking a couple of questions.”

“Does your dad know about this? That you’re here harassing me and my boyfriend over gossip?”

“The Deputy will be informed of our official investigation as soon as—”

“That’s fucking fantastic. Alright, go in there and ask Joel if he’s the big bad wolf that has been eating people.” You wave at the front of the house, and then promptly shove your hands into your pockets once you notice just how badly you’re shaking. “Please do. And then go home and tell your daddy what you did. You’ll be the joke of the entire fucking town, Officer McKenley.”

You sidestep him and it’s only then that you realize just how loud you’ve been, with Officer Hobbs and Joel both standing by the front door; the police officer seems uncertain, torn between coming closer and staying with the suspect, and Joel looks like he’s a split second away from rushing down the stairs. 

“Hey, Hobbs!” You yell, giving what you can only hope is a smile that is more acidic than you truly feel. “Did you know your partner here thinks Joel Miller is a werewolf?! Is that what you idiots are up to nowadays? Monster hunting?” 

By the look on Officer Hobbs’s face you can see that he, indeed, was not aware of the murder accusation Josh decided to throw. The man’s eyes fly from Josh’s face to yours and then to Joel, who simply raises both of his eyebrows. Josh is already speaking a thousand words per minute trying to explain to his senior the conversation he had with Céline but you don’t pay any attention to it; all you can do is focus on the officer’s face, the way he burns red and how you can tell he’s trying to show an united front even though he clearly feels like an idiot. 

“This is just a wellness check.” Hobbs says to you eventually, having all but dragged Josh back into the cruiser. “A friend of yours was concerned.” 

“I know. And I appreciate it. But going from that to saying that my boyfriend is killing people? I mean…” 

Hobbs nods, once, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He looks like he’s agreeing with you, but his eyes linger on Joel’s figure behind you for a beat too long before he finally drives away.

You, Joel and Tommy reunite after you help Sarah brush her teeth and then Joel pulls out a fairly large collection of crayons and papers, enough to keep the little girl occupied while the three of you talk things through by the kitchen table. 

“They can’t… They can’t do anything, right?” You ask, watching as Tommy paces back and forth— Joel is leaning against the table, his body entirely still even though you can feel the nervous energy radiating from him. “I mean, even if they try to say you faked the animal attacks, that’s easily disproven.”

The silence that settles is full of answers you don’t like. Your head snaps towards Joel, who is looking intently at the wall. 

“The DNA could match.” He says, at last, just as you open your mouth to beg for the reassurance that isn’t coming. “If there’s any saliva left, or— Maybe the fur, I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know.” You don’t mean to sound as judgemental as you do, but— Considering he’s the one that has been murdering people for almost three decades, you figured he should know at least how much risk he’s been putting himself in. 

“No, I don’t. This shit didn’t come with a manual.” Joel snaps. He doesn’t yell, and he’s not aggressive, but the words are still much sharper than he’s ever spoken to you. Tommy’s pacing falters for a moment as his eyes bounce between the two of you. You preen, ready to snap back at him, but—

It’s your fault, really. 

You close your mouth shut with so much force your teeth clack. If you hadn’t said anything to Céline, if you hadn’t sent the e-mail and if you hadn’t had your little outburst at the bar, none of this would be happening. Joel and Sarah and Tommy would be safe, their lives completely undisturbed; and now here you are, all but squatting in their house, bringing the cops to their front door. 

Your head falls forward, burying it in your hands. 

“We’re panicking over nothing.” Joel says. “The Deputy is never going to open an investigation on you ‘cause of what some lil’ girl had to say.”

“Officer McKenley is his son.” You say, your voice laced with defeat; the heels of your palms dig into your eyesockets, little flashes of brightness popping behind the darkness of your closed eyelids. 

“Even better for us. He ain’t gon’ let his kid embarrass himself like that.”

“We should just pack up and leave.” You raise your head at Tommy’s voice, the first time he spoke since the conversation started. His arms are crossed over his chest, mustache twitching. “The truck won’t take us long before it shits itself out again, but I can get us a new car today, we pack our shit and get out of town in the middle of the night. If we leave before they can properly open an investigation we’ll be down in Mexico by the time a judge allows them to exhume one of the bodies.” 

“Runnin’ is only going to make us look more suspicious.” Joel shakes his head. “They ain’t got anythin’ on me. We stay put, keep workin’ and goin’ about our business. And you—” Joel pulls his cellphone from his pocket, the black glass square tumbling on the table when he throws it at you. “Call your friend and tell her you’re fine. We need her to think she overstepped and overreacted.” 

You don’t want to call her. You don’t want to talk to Céline at all, even though you understand why she did what she did— You would’ve done the same in her shoes. Hell, you probably would’ve driven yourself back home to check in on her. So, while your brain understands the logic, understands she was just looking out for you, your heart doesn’t seem to agree. 

You pick up the phone anyway, though, because you’re the one that fucked everything up in the first place. 

“I don’t know her phone number.” You say, swiping left and right trying to find the Instagram app. Joel doesn’t have much other than the pre-downloaded apps, a guitar tuning app and some games that are clearly meant for Sarah. “Where’s your Insta? I need to message her there and ask her to FaceTime me.” 

There’s a beat of silence where Joel blinks at you, his face entirely blank. Tommy snorts, which turns into a full blown cackle when Joel turns to stare at him. 

“You might as well be speakin’ Greek to him, kid.” Tommy shakes his head, checking his watch before he looks back at Joel. “You sure you want to play this by ear? If we’re goin’ to keep on movin’, we gotta be at the Arlington’s by ten to get started on their bathroom.” 

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Joel gives a final nod, tension radiating off of him. He turns back to you then, the tip of his tongue pressing against his upper teeth as he hesitates. 

“I got it.” You tell him, waving a hand. “Go play in someone else’s bathroom, I’ll find a way of contacting Céline, and then I’ll take Sarah for a walk.” 

Joel kisses both of Sarah’s cheeks before he leaves, promising that he’ll be home by dinner with a treat if she behaves. You don’t think Sarah is capable of misbehaving, really, but she gives him a toothy grin and requests Reese’s as her bribery of choice. He kisses you too before he leaves, a long kiss on the lips, his big hands cradling your hips like the last thing he wants to do is let you go. 

“Do I also get a good girl treat?” You ask, voice low and teasing. Joel’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, fingers squeezing your hips. 

“I left my card and cell on the counter.” Even though Joel doesn’t answer your provocation with words, the fire that burns in his eyes is more than enough. “Call Tommy’s phone if you need anything, okay?” 

“Can you—” You hesitate, fixing his flannel even though it’s not out of place at all, unsure if you even should voice your request. Joel squeezes your side again, head cocking to the side. 

“Anything.”

“Can you check in throughout the day? Whenever you’re free.” 

You burn hot with shyness by the way his eyes soften at that, and Joel presses a kiss to the top of your head before stepping away. “Yeah, of course, darlin’. I’ll call on my lunch break.”

Céline answers your Instagram message in less than ten minutes, and the two of you settle on a FaceTime call just as Sarah goes down for her afternoon nap. You’ve cleaned up a little, wearing a shirt that you don’t think she’ll be able to tell is Joel’s, and you’ve even added just a little bit of make up to the still fading bruises on your face; it’s not the make up or your hair being done that strike you as the most odd when you look in the mirror, though— It’s the fact that you look healthy, no bags under your eyes or ashiness to your skin, your cheeks rounder and even your eyes seem lighter, not in color but in brightness. 

You don’t remember ever looking this good before, and it makes your smile a little wider when Céline finally answers the call. 

It’s every bit as uncomfortable as you expect it to be: Céline is surprised and suspicious, and you can see her craning her neck to look over your shoulder as if she’d be able to tell if you were being held at gunpoint. You tell her about the car crash, about losing your job and your phone and about staying at Joel and Tommy’s place because you didn’t feel well enough to be by yourself. You walk around the house as you speak, trying to make it seem casual as you grab a pre-made iced coffee from the fridge — the expensive brand, the one you never would’ve gotten on your own money —, but it’s mostly just so she can see you’re truly by yourself, minus the toddler that sleeps in the little tent in the corner of her bedroom. 

“You… Look good.” Céline says at last, after the both of you have apologized for everything that went down in Jackson— You know it takes a lot for a woman like Céline to admit defeat, always so used to people bending at her every whim, always ignoring and overlooking any of her flaws. “Happy.” 

“I am.” You bite down on your lip, giving the camera a small smile. There’s a lull in the conversation, the first one since she picked up the phone, and you take the opportunity to bring up the real reason for the call. “Josh came around. Though he’s going by Officer McKenley now.”

Céline’s face goes from its normal color to incredibly pale before burning bright red. 

“I was worried about you.” 

“I know.” 

The two of you fall silent again, though it’s heavier this time, pregnant with all the things you want her to say.

“I’m not going to apologize for caring about you. You left drunk and crying, wouldn’t pick up your phone. And then there was the whole thing about him killing people. And the stalking.” 

“Like you said, I was drunk and stoned. I was just saying bullshit for the sake of it.” You shake your head, trying to steer the conversation where you need it to go. “Did you send him my e-mails?”

“The e-mails where you describe the terrifying, weird old man that has been breaking into your house? Of course I did. I don’t care if the two of you kissed and made up, I thought you were in danger. Thought they were going to find you raped and killed somewhere.” 

“Did you— Was it, like, an official report or something? Because if it’s official then— Shit, I don’t know, they’ll probably have to look into it even if I said I’m fine.” 

“I called Josh’s personal phone. I don’t know if he ever filed a report on it.” Céline shrugged. “Just tell them you lied to me. If he didn’t kill anyone, then they’ll investigate a bit and drop it when there’s no evidence of anything.” 

Céline’s face remains impossibly blank, her tone entirely diplomatic, but you can see the way her eyes scan your face and you know she’s trying to catch you in a lie. She still thinks Joel is the killer, you realize, and you’re not certain there’s much you can do now to change her mind. 

“You know how people gossip in this fucking town.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, mostly to hide your face from her scrutiny than anything else. “People are going to show up to our house with pitchforks and silver bullets the second they hear he’s a person of interest.” 

“I’m not going to apologize—”

“Yeah, you said that already.” You cut her off, your tone clipped and sharp. 

Céline offers you a small smile. “Just handcuff him to a radiator during the full moons and you’ll both be fine.” 

Her words, although they’re not really funny, pull a snort out of you. “He would look good in handcuffs.” 

Céline’s face twists, but she still laughs. 

“Is he good to you? Treating you right?”

“Better than anyone.” You say, having to bite down on your tongue to hold back a bitter remark about how she’d basically called you an attention seeking whore the last time the two of you were together. “He’s good with his daughter, and his brother. Takes care of everyone. Hard worker, too.” 

“Yeah, okay, well— My door is always open if things go south, alright?”

You think back to how horribly it ended the last time you saw each other but you still smile and nod. 

You don’t know what the future really holds, your relationship still so new and fragile, but you don’t think you’ll need her charity ever again.

For the next few weeks, you watch as Joel grows antsier and antsier. He agrees to lay low, to not hunt while there’s still a chance the police are looking for a reason to pin the killings on him, but you can see just how much it affects him. Joel gets snappy, his words clipped and short, fucking you rougher and rougher every time— Never staying still for too long, fingers tapping on his thighs or feet tapping on the floor whenever he’s sitting down, always finding something to fix around the house when he’s not working. 

He’s hungry, you can see it in the burning of his eyes and the tension of his muscles. 

“Can’t you just have a raw steak or something?” You ask him during one of the few afternoons in which he’s home, the house finally falling silent after you spent forty minutes trying to get Sarah to go down for her nap. “I’m sure it’s not the same as a person, but it might help you hold on for a couple more days, right?”

“It’s not the meat that the wolf is cravin’.” Joel shakes his head, his fingers tapping on the back of the couch as if he’s playing the piano. “It’s the hunt. The chase.” 

An image comes to the forefront of your mind, the wolf with his teeth bared and nostrils blown wide, and it makes desire churn in your stomach. For the first time in weeks, Joel’s body goes entirely still, his sharp inhale reverberating through the two of you. 

“You’re not thinkin’ —”

“He wouldn’t kill me, right?” You ask, thighs squeezing together, cutting him off because you don’t think you can handle it if he says it out loud.

“I don’t think so.” 

His words aren’t all that reassuring, but they only make you wetter. 

“Are you— Sweetheart, are you sure?”

You finally look back at him, holding his gaze. 

“You’re the one that told me he could come out to play sometime.”

Joel growls. He’s sitting there, fully human, but the sound that leaves him is one that you don’t think human vocal chords would ever be able to produce— Similar, but not the same, as the one he’d done the first time the two of you had sex, when he was starting to lose control over himself.

“Go put on your shoes.” He tells you, voice low and full of gravel. “I’m givin’ you a forty second head start. Make ‘em count.”

Your underwear is fully damp by the time you finish putting on your boots, Joel standing in the kitchen with his back turned to you. You can feel the heat radiating off of him even from afar, his back muscles rippling underneath his cotton shirt as he sips from a water glass; you only hesitate for a moment before reaching underneath your dress, pulling out the pair of black cotton panties you’re wearing and letting it fall on the ground. You think of those cadaver dogs, the ones who can find a person just by the smell of their clothing alone, and goosebumps erupt all over your body as you turn on your heels and run out through the backdoors into the darkening woods. 

In hindsight, you probably should’ve prepared better. You don’t have your phone, and you don’t have a flashlight, or a coat— It gets dark incredibly fast as soon as you’re past the treeline, the old trees tall and imposing, blocking the fading sunlight just the same as it blocks the house. You’re not planning on making it too difficult for Joel to catch you, maybe a little dodging him before the wolf finally catches up to you but, the further you go into the darkness, the more it becomes real. 

The forest falls silent all of a sudden, the birds and the toads and the crickets silencing so fast you hold your breath; it’s almost as if the animals can sense something you can’t, as if they’ve all been warned of the predator that has entered the territory, every living thing going into hiding as Joel takes the reigns of nature. 

You hesitate for a moment, eyes darting around before you find a small pathway between the trees. The man-made kind, the grass stomped over, tree branches carefully removed out of the way; it’s narrow, not visible unless you’re really looking for it, but you rush forward just as you hear the first branch creaking and snapping behind you— Too close. 

Your legs push you forward, instinct taking over as you run through the small pathway before taking a sharp turn to the left, mingling with the trees; the space is so small that branches scratch against your face and you think momentarily that you’re safe, that the path you’re on is too closed off for the wolf to follow.

Above your labored breathing you hear the heavy and fast sound of his footsteps— You wonder if it’s on purpose, if he’s being loud to scare you, and it surely works. It makes you panic, in fact, heart hammering inside your chest. You think the sound is coming from your left so you run to your right, jumping over rocks and almost falling over when you step on a moss-covered root; it leads you to an area where the trees aren’t as clumped together, more space for you to see and less claustrophobic. The moonlight shines above, peaking through the top of the trees, and you narrowly miss a depression on the ground that would’ve absolutely sprained your ankle. Air becomes harder, your lungs and thighs burning as you duck underneath a thick branch, skidding to a halt as you hide behind a giant, imposing willow tree. 

You drop down, knees to your chest as you try to take a proper breath. You can hear the rustling of the trees, the barely audible creaking of twigs and loose leaves under Joel’s paws as he stalks closer to you; your throat tightens, trapping the air inside your lungs. You can tell that he is right there, just on the other side of the tree, his breathing loud and controlled. 

One, two, three— You count his steps, measured and certain, approaching you from the left. You fix your stance, hands on a thick tree root as you prepare to run.

It all happens so fast you barely have time to understand what is going on. You launch yourself to the right just as you hear another creaking from the left and you make it exactly four steps before you’re lunged forward and down; You spin, trying to escape the animal’s grasp but all you manage to do is land on your back, Joel’s heavy weight settling on your chest. His body covers yours like a weighted blanket, wet nostril bumping against the sensitive patch of skin just behind your ear. You push his head away like Tommy had done the night of the accident, trying to wiggle yourself from underneath him but, unlike last time, the wolf doesn’t pull away kindly. Instead he growls, low and long, his chest rattling against yours. 

Your muscles freeze, much like they’d done that first time Joel hijacked your body— There are no words this time, no audible command other than the growl but your body responds as if it understands the wolf’s orders, laying pliantly underneath the stars.

“Joel—” You start, trying to call his attention, but the wolf doesn’t seem to mind; it nuzzles the side of your neck and then your collarbone, wet nose tickling against your sternum as it travels lower and lower. You open your mouth, ready to try again, but the words are cut off by the sound of the wolf’s teeth tearing through your dress. The cold air hits your chest for barely a second before his warm breath takes over, tongue impossibly large and unbelievably soft as it laps at your nipples. You shift again but, this time, it’s to accommodate him better between your legs; his belly is warm and soft against you, soft fur that you know you’re soaking with your wetness as you grind up into him. His tongue travels lower, teeth scraping against your stomach as he tugs at the scraps of your dress until you’re fully nude.

You look down, the wolf’s giant head between your legs, but all you can focus on are his eyes. 

Joel’s eyes. Warm and kind and human, staring up at you in a way that is uncannily similar to his human form when he checks in on you— You nod, unsure if you even have it in you to give him any sort of verbal consent, but the small movement is more than enough; his tongue is so large that it encompasses your entire cunt in a single swipe. It’s so different from anything you’ve ever experienced but, at the same time, you can still recognize Joel’s movements in the way he laps at your clit, the tip of his tongue toying against your entrance in sharp, certain circles. It’s just a little clumsy, his teeth and snout getting in the way but it makes your eyes roll to the back of your head, hands gripping the grass until chunks fall out as you try to ground yourself. You bite down on your bottom lip, awfully aware you’re in a public setting even though there’s no one around, but you think back to Joel’s words that first time you had sex. Can’t wait to have you screamin’ f’me, pretty girl.

You come with a scream of his name on your lips, tufts of grass and dirt underneath your fingernails, hips pushing up into his mouth. 

You’re still trying to regain your breath when Joel crawls back over you, whining softly as his snout bumps into your cheek. The fur sticks everywhere, glistening with your slick the way it had done with your blood so many moons ago, and you giggle, scratching the space between his eyes.

“I’m okay. That was—” You giggle again when he starts to purr, chest vibrating where it presses against yours. You feel the head of his cock bump against your thigh, scorchingly hot and leaking, and a fresh new wave of wetness dribbles down your thighs. “Do you want me to turn around?” You ask, still petting his head. “On all fours?”

Joel whines again, and the way he presses his body even more against yours seems like enough of an answer. You press a kiss to his snout, legs spreading even further when you feel his cock pressing against your entrance. 

He’s even bigger like this. Joel in his human form had already been a task to take in, but this is something else— You take a deep breath, your fingers digging into the soft fur of his pectoral, your body screaming to push him away but you remain still. He pushes himself inside in two strokes, and the second one has you wailing; for a horrifying moment, you think you won’t be able to handle him, the burn of the stretch and just how full you feel not subduing as quickly as you expect it to. 

“Gimme a second.” You say when he starts grinding, legs clamping around him. “Just— please, just a second.” 

You bring a hand down to your clit, forcing your tense muscles to relax, rubbing soothing circles until the pain melts away, his thick cock pressing against that perfect little spot inside of you even when he’s not moving making you hungrier. Joel runs his nose down your cheek to your collarbone, sharp teeth scraping against the soft skin of your shoulder. You clench around him, his cock feeling impossibly warm inside of you— He growls, the noise reverberating between the two of you before his hips pull back ever-so-slightly, snapping harshly against yours. It makes you wail, the tip of his cock hitting against your cervix with every fast, jerky thrusts that he gives you; You’re babbling, begging for more and crying that it’s too much, your hand falling away from between your legs. You hold onto him, clutching the fur as Joel ruts into you, his thrusts so harsh they push you upwards on the grass. It doesn’t take you more than a couple of minutes to come, head tilted to the side, drool pooling on the side of your mouth and down your cheek as your body convulses underneath him, clamping down on him so tight that he might’ve slipped out if he wasn’t buried so deep inside of you. 

Joel comes with a growl on his throat and his teeth sinking into your shoulder painfully enough that you think he might snap a bone— You scream, both from pain and from pleasure, his cock swelling and throbbing inside of you. He grinds against you as he comes and comes and comes, his pelvic bone pushing against your clit and hurtling you into a third orgasm, the sort of wave of pleasure that has your throat constricting and your eyes rolling back, pebbled nipples rubbing against his chest as your spine twists up. Joel remains locked into you even as you tremble from the overstimulation; he feels even bigger, swelling inside of you and stretching you even further, a mixture of growling and whining rumbling in his throat. And when the aftershocks of your orgasm start to subdue, you realize he’s still coming, still filling you up, teeth clamped down on your shoulder as your lower stomach swells. It’s an odd sensation, feeling his come leak from where he’s still buried inside of you, feeling it push against your bladder in a way that makes you feel him all the way up to your stomach; you think he’ll be leaking out of you for days, thick and warm where he fills you up. 

He doesn’t move, caging you protectively when he finally calms down, his head tucking above yours. His neck is soft where you nuzzle into it, so satiated and exhausted you can barely keep your eyes open.

You wake up to Joel’s face — his human face — hovering above yours. His hand is cradling your jawline, and he’s covered in his own blood, curls darkened and sticking to his forehead; a thick glob of congealing blood slides down the beautiful curve of his nose and plops on your cheek. 

“Honey, I’m so sorry.” He says, wiping something from your cheek— It leaves behind a wet trail that you can’t recognize whether it is blood or sweat. “I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have— I should’a shifted back earlier— How bad does it hurt? ‘M gon’ get you home, or— Or a hospital if you need, alright?”

You frown, pushing yourself up on your elbows. Your body is sore, maybe a little more than it should be, but it doesn’t feel hospital worthy. The worst pain is from your shoulder, in fact, the bite mark throbbing and irritated.

Above all, though, it’s hard to miss how you’re covered in blood. It’s like a scene from Carrie, thick deep red blood dripping down your body, lathering you in it— It’s too much to be yours, and it’s everywhere, from your neck all the way down to your shins. There is a gunk of fur stuck to your left thigh, which Joel pulls away hastily when he notices you staring down at it. 

“I had to—” He stalls and, although you can’t see the color of his cheeks underneath the blood, you’re willing to bet he’s blushing. “I had to shift still inside— Would’a hurt you even more if I didn’t.” 

“Thank God I wasn’t here for it.” You snort, wiping a hand over your eye— Between the remnants of blood and grass on your fingers, you don’t realize you’re making it worse until after you’ve done it. “You didn’t hurt me, Joel. I’m okay. More than, really.” 

He leans forward, bumping his forehead against yours, shoulders sagging with relief. 

“Thought you were gonna hate me.” 

“Joel,” You shake your head, a small laugh escaping your lips. “You eat people and I don’t hate you for it. This is nothing.” 

Joel’s head snaps to the right just a second before you hear the snap of a branch. 

There, between the trees, is a man. Officer Josh McKenley, at the two of you with wide eyes and a raised rifle. You can only imagine what it looks like, two people naked and bloodied in the middle of the woods, embracing in a pile of torn clothes and gore. 

“Step away from her.” He demands, the gun pointed at Joel. “You okay, miss?”

Even though it would seem that he’s trying to protect you from Joel, you don’t miss the way his eyes rake over your body— Slower than they need to, taking in details more than searching for injuries. You curl in on yourself, trying to hide your body from view. Joel growls, and McKenley’s attention snaps back at him. 

 Despite being fully naked with a gun pointed at him, Joel doesn’t seem worried; he has two hands stretched out in front of him, legs slightly bent, ready to pounce. He waits, though, stepping away from you as instructed. 

“I’m going to call for back up.” The man warns, fumbling with the gun as he reaches for his left pocket. “If you move, I’ll shoot you.” 

Joel moves. He jumps on the man so fast it makes you shriek, the loud noise of the rifle going off ringing in your ears and drowning out the way McKenley screams, both from surprise and pain as the two of them topple to the ground.

You expect Joel’s shifting from human to wolf to be as slow and gruesome as the deshifting, perhaps the bone-breaking and agonizing process like a scene from An American Werewolf in London but it’s not: It happens in the blink of an eye, the hair on his head growing thicker and spreading, the muscles on his black rippling as his skin stretches and his bones shift into something else. And then you blink, and McKenley is crawling backwards, mouth open in terror, the wolf’s head down to his shoulders as he stalks his prey. 

It’s only then that you finally feel the pain. It tears through your bitten shoulder, burning, a small round hole that pierces through one of the teeth marks that gurgles fresh blood. 

“Joel?” You call out, hand shaking as you bring it to press down on the bullet wound. It hurts too much, pain searing and blinding, making you pull your hand away instantly. “Holy fuck.” 

The wolf’s head turns, staring at you— It’s the split second that McKenley uses to run away, his rifle forgotten in the overgrowth as he flees through the path he came from. Your vision swims, the wolf coming in and out of focus as you lean back, scraping your arm against a tree before you manage to put yourself in a mostly upright sitting position. Joel howls, that same deep and loud noise he’d made to call out for Tommy after the car accident, before coming to your side. He gives the wound a single lick before you manage to push him away; he whines, trying to get you to move your hand out of his snout. 

“Unless that tongue can pull out the bullet, I don’t think you should be doing that, buddy.” You say, your voice sounding slurred and foreign in your ears. “Just— Fuck, Joel, it hurts. Just shift back and get me home, please.”

Tommy is in charge of packing while Joel patches up your arm in the bathroom. You’re not proud to admit that you almost pass out as he digs through your shoulder for the bullet, barely hearing the string of apologies that leave his mouth as he works as fast as he can. It’s clear that he’s done this before, a well-stocked first aid kit in the bathroom cabinet and precise movements from his hand. 

You keep your eyes averted from the wound, trying to stay as still as you possibly can. 

“Do you think it’ll stick?”

Joel hums, distracted. “What, honey?”

“The bite. Am I— Am I gon’ turn into a wolf too, now? You said it spreads through biting and genetics, right?” 

“No, ‘s not a full moon tonight.” He runs a finger close to the bite mark, stopping his stitching for a moment. “I’ll fix it as soon as I can shift again, okay? Reckon I can make sure it won’t scar.”

You don’t want it fixed— You don’t want to be a werewolf either, but you like the idea of Joel’s teeth-shaped scar a little too much. But you simply hum, ending the conversation, too tired to voice any of those feelings. He kisses the stitches once he’s done with them, and then helps you into the shower— It’s the first time you’re in the shower with him and it’s certainly not what you pictured, both of you rushing through wiping each other clean while Tommy rushes from room to room, trying to gather as many essentials as he can without waking Sarah up. 

You’re not sure at which point they’ve decided to flee. You’ve run into Tommy on your way back to the house, Joel carrying you in his arms. ‘Cop caught me mid shift.’ is the only explanation he gives but that seems to be enough to enable some sort of crisis protocol. 

There’s a single, curt knock on the bathroom door just as Joel helps you into your sweatpants.

“Can you wake Sarah up f’me?” He asks you, knuckles brushing softly over the bandage on your shoulder. “Don’t pick her up, can’t have you strainin’ yourself. Just tell her to pick out her favorite toys, that we gotta go on a trip.” 

You do as you’re told, arm placed in a sling that Joel pulled together out of gauze and sheer willpower, hair still dripping wet down your back. Sarah is curled up on her toddler bed, a protective wall of stuffed animals between her and the safety guard, her little thumb stuck inside her mouth. 

“Sarah?” You call out, softly, trying not to spook the little girl as you push the curls away from her face; her hair is wild and frizzy and you make a mental note of telling Joel to buy her one of those toddler bonnets. “Wake up, puppy. We gotta go.” 

“Mama?”

It breaks your heart, watching her little doe eyes blink without recognition— It almost hurts more than Joel calling you by her mother’s name, the cold proof of a little girl that still yearns for someone you could never be. 

“Hi, sweetie.” You coo, pushing down the safety rail. “Y’wanna go on an adventure? Your daddy planned a trip for us.”

You sit by her bed as you watch Sarah toddle around the room, collecting her toys and shoving them inside a purple backpack covered in sequins, her little brow furrowed in concentration. She doesn’t ask the million questions you expect from a child so young, she just accepts what you tell her and then gets to business. 

It takes Tommy exactly fifty-five minutes to leave the cabin with the half-functioning truck and come back with a fully-functioning car. You’d be impressed if you didn’t have the sneaking suspicion that he prepared for it even though Joel told him not to. 

Joel doesn’t let you help with anything other than carrying one of Sarah’s stuffed toys that didn’t fit her backpack and, if you’re being honest, you don’t try too hard to help— Your shoulder throbs even after you’ve taken a couple of painkillers, your muscles sore from… Well, everything. Instead, you sit inside the champagne-colored sedan with Sarah, trying to distract her from what is happening; there is a nervous energy in the air, both Tommy and Joel wound up tight, and you can see the moment she picks up on it, fussing when Joel buckles her into the car seat. 

“Where are we going?” You ask, pushing your head between the two front seats. Tommy is driving, and Joel holds a map that looks so old you think it might be close to you in age. 

“North.” Joel responds at the same time that Tommy says: “South.”

They both look at each other for a split second before Tommy continues. 

“Mexico. I have to, Joel.” His voice is tight and urgent, hands flexing against the steering wheel. “Been feelin’ it for weeks now.”

“Mexico it is.” Joel nods before he turns to you; his face is now so close you can see the different shades of hair on his mustache, his bottom lip marred with teeth marks. “Tommy’s feelin’ the pull.”

“Pull?”

“That’s where my mate is. Somewhere in Mexico.” Tommy is the one that answers. “‘S why we came here of all places. Joel felt you callin’ out to him.” 

Despite everything, your lips pull into a small smile.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Mexico.”

EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER. 

Rainy season means stuffy, warm days and unpredictable downpour of rain showers in the middle of the afternoon just when you think the heat is finally going to get you. You’re slowly learning how to adapt, your body craving the rain just as much as it craves the sun. The rainy days are usually easier to handle during the week, while Sarah is in pre-k and you’re at work all afternoon— During the weekends it means Joel has to stay at a job site for longer, and that you’re trapped inside the house with a tiny, bored little girl. 

“That boyfriend of yours is coming to pick you up?” Joel asks, leaning against the kitchen sink. Disdain drips off of the word ‘boyfriend’ but, at this point, you think he does it mostly to annoy you and not really because there is any jealousy. 

Your ‘boyfriend’ is Raúl, a single father to a little girl around Sarah’s age. The girls met on Sarah’s first day of kindergarten and even though Ellie doesn’t speak English and Sarah doesn’t speak Spanish, the two girls attached to each other’s hips— They share toys and food and are even starting to trade words in their languages; Sarah has taken the habit of pointing out every perro she sees on the street (her uncle Tommy included, once) and you know that didn’t come from her. 

“Yup.” You say, pulling the glass of mango juice from between Joel’s fingers just as Tommy bursts into your home— He’s been living on the floor above yours, but it seems like your kitchen is the Central Station. “He’ll pick me and Sarah up in, like, fifteen minutes. G’mornin’, Tommy.” 

“Morning.” He says, stealing a slice of bacon from Sarah’s plate. “Who’s coming to pick you up?”

“Mommy’s boyfriend.” Sarah pipes up, licking honey from her fingertips.  

“Raúl.” You correct her, elbowing Joel when he cackles at the look on Tommy’s face. “Who is a friend and a boy, but not my boyfriend. His daughter has a playdate with Sarah.”

“Don’t forget it.” Joel taps the little pill container on the counter before he moves back to the living room. The kitchen is small and, although the brightly lit windows make it seem bigger than it really is, the place gets just a little crowded as Tommy shoves his head inside the fridge. 

You roll your eyes, but you pick out the antidepressants and swallow them with the mango juice anyway; truth is, even though you keep complaining about the pills, the wonders that they’ve done to your life are something you don’t think you’ll ever take for granted— The pills and Dr. Canul, the therapist that has been seeing you ever since settled down in Puerto Morelos. 

It had taken your little family — your pack — about eight months to figure out a town to finally settle roots, living in cars and cheap motels for so long you thought it might affect Sarah’s development; Tommy was the one guiding the four of you, never settling anywhere for longer than a month before his mate started to pull him somewhere else. It got to a point where you were certain he was making it up, or perhaps confused by his feelings, but Joel had blind faith in his brother so every other month you packed up your car and left for a new place. 

Puerto Morelos had been your home for almost ten months now, and it was such a dream you feared the day Tommy decided his mate wasn’t there anymore— Sarah is thriving in kindergarten, Dr. Canul is the nicest doctor you’ve ever met, and your little house near the beach is everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Your job, too, at a local artisan shop where you get to sell your paintings while manning the register; the owner is an old woman that had been kind and patient, teaching you how to weave baskets and huipiles, never faulting you or making fun of the way you still tripped over your ever-growing Spanish vocabulary. She simply corrects you with a soft ‘no, mija’ and, during one particularly exciting afternoon, threatened to beat a teenager with the bat she keeps in the back of her shop after he made fun of you. 

Life is good, more than— Life is everything you’ve ever dreamed of, in the community that embraced you and your family, with the ocean breeze and the hot sun and the sense of belonging that you’ve never found anywhere else. 

The thought that Tommy might take that away at any moment keeps you awake at night. You understand his connection to Joel, understand that their need for each other goes much further than simply a sibling bond: They’re a pack, and their wolves are social creatures that need each other to be fully at peace. Still, you fear the day you’ll have to mourn your home. 

Raúl knocks on the door just as Tommy shoves the last piece of bread in his mouth, his tanned cheeks full like a chipmunk as Sarah runs to yank the door open. 

“Hola, cielito.” Raúl says but she’s barely listening, already grabbing Ellie and yanking her inside. They squeal together and run to the back of the house. “Hey. Front gate was open, I figured I could—”

You don’t really understand what happens at the moment but, in hindsight, it’s pretty obvious. Raúl freezes halfway through his sentence, his eyes glued to the looming presence over your back; he stares at Tommy for a second too long before plastering a smile that is visibly fake. 

“Joel, right?” He asks, offering a hand. Tommy doesn’t answer, mouth still full, not really chewing anymore. You resist the urge to elbow him, choosing instead to answer. 

“Tommy, actually. Joel’s brother. Say hi, Tommy.” You finally give in and elbow him in the ribs when Raúl’s fake smile falters, his hand already halfway down before Tommy spurs into action, grabbing it between both of his. 

It only dawns on you what is actually happening when Tommy brings Raúl’s hand up, pressing a kiss to the back of it before dropping entirely. Raúl’s eyes dart to you, shoulders visibly relaxing when he sees the way you’re tying — and failing — to hide your smile. 

“We kinda had a change of plans.” You tell him, neck craning as you try to catch Joel’s attention— He has his back to you, lacing his boots and mumbling something on the phone. “I have some errands to run, my prescription expires today so I really need to go get it and I forgot to defrost the chicken so I can’t make lunch and, uh, Joel needs my help with some stuff. Tommy’s chaperoning the girls with you today, if that’s alright?”

Tommy frowns at you, his eyes fleeting to your face before rushing back to the man still in front of him. “Joel said we—”

“Like I said, change of plans.” You cut him off. “Can’t go into work with all this rain, so you both get the day off. Well, he gets the day off. You get to babysit your niece.” You smile at Raúl, who is biting down on his bottom lip and you can tell you haven’t been able to fool him. “Tommy’s great with kids. Loves them to death. Always wanted one of his own, right?”

“Uh—” 

“And Sarah loves him.” You go on, not letting Tommy get a word in. “Ellie will love him too, you’ll see. He’s kind of a dumbass sometimes and he charms all of the old ladies wherever he goes, but he’s a sweetheart. And— Uh— A great chaperoning partner. You guys should go grab some ice cream later.”

“Ice cream sounds nice.” Raúl agrees, eyes shining with mirth. 

Tommy nods a second later. “Yeh— Yeah, it does.”

“Great!” You say, clapping your hands. Joel is finally looking at you, both of his eyebrows raised. “Now off you go. I want a day off with my boyfriend.” 

The house is all but empty before Joel can finish lacing up his boots. From the kitchen window you watch as Tommy opens the car door for Raúl, giving him a thumbs up when he looks back at you for a second; Tommy offers you his middle finger, but he’s smiling from ear to ear. 

“Is there a particular reason why you just gave my brother a day off without tellin’ me first?”

“That’s his mate.” You say, surprised Joel didn’t pick up on it. “I’ll handcuff them together if I have to before I move out of Puerto Morelos.”

He laughs, his hands coming up to wrap around you. 

“And here I was thinkin’ it was because you wanted the house all to ourselves.” 

Your arms settle on his shoulders on their own, leaning back so you can look him in the eyes. Joel seems happier too, more at ease than he did when the two of you met— His eyes shine more, his smile brightening more often. That sadness you’d noticed when you first saw him is completely gone, his face constantly sunburnt and his hair frizzy from the salt air. 

“That sounds pretty neat too.” 

THE END.

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[schmeltastic]

I love having the free will to draw whatever I want

[winteryn]

ORPHANED DREAMS (1) michael robinavitch x camgirl!reader [8.3k]

— ⟢ SUMMARY: dr. robby has spent decades patching up strangers while quietly falling apart himself. unable to shut his mind off long enough to rest after another exhausting shift, and aching for a connection that doesn’t come with expectations, he finds himself on a live cam site. there, he meets you—a mischievous, sweet vixen who loves... big things. — ⟢ CHAPTER WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; she/her pronouns for reader; age gap (reader is mentioned to be in her late 20s); a little medical jargon (I study linguistics lol so I apologize in advance); angst; themes of loneliness, depression & grief; lonely!robby; self-deprecation & insecurity; smut; daddy kink; masturbation (f & m); sex toys; mention of exhibitionism; robby is hung (he has a complex over it, poor baby); slight overstimulation; nipple play.

A/N: first robby story and first fanfic after almost a month of inactivity, kinda nervous 🥹 hope you’ll enjoy! next chapter | series masterlist

Robby has been staring at the glow of his laptop for far longer than necessary. The cursor blinks patiently on an empty screen, indifferent to the quiet war unfolding in front of it.

At last, with the reluctant resolve of a man about to cross a bridge he can’t see the end of, he opens a private browser window. It’s an unnecessary precaution, he knows, there is no one here but him; his apartment is small, comfortably worn, and it only bears the evidence of long shifts and forgotten meals. No nosy friend is going to walk through the front door and go straight for his laptop, no partner is waiting up for him.

The website appears in the search bar before he’s even finished typing the first three letters, something that he indulges in only in nights like these, when exhaustion settles so deep into his bones that it should be enough to knock him unconscious, yet his mind refuses to surrender. Every flutter of his eyes brings back flashes of fluorescent lights and blood-stained gloves, as conversations he should have had differently resound in his mind like distant murmurs. Because the emergency department never really lets him leave when he clocks out, it just follows him quietly like a sad ghost, but no less relentless.

A familiar warmth creeps up the back of his neck as he presses enter. It feels indecent, like being caught hovering over a magazine he wasn’t supposed to read at fourteen, but the silence of the apartment stretches too wide some nights. After all, Pittsburgh can offer any kind of spectacle but little comfort.

After twelve hours deep in the chaos of monitors beeping left and right, the stillness should feel like a relief. But lately, it has begun to feel more like damnation. 

So he exhales slowly and rubs a hand over the salt-and-pepper beard shadowing his jaw, ready to look for a pretty face to jerk off to, which definitely sounds much more exciting in theory than in practice. When the page finally loads, though, his body stills as a subscription prompt blooms across the screen: a sleek black box, impossible to dismiss without making a choice.

Continue with Premium Access.

Monthly Membership.

For a second, Robby just stares. Right, the month-long free trial ended a few days ago, but he was too tired to do something about it and ultimately passed out on the couch, which his back made him pay for dearly the following day.

The language is all teasing confidence, because the site knows exactly why he’s here.

At the very bottom, in text so small it feels almost mocking, runs a single line: you must be over 18.

A dry scoff escapes him. Of course he is of age—embarrassingly, pathetically so, to be lurking on this side of the internet. Still, the cursor hovers uselessly over the button. 

A weary sigh echoes in the dim-lit room, filled with the discomfort of recognizing a routine he’d never intended to develop. Robby has spent enough years telling patients to pay attention to patterns and habits that become dependencies before they realize it. But this isn’t that, he keeps telling himself. No, it’s not. It’s just another way of quieting a mind that has forgotten how to rest on its own.

Sometimes, taking the edge off is enough to trick his body into sleep. 

But tonight, faced with the inescapable choice of creating an account or forgetting the existence of this website forever, Robby feels pathetic enough to hesitate.

The idea of getting himself off to a stranger on the internet has always felt like checking a box rather than satisfying a need: an efficient, predictable matter over in a few minutes—a little depressing when reduced to a chore, yes, but at least it does the trick. Which is probably why his mind keeps traitorously coming back to the same uncomfortable thought. 

It slips through the cracks when he’s tired enough to let his guard down, when a shift has run long, when he catches himself lingering in the hospital parking lot with nowhere in particular to be. 

Sex has never really been the problem, yet somewhere along the way the rest of his life narrowed into work and recovery from work. One shift bleeding into the next, one year folding into another, the hospital full of people who knew him well enough to trust him with their lives, but not to call on a day off just to ask how he was doing. And he makes a conscious effort to ignore the sting. Still, there are moments when the realization catches up to him in brief, unwelcome flashes of clarity. Watching colleagues leave at the end of a shift because someone is waiting at home, passing families in the grocery store… It all makes sitting alone at his kitchen table at three in the morning with nothing but the hum of the refrigerator for company feel like he has somehow failed at life.

Because the truth is that even meticulous, irascible Dr. Robby craves for a connection. 

A partner.

A presence that might soften the long evenings that have become dull routine. Someone to share the silence with after a grueling day in a place where desperation and hope blend together. Someone who wouldn’t mind waiting up when a shift runs late, or falling asleep on the couch while he reheats leftovers neither of them have the energy to eat.

There was a time when Robby assumed the rest would simply happen after finding a stable job, that somewhere between a chest tube insertion and a code gray, he’d stumble into the kind of life everyone else seemed to build without much effort: a marriage, a family, holidays that didn’t have to be traded away to younger colleagues because there was someone expecting him at home.

Instead, medicine kept asking for more, and Robby gave in all the time.

However, he never treated it like a sacrifice, the choice was made gladly at the thought of another patient walking out of the ER because he’d been there to help them. Then the years accumulated without him noticing, marked by new classes of residents, by colleagues retiring and children of coworkers growing old enough to apply to medical school themselves.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, life became something that happened to other people. The losses didn’t help, nor the failed relationships—if he could even call the handful of brief, half-hearted entanglements that followed that. Robby considered them patterns that ended before they had time to become anything real, leaving behind little more than a few shared nights and the uncomfortable irony of having once mistaken convenience for intimacy.

Grief, on the other hand, hollowed out spaces he didn’t even know could be emptied, then quietly settled into them as though it had always belonged there. Some mornings, Robby can almost convince himself he’s learned to live around it. Other days, it feels like thorny branches constricting around his lungs.

Now, when he catches his reflection in the darkened window after another sleepless night, the man looking back seems older than fifty-three: the lines around his eyes have settled too deeply to blame fatigue alone, his beard surrendering to more gray than brown. Proof of the time spent taking care of everyone else that the idea of someone choosing to take care of him feels almost risible.

Perhaps he has simply missed his moment, he finds himself thinking more often than he likes to admit while the city beyond glitters with other people’s lives.

It’s not as though he’s made himself particularly approachable, either. With a temperament that has only grown sharper with age and too many ghosts weighing on his conscience, letting people in has begun to feel like a risk not worth taking. It’s easier to be the brilliant, impatient attending than the man who is haunted by outcomes he couldn’t change. Even if beneath the wrinkles and the barked orders, lies a clear, painful truth: Robby is lonely.

His colleagues have friends, spouses, lovers, children… lives waiting beyond the doors of the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center’s emergency room. But what does Robby have? An apartment big enough to fit a nursery that grows impossibly cold and quiet day by day, and a body too exhausted to even rest properly.

It’s a bleak conclusion, and not a particularly useful one. Dana would tell him to stop catastrophizing, Jack would probably remind him that he’s simply “vintage” and then jokingly suggest a cane with his coffee. Langdon, if he caught him in the right mood, would make some smart-ass remark just to get him to roll his eyes.

And maybe they’d all be right. But it doesn’t make the apartment any less empty.

He’s probably romanticizing this more than it deserves. It isn’t as though subscribing to a cam site is some quiet admission of defeat, nor is it a desperate attempt to fill the void in his chest with something they never promised to provide. Robby is grown enough to not expect companionship from a woman whose job is to make strangers feel wanted for an hour. That particular fantasy belongs to younger men, foolish enough to mistake attention for affection.

A humorless chuckle escapes under his breath, he’s really debating whether a monthly subscription to a pornography website is a worthwhile expense. It’s only a distraction.

The tightness in his shoulders eases a little, replaced by the brittle sort of resolve that comes with lowering one’s expectations. The box disappears almost instantly after he sets a quick profile and links his payment information, and the page refreshes again. What replaces it is a familiar mosaic of little squares competing for his attention all at once. Hands concealing intimate body parts, bare legs crossed, backs turned, coy smiles… and then there are more crude images that leave nothing to the imagination, yet Robby’s gaze drifts across them the way he might eye a dessert menu, already knowing he won’t order anything.

By now, the rhythm is always the same: he scrolls for a while, sometimes he sighs when he realizes he has been staring blankly at the same corner of the screen, only to resume scrolling a moment later, before eventually clicking into a room if someone catches his eye. He stays enough to come and then turns off his laptop, trying with varying degrees of success to sleep.

Names blur, faces too. He rarely returns to the same camgirl twice, because this works better when everyone remains a stranger. Coming back would invite the kind of attachment he has neither the time nor the right to indulge. 

His index finger idly rolls the mouse wheel as a faint grimace pulls at his mouth. Objectively, there is nothing wrong with any of them. He really shouldn’t be this picky with his unkempt stubble and wrinkly forehead. Robby should just settle on one, instead he keeps scrolling, until he mindlessly leads the cursor toward the red x, half-considering closing the site altogether.

But then his hand stills when his eyes mindlessly wander across the page. 

A beautiful woman appears in one of the smaller thumbnails, languidly leaning forward with a clear toy glinting in the light. Robby stares at the image for longer than he should, a warm sensation already coiling tight in his lower belly. It’s not just the pose, nor even the suggestive promise of the scene… it’s your eyes.

Even reduced to a thumbnail no larger than a postage stamp, they catch him off guard: bright, unmistakably alive. There is an ease to your expression that doesn’t look rehearsed, a flicker of amusement lingering at the corners of your mouth as though you’re sharing a joke with the people on the other side of the screen. Your eyes twinkle with playful determination, perhaps even a touch of recklessness, the sort that suggests you know exactly what you’re doing… and you’re enjoying it.

Robby has seen enough of this to know that a camera and a few whiny words can manufacture intimacy, making a smile feel personal and a glance deliberate.

This should be no different.

And yet, Robby doesn’t scroll past. 

His gaze inevitably drops to the title of your stream, and he almost chokes on his breath.

“Can Daddy fuck me better than my toy?”

Robby’s jaw tightens. 

The site is littered with titles like that, he’s scrolled past several of them over the past few weeks without a second thought, if not with the occasional roll of his eyes at those who didn’t sound even remotely sexy in this particular context. “Daddy” has been stripped of any real meaning by repetition until it feels almost cartoonish to him.

So why does it feel like he’s just been strapped into a rollercoaster? 

His eyes drift back to your face.

You look impossibly young—but not enough that the word feels like a mere gimmick. 

His first instinct is to scoff at himself. For God’s sake, you’re talking to thousands of anonymous viewers, the title wasn’t written for him any more than it was for anyone else. It’s marketing, a carefully chosen fantasy designated for horny losers like Robby to take the bait.

Yet for the first time, he doesn’t really mind playing that role.

Swallowing thickly, he clicks on the stream with an abrupt motion before he can think himself out of it.

The sound reaches him first, a breathy moan leaking from the speakers.

“Fuck—ah ’s too big.”

Robby immediately fumbles with the volume out of habit more than embarrassment. The quiet feels too fragile tonight and he isn’t in the mood to have it broken all at once.

His ears burn at the sight as his eyes betray him, lingering on the screen despite his hands clumsily looking for his glasses abandoned somewhere on the desk. Your naked form enthusiastically rides the clear dildo beneath you, your body shifting with an easy confidence that makes his breath hitch. Even if your face is drawn tight with pleasure, the warm glow of the ring light softens your features.

The sight sends a strange jolt of heat through him, quickly followed by a prickling sense of discomfort. Despite the entire performance being part of the principle that keeps the site running, for the first time ever the moment feels faintly exploitative to Robby.

And yet, his lips part in awe.

You are... gorgeous, yes. There is something captivating about the way you move, a rhythm that feels spontaneous, though guided by a cheeky familiarity. The sounds that slip past your lips are sweet and breathy, threaded with bliss in a way that sends an unexpected shiver down his spine. It’s a pleasant respite from the loud, tacky sounds that most camgirls put up for show, sometimes they are so irritating he needs to put them on mute. Yours are genuine enough to feel almost intimate, as though Robby has wandered into a moment not entirely meant for him.

Your body responds to pleasure with a fluid grace, from the slow roll of your hips, to the subtle tension that travels through your thigh with each movement. When your back arches, it’s instinctive, unguarded, and it pushes your breasts forward in a way that feels both vulnerable and mesmerizing. For a fleeting second, the pose appears nearly sculptural, the soft light catching along your delicious curves before you relax again with your breath uneven.

Robby shakes his head lightly, suddenly aware of how intently he has been watching you.

It’s not the obvious lewdness of the performance that holds his attention, but that spark of boldness that reveals itself across your expression, and your confident movements in front of the camera’s gaze.

Beautiful, certainly. But more than that, impossible to ignore.

Your giggle at some message in the chat melts into a gasp as you lower yourself until your folds graze the base of the toy. Your hazy eyes roll back in ecstasy as heat coils violently in your lower belly, prompting you to start bouncing up and down like a hopping bunny, your palms flat on the floor to help your hips roll more easily.

Robby didn’t know how much he needed this. Each gesture, each subtle provocation draws out something unfamiliar in him—shame at how much he’s enjoying this, laced with undeniable arousal. His hand tightens briefly at the edge of the desk, and a low, unbidden hum escapes his throat before he can stop it. His pulse hammers in a way that feels almost worrying. It’s disorienting, intoxicating, and entirely new.

And he’s only just begun.

“I wish you were here to feel how wet I am.” You sigh. “Can you hear it?” Your filthy words pull a sharp huff out of Robby as his focus automatically latches onto the subtle soppy noises complimenting your moans.

Your chest heaves, glossy lips opening in a perfect circle as you look up at the camera with an innocence that only heightens the intensity of the moment. “Are you close, Daddy?” 

Robby can’t even remember the last time his sweatpants have been this unbearably tight, so he unties them hastily, lowering them along with his boxers enough to expose his erection. He wants to touch himself, to lose himself in this perverted fantasy against the nagging thought at the back of his mind insisting that you are probably half his age. 

“That’s it, baby.” You cry out, circling your hips so the toy rubs against your walls. “Please, please wanna feel your cum leaking out of me all night.”

Your dirty mouth and sweet manners have him completely dizzy, and Robby can no longer resist the burning urge to grant his cock some sort of relief. Quiet groans fill the space as he gives his hard and throbbing girth a few experimental strokes. Fully erect, Robby’s cock is imposing, longer and thicker than the large dildo you are bouncing on. 

He can’t stop the memory from creeping in: his most recent, humiliating sexual experience. A woman he met at a bar took one look at his dick and promptly looked back into his eyes with disbelief, before climbing out of bed and inventing some poor excuse about not feeling well. The sting of that action lingered far longer than it should have—along with his erection, since his not-so-little friend had apparently decided to take a vacation that day, so Robby was forced to secretly swallow a little blue pill after the woman had expressed her interest to go back to his.

He reckons that you too would be horrified by his size, but for this fleeting moment, he will allow himself to pretend otherwise, wishing to bask into the fantasy of your gaze eyeing him approvingly, your small, teasing smirk meant for him alone. It’s absurd and delusional, and Robby would probably slap himself later, but it feeds a buried, rare warmth in his chest that he ignored for too long. It craves to be seen, for appreciation for the part of himself he is most ashamed of, because even if he had a fair share of good sexual experiences, the difficulties of making it fit and the backhanded compliments were always there.

“See how good I’m taking it? I told you it’d fit!” He almost chokes on his own saliva.

Maybe you could really take him just fine with a little careful preparation.

The tip alert has been going off this whole time, and the doctor thinks he understands now. There is something about you that pulls at his chest; he wants to shower you with everything he has to offer: his focus, his praise, his money, the small gestures that might make you notice him amongst the countless people competing for your attention.

It’s not just lust, or simple curiosity. The thought of being acknowledged and leaving a trace of himself in your world, however fleeting, claws at his chest with dangerous eagerness.

Anticipation churns violently in his belly, urging him closer to the screen. To you.

“Oh God! Daddy, I’m coming, come with me—please, please…” You whimper, your breasts perky and bouncing with every thrust of your hips.

“Shit.” Robby grits out as his orgasm takes him by surprise.

His legs shamelessly part as his cock spurts over the hand he has wrapped around it, lost in the sad illusion that it’s your pussy gripping him so tight. He milks every last drop, soiling part of his belly and pants as well, but his mind is too blinded by pleasure to acknowledge the mess.

Your moans grow louder and higher, and the sight of your cunt stretching so deliciously around the silicone stops Robby from leaving his cock alone. He keeps the strokes going, squirming at the twinge of overstimulation.

“Fuck.” Your hips jerk forward once, body sinking down on the whole length as you curl up on yourself. Your hips twitch and your chest heaves with each gasp while your climax washes over you. Your eyes roll back and Robby’s spent length jerks in interest, it has been far too long since he has felt this good after masturbating.

He should be ashamed of jerking off to a young woman calling him daddy and begging to be filled with his big cock, but frankly he couldn’t care less.

Your eyes squeeze shut at the way your sensitive walls clench around the toy once more, before you tiredly push yourself up on your knees to gently pull it out.

“Look what you’ve done to me.” You sit back on the beige towel you probably laid on the floor before the stream, your legs opening to allow your fingers to spread your folds for the camera. Then you reach for the dildo again, parting your lips enough for your tongue to peek out and give the length a teasing lick. 

“Fucking hell.” Robby mumbles, his eyes jumping back and forth between your stretched lips and your fingers lazily playing with your glistening pussy. You can’t be real.

He frowns at his cock. No, he’s too tired and sensitive for another round; it would require too much time, even if you keep stoking the fire inside him with every little lick.

“Hm, bet you’d love the taste.” Suckling on the tip, you stare directly at the lens, as if to challenge him. 

Robby rubs his stubble, a tired huff escaping his nostrils at the desperate need to wrap his hand back around his length just to come again at the sight of you tasting yourself. You hollow your cheeks one last time, letting the dildo out of your mouth with a resounding pop.

“I had so much fun tonight, guys.” You smile, and Robby swears his heart stutters a little. “I really needed it.”

“Oh!” You perk up. “Look what I got today…” You reach for something off-camera, coming back a few seconds later as you proudly dangle a nipple chain in front of you.

Your eyes flick to the side, presumably reading the chat as texts quickly pour one right after the other. The relentless speed at which they race across the screen is enough to make Robby look away before a headache has the chance to settle in.

You giggle—a refreshing melody that makes him lean back in his chair with a quiet sigh. “Not tonight, you perverts! Your baby girl can only take so much.”

Your baby girl, his mind repeats unhelpfully.

It’s almost impossible to reconcile the two images in his mind: the woman who was eagerly making herself feel good in front of an audience, and the adorable, radiant sweetheart chatting naked with five hundred viewers, as if it were just another Tuesday for you. 

It leaves Robby completely smitten.

“Well, have a good night.” You conclude, offering a casual wave. “See you on Thursday!” A playful blow of a kiss follows, and then the notice that the stream has ended covers the screen, leaving your lovely smile frozen behind it.

Silence abruptly engulfs the room with Robby sitting motionless before the screen where a handful of your recommended videos line the sidebar. He scarcely has time to register the fact that, until now, he has never stayed long enough to watch a stream until the end, before the cursor is already hovering over your username, clicking through to your profile almost on its own accord.

Details about private shows and video requests are listed, along with your regular schedule, so Robby promptly opens the calendar app on his phone and makes a note with careful precision. He perks up once he notices the photo gallery: images of you posing in colorful lingerie that compliments your skin tone, teasingly aware of the camera; a few shots of you naked and on your knees before a full-length mirror, body angled sideways and one arm shielding your chest; and then a picture of you lounging in bed, lips wrapped around a red heart-shaped lollipop.

But there are also videos, which his cardiologist would almost certainly advice against.

Some are very short, like the one where you stand in front of the camera, the only parts visible being your mouth and your torso as you pull your tight top up to let your tits bounce free. Some are a little longer, a taste of what to expect in your streams, like the one where you are in a car—presumably yours—giving a dildo a blowjob. The toy has a suction cup attached to the window on the driver side, and you are enthusiastically sucking it off in the middle of a dark underground parking garage, your chest bare and your hips thrusting desperately into the air to find a bit of stimulation for your pussy. If his breath hitches at the thought of you loving the possibility of getting caught, Robby almost has a heart attack at the next one. Because you are lying on your bed, gasping and writhing as you bully your clit with a pink vibrator, body covered by a long, flimsy cardigan left open, the color suspiciously close to the old Burgh zip-up hoodie he wears at work. 

He decides to close the tab once he realizes he has been looking for familiar signs in the background of the first video.

Without hesitation, Robby subscribes to your account, confirming the payment before his hands hover over the keyboard at the box asking if he wants to send a tip. Money is not something he has in abundance, but decades dedicated to medicine and no one else depending on his paycheck have afforded him a certain comfort. Enough, at least, that the occasional indulgence never requires much deliberation. 

His right palm rests on the desk, fidgeting nervously when his eyes catch the optional box to leave a message alongside the tip.

It would be nothing, just a sentence. But even that feels like a step too far. He could already see how it would unfold: he’d check back later, and then again, pretending not to care, measuring the hours by the absence of a reply. And if you do respond, even briefly, neutral, it would lodge somewhere deep and stubborn inside his chest. Another invisible weight he would carry alone. The thought makes him ache with a stinging, familiar recognition.

Wanting has always been the dangerous part: it turns fleeting moments into promises no one has made.

Shaking his head, Robby lets out a humorless chortle. He can’t believe himself. This is how it starts, isn’t it? Convincing yourself that a few words might change the shape of things, that you can step out of the misery you built your life around just by being sincere enough.

The cursor continues its patient blinking.

Not even an hour ago, you had been another fish in the sea. Another room to wander into before sleep for a quick orgasm. Another name destined to dissolve into the rest by morning. That has always been the appeal of this place: no history, no expectations.

Robby drags a hand down his face.

Christ, in the span of a single night, he’d managed to break every rule he had set for himself.

He stayed until the end. He subscribed. He caught himself searching the screen for scraps of a life that has nothing to do with him. He fucking put the reminder of your next streams in his calendar.

That’s enough.

Robby has spent too many years indulging impulses in the ED, where every instinct tells you to keep going and order one more test, ask one more question, chase one more possibility. Reality, on the other hand, teaches you that there comes a point when doing more isn’t helping anymore, but it’s only delaying the moment you have to let go.

This feels too familiar.

With his jaw clenched, Robby withdraws his hand from the keyboard. The message box disappears with a single click and soon his face is the only thing staring back at him through the black screen.

By Wednesday morning, the startling revelations of the night before have already begun to dissolve beneath the familiar rhythm of the hospital. Ambulances arrive in relentless succession, one of the residents spirals during a thoracotomy and Robby has neither the time nor the gentleness to pull them back together, and Gloria corners him again in the hallway with another quality report tucked beneath her arm, causing Robby to ask whether patient satisfaction might improve if they stopped expecting miracles from a skeleton crew.

He snaps more sharply than he intends to, but then forgets the entire exchange before the end of the shift.

His apartment keeps feeling less like a place to live and more like somewhere to leave his shoes between shifts. Sleep comes reluctantly in fractured stretches interrupted by dreams he never quite remembers and alarms that sound so cheerful it feels almost mocking.

He doesn’t really have the opportunity to think about his stupid slip-up. 

Although the thought of you surfaces once or twice during rare quiet rides in the elevator, the ED has a way of demanding every tiny crumb of his attention. There is always a patient to reassess, another family waiting for answers he can’t always give.

On Thursday night, he is halfway through a documentary about the deep-sea ecosystem—something slow enough that doesn’t require much thinking—when a soft chime causes him to startle.

His phone lights up on the coffee table, a groan rumbling in his ribcage when Robby stretches towards it and his lower back stings. He’s already slipping into the Chief mentality, before he freezes.

It’s not a text desperately asking for his presence at work, nor one of those useless spam emails from random websites he accidentally subscribed to. It’s a calendar alert.

For your stream.

He completely forgot he’d set a reminder.

His thumb hovers over the notification without touching it. 

Deleting it would be the sensible thing to do.

Instead, he lets the documentary continue in the background, the narrator calmly explaining with his British accent the migration patterns of creatures that spend their lives in perpetual darkness while Robby stares at the screen until it goes black again.

He was doing perfectly well. Better, even. The last forty-eight hours returned everything to its rightful order: work, home, sleep—when it came.

Opening that website again would accomplish exactly nothing.

He has spent years building his life around restraint to mistake a passing desire for a reason. Wanting is not the same as needing, curiosity is not permission, and whatever restless pull has taken hold of him tonight is only that, a disturbance. Still, it lingers tightly beneath his breastbone, refusing to ease no matter how deeply he breathes, or how firmly he reminds himself that he has already crossed enough lines as he briefly stood at the edge of something he had no business approaching. That should have been enough to shut down whatever foolish part of him wanted to see you again.

But the ache keeps asking for one more indulgence. He can feel the shape of temptation clearly enough to name it for what it is: pure humiliating desire to feel something other than the dull, disciplined exhaustion that has become part of who he is.

Maybe that’s all this is, of course. The week has been unforgiving: he’s slept poorly, eaten worse, his afternoon spent untangling problems that should have never reached his desk in the first place. For fuck’s sake, he’s over fifty years old, the Chief of one of the busiest emergency departments in the city... He is not the sort of man to be unmoored by a woman he has seen once in his life. You don’t even know of his existence beyond a subscription notification.

And this... well, it doesn’t have to mean anything. Or at least that’s the lie he settles on for tonight. 

Before he has fully decided otherwise, Robby is already reaching for the laptop resting at the other end of the couch.

This time you’re dressed in a snug top and a pair of shorts, looking all pretty and sinful at once as you sit cross-legged on the floor in front of your bed.

There’s a delicate warmth to your presence, that same teasing energy he witnessed two days ago reflecting in the slight tilt of your head. Your effortless grace makes it impossible for Robby to look at you with anything short of admiration dancing in his own eyes.

“Thank you for joining me today.” 

The chat is already alive, and you greet a few viewers whose usernames are marked with colorful emblems. They must be regular donors.

Robby wonders how much they must have spent to earn that kind of attention. For a dangerous moment he considers typing a greeting himself, but the words feel too heavy, still awkward, so he sets on quietly basking a little longer in your presence.

“As I wrote in my Instagram story, tonight I feel like doing a Q&A, nothing too tiring, if you’re all up for it. I’m exhausted.”

You have an Instagram account. Maybe he will follow Santos’ advice and set one too.

The messages slow just enough that Robby can finally make out actual words instead of random blurry spots.

You squint at the screen. “Okay, first of all, whoever keeps spamming the same question in all caps…” Your lips twitch. “I’m not answering it out of principle, just so you know.”

A row of laughing emojis floods the chat.

“See? Actions have consequences.” 

You silently observe the texts for a while.

“Do you actually read all of these messages? Absolutely not. Have you seen yourselves? You type faster than I can think.” You snort. “Which, to be fair, isn’t something I like to do after nine p.m.”

“How am I doing tonight? Thanks for asking, milf_fucker86.” Robby rolls his eyes at the username. “As I mentioned before, I’m drained. It’s one of those weeks where every single day feels like it should’ve been Friday.”

You frown, freezing as you are tucking one leg beneath yourself.

“Actually, tomorrow is Friday.” 

kneel4mommy

Same

real_tom_thanks

girl me too

softboiii69

LMAOOO

“Thank God it’s not just me.” You shake your head with a chuckle before leaning forward to look for more interesting messages.

“What do you do when you’re not streaming?” You sigh. “I recover from streaming.”

A few people protest.

“No, seriously.” You stretch your arms above your head, and Robby tries unsuccessfully to keep his eyes from wandering to your turgid nipples straining against the tight fabric.

“I work, I bother my friends with stupid reels, I spend an embarrassing amount of time convincing myself I’ll start going to the gym next Monday…” A forlorn sigh escapes your nostrils.

kneel4mommy

Which monday?

“Okay, that’s exactly the kind of negativity I don’t need.” You look gravely at the camera, before a small smile brightens your face.

“Favorite book? Oh, don’t do this to me.” You grimace. “I can’t just pick one, it depends on the day. I have, like… categories.” You keep your eyes on the chat as you hum pensively.

“Right now I’m halfway through this novel… It’s about this woman who keeps finding handwritten notes in library books from someone she never meets.” You put your hands in front of you, palms open and pointed at the camera. “Now, I know how that sounds.” Your voice is cautious, but the chat immediately starts teasing anyway.

“Oh my God, it’s not cheesy!” You scoff a laugh, squinting slightly. “Well, okay, no maybe it’s a little cheesy. But the writing is really good! It’s less about romance and more about… hm, I don’t know.”

You look sideways, pursing your lips in thought.

“The weird ways people leave pieces of themselves behind without meaning to.” You speak carefully. “Don’t know if that makes any sense, my brain is too fried to be this profound at this hour.”

“Okay, next question!” You perk up, clapping your hands once, and Robby feels his lips stretch into a smile of his own.

“Dumbest thing you’ve done recently? Oh, that’s easy. I tried baking cookies for my best friend’s birthday party.” The chat fills with hearts.

“Nah, don’t ‘aww’, it was a complete disaster.” You grimace. “I forgot baking soda.” An embarrassing silence fills the room as the chat fills with emojis ranging from confusion to resignation.

“Which apparently is important.”

touched_grass_once

apparently?????

“Listen, they looked fine!” You shrug. “They were just… a little flat.” 

The chat erupts with laughter.

“My apartment smelled like fucking smoke for two days.” You grin sheepishly. “BUT! My best friend still ate one.”

You suddenly burst out laughing. “Yes, froyo_baggings, that’s the same friend who called me crying two months ago because she thought someone had broken into her apartment. For anyone who doesn’t know this story, she rounded the corner, saw a figure standing in the hallway and immediately dialed my number. That person was her. Because she’d bought a full-length mirror that morning.”

You shake your head. “Yes, of course she loved the cookies! It’s the thought that counts after all.”

More questions race past about your job, but you are careful to keep it vague enough to not give out too many details. Though Robby must repeatedly remind himself this is only your online persona, he is hopelessly invested. So much that he completely ignores the small ding from his microwave, where a now cold lasagna sits forgotten. You are so entirely captivating that the impossible thought of meeting someone like you in real life presses against his chest, sharp and tender all at once.

“Where do you live? No.” 

“What’s your real name? Fuck no.”

“Can we see your apartment? The fuck?” Yet you still smile as you say it, enough that it never feels like a full rejection.

“I don’t mind sharing little things about my life, but some things get to stay mine.” Your smile turns tight as you continue, something you decide to hide by biting your bottom lip and focusing back on the questions.

“Dream vacation? You know what’s funny?” You change position, crossing your legs again. “Every time somebody asks me this, they expect me to say something like Greece or the Maldives.” You shake your head.

“Absolutely not.”

The chat explodes with question marks.

“Because if I’m on vacation I don’t want to come back more exhausted than when I left. I can’t stand the heat, and spending an entire week on the beach under the sun would put me directly underground. I prefer somewhere cold.”

byteme

you’re insane

“Am I?” One of your eyebrows lifts skeptically.

No, Robby thinks you are actually one of the sanest people he has ever met.

“You’ve never had tea by the window while it rains outside? You’ve never sat in one of those tiny cafés where you can’t understand a single thing about what everyone around you is saying but somehow that’s the most peaceful place in the world?” 

Your voice softens just a fraction.

“I think I’d like that.” You nod slowly, but the sentimentality does not last for long.

“What’s your favorite organ?” Recoiling, you stare at the camera in horror. “Who raised you people?”

Robby lets out a quiet laugh, an involuntary reaction that he kills on the spot by setting his lips into a thin line. The sound would be ordinary for any other person, but it catches him completely off guard, because he can’t remember the last time he laughed like that, particularly with one one else in the room. 

It’s in that moment that the doctor finally becomes aware of himself and the apartment that continues existing around him without asking anything in return. The clock in the corner of your stream says it’s been almost thirty minutes, and Robby frowns at it as if it has personally offended his whole family. 

It’s not possible. He had meant to stay for ten, fifteen minutes at the absolute most. Again, long enough to let the day loosen its grip from his shoulders, not watching you talk about books and fucking cookies. 

But somewhere along the way he stopped hoping for your clothes to come off. And while his body is no less tense than it was when he opened his laptop, and the stinging behind his eyes lingers as he decided to forgo his glasses this time, the urgency that has driven him here in the first place has receded silently. It’s embarrassing how, instead, Robby has been devouring every single word falling from your lips like a starved man: the detours, the way you gesticulate animatedly when the chat teases you, your soft smiles… 

And now he knows that the same woman whose real name still remains a mystery, whose face is illuminated by a ring light instead of the morning sun, can’t tell a story without accidentally collecting three others along the way. That she loses the thread when something makes her laugh, only to stumble upon it several minutes later. That her fingers play with the little moon-shaped pendant of her necklace whenever she needs to reprimand some of her rowdiest viewers, because there is something about confrontation that evidently makes her nervous—for a second Robby wonders whether anyone else noticed it, or whether it has now become a little secret shared between the two of you. That she wants to visit some cold, faraway place, and Robby realizes he has spent so many years leaving Pittsburgh only for conferences that he’s forgotten people sometimes travel simply because they want to. 

Which destination would you choose? Perhaps somewhere with narrow streets, surrounded by mountains and lush vegetation. The sort of place that holds no expectations.

As though the simple act of looking elsewhere might be enough to dispel the thought, Robby tears his eyes from the screen and looks at the untouched mug on the coffee table. 

His gaze lingers there for a moment too long, before drifting absently to the lone sock lying beneath it, abandoned there when Robby had stretched out on the couch after his shower. Outside, rain has begun tapping softly against the windows, and only when he turns curiously to look at the sky a dull stiffness catches at the base of his neck, making him wince. He rolls one shoulder experimentally, because he’d scarcely moved in the better part of an hour, save for the single time the armrest had begun digging sharply into the bone. 

Lastly, the television. It is now playing a crime documentary about stalkers and obsessions. 

Robby can’t help but feel his stomach churn uncomfortably, because he can’t remember a single thing from the creatures living thousands of feet beneath the ocean’s surface, but can picture with alarming clarity the way your face lights up when you laugh. Your eyes disappear first, then your head automatically ducks as though you’re trying to hide the shape of your mouth—sometimes it’s a hand that covers it—and Robby asks himself what made you so self-conscious about it. Was it a toxic ex? A middle-school bully? But then you always look back at the camera with the same irrepressible grin still lingering at the corners of your mouth.

“Ah!” Robby startles at your loud exclamation, his brown eyes immediately jumping back to the screen. “vibemike wants to know my favorite role play. Okay chat, let’s see how well you know me.”

“Professor and student? That’s hot but not my favorite.” You nod, before your eyebrows raise in surprise. “Repairman and homeowner? Hm, interesting. What do you think? Me opening the door in a sweater and no panties?” You giggle.

Leaning forward, you squint at the chat again as Robby shakes his head at how human beings can sexualize even the most innocent of interactions.

“Strangers at a bar!” You exclaim, straightening up. “That’s something I’ve always wanted to try but I’m pretty sure I’d end up ruining it. I’m sorry, it’s just so funny that I have to flirt with the other person as if I don’t know what they look like naked.”

“Okay, okay. You gave me a lot of good ideas but it’s something I’ve never actually mentioned before.” Your torso lean forward just a little bit, as if to share an important secret.

“Lately I’ve been really into the doctor kink.” You whisper.

Robby’s heart falls to his feet.

“I know.” You giggle. “I just want to be thrown on an examination table and have my handsome doctor force my legs open while reprimanding me about how important it is to have my pussy inspected once in a while.” A tiny sigh escapes your parted lips as you tuck your legs closer to your chest, resting your chin on top of your knees.

“Maybe I’d let him fuck my mouth, you know, for good luck before he goes off to save his other patients.” You wink, already laughing as Robby swallows dryly. 

You wet your lips, before glancing down between your legs. “Well, would you look at that.”

His gaze instinctively drops to the empty space between his knees, tiredly dragging a hand down his flushed face as his bulge is hot under his sweatpants.

“Jesus Christ.” He mumbles.

“No, I’m not wearing a bra, super_sp3rm.” Chuckling, you get up on your knees to give your viewers a nice close-up of your chest, your nipples erect and begging to be worshipped.

With a knowing grin, you keep chatting leisurely, both of your hands rubbing and squeezing your tits until your breath hitches faintly.

“I wasn’t planning on playing with you tonight.” You gasp as your manicured nails lightly tease your covered nubs. “But my panties are all wet now after thinking about some hot doctor playing with my pussy. What do you think? Should I take care of it?”

The tips have been quite slow... until now. Robby has a feeling this was your wicked plan all along.

A chuckle bursts out of you as you look at the chat. “God, you’re filthy.”

Your teeth chew on your bottom lip as your free hand sinks beneath the fabric of your shorts, starting little circular motions.

“This is all your fault. I just wanted to talk to you guys.” You whine softly. “So this is all you get for tonight.”

Robby is a little disappointed as your pussy stays hidden, but seeing you rubbing yourself under your shorts as your fingers leisurely pull and flick your covered nipples is enough for his heart to pick up its pace in anticipation.

You moan under your breath. “Fuck, ‘s so sensitive.” Your brows furrow in pleasure, before your eyes momentarily fly to the chat. 

“Are you going to come with me, hm?” With your head falling back, your fingers twist your left nipple hard enough for you to cry out. “Oh!” You gasp, back arching and eyes rolling back.

Robby stares in awe at your body shaking, before your hand languidly comes out of your shorts for you to slowly taste your glistening fingers, quietly sucking on each digit as you stare directly at the camera.

“Hm, so good.” Then, with a little impish grin, “Maybe that could be you cleaning me up next time.”

The messages grow increasingly dirtier, but from the way your eyes slowly blink at the camera, Robby knows you must be too tired to continue. A few viewers clearly expected more, so you assure them next week you’ll be back with your usual content.

Robby observes silently, not quite hard but still sated, the promise of more hanging in the air as a faint bitter taste in his mouth lingers at the thought of having to wait four days to see you again.

“Just a little reminder that this week I’ll be available on both Saturday and Sunday for private shows. So hurry up and book your slot!” You wink, completely unaware of how you just undid Robby with a few simple words.

“Just send me an inbox if you’re interested.”

After your stream ends, he quickly opens your profile and decides to type a short, respectful line, easy to ignore, and send a tip.

Thank you for the company.

The moment it’s gone, the action fully settles in. Your inbox must already be crowded with names and small attempts at catching your attention, all blurring together. He is just another stranger passing through, another line you’ll never have the time to read.

The couch creaks softly as he slumps back, wondering why the sole knowledge hadn’t stopped him—that despite knowing how insignificant he might be in a sea of faceless users, he still had let himself indulge in this little attempt at connecting with you.

But when Robby logs in the next day—totally not to check if you had replied—there is a small, red number one sitting at the top of his inbox. His fingers pause over the touchpad, brown eyes blinking once, twice, hardly believing it.

Hey DoctorR! Wow!! Thank you so much for the generous tip 🤍 Were you interested in a private show?

A small smile unconsciously tugs at the corners of his mouth. He is genuinely surprised you answered. Even from behind a screen, your acknowledgment makes his heartbeat flutter dangerously fast, leaving Robby both elated and unnervingly aware of how much he wants to matter to you, despite the stubborn conviction that he is doing this just to entertain himself—and of course to pay you back for the incredible orgasms.

His eyes then flick to the amount he sent, just to make sure he didn’t add too many zeros by mistake. But no, the number is exactly as intended: one hundred dollars. The amount hardly seems like a generous tip; after all, your time is surely worth far more.

His eyes slide over your words again and again, until the weight of your question finally prompts his hands to hastily move against the keyboard at the prospect of a call just between you and him. He sends a quick message confirming his interest in a private show, and caught up in the thrill of what’s to come, sends another twenty dollars.

Before he can log out for tonight, though, your reply appears: another cheerful omg thank you!! followed by another text to let him know your availability for Saturday night. He asks if it’s a problem for you to set the call at eleven—just a precaution since he never actually clocks out at nine—and you reassure him it’s completely fine with you.

Your exchange is straightforward and short, and Robby is oddly comforted by that. He will be paying for your lovely company, so even if he is as dull as the people around him have recently told him, you will at least be compensated.

Perhaps this weekend he won’t be as miserable as usual.

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

🏷️ general robby taglist: @obsessed-oops @bikinibottomspeach @verss88 @macbaetwo @dugiioh @the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf @eliza7up @kittymeowmeow17 @mimi-ro @mmb77 @lrosenblut26

💋 series taglist: @kristinee @unfortunatelyhuman765 @aestheticsunflower19 @catgirlpwr @takethistoheartxxx

[sammy-bryant]

SHAWN HATOSY as CHESTER MANNING Law & Order S06E19 | Savior

[wesandresons]

SHAWN HATOSY as BRETT RICHARDS FIRE COUNTRY 4.02 “Not a Stray”

[perotovar]

PEDRO PASCAL as ALEX SERIAN Behemoth! (2026) dir. Tony Gilroy

[a7estrellas]

PEDRO PASCAL in Tony Gilroy’s ‘Behemoth!’

[fru1t4fr0gs]

Three Years

Pairing: Andrew "Pope" Cody x Reader

Summary: You and Pope have loved each other since you were teenagers. And then he went to prison, and cut you off. No apology, no explanation, nothing. Just a sledgehammer to your heart and utter radio silence.

Three years later, he's out, and he wants you back.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of drugs, Mentions of violence, Alcohol use, Gun use, It's Animal Kingdom there's a little bit of everything, Character death (not a main/canon character), Vague descriptions of mental illness (it's Pope), Smut!! Unprotected pinv (wrap it up guys!), Loss of virginity in a flashback, Brief Craig/Reader (they're besties though), Age gaps/timelines might be a little wonky but oh well, Mentions of abuse (reader’s dad is a bad man), Please let me know if I forgot anything!

Author's Note: I hope you guys enjoy this one! I wanted to experiment with flashbacks, and then this exploded out of my brain. Special thanks to @flowersforbucky for proofreading and dealing with my indecisiveness on the pictures and layout because she is the best!! Please let me know what you think!!

Word Count: 21k

-

The bar is dimly lit. Sticky. Loud.

The guy sitting across from you has nice eyes. Pretty, even. They’re a light blue, crinkled a little in the corners and looking at you with something like adoration. You try to appreciate it, you really do, but all you can see is naivety. Maybe you’re too cynical. More likely too damaged. Whatever.

You prefer brown eyes, anyway.

Warm brown eyes looking into your own. Large fingers tucking your hair behind your ear. The ghost of warm breath against your lips and a small curve of a shy smile as he leans closer and closes the distance between you-

You blink, and force a smile.

The guy across from you, Ethan or something, clears his throat. “So, do you wanna maybe-“

A beer hits the table, loud enough to make the man - though you should really call him a boy, with that collared shirt and combed hair and those innocent eyes - jump nearly a foot in the air.

“Move it, pal.”

Craig Fucking Cody stands above you, and you bite back a groan.

The boy stammers, pales at the sight of the gigantic, tattooed man beside you, and takes maybe a full twenty seconds to stammer out his next words.

“I-I…are you her…”

“Oh yeah, I’m her husband. Fresh outta the psych ward and everything. Now beat it, before I smash your head against the table.”

The boy bolts like Craig set the booth on fire, and you glare up at him.

“I was on a date.”

Craig laughs, like you were genuinely joking. “Not exactly your type.”

“You don’t know what my type is.”

“Pretty sure I do. I shared a wall with your type for most of my life.”

You clench your jaw. “What do you want, Craig?”

He sits across from you, all friendly familiarity, and smiles. “I need your help.”

“I don’t do jobs anymore.”

He raises his eyebrow, and glances pointedly towards Ethan in the corner of the bar, trying to save face by ordering himself another drink.

“I told you, that was a date.”

“C’mon, don’t lie to me. You think I don’t know when you’re working an angle?”

You narrow your eyes a little. “Okay, fine. I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore.”

Craig’s smile falls a little.

Burning rubber in your nose. Panic in your throat. The shriek of the tires drowned out by your own voice as you grab frantically at the wheel.

“Baz what the fuck are you doing? What are you doing? Turn around!”

Baz’s hand darts out, and he slams you back against the seat so hard your teeth knock together. “It’s too late.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? We can’t just leave him-“

“We have to. He was too late. You know the rules. It’s him or all of us.”

You’re frantic. Panicked. You even start to yank at your own car door, like you might jump out and run back to the bank on your own two feet, and Baz slams you backwards again.

When he makes it to the house, you punch him in the face before you even get out of the car. He takes it, head whipping to the side like he expected this reaction from you. When you get out, you punch him again. It takes both Craig and Deran to pull you away.

“He’s out of prison, you know.”

You take a sip of your drink. “Good for him.”

“He keeps asking about you.”

Yeah, bullshit. “I’ll bet he does.”

Craig sucks his teeth, and seems to decide to pick a different battle.

“So, it’s a good job. You barely have to do anything. We just need your help with-“

“I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore, Craig. Also, I don’t know if you realize this, but using my ex as an incentive to help you isn’t really boosting my interest.” Ex. Your ex. It still feels so weird to think of him like that.

Because he’s just…Pope. Andrew Cody. The love of your life since you were a teenager. Even when you were together, ‘boyfriend’ felt like too simple of a word to describe what he was to you. It was too intense for such a lame title. Too full of a love so deep it bordered on obsession.

And then it was all over. Just like that.

Craig is making a face. You frown back at him. “What?”

“It’s my job, okay?” He runs a hand through his hair, flexes his fingers on his beer. “And it’s good. I’ve worked my ass off at planning it, and Baz is out, so I just…I need it to go well. And it will go well if you help.”

You grip your drink a little tighter. Fucking Craig. Fucking asshole with the terrible decision making skills and good heart. Fuck him for being your friend. For making you care about him. For giving you that look that’s making you feel like-

“Fuck. Fine.” God help you. “Fine. Fine. Okay. Fine.” He grins at you, and you glare back at him. “But I don’t want to see Pope.”

Now it’s Craig’s turn to give you a look. “About that…”

-

Your outfit is so fucking uncomfortable you want to die.

Okay, maybe it’s not the outfit. Maybe it’s the anxiety twisting in your stomach so intensely you think you might vomit in the driveway of the Cody house.

You’ve been here since he went to prison. Since you broke up. Not for long - you haven’t exactly been in the habit of hanging out by the pool or anything - but whether you’re here for a minute or an hour this damn driveway always whips the memory of that horrible day back into your mind more violently than a slap.

-

“Put me down. Put me the fuck down I’m gonna-“

“Jesus, relax!” Baz throws his hands up, angry and defensive and so very punchable right now. Deran’s got you locked against him, feet kicking in the air like you might be able to land a blow if you just try hard enough. “I had to go! He got held up or some shit, and if the cops caught us the whole family would have gone down.”

“You just fucking left him there! We could have-“

“We didn’t have a choice. I made a decision. I saved our asses. We knew this was a risk. It always is.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck me.” Baz runs a hand through his hair, and you know he’s heartbroken too but you couldn’t give less of a shit right now. His nose is still bleeding from where you clocked him a minute ago. “Fuck me for making the hard decisions for this family.”

Rage rises up in your throat again, threatening to choke you as you kick harder. “Boo fucking hoo. You left him! You fucking left him and-“

“Calm down.” It’s Deran’s voice now. Deran, who sounds choked up and is still holding you locked in a vice grip. The sound of it makes you look up at Craig, whose eyes are shining with tears, and…

Your feet drop back to the pavement, the sound and sight of the boys’ pain deflating you almost alarmingly quickly, and you pat the arm around you in both comfort and reassurance.

“Okay.” You breathe, shaky, and Baz’s shoulders drop.

“Okay.” He repeats, and the sound of his voice makes you grit your teeth. “Now that we’re all calm, we need to figure out what to do.”

-

He’s in the yard.

Three years later, and he’s just… in the yard. Standing there. Staring at you. And what did you expect? That he would drag himself out of a grave? Appear before you in an explosion of fire and blood?

He looks at you. You look at him. He doesn’t move an inch.

He looks good. Just as beautiful as the day you lost him. You hate him for it.

“Hi.” His voice sounds even lower than it used to. He looks bigger. Like he worked out a lot in prison.

You raise your eyebrows. Something curls deep in your core at the sight of him. Three years later, and you still can’t look at this man without feeling a physical reaction. “Hi.”

-

“You’re bleeding.”

You reach up, swiping the back of your hand over your lip and frowning at the smear of red across your skin, illuminated by the moonlight reflecting off the pool.

“You’re not the only one who can get into fights.”

Andrew Cody looks at you, with those dark eyes that always seems to see through whatever lie you try to  tell him or even yourself, but you meet his gaze with the defiance of a teenage girl who really doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Are you…staying here again?” He asks, standing still from his spot beside the pool. You’re on a chair. Your face hurts. Your body aches. You nod.

“Smurf says I can crash for a few days.” In exchange for help, of course. Help with jobs. Connections. Money. You don’t mind. It’s better than being home, or hiding out on the beach again.

He still hasn’t moved. “Are you…gonna stay in Craig’s room? With him?”

You almost laugh out loud. Craig, big and rowdy and often immature even for a teenager, is closest to you in age. He might be your best friend. He definitely has a crush on you, and you’re almost positive that Smurf is angling for the two of you to get together.

“Why? Would that bother you?”

“Yes.”

You look up at him. He looks down at you. Slowly, almost unaware that you’re doing it, scoot over on your chair to make room, and he takes the invitation. Your heart hammers in your chest.

His hand comes up. Fingers brushing over a bruise on your cheek and eyebrows twitching with…

“Stop looking at me like that.”

He doesn’t. “Like what?”

“Like you want to kill someone for me.”

“I do.”

“I know.”

He’s close. His thumb is still brushing over your cheek, and his eyes fall to your lips. You think he might kiss you. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything more.

But this…this house, as chaotic and dangerous as it may be, is the only somewhat stable thing you have right now. The only safe place to go when things get too fucked up at home. When your petty criminal of a father takes things too far, or debt collectors come banging on the door. Smurf lets you stay here, and Smurf is always working an angle. You’ve told yourself a thousand times that, in exchange for this, you’ll go along with whatever plan she has for you.

This is not that plan.

And yet, as his face ducks closer to yours, fingers curling in your hair, you wonder what it would be like. To feel Pope’s lips against your own. To feel his body against yours as he lies you down right here on this pool chair. You think, despite his violent tendencies and episodes of something your uneducated mind can only call insanity, that he would be gentle with you. Like he always is. You don’t have much experience with boys, but you think he would make sure that you felt comfortable. He’d probably kiss you through any nervousness, whisper reassurances into your skin as he peels off your clothing, make you feel safe the whole time and-

His lips brush over your own, and you pull back.

“I’ve gotta…go inside.”

He searches your face, and you know that his observant eyes see the want there. Still, he nods, and stays where he is as you pull yourself to your feet.

-

“We should talk.”

You laugh, humorless, and push past him into the house. You don’t get far before you feel his hand on your arm, turning you towards him.

“Let go of me.”

He does, but he tilts his head and furrows his brow in that intense way he has. The familiar sight makes you ache. “We should talk.”

“I think the time for talking passed somewhere around three years ago, Andrew.” You grumble, and he fixes you with an expression so filled with helplessness and pain that you almost crumble right then and there.

You ignore him, and push your way into the house. Craig whistles at the sight of your too-tight dress and heels, and Deran greets you with a familiar smile.

As you start to plan, to prepare for the day ahead, you don’t turn around. You don’t look at Pope. His eyes don’t leave you the entire time, and it’s almost physically impossible to keep yourself from leaning back against him like you have a million times, over the course of a million similar meetings.

But you don’t look at him, and when it’s time to leave, you storm out of the house before he has a chance to catch your arm again.

The job. Focus on the job.

You can do this.

-

You lost your virginity to Craig Cody two weeks after you and Pope nearly kissed by the pool.

You don’t know why you did it. Well, you do. It’s what Smurf wants. It’s what Craig wants. It’s what you should want. You and Craig are well matched. You love him in whatever way you do. He’s your best friend. You know how to keep him in check when he acts like an idiot, and he knows how to make you laugh when the weight of everything feels like it’s going to fucking crush you.

So you had a couple of beers at a party. You grabbed his hand before he could get too wasted. Even for a teenager, he’s already fucking huge. Handsome, too. You know the other girls stare at him. You should feel proud that he follows you like a lost puppy the moment you start tugging him towards his room.

It was awkward. And messy. And nothing like the movies say it’s supposed to be like. You know he tried to make it…special, or whatever. He was gentle. He asked if you were okay between kisses as he laid you back on his unmade bed and helped you out of your clothes. When he pushed in, you’d gasped and clawed at his back, and he’d mumbled apologies into your neck and waited until you nodded that you were okay, but he still moved just a little too fast. A little too clumsily. It didn’t hurt too badly, and it wasn’t exactly unpleasant the whole time, but you didn’t feel fireworks or any of the overwhelming pleasure you thought you were supposed to.

When it was over, he’d kissed you, and you’d smiled up at him, and then he’d rolled over and pulled you into his chest and laughed.

“That was awesome.” He breathed, and you nodded. “You’re awesome. Was it…did you?”

“Yeah.” You think you did. There was a minute, somewhere towards the end, when it had felt pretty good. Not the explosion of pleasure you’ve always heard about, but that’s fine.

“Awesome.” He kissed your forehead, and sat up a little. “Wanna beer?”

You’d smiled, heart swelling with affection that should definitely feel more…romantic than it does. But it’s still affection. You still care about him a lot. Maybe this is supposed to be right. “Yeah.”

~

Pope Cody hasn’t looked at you in a week.

Smurf seems more than happy with you sleeping in Craig’s room. With him wrapping an arm around you when you all sit on the couch together. He’s even developed a habit of ducking down and pressing a kiss to your cheek when you’re standing in the kitchen, or before he does a backflip into the pool. It’s fun. You think you can get used to it.

You haven’t had sex again. He’s asked, almost every night, but you’ve always come up with some kind of excuse and he’s always responded with nothing harsher than a disappointed smile. And yet, you both stay up almost all night every night, talking and laughing and playing video games like you always have since the day he first brought you to this house. This family.

But Pope won’t look at you, and you can’t ignore it anymore.

Because he came home from a job with a black eye and bruised knuckles, and now he’s standing in the yard and Smurf’s chastising him for being reckless is still ringing in the air. He didn’t talk. He didn’t argue. He just stared at the pool and refused to look at her. At you.

And now you’re alone with him, and everyone has left to go regroup or party or whatever, and he still. Won’t. Look. At. You.

“Andrew.” You rarely use his real name. He tenses, but he doesn’t turn around.

“Look at me.”

He doesn’t. You snap.

“Why won’t you look at me?” You grab his arm, and turn him toward you, and he pulls it away.

“Stop it.”

“No.” You grab him again, and this time he catches your arm, fingers around your wrist in a vice grip that is firm but nowhere close to painful. His eyes remain on the pavement.

“You haven’t talked to me since I got with Craig.” You say, and his jaw clenches at your words. You can see his cold expression, now, if not his eyes. He’s older than you, but his face still holds the smooth roundness of youth. He’s just as handsome as always. Your heart stutters a little, like it’s supposed to with Craig.

When he still doesn’t answer, you shove at his chest. The sudden movement makes him release your wrist, but he doesn’t budge. “Fucking look at me! Why won’t you at least look at me? Are you seriously this pissed off because I hooked up with him? Stop being an asshole and tell me why you’re acting like this!”

“Because it should have been me!” He finally snaps, finally looks at you, and the sharpness of his voice paired with the intensity behind his dark eyes is enough to nearly make you stumble backwards. “It should have been me. You know it should have.”

He looks almost crazed, now, shoulders hunched and fists clenched and feet moving towards you until you take an instinctive step backwards. The movement doesn’t stop him. He still comes closer.

“You…you let him touch you. And kiss you. And do all of the things I’ve…” he trails off, and your breath freezes in your lungs, “the things I’ve wanted to do since I met you.” His eyes drop to your mouth, back up to your eyes, and he’s close. So close. “It should have been me.”

You don’t move back again. You can feel the warmth of his proximity in the chilly night air. Your voice is too quiet to your own ears. “That’s…not the plan.”

He’s not breathing regularly. His hands are still clenched at his sides. He looks you over, like he’s trying to fight it, before something finally breaks.

“Fuck the plan.” His voice is almost a growl, and you don’t have time to respond before his hand is on the back of your head and his mouth is against yours.

The world explodes.

His lips are warm and rough, demanding and desperate and sending fire through every vein and pore in your body. You choke on a whimper, surprising yourself with the sound, and Pope groans in response as his tongue sweeps its way into your mouth. Your hands fly up, curling in the fabric of his shirt before moving up to his hair like you don’t know how to touch all of him at once. His own hands move down, lips only leaving yours long enough for him to grab the backs of your thighs to lift you against him before he’s kissing you again.

You don’t even register that you’re moving, too caught up in the desperation and the feeling of something hot burning in your core. He presses you against a wall, trails his lips down your throat until you’re gasping for air, before he kisses you again and moves deeper into the empty house.

And then he’s lowering you back onto his bed, crisp sheets smooth against your back, and you barely let him pull away enough to crawl over you before you’re kissing him again with so much need that it’s almost embarrassing.

His rough palms are sliding up beneath your shirt, breath turning shaky at the feeling of your skin against his, and it feels so good you think you might die.

“Is this okay?” He whispers, lips against your cheek, and you nod.

“Please.” You don’t know what you’re begging for, but the sound of it makes him moan as he pulls your t-shirt over your head and trails his mouth down over your collarbone.

His own shirt comes next. You roll on top of him, and kiss and bite down his chest until he’s tangling his fingers in your hair and pulling your mouth back up to his, rolling you both once more until you’re on your back and your hands are fumbling with his belt, unpracticed and clumsy, until he shushes you gently and reaches down to help you with a lingering kiss to your cheek.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” He rasps after a while, and you can barely breathe enough to tell him that you will. You settle for a nod, and his rough palm slides over your stomach, up over your body until he’s cradling your cheek.

“I’ve got you.” He whispers, and the soft words are almost comical with how hard he’s trembling with restraint. With how dark his eyes are, how intense his touch feels. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”

You nod, and when you smile he smiles back, shy and nervous behind that starved expression, and that one look alone makes you feel like you’re floating.

It’s nothing like Craig. It isn’t like Pope is a whole lot more practiced, or some kind of sex god or anything, but every movement feels so much more…right. He slides his hand beneath your thigh, guiding it around his waist and watching your face as your bodies join together for the first time, and the noise that pulls its way out of your throat barely sounds human.

His breath comes on a shaky exhale, eyes never leaving yours as he searches your face for signs of pain or discomfort, and when he finally starts to move you feel something coiling so tightly in your stomach it almost hurts.

Every slow thrust, every reverent touch, tightens that coil. Every kiss. Every whispered word against your skin as his fingers catch your own and he presses your joined hands into the pillow above your head.

You reach the edge so quickly it shocks you, free hand clawing at his back as you bite down on his shoulder and fireworks explode behind your vision.

The feeling is so intense that, for a moment, you forget where you even are. You forget your own name. All you know, all you feel, is Pope moving with you. Whispering praise and promises of adoration against your lips and throat. When he follows you into oblivion, it’s with a breathless moan of your name.

After, he holds you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched. He traces his hands over your skin. He follows the caresses with his lips. And, when you finally remember how to breathe again, you giggle.

He pulls back from your throat with a raised eyebrow, a smile curling on his own lips, and nuzzles his nose into your cheek. “What?”

“I didn’t…” you didn’t know it could feel that good. You didn’t know anything could feel that good. “I…wow.”

He really does smile, now. He tucks you closer to him, barely letting you go as he pulls you beneath the blankets with him and curls his body around yours. Protective. Possessive, even. “Yeah.” He murmurs, pressing his lips to the side of your head. “Wow.”

-

The future Mr. and Mrs. Franklin need to be convincing. Happy. Overwhelmingly in love.

Your heels click against the dock. It takes years of practice and training from Smurf to keep yourself from fidgeting in your expensive dress. Pope’s eyes are on you, burning holes into your head from behind his sunglasses.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know like what.”

“You look nice.”

“Shut up.”

The door to the yacht opens, and you don’t have time to keep the argument going. Pope slides his arm around you, you grin wide, and he tugs you almost too-tightly into his side.

“Welcome!” The woman on the other side of the door is smiling in that fake and familiar way that people do when they’re trying to get a whole lotta money from rich people. “Mr. and Mrs. Franklin, right?”

“Soon to be.” Pope says, all confidence and practiced casualness. He catches your hand in his, the expensive ring glittering obnoxiously on your finger, and raises the back of your hand to his lips. You giggle like an airhead, tilt your head onto his shoulder, and grin up at him.

“Adorable.” The woman says, too emphatically, and you don’t miss the way her eyes rake over your ‘fiance’. You shouldn’t care. This isn’t real. He’s not… yours anymore. And yet, it’s hard to shake off the surge of possessiveness that nearly has you yanking him down and pressing your lips to his.

When she turns to lead you both into the yacht, you try to pull your hand out of Pope’s. He doesn’t let you go. You turn to glare, and he offers you a small smile and a squeeze of his fingers through your own.

Fine.

-

“I’m sorry. He refuses to see you.”

“I…” you blink, shake your head, and tell yourself you heard the guard wrong. “What?”

“Believe it or not, even prisoners have a right to refuse visitation. He said he doesn’t want to see you.”

You blink again. “That’s…that’s not true. That can’t be true.”

“You can try again next week, but in my experience you’ll probably have the same reaction.”

-

You try again the next week. And the next. You stop sleeping. You stop eating. You wait for a phone call. An explanation. You go to Smurf. You go back to the prison.

Six weeks later, he finally fucking agrees to see you.

You nearly rip the phone off of the wall. He doesn’t look right in a prison uniform. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping. “What the fuck, Andrew?”

At your use of his name, his real name, you swear you can see something like relief flicker in his eyes, like the sound of your voice is a drug he’s been deprived of for over a month. You’re about to keep talking, or even press your hand against the glass like some lame fucking cliche, the sight of his face lifting something heavy off of your soul.

“Stop calling.” He says simply, and your heart drops to your feet.

“What?”

“Stop calling. Stop showing up here. Stop.”

“I…” what? This isn’t happening. He wouldn’t do this. “What? Pope, Andrew, I didn’t leave you.” That’s almost, almost incriminating. You know that. But it could also mean anything. You’re his girlfriend, after all. He’s in prison. You’ve been trying to see him. You haven’t left him. The last thing they’ll probably assume is that you’re talking about leaving him to be arrested after robbing that fucking bank.

“I know.” He says simply, and meets your eyes. “I don’t care. Leave. Stop coming here. I’m not going to come see you again.”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to breathe anymore. This is so fucking wrong and it doesn’t make sense and-

He places the phone on the receiver, stands up, and leaves.

That’s the last time you see Andrew Cody for three years.

-

“And here we have the reception deck. As you can see, the view will be absolutely spectacular, especially when you’re out on the water…”

Four exits. Three cameras. One, two…

“I’m so sorry. Is there a bathroom I can use?” You ask brightly, from where you’re hanging off of Pope’s arm. “Or I’m sorry, the head, right? Like they say on boats.” An airheaded giggle, a practiced bat of your eyes.

The moment you’re around the corner, you whip out your phone and start taking notes and pictures. Exits. Entrance points. Doors to the lower deck where Craig can-

“We need to talk.”

You actually yelp, whirling around and stumbling on your heels before Pope’s arm shoots out to curve around your middle and keep you from falling over.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You hiss, wide eyes shooting back towards the hall. “Now? Let me go.”

“You won’t talk to me. I have to-“

“So you’re gonna fuck up the job? They could be here any second. You’re supposed to be distracting them.” He’s lost his fucking mind. Clearly, prison has warped his brain and made him an irrational asshole who-

The click of heels against the hardwood floor. A familiar, professional voice calling out your fake names with too much curiosity and suspicion.

“Fuck.” You whisper, and start scrambling to pull away and hide your phone. “Fuck.”

In one swift movement, Pope snatches the device out of your hand, slides it into his back pocket, presses you against the wall and slams his mouth to yours.

Like always, even after all of this time, the feeling of his lips against your own sends a jolt of electricity through your entire body.

He kisses you like he hasn’t thought about anything else in the last three years. His lips move hungrily against yours, one large hand coming up to tangle in your perfectly-done hair as his body envelops yours until you can’t think of anything else.

His tongue traces over your lip, and you open for him instinctively until he groans and changes the angle so he can kiss you more deeply and it feels so fucking good you might-

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…interrupt.” A bright, awkward voice breaks you out of your trance, and you gasp as you wrench your mouth away from Pope’s. He doesn’t even turn to the woman, thumb pressing into your cheek as he traces it over your skin like he’s trying to re-memorize the feeling.

It takes a lot more effort than you want to admit to clear your throat and plaster a flustered and embarrassed look on your face. To fall back into the ditzy, wealthy fiance facade. To keep yourself from ignoring her completely and kissing Pope again to chase that euphoric fucking feeling for as long as you can.

“Oh geez. I’m so embarrassed.” You reach up, and pinch Pope’s cheek just a little too hard with one manicured hand, feigning bright affection. “I just can’t keep my hands off of him, you know?”

“It’s so nice to see a couple so…in love.” A tight lipped, professional smile. Another glance at Pope that has irritating possessiveness curling in your chest again. You don’t have a right to feel that way. Not anymore. Not even after…whatever that was. “Would you two like to continue the tour?”

-

When Craig found out, he punched Pope in the face.

Pope punched him back.

When you lurched forward, prepared to jump between them and stop the bullshit macho display, Smurf had stuck her arm out and pushed you back.

“Let them fight. They need it.” She said, voice even, and kept her eyes on her two sons as they wrestled each other near the pool.

“This is bullshit. They-“

“You know,” she interrupts, still not looking at you. “When I took you in off the street, I wasn’t expecting you to stir up so much trouble.”

You freeze, heart stilling in your chest. She could send you back to your family. Your father. Being thrown out on the street would be bad enough on its own, but Smurf doesn’t work that way. If she wanted to really hurt you, she would.

“I didn’t mean to…stir up anything.”

She looks at you now, assessing. “I believe you.” She hums, and pulls her arm back. “Go break them up now, baby. See if you can fix your mess.”

-

“What the fuck was that?”

“A distraction.” Pope’s hands are on the steering wheel. His eyes are on the road.

“And before that? Cornering me in the hallway when I’m trying to gather fucking intel?”

He frowns. His fingers flex on the steering wheel. “It’s been three years.”

“And whose fucking fault is that?”

His brow furrows like he genuinely doesn’t understand why you would ask that. “The…U.S. prison system.”

“You know exactly what I mean. Don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not being a dick.”

“Pull the truck over.”

He does look at you, now, and you can see surprise in his eyes from where they’re visible over his shades. “No. Why?”

“I’m walking. Pull the truck over.”

He turns back to the road. One hand drops off the steering wheel, like it might come to rest on your thigh the same way it has in almost every car ride for years, before he catches himself and returns it to its original spot. “You can barely stand in those shoes.”

“So I’ll take them off. Pull over.”

“Just let me talk to you. Please.”

“No.”

His head drops back against the seat, jaw clenching in frustration, and you feel a surge of pride that you still seem to be the only person who can break through his little bubble of stoicism. Yeah, take that asshole. Be as exasperated as you want.

You don’t speak to him for the rest of the car ride.

-

Craig’s nose is bleeding. His feet are in the pool. He’s holding an ice pack to his eye.

“Do you hate me?” You ask, feeling almost childish for the question.

He laughs. Actually laughs, like you just said something ridiculous.

“Nah. Couldn’t if I tried, I think.”

You frown. “Then why did you…”

He shrugs, takes a sip of his beer, and smiles at you. “I mean, he did fuck my girlfriend. I’d be a little bitch if I just let him get away with that.”

“I’m not your girlfriend.”

“Well, not anymore.”

“I was never-“

“C’mon. I’ve got a shiner and a broken nose. Don’t hit my ego, too.”

You laugh, and shake your head. “You’re an idiot.”

He holds up his beer in a silent cheers, and there’s nothing but affection in his eyes as he takes a swig. No pining. No longing. Not even hurt or betrayal. Just…affection.

You smile at him, and your heart swells in that way you once tried to convince yourself was romantic attraction.

“I thought Smurf was gonna throw me out.”

He frowns now, and shakes his head. “She won’t. And if she does, Pope and I’ll just come with you.”

You smile again. You know it doesn’t reach your eyes. Craig leans over, and bumps your shoulder with his own.

“No matter what, that asshole’s not gonna hurt you again. You’re gonna be okay.”

“And if Pope ever fucks up, I’ll be here. I know I’m the best sex you’ve ever had, anyway.”

You snort. “Craig-“

“Ego, remember? Lemme have this.”

You poke him in the bruised ribs, and he hisses in pain before he laughs again.

You believe him.

-

When you get back to the house, you lurch out of the car before he can even reach for you. You stumble on your heels, kick them off of your feet in the yard, and storm into the house.

“Woah, hey there Hurricane Lady.” Craig’s grin falls the second he sees your face. “Shit. What happened?”

“Nothing. Here’s the phone. It’s got the pictures. Exits. All of that shit.” You want to snap that maybe Craig could have just done this himself, having gotten himself a job there, but you know that he doesn’t get access to the same places you just did. “I’m off the job.”

“What?”

“She’s not off the job.” Pope’s voice, from the door, makes you prickle.

“You don’t get to decide whether I’m on or off the job.” You whirl, and glare. “You don’t get to decide shit about me. Not anymore.”

“Jesus.” Deran blows out a breath, eyes on Pope. “You didn’t tell her, man?”

“Tell me what?”

“She won’t let me tell her.” Pope looks frustrated. Pained, even. Like he has any fucking right to be.

“Tell me what?!”

“Just tell her.”

“I’ve been trying-“

“Tell. Me. What?”

“He cut you off in prison because the cops were coming after you.” Craig says, and the words shut you up. “They were investigating your involvement. He had to cut ties so you didn’t incriminate yourself.”

Oh. Oh.

‘Pope. Andrew. I didn’t leave you.’

“Can I talk to you now?” Pope’s voice is low, and he’s doing the head-tilt thing, and you swear your lips are still tingling from his kiss.

You stare. He stares back. You open your mouth. Close it.

And then you walk into his room.

You don’t even need to turn around to know he’s following you. You hear Craig whistle the wedding march behind you, and you flip him off over your shoulder.

Pope’s old room is empty. The bed is made like it always was before.

“Beautiful. So beautiful. All mine…”

He whispers the words into the flushed skin of your neck, reverent and laced with gravel as his body moves against yours like it was made to. You gasp his name, and he groans as he moves faster.

Some party rages down the hall. The sounds of it are distant and inconsequential. All you can hear is his shallow breathing. His whispered promises of love between presses of his lips to any part of your skin he can reach. You love him so much it hurts and you’re going to-

You shake the memory off. Clear your throat. When you turn to him, he’s looking at the bed like he’s remembering something similar. Well, there are a lot of memories like that in this house. In the house the two of you shared later. In his truck. By the pool. In the pool. On the beach. At the-

Fuck.

“Talk. You wanted to talk, so talk.”

He watches you. You watch back, tense.

“They were looking for a reason to arrest you. The cops thought they might have identified you on that job a few months before. The one at the dispensary.”

You just keep staring at him. He shifts on his feet. “I couldn’t tell you. They were listening to everything. I figured…it was the only way to keep you out of prison.”

“Three years.”

Guilt flickers across his expression. Something like desperation follows. His fingers flex by his side. “I didn’t know when they stopped investigating you. Just when they stopped asking me questions.”

“Three. Years.”

“I missed you every day.” He moves closer, hesitant, like he’s trying to make sure you don’t bolt. “Every fucking minute. I thought about you all the time. It…it killed me, to walk away like that. I still think about the look on your face. I…” his jaw clenches, and he reaches towards you.

You should pull back. You should slap him, maybe. You know he would let you.

“You risked the job.” You try. Try to find something to cling to your anger. Your hurt. You missed him so much and all of that pain doesn’t just go away with one explanation.

“Fuck the job.” He whispers, hand sliding up over your cheek. “It’s been three years.”

And then he’s kissing you. Rough. Hungry. Desperate in a way that makes your knees threaten to give out because holy shit nothing has ever felt as good as Pope Cody’s skin against yours.

For a moment, you forget. You forget to be angry and hurt and painfully confused in favor of tangling your fingers in his curls and dragging him closer to you. He groans, the sound rough and borderline desperate, and his hands drop to your waist, lifting you clean off your bare feet to spin you both until he has you pinned against the wall.

His chest is pressed against yours. His hand is moving down to the hem of your dress, and you think you can feel his fingers shaking as they skate up over your skin and a shiver falls down your spine.

But it isn’t enough. This isn’t enough. It feels so good that it kills you to pull away. But his fingers are sliding up the inside of your thigh and if they reach their intended destination there won’t be anything in the world that will be able to stop you. To stop him, either, if how hungrily he’s kissing you now is any indication.

Because his kiss doesn’t make up for the hours you spent alone, in the house you once shared, staring at a phone that wouldn’t ring. How humiliating it felt to cry yourself to sleep with your mind filled to the brim with questions that you would never have answers to.

His mouth is gliding over your jaw, down over your throat, and his grip on your waist is so wonderfully tight and his fingers are so close to where you need him so badly it hurts and-

You shove him away, breathless and flushed and almost shaking with hunger, and his dark eyes have never looked so predatory.

“You…you can’t do that.” You whisper, and he looks like he’s about to do exactly that again at any moment. You hold up a hand, warding him off, and force yourself to steady your breathing. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just show up again and kiss me like that.”

“I’m sorry.” He starts, expression filled with a genuine pain.

“You made me think, for three years, that you didn’t love me anymore.”

“I’m sorry.” He moves closer like it’s instinct, and you back up a little more into the wall, and he looks like he’s about to drop to his knees before you. “I’m so fucking sorry. I did it to protect you. I promise. I couldn’t think of any other way.”

You push past him, and walk out the door.

For once, he doesn’t follow.

-

“Where is she?”

You’re not here. You haven’t come since he got out. 

“She doesn’t really come around anymore, man.” Craig shrugs, like it’s casual, like your absence isn’t digging a hole into Pope’s soul even as he sits here by the pool and you should be here but you’re not and he fucking hates it. He should have apologized to you ten times over by now. You should be here with him.

“She comes around every now and then. Watches Lena. Grabs a beer with me on Tuesdays and surfs with us if we ask nicely.” Craig leans back, and Pope fights the urge to lean forward and beg for more information. “She doesn’t talk to Baz, though. I think the most I’ve seen them interact is her flipping him off or some shit.”

Yeah, sounds like you.

“So, you gonna talk to her?”

Yes. Of fucking course he is. He’ll be on his knees begging the second you’re in the room.

But you don’t come. You don’t show up at the house anymore. You changed your number, and he can’t call you. Despite what Craig said, it’s almost like you’ve made yourself into some kind of ghost, too far away for him to reach anymore.

When he was in prison, he would fantasize about the day he got out. In most of those fantasies, you were waiting for him at the house. In a good few of them, you weren’t wearing much clothing, but that part can be easily attributed to how long he went without seeing you.

Nevertheless, you were there. And he would take you into his arms, and you would smile and tell him you understood why he had to do what he did, and everything would be perfect.

But now, he has to track down your new house. On the beach, and not too far from his new place, but he doubts you know that.

He watches through your window and doesn’t even register that it might be a little fucked up of him. He makes sure you get home safe. Waits until he sees you climb into bed and flick off your lights, and often spends a good long while imagining all of the times he would be right there with you. How he would tuck you into his chest, and the two of you would have whispered conversations like you were still teenagers living in Smurf’s house and trying not to be overheard.

He doesn’t go to the door. It’s not the right time. Not yet. It isn’t like it has to be perfect, but… but it’s been three years. Three years of torture and an isolation that almost killed him. That may have killed a part of him, somewhere deep down where even he can’t reach. As badly as he wants to stand on your porch and beg and plead for you to understand, to love him again, he isn’t sure he would be able to handle you slamming a door in his face. He’s not sure he would be able to let you, and that thought alone almost frightens him more than anything else.

Not yet. The job. When Craig brings you in on the job, that’s when he’ll see you. Talk to you. Make you forgive him.

Just…not yet.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t keep an eye on you, until then.

-

The effort it took to get Ethan the Finance Bro to talk with you after Craig ruined it the first time is almost making this particular job too much of a pain in the ass.

It’s a little tricky to balance the work you have to put into the boat job with your own plans, but your own jobs are a little less complex than the ones enacted by the Cody boys. Less reward, sure, but it’s safer and easier. Find out a few things about Finance Bro Ethan’s rich dad, get access to an account or two, make a couple of unnoticeable transfers, and bing bang boom. You can afford rent and to fix your car, and maybe even a nice pair of shoes while you’re at it.

He’s jumpy. You have to smile a little more brightly at him, hold his hand across the table and bat your eyelashes as you insist that your friend from before is just terrible at making jokes, and he’s finally relaxing enough to-

His eyes trail up over your shoulder, and stop.

“Leave.” And that’s Pope’s low, furious voice. It is dripping with danger.

Ethan looks at you. Back at Pope. You smile, wide and sweet, and refuse to turn around. “Ignore him.”

“Do that, and I’ll cut your ears off.”

Son of a bitch.

“He’s joking.”

“Three.”

Ethan starts to scoot out of the booth.

“Don’t.” You say, jaw clenching and smile still forcefully bright.

“Two.”

And he’s gone. Just like that. Out the door and ruining your plans completely.

“Fucking Codys. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get him to talk to me again?”

“Who was that?”

“I had to bend over backwards to keep him from being terrified after Craig’s bullshit. This bra is so uncomfortable. You fucking-“

His hand comes down on the back of your chair, and he leans closer to you with a deadly and dark expression. You don’t flinch. You don’t even come close. In all the time you’ve known him, in all of his scariest moments, he’s never come anywhere close to harming you. The possibility simply doesn’t register in your mind. “Who was that?”

You look at him, deadpan. “My boyfriend.” It couldn’t be farther from the truth, but you may as well piss him off a little.

It works. His jaw clenches, and he leans a little closer. “I’m serious.”

Fine. You give up. “He was a mark. I’m on a job.”

“You’re already on a job.” Pope’s frown deepens, angry eyes moving up to the door again. “That guy was staring down the front of your shirt.”

“That’s kind of the point.” You glance down at your low cut top, at the aforementioned uncomfortable bra, and when Pope does the same you can see something twitch in his jaw. Feel his hand tighten imperceptibly on the booth behind you before he looks back up at your face.

“We’re leaving.”

“No, you’re leaving.” You correct, irritated, and move to turn away from him.

He catches you, turning you back towards him with a look so intense it makes your heart drop. “Come home with me.”

You pause, knocked off-kilter by his proximity and the desperation in his gaze. He looks…dangerous. Like a man in a desert who has been deprived of water for too long, and is starting to lose it enough to follow that water to a bar and ruin her weeks of work.

And yet, it’s annoyingly difficult to care. Not when it would be so easy to bring your hand up, curl your fingers in the soft curls on the back of his neck, and pull his lips down to yours. So, so easy, and yet…

You start to move back, and his hand catches your chin, thumb sliding over your jaw in that familiar and devoted way that always makes your toes curl a little. He saw it. He saw the hesitation. The want in your expression matching his own, and he’s too far gone to let it go.

“Come home with me.” He repeats, soft and close enough that his nose nearly brushes your temple. “We can do jobs together. Like we used to. You don’t have to…do this.”

You spent so long being a team. Being with him. Every job, every move, it was all with Pope and the Codys and while you can do these smaller jobs alone perfectly fine, you want…

Him. God, you want him. Not just sex, either. Though after three years and the way he’s standing so close you can feel the warmth radiating from him, you’re having a hard time not jumping his bones in the middle of this bar. You want to wake up with him in the mornings again. You want to watch him wash the dishes in that particular and concentrated way he has. You want to sit on the beach with him at night, and talk about everything and nothing until the sun peeks over the horizon.

His nose skates down your cheek. The noise of the bar fades away. Your eyes flutter closed as if of their own accord, head tilting to the side, and he makes a low noise as his fingers leave your face to move down your arm.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, lips pressing against the line of your jaw, and your next breath comes as a shaky exhale. His hand slides around the curve of your waist, and the angle of his body above yours is intoxicatingly overwhelming. He kisses your jaw again, a little higher, a little closer to your ear, and you melt. “I’ll apologize a thousand fuckin’ times, okay? Just come home with me. Let me show you how sorry I am.”

Your body relaxes beneath his, and you feel his mouth trailing over your skin like he couldn’t give less of a shit about the rest of the world around you. It’s so familiar. So nice. So warm and-

Goddammit.

“Stop.” You push on his chest, and he moves back with a genuinely pained expression. “Stop it, Pope. You just fucked up a month of work for me. I’m not going home with you.”

The look on his face would break your heart, if there was anything left of it to break.

You don’t say another word.

You just leave.

-

The girl sleeping on the couch is the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.

Craig brought you here a few hours ago. Said something about you taking on three guys by the beach who were trying to rough him up over weed money. You hit the biggest one with a baseball bat. They knocked you out before Craig could take them down.

Smurf hadn’t said much when Craig walked in, eyes bright with lingering adrenaline as he’d placed you on the couch, but she’d seemed impressed when Craig had explained what happened. She’d told him to leave you on the couch for now, and to make sure you didn’t get any blood on her furniture. Your face is bruised. Your sneakers are dirty. You’re wearing a flannel that’s way too big and has holes in it.

“I think she’s been sleepin’ on the beach.” Craig says, brow furrowing a little as he looks down at you. You’re so still you could be dead. Pope wonders what color your eyes are, and then wonders why he wondered that.

“Junkie?” He asks, and resists the urge to brush the hair out of your eyes. Like Julia, maybe. Maybe you know her, wherever she might be right now. Maybe you already have that connection to him. Maybe…

Craig shakes his head. “Nah. Not a junkie. I dunno if she’s homeless, either. I just kinda see her around sometimes. She pickpockets tourists. Seems good at figuring out which ones are the L.A. douchebags.”

Pope frowns. Your face twitches a little, but you don’t wake.

“She’s hot.” His younger brother observes, and Pope’s frown deepens. “And badass. You shoulda seen her, dude. She went at them like a fuckin’ demon. She doesn’t even know me.”

You look so angelic, curled in on yourself on the couch with sand in your hair and dirt under your fingernails, that he finds it hard to believe.

Hard, but not impossible. Because there’s something about you, and the bruises on your face that look so much like the ones that often adorn his own, that screams…fighter. Survivor. Protector.

And he hasn’t even spoken to you yet, but there’s something else there. Something deep down and warm and intrinsic that he can’t exactly pinpoint but certainly can’t ignore.

His.

-

When you wake up, he’s watching you. He knows he probably shouldn’t be. He probably looks creepy, or whatever everyone says, but he can’t seem to pull his eyes away from the rise and fall of your breathing. The way your face twitches every now and then in sleep. The way your hair spills over the couch cushion. He wants to brush it away, but he’s afraid to wake you.

Your eyes flutter open. They’re beautiful.

And those beautiful eyes move dazedly around the room before they land on him, and widen. You bolt up, and hiss in pain as whatever injuries you sustained in that fight no doubt scream in protest.

You look at him. Look around. Look back at him.

Carefully, he passes you the baseball bat from his room. Craig said you had one before. You’re in a strange new place. It might make you feel safe.

You close your fingers around the handle, and watch him like a hawk as you pull it over to you.

“Where am I?” He likes the sound of your voice. Even cracked with sleep and shaky with nerves, it sounds as pretty as the rest of you.

“My house.” He says simply, cocking his head to the side. “Craig brought you here.”

Craig is passed out in his room down the hall. You took a while to wake up. You frown, and rub your head a little.

“Why did you do it?” The question leaves him before he can think, curiosity lying heavy in his chest. People in Oceanside don’t just help other people like that. Not when it could put them in the same state you ended up in.

“Three to one didn’t seem like fair odds.”

Pope takes this information, and holds it close to his heart. Keeps it there like a flame he’ll never let go out.

You sit in silence for a minute before he speaks again.

“Do you want a sandwich?”

You look up, surprised, and your lips quirk upwards just the smallest bit.

“Sure.”

-

The knocking is loud. Very loud. Angry, even.

When Pope opens the door, there you are.

Fuck, it’s like you don’t even know how beautiful you are. He’s always been surprised by that. Sure, you use your looks and pretty smiles to work people on jobs, but when that persona is lowered and you’re just…you, the sight of you could make him drop to his fucking knees.

“You fixed my door.”

He’s shirtless. It’s early. Your eyes drop down to his chest before they fly back up to his face, and he is two seconds away from yanking you into the house and taking you right here in the front hall.

Shit. Three years. Three long, long years of nothing but his hand and memories of you. He’s devolved into a fucking animal. All he can think about is ripping that t-shirt off of you. Of lifting you onto the table right here and dropping to his knees, hearing the noises he can pull from you when he buries his face between your-

“You fixed my door.” You repeat, angrier now, and he furrows his brow as he forces himself out of the fantasy.

“Yeah.”

“Pope, you don’t know where I live.”

His brow furrows a little more.

“Fine, I haven’t told you where I live.” Oh, that’s what you mean. Right.

“It was creaking.”

“How many times have you broken into my house?”

Seven. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Andrew.”

You should know better than to say his name. His real name. The sound of it shoots something molten through his veins, and his hand tightens on the doorframe.

“We’re broken up. You can’t break into my house.”

“We’re not broken up.” The fact comes easily. Simply. There’s no plea behind it. No question at all.

“We’re broken up. You broke up with me.”

“No, I didn’t. I said stop coming around. I didn’t break up with you.”

“Whatever you did, it was three years ago.”

“And you’re not in prison.” He wants to ask why you’re not getting it, but he knows that you do. Even if most wouldn’t, you know how he thinks. You’re just being deliberately obtuse because you’re angry. But he’ll spend the rest of his life apologizing to you, if that’s what you need. “I’m out. We still love each other.”

“You don’t know that I still love you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Tell me you don’t.”

You open your mouth, like you just might try it, before closing it again and trying another tactic. He’s always found it…cute. The way you try to deflect your feelings like this. And he’ll never try to pretend that he doesn’t love how easily he can call you on it. There are two things in this world that Andrew Cody is absolutely confident in: jobs, and you.

“You fucked up my job.”

“You hate those jobs. They bore you.”

Your eyes narrow, and you’re gorgeous when you’re angry. “I don’t have a backup plan anymore. I need the boat job to go well.”

You’re stalling. You don’t want to leave. “It will.” He raises an eyebrow again. Your eyes drop back down to his bare chest, and it sends a thrill through him. “Want some breakfast?”

“No.” You’re still standing here, and he knows you too well to let you leave just yet. The tension crackling through the air, emanating from you and directing itself at him, is so fucking obvious it almost makes him grin.

“Coffee?”

You hesitate. Frown. “Fine.”

And with that word, you cross the threshold, and kiss him.

-

Your first job with the Cody family went well. Really well.

Smurf shocked all of them by inviting you in, building up her tests of your skills and your loyalty to the family until she suddenly just…made you a part of it. Sat you down at the family meeting with them and told you what your part in the job would be.

Baz protested. Deran was quiet. Craig, however, was thrilled. Pope is pretty sure his brother likes you a little too much, and he hates the way it makes jealousy and possessiveness curl black and vile in his throat. He hates the way Smurf seems to assess this. The way she watches you keep Craig in line and encourages the two of you to spend time together.

But you did well. Really well.

And then, after dinner, you disappeared.

Pope found you up the street, sitting on a small curve of beach and watching the moon like you were greeting an old friend. He’d hesitated to join you, like he might be interrupting, but…

“Hi.”

Shit. “Hi.”

“Wanna sit down?”

Yes. So fucking badly. He’d do anything in the world to just be close to you. “Do you want me to?”

“Yeah.”

He hesitates. You look back at him, illuminated by moonlight and so gorgeous it stops the breath in his lungs, and pat the sand beside you.

He sits, and you rest your head against his shoulder. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Are you…okay?” Do you expect him to function correctly right now? Do you expect him to be able to string a thought together? You’re so warm. So soft. He doesn’t have experience with this kind of thing.

“Oh yeah.” You hum, fingers curling in the sand beneath you. “I mean, if you’re asking if I’m upset about you holding an unloaded gun to my head while I pretended to freak out, don’t worry. I’m fine.” You mean it. Smurf would be impressed.

He could cover your hand with his own, right now. You might even let him. You might let him curl his fingers around yours, and even flip your palm to rest it against his. Your soft skin against his rough callouses, pillowed by the sand beneath you…

“So what’s wrong?”

You hum, and he feels it vibrate through his shoulder. “I don’t know. Smurf, the job, everything just feels like it’s going too well.”

“Too well?”

“Things change. They hurt when they change. It’s too…good.” He starts to say something, though he isn’t sure what, before you continue. “That’s why I like coming out here, though. I like looking at the water. It’s why I slept on the beach when things got too shitty at home, you know?”

He turns his head, and it brings his face so close to yours that he almost chokes. You don’t even look up, just keep watching the waves crash on the beach as you continue.

“It sounds kinda cheesy, but the ocean is so…big. And no matter what’s going on with me, no matter how bad things seem, it makes it all feel smaller, you know? All that ocean, everything going on beneath the surface, and whatever bullshit’s happening to me just feels…inconsequential. More manageable, I guess.”

Oh God. Fuck. He loves you. He loves you so much.

His hand, knuckles still bruised from some fight he got into earlier this week and already so much bigger than your own, covers yours. You stop picking at the sand, but you don’t pull away.

“I’ll always be here.” He murmurs, some part of him terrified that you’ll jump away from him. He means it. He really does.

And you mean it too, when you turn your palm and slide your fingers through his, and murmur back. “Thank you.”

-

It’s a fucking whirlwind.

You don’t know what possessed you. What you were thinking. Just that you are magnetized to this man, and he’s standing there looking at you like he knows every thought in your head and like he loves you more than anything in the world and you can’t spend another second without his lips against your own.

He meets you just as hard, hand coming up to grip at the hair at the base of your skull as you walk him backwards into his house. You realize, vaguely, between the blur of lips and teeth and desperate hands, that you haven’t even seen the inside of it yet. Even now, it’s weird for there to be any aspect of Pope’s life that you don’t know about.

The tour, however, is going to have to wait. Because Pope has you pressed against the counter and you barely have time to gasp his name before he’s lifting you onto it, tugging your shirt up over your head and tossing it aside before ducking down to trail desperate kisses over your neck. You tangle your fingers in his hair, and pull his mouth back up to yours, biting down on his lip until he groans and reaches down to start tugging your pants over your hips.

“Bedroom.” You manage, somewhere between a choked moan and a drag of your nails down his muscled back that has him sinking his teeth into your throat.

“Three years.” He replies, the words a starved growl, as he rips your pants and underwear down over your legs. All you can do is nod your understanding and drag his mouth back to yours, hands leaving his face to reach down and tug his sweatpants over his hips.

He pulls back, just enough to press his lips to your ear, and you can’t help but whimper when he murmurs his next words.

“Tell me you want this.”

You curl your fingers in his hair, pull him closer to you, and barely manage to gasp out a soft confirmation of “I want this, Andrew” before he’s pushing into you and it is everything you’ve missed for too long and it feels so good you might fucking die.

You gasp, and hold him tighter, and he breathes a shaky exhale into the hollow of your throat as he goes very very still.

You make a soft noise, needing more, and he understands immediately because he knows every inch of you better than he knows himself.

“Three years.” He murmurs again, hoarse and apologetic as his hands grip the counter on either side of you. You realize what he means through the haze of lust, and a bubble of laughter tears its way out of your throat. The sudden movement makes him hiss, cursing softly against your throat as his hands fly up to grip your hips. You clamp your lips together in an attempt to stop your giggling, and when he pulls back to look at you he starts laughing too.

And then, still smiling, he kisses you slow and deep, and begins to move. The moment he does, all humor flies out the window, and you gasp as you lock your legs around his hips and scramble for purchase against his back.

It’s fast and desperate, like he really and truly can’t help it, and it is absolutely perfect. Fuck, it’s everything you have ever needed in your entire life and more. You cling to him, wrapped in his arms and burying your face in his neck to try to muffle cries that might wake the entire Strand. He doesn’t stop, but his grip tightens as he adjusts his movements to grind deeper, fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back from his shoulder until you can feel his ragged breaths against the shell of you ear.

“Yeah?” He whispers, hoarse and smiling and already wrecked as the force of his movements makes stars explode behind your vision. Then, closer, his nose against your temple and his grip almost bruising on your skin. “Yeah?”

You just nod, and hold on for dear life as you fall over the edge with a cry of his name, and he follows right after you with a choked moan of yours.

For a moment, you both just try to catch your breath, wrapped in each other’s arms with your legs shaking and Pope’s shoulder warm against your forehead. He kisses the side of your head, soft and loving, and huffs a laugh into your hair as he pulls back to press his lips to yours.

“I missed you.” He whispers, and you’re smiling too.

And then, without warning, he hoists you into his arms and starts walking.

“Where are we going?” You ask, still laughing, still smiling, still blissed out beyond words.

He kisses your forehead, your cheek, and kicks a door open. “Bedroom.”

-

Once the initial violent desperation has faded, Pope takes his time with you. He works you apart piece by piece, like he’s relearning every inch of your skin. He kisses every new scar. Every familiar freckle. He makes you forget every word that isn’t his name, tells you he loves you until he’s hoarse with it, and you do the same to him. In the confines of his room, in this new house on the beach, you forget about every morsel of pain you’ve felt in the past. Every tear you’ve shed. Every lonely moment.

At some point, when he’s trailing slow kisses up the inside of your thigh and your fingers are tangled in his curls, you manage to come back to yourself for half a second.

“We’re not back together.” You murmur, and he looks up long enough to raise a dark eyebrow at you.

“We’re not.” You repeat, and he gives you another look, this time with both eyebrows, before nudging your thigh further aside. He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t need to, because in the next five seconds you completely forget how to form coherent thought.

-

The sun is setting by the time you’re both too exhausted to continue. A few minutes ago, you broke apart long enough to make your way to the shower, where you’d lasted about five minutes before he’d slipped in behind you. You managed to hold back long enough to shampoo each other’s hair before lathering off had turned into kissing beneath the stream, which had turned into…well, into you pressed up against the wall, his chest against your back and his teeth buried in your shoulder as your fingers clawed against the tile and your vision turned white for the umpteenth time today.

Now, his fingers card through your still-damp hair, and you wonder vaguely if you’ll ever walk again.

“Holy shit. We haven’t done that since…” you trail off, brain as mushy as your muscles seem to be, and you feel Pope’s proud smile against your forehead.

“Three years and forty nine days.” He supplies, and you can’t hold back your giggle. “Day after the jewelry store job.”

“Right.” Christ, it really is a miracle that you survived three years apart when you used to go at each other like coked out bunny rabbits. “Forgot about that.”

“I didn’t.”

You swat at his chest, and he tucks you closer to him, tilting your chin up to press his lips to yours.

-

For the first time in three years, you wake up in Andrew Cody’s arms.

And he’s asleep. He’s soundly, completely asleep. He’s always been a light sleeper, but despite that there are certain circumstances that have been known to knock him out like a log.

He’s completely out now, arms wrapped tightly around you and deep breaths tickling the top of your head.

There was always so much chaos in your lives. So many things that could go wrong at any moment, so many risks taken every single day. There was Smurf’s manipulations, Craig’s irresponsibility, Deran’s tendency to disappear and worry everyone, Julia being gone, and Baz…well, Baz being a raging douche most of the time. All of it was always so much, but right here, right like this…this was always where you felt safest. All of the insanity would always be a million miles away, blocked out by the circle of Andrew Cody’s arms.

Which is probably why it feels like a physical stab to your chest when you carefully wiggle out of them.

He grunts, one arm reaching out as if searching for you, but he doesn’t wake.

You allow yourself one moment to stare at him. One long, aching moment. He’s so beautiful in the moonlight that he almost hurts to look at.

And then you slip on one of his tshirts, wiggle into your jeans, and disappear out the door.

You don’t bother pulling your shoes back on, letting the sand cushion your feet as you wander down the beach, and listening to the waves crash against the shore.

He’ll wake up soon, and he’ll find you. And when he does, he’ll pull you back into his arms and the two of you will sit on this beach like you used to. Watch the waves and the stars like you used to. You’ll talk, and he’ll apologize, and he isn’t very good with words but you’ll understand him and you’ll forgive him. Just like that.

You’re not ready for that.

So you pull out your phone, and dial the only other number you have on speed dial. The only number besides Pope Cody’s.

“Where the hell have you been?” Craig shouts into the phone, mirth lacing his voice even through the tinny speaker.

You glance down at Pope’s t-shirt. Plain white. Too big for you. Soft and draped over your body like a flag with his name on it.

Oh well. “You’re gonna give me a whole lotta shit for it.”

He laughs, and you hear a bottle clink somewhere on the other side of the phone. “So why’re you callin’ me?”

“Cause I’m crazy, I guess. Or an idiot.”

“Or both.”

You hum, and bend down to scoop some sand into your palm, letting it trickle between your fingers as it falls back to the earth. You’re confused, and still hurting, and your heart aches heavy in your chest. In moments like this, you’ve always wondered what it would be like to have one of those girl best friends in rom-coms. The kind who would split a bottle of wine with you on the couch and talk for hours about boys with you. That must be nice. You wonder if they really exist, somewhere where life is normal.

Well, you don’t have that. You have Craig Cody.

“I’ve gotta go off grid for a minute.” You say, and trail your eyes back towards Pope’s darkened house. You have minutes before that light flicks on, and you cave. “Wanna get drunk?”

Craig blows out a long breath, and you can almost see him raising his eyebrows and resting his elbows on his knees.

“Sure. Where are you?”

-

Pope hasn’t seen you in three days.

Deran is the one who called him, frustrated and concerned and grouching about you not being able to handle your liquor.

“It’s weird, dude. The balance is gone. She’s not talking him out of shit anymore. They’re just kinda ramping each other up.” He hears the clink of bottles. Shouting in the background. Maybe, somewhere, your laughter. “Whatever you did, come fix it. Because your girlfriend is doing body shots on my bar and I’m not about to get shut down because those two are acting like fucking idiots.”

“I didn’t do anything.” He’s already grabbing his keys. You fell asleep in his arms, for fucks sake. You spent the entire day letting him whisper apologies and promises of love into your skin. He thought you were good. It felt like everything was back to normal, and then you were just…gone.

Sure, there was a moment where you insisted you weren’t back together, but when that sentence is quickly drowned out by “Oh God oh God Andrew please don’t stop” it’s a little hard to let the words sink in.

He’d searched the beach for hours. Called your phone even when it became blatantly obvious that you’d turned it off. He went to Craig’s house, and his brother wasn’t there. You didn’t take your car when you disappeared. He’s been worried sick about you and now you’ve been on some kind of bender?

“You did something.” Deran doesn’t seem to be grasping the gravity of this situation. Everything was fine. Why are you still upset? “They haven’t done this kind of shit since you dumped her in prison.”

“I didn’t fucking dump her.” He needs to focus on not breaking too many traffic laws, but he senses a few irritated comments coming his way. Annoyed as Deran may be right now, he fucking adores you almost as much as Craig does, and Pope can hear genuine worry in his tone.

“You should probably look up the definition of dumping, dude. Telling her to fuck off and not talking to her for three years is pretty-“

“Just tell me if she’s okay.” The words come out harsh. A snap of anger in the quiet car.

“Just get here.” The phone clicks off, and Pope almost throws it out the window.

-

Everything is nice and fuzzy, and you’re having a very fun time.

You don’t have anywhere near Craig’s tolerance, nor his penchant for anything stronger than alcohol and weed, so this ‘bender’ hasn’t exactly consisted of you partying straight through like he has. In fact, it took until tonight for him to pull you off of his couch and tell you to stop wallowing and have fun.

And you had listened. Oh boy, had you listened.

You started at Craig’s house, letting him amp you up and remind you to get angry between shots of tequila.

“Holy shit, just say it. Say it already!” Craig stands, waving the shot in front of your face before shoving it forward. “Are you mad? Sad? C’mon, quit bein’ such a closed book! Who the fuck is that helping?”

“I’m angry!” You take the shot, down it, and sputter.

And then you smash the glass against the wall.

“There she is!” Craig shouts, enveloping you in a drunken hug, and you let the rage build in the safety of your friend’s arms as you start to giggle like a fucking lunatic.

“Gimme another.”

He whoops, lets you go, and grabs the bottle.

And then you went to the Cove, and drank margaritas and let Craig convince you to get angrier. Angry because Pope left you. Because it hurt so bad it felt like a piece of you had broken off, and angry because he showed back up and brought all of that pain with him and just expected it all to be better.

And eventually, you ended up in Deran’s bar, hammered and laughing and trying to remember why you were mad in the first place.

That is, until Pope Cody shows up.

You’ve seen him look scary before, with that furrowed brow and those shark eyes, but now he looks downright murderous.

That’s okay. You can be angry too. You are angry.

“We’re leaving.” He says, simply, wrapping an arm around you before you shove him off.

“Nuh uh.” You step back, and his frown deepens.

“Dude, lay off. She’s just blowin’ off some steam-“

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Pope stands too close to Craig. Looks way too angry. He doesn’t get to be mad. He broke your heart. He left you alone.

“What’re you doing?” Craig, larger than Pope and already too drunk and coked out to think rationally, matches the furious energy. “You think you’re cool just walkin’ in here and making her go home?”

Something twinges in your drunken mind. Tells you to step in. To stop this.

But you’re too late.

“Maybe I’m sick and tired of pickin’ her up off the floor because you did some shit to make her bawl her fucking eyes out.” Craig shoves Pope. Hard. “Seriously man, what’s the fuckin’ matter with you? You think she deserves this shit?”

Pope punches him in the face.

You just stand there for a moment, drunk and shocked, and it takes a good moment of them brawling and shoving each other into the bar before you realize that you should get in the middle of this.

Someone, some guy who was flirting with you a while back, tries to grab you and pull you away. You slam your elbow into his face, and he releases you long enough for you to leap onto Craig’s back, yanking him away from Pope just in time to feel your back slam into the corner of the bar hard enough to make you lose your grip.

You fall back, feel something smash beneath you, and groan as a bolt of agony shoots through your body. Fuck. Fuck, that’s gonna leave a mark.

The fight stops. The bar goes quiet.

Hands pull you up, slurred apologies spilling past Craig’s lips in a panic as he sets you on your feet and looks down at you with a horrified expression. You’ve had worse, sure, but the bruise isn’t gonna be pretty and you know damn well he’s gonna feel guilty about it tomorrow.

You look up at him, reach up to pat his chest…

And puke on his shoes.

You hear him mumble a quiet “oh, fuck” before he’s shoved aside, and Pope is there. Pope, who is scooping you up into his arms without a word and carrying you out of the bar.

“Sorry.” You mumble, and he doesn’t respond, but he squeezes you a little more tightly to him and that feels like enough.

He places you down in the passenger seat of his truck, and presses his lips to your forehead before he moves to the drivers side.

You’re suddenly very, very exhausted. You thunk your head against the window, and close your eyes as the engine starts.

You feel Pope’s hand on your leg, warm and comforting and familiar.

It feels like home.

-

“Look who finally decided to come home.”

Your father’s voice is nails on a chalkboard. A skin-prickling, hatred inducing rasp that makes your entire body tense.

“This isn’t home.” You drop your keys on the counter. It’s not home. It never has been, but now that you have a real home the difference has never been more obvious to you.

You left your home tonight. Left the warmth of Andrew Cody’s arms. He hadn’t woken, as exhausted after the job as you were, but he’d hummed sleepily into your neck and tried to squeeze you closer as you’d wiggled your way out of his embrace.

Your father scoffs, and doesn’t look up from the TV. “You think that place is home? You whore yourself out to that psycho Cody and now you can’t give half a shit about the guy who raised ya?”

It’s your turn to scoff. You don’t answer. He keeps going.

“You think that crazy kid loves you? You think you’ll get to leave and run off into the sunset with him? The ticking time bomb ain’t gonna love you. None of ‘em are. I know Smurf. She’s keepin’ you around because that shithead prefers to fuck you over going berserk and killin’ everyone in the house. They don’t give a shit about you. They use you. S’all you’re good for, anyway.”

That hits you. Harder than it should.

No. No, he’s wrong. He’s an asshole, and he’s wrong. Andrew Cody loves you more than life itself. There’s no question there.

…Right? It’s not like you even know what love is, being raised by this of shit. And Pope’s love is…obsessive. You don’t mind it. You like it, actually. But-

No. Fucking no. You’re not letting him get in your head. You can’t.

Because there’s Craig. And Deran. And even Baz, sometimes. Smurf likes you, and she most certainly sees you as a pawn, but… but Craig is your best friend. Craig laughs at your jokes. Hugs you so tightly your ribs might crack sometimes. Stays up to talk to you for hours by the pool.

And Pope loves you so much that it consumes him. Even you can’t doubt that. The way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way he kisses you like he’ll never be able to get enough. His shoulders relax when you enter the room. His smile is the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. You even wake up to him watching you sleep, sometimes, tracing his calloused fingers over your skin with his eyes half-open like he’s fighting sleep just so he can look at you a little longer.

And the last time your father took things too far, the last time you came back with bruises…

You’d spent an hour talking Pope down from coming over here. You’d spent longer convincing Craig and even Deran to stop fucking encouraging him to, to stop insisting that they’ll help him end this asshole.

That’s love.

And that gives you the strength, the courage, to move over to your father and lean one hand on the back of the couch, glaring daggers into his eyes.

“The only reason you’re still alive, is because of me.” It sounds like a fucking growl, so angry and unlike you. “Don’t forget that.”

Your father just smiles, like you’re wrong and he knows it. You want to punch him. You want to prove him wrong, and let Andrew kill him.

You walk out the door, instead.

-

He sits you on the edge of his bed, and it’s just like before. Like every time you’ve been drunk or even sick since you were kids. He kisses your cheek, asks if it’s okay, and when you nod he pulls your t-shirt up over your head, quickly replacing it with one of his own. Your pants go next, and then he tucks you beneath the blankets of his bed and brushes your hair from your face.

He hesitates to pull his own shirt off, wonders if you might be too drunk and upset to want him near you. You never have before, but he’s realizing pretty quickly that before is more removed from the present than he expected it to be. Three years in prison, daydreaming every day about coming home to you and explaining why he did that he did and having you forgive him right away was…well, a daydream. He may have been able to lose himself in the fantasy of your unconditional love and forgiveness for three years, but you were here. Alone. Wondering what you did wrong and missing him on a level completely separate from his. He didn’t experience any of the confusion. The lack of understanding. The pain that comes with that.

You reach out, and push the hem of his shirt up. He pulls it over his head, a slave to your needs and whims, and helps you unbuckle his pants until he’s sliding into bed beside you and pulling you into his arms.

“You’re mad at me.”

You tilt your head into his hand, and nod.

His heart breaks, eyes softening and hand smoothing over your cheek as he leans closer and presses his forehead against yours.

“Why?” He asks, a genuine desperate pain cracking the word as it leaves his throat. “I thought…I thought we were good.”

You make a soft noise, and lean against him a little more.

He whispers your name, presses a kiss to your cheek, and inhales deep, trying to memorize your scent.

“I’m not good at this. You always tell me.” Another kiss. Fingers curling in your hair. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make you stop hurting.”

You curl a little closer.

“You left me.” You finally whisper. “You promised you never would, and then you left. I worried about you for three years.”

He pulls you closer. Feels tears prickle in his eyes and guilt churn in his stomach.

“I went to the beach, and it didn’t feel better, because you weren’t there.” Your fingers curl against his chest, right over his breaking heart. “I thought you didn’t love me anymore. For three years.”

Fuck. “I’ll never stop loving you.” If he holds you any more tightly, it might hurt the bruise on your back. He’s gonna fucking kill Craig for that, accident or not. “Never.”

And then, quietly, almost a whisper as you drift off but just loud enough for him to hear it and almost die right there, “…I don’t know if I believe you, anymore…”

-

The boat job goes well. Really fucking well. Save for Marco cutting a woman’s fucking finger off, everything goes off without a hitch.

And you’re proud. Really fucking proud. Craig was always capable of this kind of thing if he just applied himself, and here you all are. Richer than before and still riding that all-too-familiar adrenaline high.

“Geez, Pope really did a number on you.” You reach up now, poking lightly at his black eye. He flinches, and huffs out a sheepish laugh. You saw this coming when you decided someone would have to beat Craig up, and Pope volunteered a little…emphatically. But still.

“Pretty sure he’s got some pent up anger.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes scanning over you. “How’s your back?”

You cringe, and resist the urge to rub the still-bruised area. “It’s fine. The hangover was worse.”

Craig looks like he’s about to turn you around inspect the injury himself, but one glance over your shoulder to where Pope is no doubt glaring from across the bar is enough to make him cave with one last guilty look. He’s apologized maybe a hundred times for the mistake, and you’ve forgiven him every time. After all, he didn’t mean it, and you’ve definitely had worse. “Damn, how bad?”

Your head is pounding, and you just barely managed to make it into the bathroom before the rest of last night’s tequila expels itself from your stomach.

Not five seconds later, you feel a large hand curl in your hair, pulling it back into a makeshift ponytail while another palm rubs small circles on your back.

“Oh, the humanity.” You whimper, pulling back to lean against the wall. You flinch at the movement, and give Pope a miserable look. “Christ, did I get hit by a truck last night?”

“You broke up a bar fight.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“It was…between me and Craig.”

You frown, and try to piece the fuzzy memories together. “Did you kill him?”

“No. He fell back against the bar with you on his back, so I’m going to.”

Ah, that’s where the pain is coming from. You look him over, shirtless and beautiful and achingly familiar, but…

“Have you slept?”

He frowns, and looks like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. “No.”

Ugh. This is stupid. Bad idea. You should leave. You are not together anymore. You will not-

“Okay. My head hurts. You need to sleep. Back to bed, big guy.” You reach out, and make grabby hands at him, just like you’ve done a million times before. Every time you were hungover, every time you were sick, or even one time when you just twisted your ankle trying to dive into the pool.

His smile is so full of adoration and relief that it nearly makes you cry. He doesn’t hesitate, moving to scoop you into his arms with a soft grunt of “c’mere…”

He lays you down, and you pull him with you, tugging the covers around you both before tucking yourself into his chest and reaching up to scratch your nails lightly over his back in the way that’s always made him melt.

“I love you.” He murmurs, warm fingers brushing through your hair. “I’m sorry-“

“Shhh. Go to sleep.” You press your lips to his shoulder, and feel him shiver a little at the feeling. “Head hurts, and you need to sleep.”

He takes a moment to speak, but then he nuzzles his nose into your hair and drops his arms down to pull you closer to him. “Okay.”

“I’ve had worse.” You smile, and clink your beer against Craig’s. “Thanks, though. You did fucking amazing today.”

Your friend’s smile, despite the damage to his face, lights up the entire room. “Fuck yeah I did. You did, too.”

“Aw, shucks.” You grin, and it’s just like before. Just like when you were kids, riding the adrenaline high together and laughing your way through the car chases and the gunfights despite Pope and Baz and even Deran’s concern. You nudge him, and smile a little wider as you gesture towards the door. “Renn’s here.”

He turns, and the way his eyes light up makes your heart swell impossibly more. That, right there. That’s how you look at Pope. How he looks at you. That little spark behind his eyes is exactly what he’s always deserved.

“You two back together?”

“Nah. I mean, I dunno. Maybe. We’re…you know.”

You clink your beer against his, and meet his eyes. “Just don’t fuck it up again, okay? You’ll be fine. Don’t overthink.”

His eyes trail behind you, to where Pope is most certainly still watching you, and he raises a pointed eyebrow.

You scoff. “Shut up.”

-

That’s the problem with good things. They always end.

You’re at the bar, sitting beside Pope like you have after a thousand jobs, and despite your conviction to keep your heart safe you can’t help the way it melts when his hand covers yours, large fingers threading through your own.

“Do you wanna go home?”

You hum, and lean into his side despite yourself. It was a pretty big day, after all, and nothing sounds better than curling up in bed with him and sleeping until noon tomorrow.

You open your mouth to agree, feeling his thumb trace lightly over your knuckles, and-

Your phone dings. A specific ringtone. One that makes you feel like an anvil has been dropped into your stomach.

“I’ll be right back.” You murmur, and when Pope’s brow furrows you lean forward and press your lips to the corner of his mouth. Not quite a kiss, but close enough that his hand squeezes yours one last time. “Just gotta go to the bathroom, first.”

You leave before he can follow.

-

“You look like shit.” You greet the old man in the alley with a frown, crossing your arms and standing a good few feet back. He does. Your father, piece of shit that he is, has probably pissed off a debt collector or two again, judging by the bruises on his face and arms. You have no sympathy for the man who once left similar marks on you.

“Heard your psycho boyfriend is outta prison.” His retort makes you grit your teeth. “Still sluttin’ yourself out to the Codys?”

“What the fuck do you want this time?”

“Just an exchange. Heard about that boat robbery today.” Fuck. “Wouldn’t be too great for good ol’ Dope’s probation if someone were to put in an anonymous tip, would it?”

“Pope had nothing to do with that.”

Your father smiles, all stained teeth and greedy eyes. “Shouldn’t be a problem, then.”

“Fuck you.”

“How ‘bout we make a trade? I don’t gotta call nobody, and you help cover my debt.”

You want to kill him. You hate him so much it makes you feel sick. “Like I said, fuck you.”

You turn to walk inside, and the move is a mistake. Fingers close too-tightly on your wrist, and before you know it you’re being slammed against the alley wall with your arm twisted agonizingly tightly behind your back. You bite hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out, and remind yourself to breathe through the pain.

“Thought I raised you better than that.” The fingers on your wrist feel like they’re going to snap it in half. You want to bite something back, preferably something poetically sarcastic, but you can’t let your voice betray the pain you’re in. All these years, and you hate that he can still hurt you. “You got three days, kid. Sure you can spend enough time on your knees to get the money out of the crazy one. Maybe the cokehead, too.”

He lets you go with a shove that makes your cheek scratch against the wall, and you turn to glare defiant daggers as he walks away.

-

“Where did you go?” Pope’s dark eyes are curious, almost innocent as he reaches up to pull you closer to him by your hips.

You move back a little, and his brow furrows with concern. “I need my cut.”

“Yeah. You’ll get it when we-“

“I need it now.”

He stands, and you step back when he looks you over, but you’re too late. He knows you too well.

His hands are on your waist, tugging you close to him, and his fingers fly up to the scrape on your cheek. Down to pull up your sleeve, exposing angry red marks in the shape of fingerprints.

“Where is he?” He asks, voice dripping with danger, and you try to pull away but he just grips you more firmly. His grip is gentle, and you know he would let you go in a second if you asked, but he’s not letting you run from this. “Is he here?”

“Not anymore.” His fingers are curling around your arm, pulling it up to inspect your wrist. His eyes are almost black, and his jaw is clenched so tightly you’re worried he might crack a damn tooth. “Hey, Andrew. Look at me.”

His eyes don’t leave the bruises on your arm. “I should have killed him.”

“Beating him half to death caused enough problems.” Piece of shit that he is, your father has one too many connections in Oceanside, and the damage control from when Pope snapped on him years ago nearly got all of you arrested or killed.

It’s been proven safer to just give him what he wants, and try to keep it as secretive as possible, lest Pope or even Craig try to pound him into the pavement again.

Speaking of which, Pope is still holding you too tightly. You reach up, and turn his face towards yours. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Let’s…” God, you’re supposed to keep up with this ‘not together anymore’ thing, but “can we just go home?”

He melts. His eyes soften, and his arms slide around you to pull you closer to him. You feel his cheek against the side of your head, his hand sliding gently up over your back, and you melt too.

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

-

Split lip. Black eye. Ringing ears.

God, everything hurts. That asshole really did a number on you this time.

Bruised if not cracked ribs. A slight limp from where your leg hit weird when you were tossed across the floor. An aching arm that was grabbed a little too hard.

“Holy shit.” Craig. Craig’s voice, as familiar as your own.

“I got hit.” You worked on this lie. Practiced it the whole limping walk down here. “…by a car.” As bad as it is this time, it might be the only thing that’s believable.

“You’re a shit liar.” Now you know that’s not true, but your friend is already by your side, holding you up and helping you walk into the house. “I’m gonna kill him.”

You’ve definitely got a black eye. Your lip is swollen and bleeding. It’s becoming more exhausting to take stock of your injuries than it would be to note what isn’t hurting.

“Don’t. Just…don’t.” You wince on a step, and when Craig huffs and tries to scoop you up you swat him off.

“Fuck that. You look like you’re about to keel the fuck over.” He frowns, concern lacing every one of his features. “You’re not going back there.”

“I hit him with a fuckin’ frying pan.” You mumble, knocking your head against his shoulder. “So I figure I’m not welcome back any time soon.”

“Smurf is gonna shit.” He mumbles, and leans you back against the kitchen counter to inspect your face. “Fuck, Pope is gonna blow a gasket, dude. How are you gonna explain this to him?”

“I don’t know.” You mumble, reaching up to push the hair out of your face. All you want to do right now is see him. To be held by him and to maybe even just lay down in his twin bed and feel him tuck you into his arms. You’ve been with him for a little over a year, now, and it still feels like you’ve been dating for a week. Like your relationship is just one never ending honeymoon phase. Even these last few days, helping your father out with his bullshit scam, you’ve missed him so much it’s almost concerning.

Fuck.

“Beer, please.” You mumble, and when Craig hands it to you you take a moment to rest the cool glass against your bruised cheek. “I don’t know. I’ll tell him I got in an accident.”

Craig’s answer is immediate, lifting your arm to show the bruises in the shape of fingerprints dented into your skin. “Yeah, real fuckin’ believable.”

You pull you arm back, panic rising in your throat. “Okay. I…give me a sweatshirt.”

“He’ll just take it off.”

“Fuck.” He’s right. You shouldn’t have come here. You should have hidden out on the beach for a few days like you used to, and waited for some of these injuries to fade. Fuck. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Fat fuckin’ chance.” Craig grabs you, more firmly than usual, and keeps you still against the counter. “You think I’m gonna let you walk outta this house while that asshole is still breathing? Look, I ain’t Pope, but I’m not gonna let you into a situation where you could-“

You sense him before you see him. You didn’t even hear the door open.

“Get. Away. From. Her.”

Shit.

“Shit.” Craig releases you, and takes three large steps back like he might be attacked by a mountain lion.

Pope is on you in a second, one large hand cradling your bruised face, and in a moment you can see in his eyes that he’s not entirely there. That line in him has snapped, like it has on those nights you’ve found him in the yard, distant and empty and staring at the moon. When you’ve pulled him from fights, and he took a minute to even remember your name. Took him longer to remember his own.

“Please.” You whisper, reaching up to slide your fingers through his hair and force him to look at you. “Please be okay about this.”

He doesn’t answer you. He just moves his hand over your face, looks at you with those murderous eyes, and presses his forehead against yours.

“Where is he?”

“Pope. Andrew. Please.” Your heart cracks on his name, and he grips you more tightly. “Please, just take me to bed.” You turn his face to yours, squeeze your eyes shut. “I just wanna go to bed.”

And he does.

One hour later, he leaves that bed. You don’t open your eyes. Keep your breathing slow and steady as you feel him kiss your forehead, then your cheek, sliding his fingers through your hair like pulling away from you is physically painful.

But he does, and you feel him stand. You hear him leave.

And you let him.

Two hours later, he walks through the door of Smurf’s house with blood on his knuckles and sweat on his brow.

You’re waiting for him in the hall.

You look down at his hand. Back up to his eyes.

“Is he dead?” Your voice is quiet. He doesn’t look guilty, but he doesn’t look away from you, either.

“No.”

You just nod, and move forward to slide your hand over his cheek. He leans helplessly closer to you.

“Next time you do that,” you murmur, guiding his lips down to your own as his swollen knuckles curl against the back of your borrowed shirt, tugging you closer to him, “take me with you.”

He releases a shuddering breath, and his kiss is so full of love and devotion that it buckles your knees.

-

A warehouse is a cheesy place to meet. The fact that the asshole brought backup makes it worse. Granted, you brought Pope, Craig, and Deran with you, but…well, they’re more here for emotional support. And because they wouldn’t let you come alone.

When you got home, you told Pope everything. The threats, the money you’ve sent him, the amount of time he’s still been able to keep you under his thumb despite how hard you’ve worked to break away…

To your surprise, he hadn’t snapped. He hadn’t stormed out of his house to find the old man. He’d…

He’d kissed you. He’d wrapped his arms around you, tilted your head back, and kissed you.

You make a muffled noise against his mouth, eyes flying open in surprise before fluttering shut as your body melts into the embrace before your mind can even catch up.

When you finally break for air, still confused but certainly unable to complain, you blink your eyes open again.

“What was that for?”

He just kisses you again. Slow. Warm. Wonderful. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” He whispers, lips moving down to your jaw. Your neck. “I’m sorry you had to be so fuckin’ brave on your own.”

“Andrew, I…” this is a much different reaction than you were expecting. You haven’t mentally prepared for it. Your mind is still on the defensive.

He shushes you. Pushes his hands up under your shirt to trace them over your skin. “I love you. You don’t wanna be together? That’s okay. We can do whatever you want.” He kisses the hollow of your throat, scrapes his teeth against the sensitive skin, and you make a soft noise in the back of your throat that has him tightening his grip on you. “I’m not going anywhere, and you’re not dealing with this alone.”

You’re not alone. He’s not going anywhere. Never again.

You believe him. You really, really believe him.

“Take off your clothes, please.”

He smiles against your collarbone, and trails his nose up your throat until his lips are hovering over your own. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” You’re already tugging at his shirt, already pulling him down to kiss you, and he meets you with a hunger that feels like a satisfied craving. “I love you. I trust you.” The words are murmured between kisses, “now please take off your clothes.”

“Christ, it’s like you think you’re Tony Soprano or some shit.” You grumble, feeling surprisingly petulant despite the intensity of the situation. Your father has connections, sure, but you grew up with Smurf Cody. The comparison between the way he operates and what you’re used to is absolutely insane.

Your father is a drunk, and an asshole, and he thinks he’s tough shit. You happen to know what it looks like to actually know what you’re doing. Shocker, that you’re the one who makes the actual fucking money. Even less shocking that he makes most of his income leeching off of you.

Well, not anymore.

“I told you to come alone. You brought your fuckin’ guard dog.”

“Yeah, you’re one to talk.” You gesture to the man beside him, the wall of muscle holding the gun and glaring at you like this is a gangster movie and he genuinely believes himself to be the most badass character. “Did you give your Steroid Humunculus his pay already, or is he gonna be banging on your door in a week looking for it?” You’re guessing the latter, if past experience is anything to go by.

“Enough.” Your father snaps, like he has any authority at all. It makes you furious. “Tell the psycho to leave.”

“Call him a psycho one more time, and this time it won’t be him who beats you to a fucking pulp.”

“Are you threatening me, you little shit?”

“Like father, like daughter.”

“I should teach you a fuckin’ lesson-“ he starts toward you, only to back up when Pope steps forward. His jaw ticks, fury flashing in his eyes, and you hear the click of something loading in the cavernous room.

It all happens so fast.

In all the times this kind of thing has happened, all of the times he’s made threats, it’s always been diffused. He’s always held up a gun, maybe loaded it, and said some bullshit until money was tossed his way.

This time, he brought the wrong backup. And that backup panics.

The man raises the gun, and aims it at Pope.

You move before you think, jerking instinctively in front of him and pushing him back, already beginning to move towards the money to end this bullshit. They always point the gun. Always shout a threat. Always shut up when they see the money and-

And then the gun goes off.

-

You wake to an empty bed.

Your first instinct is to reach out to the space Pope usually occupies, hand sliding over the cool sheets like you might be able to pull him out of thin air. It’s not morning, and the house is silent. If there was some kind of emergency, he would have woken you.

Huh.

The mystery doesn’t stay a mystery for long. You shuffle into the yard, and there he is.

Naked. Staring at the moon.

He seemed fine last night. Well, as fine as Pope Cody can be. A little more quiet, maybe. A little clingier than usual, and that would be saying something, but fine.

“Hey, handsome.” You hum, casual and sleepy, and move to stand beside him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t break his eyes from the night sky. “What are we looking at?”

“Everything.” He murmurs, absent, and you can already tell that he isn’t here. Isn’t entirely inside his own head. That’s alright. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and it probably won’t be the last. At least he’s not smashing anything with a hammer.

“Sounds like a lot.” You move to stand in front of him, lifting your hand to brush your fingers through the soft curls on the back of his neck and turn his gaze down to yours. “How ‘bout you just look at me instead?”

When his eyes meet your own, still hazy and distant, his breath catches in his lungs. His hand moves up, guiding yours so he can press his cheek into your palm like the touch is some sort of coveted blessing. You smile, soft and gentle, and bring up your other hand to mirror the first and cradle his other cheek.

“You’re an angel.” The words come out as a reverent whisper. He’s not trying to flatter you, not trying for pretty compliments, but rather stating a fact. Like he often does, when he’s in this state.

“Not quite.” You press your lips to the underside of his jaw, and you feel a shiver travel through his entire body. “But I appreciate the compliment.”

Large hands hover over your waist, and his eyes don’t leave you. “Can I…touch you?”

You nod, and bring his forehead down to rest against yours as his arms slide around you, tugging you against him as calloused fingers trail up beneath your sleep shirt, the touch just as familiar as the rest of him.

“Will you come to bed with me?” You ask softly, moving your own hands down to smooth over the skin of his chest. “I’m not an overly jealous person, but I’d prefer to keep this view for myself. Don’t wanna share with the neighbors.”

“I’ll do anything for you.”

“Tell me that again in the morning when I remind you to take your meds, okay?”

He follows you back inside, and allows you to pull him back into bed with you. Allows you to pull the covers up around you both as he envelops you in his arms, and trails his lips along your hairline as he whispers soft words against your skin. You can’t make them out, but you wonder from his tone if they might be some kind of prayer.

“I love you.” You murmur, and his arms tighten around you. “Every part of you. You know that?”

“I don’t deserve it.” He whispers, and you pull back to look at him.

“You do.” You kiss his nose. His cheek. “You really, really do.”

-

For a moment, you think a car might have backfired somewhere nearby.

It’s not like you don’t know what a gun sounds like. Fuck, with your childhood, you could recognize the sound faster than your own voice. And yet, in this moment, your mind can’t seem to keep up. Can’t seem to process exactly what just happened.

You feel like you got punched in the stomach. There’s an intense, knock-the-wind-out-of-you pressure, and then…

Your hand comes up to the point of that pressure, to the dull burn, and comes away red.

“Fuck.” Your father breathes, and then he starts shouting. “Fuck! You idiot! What the fuck did you do?!”

You’ve heard that voice before. When he’s lost an exceptionally lucrative bet. When a deal has gone wrong. That’s the tone of a man who is losing his meal ticket, not even close to the tone of a concerned father.

You didn’t even get to do your little speech. Your whole ‘fuck you, I owe you less than nothing and this is the last time you’re getting a cent from me’ speech. You were kind of looking forward to it.

Your whole body feels a little numb. When your knees finally give out, warm arms wrap around you before you can collapse.

“No. No no no no no!”

Now that…that isn’t concern either. It’s worse. So much worse. It’s the realest and most raw fear you’ve ever heard.

There’s too much blood. Fuck. So much blood. It’s spilling out between your fingers faster than should be possible. Vaguely, you remember when you were small, and the faucet broke at whatever house you and your dad were squatting in at the time. You were so scared of his ire, of him blaming you for the burst, that you’d tried to hold it together with your small hands until your entire body was soaked.

Andrew Cody is gathering you into his arms, lowering you to the ground, and the pain is starting to slice it’s way through the shock and it is absolutely fucking overwhelming.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay. Look at me. C’mon, y-you’ve gotta look at me.”

Your father is still yelling at the guy who shot you. Screaming about the money. Not about you. The sound is loud, cutting through the ringing in your ears, and Andrew’s arms tighten around you.

“Close your eyes.” The words are murmured by your ear. Soft and warm and gentle despite the chaos. When he speaks again, his voice is shaking. “Close your eyes, sweetheart. It’s gonna be okay.” He rarely calls you that. This must be bad.

When you do, you hear a gun fire, and the shouting stops.

Your eyes fly open, and you try to turn towards the sound of two bodies hitting the floor, but Pope is there before you can move, dropping a gun to the pavement and cradling your face in his hands.

“Don’t look at that. Look at me. Look at me, okay? You’re gonna be okay.”

He shouts for Craig. For Deran. Everything is still in a sharp, dizzy sort of focus.

-

“Holy shit. What happened?”

Craig is hunched over the toilet. There’s a bottle of tequila on the floor.

He turns his face towards you, hair messy and cheek resting against his arm. “Go away.”

“Nah.” You’re already sitting beside him, tugging his hair into a ponytail and tying it off.

“M’a fuckup.” He mumbles. “Jus’ a…drunk idiot. Deran said.”

You hum, and rub a soothing hand over his back. “Definitely acting like one.”

“See?” He tilts his head miserably back into his arm. “Even you say it.”

“Shut up. You know that’s not what I’m saying.” You move over to the bottle, and take a swig before throwing the rest into the trash. “Hey, look at me.”

He does. He looks like he might have been crying.

“You’re one of the smartest people I know, you know that?”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m not lying.”

He looks at you now. Really, really looks at you. “You gotta stop seein’ the best in me.”

“Too late. You done puking?”

He grunts, and you reach down to help him stand with a significant amount of effort and bitching that he weighs a million pounds.

And you get him into bed, and even tuck him in, and before you leave to go back to Pope’s room he catches your wrist.

“I love you.”

You stop, and furrow your brow.

“Not in like, a weird way. M’not tryna fuck you or anything. I don’t even know how…” he frowns, and releases you to rub a hand over his face. “I dunno how to say it.”

Your heart swells, in that familiar way, and you laugh a little as you move over and sit on the edge of his bed. “I think you’re telling me I’m you’re best friend.”

“Well, obviously. S’more than that, though. You don’t…you don’t think I’m a fuckup. You actually like me.”

You think back to that kid on the beach, surrounded by three angry assholes and fully prepared to stand his fucking ground. The kid who you were knocked out defending. Who didn’t think twice before he brought you back to his home. To the only safe space he knew. Who brought you into his family.

Who loved you like you loved him, and wasn’t sure what it meant. Who assumed, as teenagers do, that it might be romantic. Who didn’t think twice when he realized that it wasn’t romantic, and still pushed his pride aside and kept on loving you. And even now, budding your own ways into adulthood together, he’s drunk and still trying to put into words that he loves you platonically.

“You have the biggest heart.” You say, honest and raw, and his hazy blue eyes fill with tears again. “Even if you can be an idiot sometimes.”

He swipes his hand over his eyes, and tries to hide a sniffle. He looks young like this. He’s only in his early twenties, sure, but he looks younger than that. Vulnerable in a way only you ever really get to see.

“Promise you won’t go anywhere.” He mumbles, like he’s nervous to say it.

He smells like puke, and he’s sweaty, but fuck it. You hug him, making sure to flop down on top of him a little so he groans miserably before he wraps a large arm around you to pat your back.

“Can’t get rid of me if you tried, jackass.”

-

Craig is freaking out. He’s in the back of the car, where Pope is still holding you, and he’s freaking out.

Oh, no. That won’t do, will it? You take care of them. You always do. You keep Craig level-headed, and you keep Andrew from freaking out. Or…or is it the other way around? It’s concerningly difficult to think. You feel like you’re floating.

“Almost there. Almost there. Don’t leave me, okay?” God, Andrew Cody’s voice is the best thing you’ve ever heard. You want to sink into it, but he’s shaking and you can hear tears in his voice and you’re supposed to fix that.

“Drive fucking faster!” Craig is pushing on your stomach too hard. It hurts. You wheeze, and he doesn’t let up. “Deran, the IV isn’t working. It’s not working, she’s too fuckin’ pale.”

He’s covered in blood. You can’t see Pope, but you think he is too. Everything is tainted a horrible shade of red, and it’s getting really hard to think.

“M’here.” You try, scratchy and raw. “M’here. You’re okay. Don’t…be a dumbass.”

“Fuck. Fuck, don’t die. Please don’t die. Look at me, okay? Look at me.” You try, but Pope is whispering near-nonsense into your hair and trembling so hard it’s almost starting to hurt more than the pressure on your stomach. Still, Craig brushes the hair from your face, and you can see tears tracking their way down his cheeks. “They’re all dead, okay? All those assholes are dead. You’re not going with them, you hear me? You’re not going with them.”

There’s shouting. There’s panic. It’s all fading. Pope’s lips are warm against your skin, and the sound of his voice is soothing and…

-

“I love you.”

The words are whispered into your hair, so soft that you almost don’t hear them through the haze of sleep. But you’re awake, now. He doesn’t know it, but you’re awake.

You blink, and feel his fingers trace slow, warm patterns over the bare skin of your back.

“I love you.” He whispers again, just as low and just as quiet.

You shift, and he goes very, very still.

“Hi.” You whisper, pulling back, and he looks fucking terrified.

“…Hi.”

“You just said you loved me.”

“I…thought you were sleeping.”

You reach up, and turn his face to yours. Feel soft curls between your fingers.

“How long have you been telling me you love me when I’m asleep?”

He’s silent. He doesn’t look away.

“Andrew?”

“…a while.”

You smile, and the way his eyes spark at the sight makes your heart melt. “I love you, too.”

His hand flies up almost too fast, cradling your cheek and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone as he stares into your eyes with an intensity that makes your blood tingle in your veins. “You do?”

“Yeah.” How could you not? How could he not know? “Of course I do.”

-

A sharp sting brings you back, this time. You think someone might have hit you.

“Fuck, thank God. You looked like…shit, okay. Pope, let her go. You’ve gotta let her go, man.”

“Where were you?” He’s whispering against your cheek, and he’s out of his mind. Shit, he’s really out of his mind. His arms are still around you, and he’s speaking like he used to when things got really bad. When whatever was in his mind snapped, and it would take you hours to bring him back to you. “Where did you go? Don’t go. Take me with you.”

Every instinct, every cell in your body, tells you to fight. To stay here. To be here with him. To make this better.

But you’re losing time, and he’s not letting you go.

“Don’t touch her.” Lips on your temple. Your cheek. Arms tight around you. “Don’t touch her. Don’t take her away.”

You try to speak, but convulse instead. The sight of it seems to trigger something, and Craig starts to yank you out of Pope’s arms in such a panicked rush that you whimper as another bolt of agony fires through you.

Andrew holds you tighter. Your mouth tastes like copper. You feel blood trickling past your lips.

“Fuck it. Fuck it. Deran, hold him down.” Craig says, and he’s still crying and you should fix that, before he reaches forward and slams Pope’s head against the window. The arms around you go limp as he loses consciousness, and then you’re being lifted out of the car.

“I got you. It’s okay.” You choke out a soft noise, grab at his arm, and he just tucks you closer to him. “Pope’s okay, too. Everything’s gonna be fine, yeah? Just…just don’t die. Please, please don’t die.”

You’re so tired. You want Andrew. If you’re going to drift into oblivion, he should be here. But…

-

When you open your eyes, it’s to a cracked ceiling and a heavy, distant pain in your stomach.

You feel the drugs in your system. Blurred and heavy and warm. Tijuana. They managed to get you to Tijuana. And you’re alive. Bullet wound in the gut and all, and you’re alive.

Andrew Cody is beside you, head resting on his hands like he may have been living up to his nickname and praying. When you stir, he does too, red-rimmed eyes blinking open and looking at you like you’re the only other person in the world. There is so much relief in his gaze that the sight makes you feel dizzy.

“Hi.” You murmur, hoarse, and reach up to tap gently at the side of his head. “Are you here?” You remember his mumbled words against your skin. The way he needed to be knocked out before he would let you go. He can go so far away, sometimes. But he looks like he’s here now. He looks like he’s your Andrew.

He nods, and catches your hand to press his lips to your palm. His breath shudders on a silent sob.

“I thought…I thought you were-“

“I think we should get married on the beach.” You cut him off with a gentle squeeze to his hand. “S’that okay?”

He looks at you, at your stomach, and back at your face like he’s trying to judge how full of painkillers you are. “You wanna get married?”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation. Not an ounce of it. “But you’re on-“

“I know. Still want to. I can ask you again when I’m off them, if you want.”

“I think you should.” He murmurs, but he’s smiling. It’s a small, hesitant thing. Like he was pretty sure, not too long ago, that he would never smile again. Like he’s already re-learning the expression.

“Mm.” You squeeze his hand, and lean your head back against the pillows. “You wanna marry me?”

“Since I first met you.”

“Softie.” You turn your head, and furrow your brow a little. “You never asked, though.”

“I planned it.” He admits, tracing his thumb over your knuckles. “Bought a ring.”

“When?”

“Five years ago.”

You raise your eyebrows, and say again, “you never asked.”

“Never found a perfect time.”

“Mm. Sorry for stealing your thunder then.”

He squeezes your hand, and brings it up to his lips so he can trail kisses over your knuckles. He looks back up at you after a moment, and his dark eyes are so beautiful. “I killed your father.”

Those four words should definitely make you feel something. Anything. Instead, you just feel a surge of love for the man before you. “Okay.”

“I’m glad I did it.”

“I know.”

And, like he just can’t help it anymore, he moves forward and presses his lips to yours. You kiss him back, and wrap your arms around his neck even as the movement makes you wince. Worth it.

“Can we get married now?” You ask, the words muffled by his lips, and he smiles down at you.

“When the drugs wear off.”

You frown, and shrug. “Okay. Can we go home?”

“When they say you can.”

Hm. “Can we have sex?”

He laughs. It’s a beautiful sound. “Go to sleep.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Promise I will be.” He kisses your cheek. “For the rest of your life.”

“I like where this is going.”

“I’ll never leave you again.”

“Keep talkin’, Cody.”

“When we get home, I’ll stock the fridge with that ice cream you like.”

“Take me now.”

The love in his eyes is so beautiful, so pure, so raw, that you know without a doubt that those eyes alone were worth living for. “Go to sleep.”

-

You and Pope rent a house in Tijuana for a while. There’s no need to go back to Oceanside. Not yet. Smurf doesn’t love it, but she doesn’t fight it. It wouldn’t be great optics, after all, for her son’s girlfriend to be recovering from a bullet wound while her father, whom Pope has nearly killed before, was recently found dead in a warehouse.

He fusses over you endlessly. He barely lets you stand on your own, even when you’re fully capable of doing so. You wake up to him watching you sleep more often than ever, and he barely spends more than a minute not touching you.

It’s nice. Really nice. Kind of like a honeymoon before the honeymoon. Just with less sex due to an annoying bullet wound, and a little more crankiness from you than usual due to both of the former issues.

But you stay up all night on the beach, talking until the sun rises and making out like teenagers. You try to make breakfast, burn it, and get to ogle him from your spot on the counter as he makes it for the both of you. You plan for the future, count down the days until your wound is healed, and just…enjoy being happy. No jobs, no strings, no stress.

A little over a month later, you wake him up by rolling on top of him, the familiar pain in your stomach reduced to much less than a dull ache.

His eyebrows raise before his eyes even open, a sleepy smile curling on his lips as his hand trails down your back and your lips move to press teasing kisses down his neck.

“Good morning.” You hum, and he seems more than happy to return the sentiment. “I officially think I’m healed enough for…strenuous activities.”

He makes a low noise, and kisses you slowly. Hungrily. You grin, triumphant and happy, and feel his hands come up to shift you on top of him, sitting himself up against the wall and-

And pulling back.

You actually whine, chasing his lips with your own, but he holds you firm with a smile so wide it’s almost silly.

“I have another idea.”

“It’s been over a month, Andrew. I challenge you to name one thing better than sex right now.”

His smile grows impossibly wider. He reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants, mischief sparking in his sleepy eyes like he was hoping you’d say something like that, and…

And pulls out a ring.

“Oh.” You breathe, eyes locked on the little diamond in his palm. It’s simple. Beautiful. Perfect.

“Bought a new one.” He says, hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face.

You grin. He grins back.

“You make a compelling argument.”

He kisses you, and you kiss him back.

You suppose you have time for two things today.

[80sfilmclub]

♡ɞ✦ ┆・ DOLL'S CORNER.

summary. After Jack treats you at the emergency department, he learns that you're a camgirl — a very popular camgirl with a public SFW account. Curiosity has him subscribing and he finds himself falling into a very addicting trap of you. word count. 16.5k (this got away from me) content warnings. nsfw content, excessive use of 'bunny', medical inaccuracies (of literally almost everything, big shout out to healthline and mayoclinic for iud info), mentions of vaginal bleeding and pain, easter eggs/cameos of other readers from a previous robby fic (👀) notes. so this was the most absolute fun to write !! i've got a few easter-eggs in here (including other readers from a previous robby fic (👀) and some of my lovely mutuals mentioned) so i hope you like it, my inbox is open for more blurb requests or ideas you have for the dolls-verse! photos above are from pinterest and @deathreverse made the amazing website mock up i included below! (thankyouthankyouiloveyourmassivebrain)

As someone who's made a living off of exposing every inch of your body to the world, you feel horribly exposed sitting on an exam table in just a hospital gown that you had changed into from the cliche trench coat and lacy negligee you had on earlier.

Despite the late hour, the waiting room had been packed and any glance your way felt like something intrusive and prodding. You had been fully ready to wait the whole night before you could be seen but after your vitals had been taken and triaged, the doctor had pushed you to the front of the line and into the next available room.

So here you sit, the paper beneath you crinkling every time you squirm and try to find a far more comfortable position before giving in entirely and leaning over to your side. You support yourself with your elbow and try to ignore the prodding pain in your backside.

"Good evening, I'm Dr. Abbot, what seems to be the problem?"

Your stomach drops; just your luck that the doctor assigned to help you fish out your newest toy is panty-dropping handsome. A silver fox through and through, he looks downright delectable with those large freckled arms that seem to be bursting through those black scrubs. If it had been any other day, you might've turned on the charm, flirt your way to a dinner date or more.

But it's 1:37 AM, you have a fuzzy, bunnytail plug stuck inside you and you're desperate to just get home without your asshole gaping.

"Um." You glance at the iPad in his hand, hoping that whoever saw you first recorded it in your chart so you wouldn't have to repeat yourself. But the handsome doctor is waiting patiently. "I have something… stuck inside me."

"Ah. I'll see what I can do. Roll over for me, sweetheart."

The night shift always brings on the weirdest cases that after all his years of working, nothing could phase him at this point. Seeing you, looking so uncomfortable and startled on the exam table, ranks so low on said weird cases that he misses the note Crus had left on your chart and went right in on the usual greeting.

"… what seems to be the problem—?"

Butt plug lodged in anus, patient reports mild pain and heavy discomfort.

Jack rereads the sentence a few times before he looks up at you. Pretty albeit shy, your cheeks flushed and your gaze seemingly land anywhere but him. When you listen and roll over onto your stomach, he swallows the instinctive 'good girl' that threatens to spill from his lips.

He tugs on a fresh pair of gloves, strengthening his spine and fortifying the usual mask of professionalism he wears. You're laid out on your stomach now, the blankets of the exam table tugged down to right below your ass. Before he could ask you to lift your hips, you do so on your own, knees spread apart.

Face down, ass up.

He swallows thickly as he gently nudges the seam of the hospital gown apart at your spine. What greets him has heat boiling in his gut: a fuzzy pink, bunny cottontail buttplug nestled right in between your asscheeks.

"Alright, I'm gonna touch you back here, see how deep it's in there before we try extraction," he murmurs. You whimper when he gives an experimental but gentle tug. "Is there any stinging sensation?"

"Nuh-uh," you mumble into the pillow.

Jack swallows again as the cottontail plug gives beneath his grip, his other hand pushing your left asscheek aside. "Let me know if I pull too hard, alright?"

You nod and he sees the way your moves against the pillow.

"Words, please."

Your thighs clench as you fight off the simmering heat that your frustratingly hot doctor starts with those two simple words. "Yes, I will." An honorific sits behind your teeth (daddy? sir? whichever, it seems to fit him regardless of what you use) but you swallow it down.

Meanwhile, Jack tries to ignore the tell-tale sheen between your thighs, keeps his gloved hands where they need to be. His mind races through horrific, bloody accidents of the week prior to keep his other head from wandering. "Good," he mutters.

Silence falls between you two as Jack gently adds medical-grade lubricant, apologizing at the cool temperature of it against your heated skin. After a few rotations of the plug, you clamp your teeth around the hospital gown to stifle any wayward moans.

"Mm—" You whimper anyways and Jack stills. "I'm okay—! Just, uh— is it almost out?"

Jack clears his throat; he's grateful you can't see him or the creeping blush up his neck. "Almost. I gotta take it slow to avoid any possible injuries."

The thought makes you lightheaded but you ground yourself back into reality before your mind can start jumping to worst case scenarios. "That makes sense."

He twists the plug and a flare of arousal blooms in your core, more pleasure than pain now. "So," he clears his throat again, an attempt at normalcy. "What do you do for work?" He mentally pats himself on the back at the inane question, hoping it'll be enough to distract you as he attempts at another tug.

You squeak anyways as your ring of muscles expand at the widest part of the plug. Jack adds more lubricant. "This," you manage to say.

Jack's dick gives a willfull throb but he forces it down with the degloving case from the night before. "O-Oh?"

"I… stream? I'm an adult streamer, oh fuck—!"

Your ass is gaping slightly as Jack inadvertently tugs the whole plug out with little warning, an involuntary reaction from your reveal. "Shit— sorry, sweetheart. Don't move—"

The silicone toy hits the metal tray beside you in a dull thud, the fluffy end of it peeking above the lip of the tray, while you feel his gloved digits gently probe around the ring. "Just making sure there aren't any abrasions, any cuts or irritation before we finish up here." He sees your head nod against the pillows so he continues on with his examination.

Your ass is firm beneath his touch. Pilates, maybe. Or strength training. His jaw clenches as he forces his mind to the present again, resumes the exam before carefully covering you up with the hospital gown again. "You're all good, sweetheart, you can turn onto your back now."

A part of him feels a sick sense of satisfaction at the way you squirm from the easy use of petnames. He's always been a natural flirt, that roguish charm that calms patients enough for him to diagnose, but it's a touch more fun when it works on someone as pretty as you.

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot."

But the gentle cadence of your voice cuts through him and shame trickles in like molasses. When did he turn out to be such a perv? Maybe the night shift is getting to him. He clears his throat, assuming his professional stance, but your smile turns wicked and there's something mischievous in your gaze that he can't quite place.

"Really, I can't thank you enough," you say as you carefully roll over to settle in an upright position. "But, um… is it possible if I can keep the toy?"

He lets out a little laugh and nods. With his hands still gloved, he retrieves a plastic bag from one of the cabinets and places the toy in before handing it to you. "'course you can. Just make sure you prep yourself better next time."

Jack nearly winces at the crass statement but you reward him with a bemused giggle. "Don't worry, I learned my lesson. It's a good thing I'm testing it out first before a stream. It'd be so embarrassing if I got it stuck inside me while I was live," you share and he tries not to look too eager as you share more about your unorthodox occupation.

"Do you… do that often?" The question falls flat and he makes up for it with an embarrassed chuckle, discarding his gloves in the nearby waste basket. "Jesus, tell me if I'm overstepping here."

You laugh again and Jack's positive he isn't as funny as you make him to be but he'd gladly make a fool of himself if he got to hear that sound again. "You're fine. Trust me, I've heard worse."

"What if I want to be the best you've heard?"

Your brow rises up in mild surprise. "Was that a line, Dr. Abbot?"

"Maybe."

"It's not very good."

"It's also 2 AM, sweetheart."

You cross your arms, tilt yout head to the side and it feels like he's being taken apart. "Do you make it a habit to flirt with your patients?"

"Just the pretty ones— oh, yikes. Yeah, that one was bad," he concedes with a light laugh. "I may be a flirt, but you're trouble. Now… think you can behave while I go grab your discharge papers?"

Your smile is saccharine sweet. "Of course."

He chuckles and shakes his head, nudging the door open with his hip before he exits. The rest of the evening goes by routinely: you sign off on a few papers before changing back into your clothes. Dr. Abbot is nowhere to be seen until you're walking towards the exit, your gait a tad bit crooked, and he's leaning against the counter by the nurses' station.

"Thanks again, doctor."

The wink you give him nearly stops his heart, your easy demeanor returning now that you aren't battling the embarrassment of having a butt plug stuck inside you. When the door shuts behind you and the chaos of the emergency department resumes around him, Crus Henderson cackles behind his chart.

"What?" Jack frowns.

The smile Henderson gives him is downright sinister. "You're not slick, old man."

"It's fine." Shen materializes beside him with an obnoxiously loud slurp of his perpetually full iced coffee. "Technically, she isn't your patient anymore. And Crus and I won't tell."

"There's nothing to tell—!"

The two share knowing grins before walking off. "Sure, Abbot. Sure. Wait 'til you're off to look her up though."

Jack splutters. "I'm not going to look her up—"

In the quiet of his bedroom, Jack looks you up.

The sun's already filtering through his window blinds and it feels like some social transgression to be searching up porn during the day. But he's showered and clean with his prosthetic off, tucked under his covers and leaned against his headboard. The cursor's blinking up at him, taunting him. He doesn't even know where to begin but he's got your full name, wonders if it's enough to even catch a trace of you on social media.

He types your name in anyway on instagram and his breath leaves him in a rush when your profile sits at the top of the search results. Your profile pic is innocent enough, smiling brightly, but upon further inspection, your shoulders and collarbone is exposed right where the photo is cut off; an implication that you've got nothing on below the edge of your profile. Once he manages to tear his gaze away, his eyes snag onto the amount of followers you have. Four million. An impressed whistle escapes him as he starts to scroll.

Your photos are still pretty tame, nothing more risque than a bikini shot of you at the beach. To anyone that isn't regularly watching adult streamers, you look like any other influencer of the modern age. Wholesome photos of you are attached as well, displaying your interests and hobbies that has Jack falling deeper and deeper into your orbit.

It's nearly noon when he realized he may have spent the previous hours just looking up your social media sites. One thing that did stick out like a sore thumb (aside from your jaw-dropping photos) had been the lack of use of your real name. He understands the reasoning, knows its for safety especially with the kind of career you're in, but the affectionate nickname you use for yourself and what your subscribers use has a lick of jealousy flaring in his chest.

Dollface. Doll. Dolly.

He scrolls back up before the little monster in his chest grows and a nondescript url catches his eye, the hyperlink sitting pretty beneath your bio. Before he could secondguess himself, he taps it and his phone brings him out of instagram and into his browser app where your website loads on his screen.

While Jack isn't some tech-savvy genius, he's confident enough to say that your page must've been done by a professional. Summer pastels greet him, a variation of your profile pic on instagram (more skin, more sultry—) sitting on the top left of the screen with 'DOLL'S CORNER' splashed on the top of the page and a drop down menu that he decides to explore later.

It's arranged like some sort of blog, your most recent status marked as eight hours ago where you're complaining about some ache. He bites back a smirk before he scrolls down your older posts. There's many videos, ranging from 'get ready with me!'s and 'shopping hauls' with pretty thumbnails, but the one that steals his attention are the ones that are grayed out — almost pixelated with a pink heart-lock graphic in the center.

[ UPGRADE YOUR TIER LEVEL TO ACCESS THIS VIDEO! ♡ ]

His thumb hovers over the lock-graphic before he gives in.

The screen loads and he's taken to a new page, marked by different tiers and different price points.

BESTIES — free! access includes: - get ready with me - weekly vlogs - shopping hauls SWEETHEARTS — weekly subscription. ($) - everything besties has to offer! - short-form lewd content - locked photos from the vault - audios LOVERS — monthly subscription. ($$$) - everything sweethearts and besties has to offer! - midnight live-streams - personalized short-form videos - personalized audios

Jack blinks twice. He continues to scroll before he catches a three-day free trial for all the paid tiers. He bypasses it and taps a single month purchase for access to the LOVERS' vault (after creating a profile and naming it simply with his initials). His dick stirs in his pajamas as the screen loads before it confirms his payment.

All the grayed-out videos are unlocked but rather than an aesthetic thumbnail with pretty collages like your free content, they're blurred out images of you within the video — enough to imply exactly what's going on in each one.

He scrolls on to see another video of you trying on outfits, specifically lingerie. Figuring this is as close as it'll get to dipping his toes in the metaphorical pond of your NSFW content for now, he hits play.

The video starts off with your pretty face adjusting the camera before you settle back on a white rug, surrounded by opened boxes. You greet the camera and it feels like a blow to the gut to see you in your element. If he thought you were pretty in the emergency room, under the garish lighting of the bright fluorescents, you're a goddamn bombshell with perfect makeup and flattering lighting.

As you address the camera, he begins to wonder how exactly you could be an adult streamer when you have content like this until you bring out the haul for the video. White ivory boxes detailed with cream ribbons, baby pink boxes wrapped nicely with ebony lace and tulle. He catches a name on one of the boxes: La Perla.

Jack shifts in his seat, bats away the creeping guilt of watching a young woman try on lingerie, but the charge was confirmed on his card already; it's too late for regret.

(He fears there isn't any regret in the first place.)

Fortunately for his heart (or unfortunately for his twitching cock), you had edited the videos to cut through the actual process of changing into them and rather just show off the full sets.

You didn't seem to have a preference for color, each piece ranging from a monochromatic black to butter yellow lace. Either way, you look gorgeous in all of them and Jack isn't ashamed to admit he's about to blow in his boxers, untouched, at just the sight of you in lingerie.

When the video ends, he replays it but makes it a point to keep his hands out of his pants for now. Instead, he drops a like and a simple comment:

@.swatdoc. — You're magnificent.

Confident in the anonymity of his profile, he puts his phone away to finally catch up on sleep.

Across the city, your phone buzzes with a new notification as you have breakfast on your island counter. Despite the waves of engagement you get on your content, you still keep the notifications on and the newest one brings forth a flutter in your stomach. Compliments are a nickel apiece when it comes to your career but the simplicity of this one and the lack of crudeness that follows steals your attention.

You take a bite of your food as you tap the notif, bringing on the new account profile. While most are kept blank, this man has a profile pic of his back facing a gorgeous sunset. Despite the fact his face is unseen, you recognize those salt and pepper curls.

In the following days, Jack begins to make it a habit to check on your daily statuses. You don't post daily on instagram but you post stories and he enjoys your little activities, likes how everyone seems to be so kind to you. It makes him wonder if your followers are aware of your evening activities, of your content tucked safely away behind a paywall.

Even in the comments section in both the SFW and NSFW side of your content, he realizes you've amassed a loyal following comprised of women that it nearly hides the lewd and desperate remarks from your male subscribers.

@deathreverse : that top is gorggggg!!! ♡

@pearlessance : your makeup is stunning, drop a routine next babes!!

@enam3l: absolutely obsessed w you!! ♡

@mariasont: that shade of pink suits you BEAUTIFULLY

In your last NSFW video, it's you in bed, a thin blanket draped loosely along your frame. There isn't an intro like your lingerie haul, just getting right into it as if the viewer catches you in the middle of the act: your hand sliding beneath the fabric, the camera shaking slightly as you rearrange your position to lay back against the mountain of pillows.

Jack's mimicking the position on his day off, his own back cushioned against his headboard as he watches in rapt attention. His readers are sliding off his nose but he adjusts them as he hits the volume increase button twice. He wants to hear you, addicted to the way you sound so sweet whimpering around your fingers.

Obsessed with the way your moans can sound so goddamn endearing.

He doesn't let the video play on, his hand still sitting obediently above the waist band of his sweatpants as he tries to catch his breath. He scrolls onward instead, stops at a tamer video of you shopping at a boutique.

@.swatdoc. — Gorgeous as always, bunny.

The cursor blinks as he secondguesses the petname. No one's called you anything other than 'doll' or 'dolly' or some iteration of baby or babe. Bunny's innocuous enough, Jack decides, and taps 'comment'. It'll be an inside joke for himself, for the evening you may as well tipped his world upside down when you'd come into the pitt for a stuck bunny buttplug. You get thousands of comments a day, the likelihood of you recognizing him is abysmally low.

The little pep talk he gives himself soothe the minor anxiety spike as he continues to scroll on, amusing himself with the way your bright personality seems to shine through even with the nasty videos that has his cock twitching to life.

He distracts himself with the comments section instead of exiting the video.

@.deathreverse — jesuuus christ, ur so fucking hot

@.deathreverse — let me rip that gorgeous top off you plsplspls

@.pearlessance — let me make your moans my ringtone and i'll never miss a call

The women commenting are far more entertaining to read through, the creativity of it all always taking him aback, despite the usual stab of jealousy. At this point, his parasocial streak of possessiveness is something he's learned to ignore, to let sit beneath a layer of faux indifference.

He's just a fan now among millions, he'll bask in the anonymity your popularity affords him.

You might be obsessed with your most latest subscriber. A Mr. Swatdoc with the silver curls.

Realistically, it may be the hot doctor that had seen you through the most mortifying ordeal of taking out a buttplug at two in the morning but the profile pic doesn't give you much and his profile is blank aside from his chosen screen name (swatdoc) and his age (48).

Regardless, your heart does a funny little twist whenever he appears in your notifications (only on your SFW posts, interestingly enough) whether it's a like or an extra tip but your stomach drops when his newest comment adds a new petname.

Bunny.

You sit up in bed when the notification comes through. Gorgeous as always, bunny. The fucking bunny, cotton-tail buttplug. The same one that Dr. Abbot had all but talked you through it as he gently removed it from your asshole. You glance up to see the damned toy sitting on your dresser right across from your bed, mocking you.

The bed dips beneath as you shift your weight, rolling around in bed as you reread that goddamn nickname over and over again. Bunny.

As your eyes bore into your screen, your phone buzzes.

[@.swatdoc liked your vlog!]

[@.swatdoc commented: Can't get enough of you, bunny.]

A sudden wave of confidence (or perhaps impulsiveness) washes through you and you tap his comment. And in quick succession, you like his comment and tap on his profile. Then his inbox. And finally:

doll : doctor abbot???

Jack drops his phone like it burned him. He sits up, nearly kicks off his blankets in his chaos as his heart falls right out of his ass. He didn't even know there was a messaging system on your website but there it is, that red notification bubble on the top right. He taps it and there's the chatbox.

He contemplates on lying, on playing dumb but he respects you far too much to lie to you. A heavy sigh escapes him as he resettles back into his bed and his cock sheepishly sits limp against his inner thigh.

swatdoc : How did you know it was me?

doll : i'd recognize those silver curls anywhere ♡

Huh. The little heart emoticon blinks up at him, maybe even glows. His cock gives a hopeful twitch.

swatdoc : Let me get this right. You aren't weirded out by me finding your website?

doll : you pulled my buttplug out of my ass, doctor. i think we're even.

swatdoc : Sounds fair.

doll : i do want to ask, strictly as a survey yknow, just to make sure i'm reaching subscriber satisfaction expectations. but is my nsfw stuff not hot enough?

swatdoc : I don't know how to answer that.

doll : you aren't liking any of my nsfw videos…….. am i not your type?

He can imagine it, that wry little grin when you tease the camera, makes him want to fuck it out of you—

swatdoc : Just trying to be respectful. Or as respectful as I can be given the circumstances, sweetheart.

doll : i think you're super respectful, i see the tips you've been leaving….. thank you btw ♡

swatdoc : You're welcome, bunny. doll liked your message!

The activity light near your name goes off and he figures you might've logged off. His thumb drags up the screen to exit the page, sets his phone down and attempt at sleeping. But in the midst of his dark bedroom, there's a stirring in his gut that he can't seem to shake. An itch he needs scratching.

Time fluctuates, slips through his fingers as he finds himself on a popular porn website, the light of his phone illuminating his hazel eyes. He scrolls and scrolls past countless videos, the thumbnails made to entice anyone in his position, and yet frustration starts to grow larger than the lust that's been simmering beneath his heated skin.

None of the actresses look like you.

The thought floors him and he pauses when he finds a woman with a similar body type as you, wears her hair the same way you do. Her moans are a bit too pitchy but he punches the volume down and when his hand slides beneath his sweatpants, he doesn't feel guilt. And when he cums, it's your name spilling from his lips.

"You seeing anyone?"

Jack doesn't look up from the iPad as Robby settles in beside him, ready to take over for day shift as night shift starts to filter out. "What are you talking about?"

"Y'know. Dating? Getting out there? 'cuz Peaches has someone—"

"Not interested, brother, but I thank you for your service." Jack smiles but it's forced, halfway towards a grimace, and places the iPad down with a little too much force. He stomps off to the locker room. Robby and Dana watch his retreating back before they share a look.

"What's his problem?" Dana mutters, her glasses sitting low on the slope of her nose.

Robby chuckles and shakes his head. "No idea."

The truth is— Jack does have a problem. That problem is you.

He thought he'd been good, kept his hands to himself when he gets to his usual routine of stalking your website, and lets his fantasies run wild when he switches over to another porn site to find an actress that looks like you.

But then you had kept texting him, messaging him on your website that the line he's drawn between staying respectful and admiring you from afar against his baseless desire of wanting to fuck you 'til you cry is starting to blur. Of course you have no idea of this line, no clue of the existence of the boundaries Jack's made for himself.

You have no idea that Jack wants more than a physical interaction with you and he has no idea how to ask you out without coming off like a complete pervert.

doll: dr abbot?? swatdoc: You know you can call me Jack, sweetheart. doll: take me out first then i'll feel comfortable enough to call you whatever you want.

Jack nearly shortcircuits at your reply and he fights the urge to hide his phone, shove it in his pocket to deal with later. It'd just look too suspicious and with Shen's eyes on him, he knows he'd blab straight to Lena who'd definitely gossip with Dana. While Dana's known to keep a secret, anything involving him and a potential partner is a surefire way for her to tell Robby.

swatdoc: You mean it, bunny? doll: spending time with you? of course ♡

Jack chuckles and swipes his palm across his stubbly mouth, absolutely incredulous at your gumption.

swatdoc: I meant a date. Not just one night. This old man isn't built for casual. doll: okay old man. take me out to dinner then ♡ it'd give me a chance to redo the first impression you have of me swatdoc: I think it was a perfect first impression, bunny. doll: you saw my ass, of course you thought so!!! swatdoc: I was actually enamored by your charming personality. Your ass was a bonus. doll: … flirt. you're smooth dr abbot. doll: so when's our date? swatdoc: My next day off is in a couple days. How's saturday night looking for you? doll: i'm free !!! gonna come pick me up? swatdoc: If you're comfortable with it, I'd love to. So, saturday at 7? doll: i trust you ♡ and yes, i'll see you then.

He gets a text from you the following day (you'd admitted filching his number from the profile he's made on your website) and after a brief facetime call to prove your identity, he receives your address with a playful tag of: don't be late, dr. abbot.

Saturday's only a couple days away and yet he's fidgeting. He's got a night shift to get his mind off things but even Lena can see he's distracted. While he managed to wave away his colleagues' concerns, he wonders if he's the only one this anxious or nervous for the date.

[ Doll updated her status! ] — 2 secs ago. — Butterflies. ♡

A wave of notifications flood your phone despite the simple status update but you couldn't care less— not when you've got every possible combination of a date outfit laid out on your bed and nothing looks good. You have time, of course, there's nothing stopping you from going out shopping but the extra options might just exacerbate your indecision.

A pitiful whine escapes you as the paralysis of all your options land you flat on your back atop your mattress, clothing wrinkles be damned.

Whether or not the both of you are ready, Saturday evening arrives quickly.

The only information Jack had given you about the date aside from taking you out for a nice, classic dinner was to 'look nice'. As charming and handsome as he is, you resent the fact that he's like every other man his age: allergic to details. Somehow you manage to put on something simple but flattering, a black cocktail dress with a hemline that skims above your knee and a sweetheart neckline that teases your cleavage along with a bold, red pair of stilettos. Pairing it with a matching clutch, you deem yourself ready after a final swipe of lip gloss across your pouty lips.

"Here we go…" you murmur to yourself. Just as you dab at your lower lip with the pad of your ring finger, your doorbell rings. Seven on the dot.

Your heels click against the floor as you open your door to be greeted with Jack in slacks and a navy blue button down… as well as a bouquet of your favorite flowers. You gasp first, greetings momentarily forgotten in favor of taking the offered bouquet for a sweet sniff. Jack's compliments die on his tongue when he truly sees you, nose buried in the petals.

"How'd you know these were my favorite?" You ask as you step back, head tipping to wordlessly invite him in as you seek out a vase.

"I watched your vlogs," he shrugs with a shameless little smile. "I picked up a few details."

Maybe he shouldn't be as stunned as he is now — he's seen you in various states of dressed and undressed at this point — but you've truly left him speechless when you had opened the door, wearing that little black dress that hugs your body perfectly.

He's grateful that you notice the flowers first, cooing and gasping at the curated arrangement rather than noticing his thunderstruck stupor. It gives him a moment to clear his throat, admire the way you smile at the bouquet.

"You look divine," he murmurs as he follows you inside, watches you putter around your open space kitchen to place the flowers in water. And maybe it's his ego that's got him this taken by you; knowing that perhaps only he alone gets to see this side of you, bashful and charming. When you blush at his compliment, he feels like the king of the world.

"You don't look so bad yourself," you tease with a playful wink, taking his offered hand as he leads you out the door.

Jack's a gentleman when he helps you into his car, glancing aside momentarily when your dress rides up upon seating. He's a gentleman when you make it to the fine-dining restaurant ("Heard the new executive chef just received two Michelin stars!" you share excitedly), opening doors for you and keeping a respecful hand at the small of your back. He pulls your chair out for you, too. Perhaps the bar is in hell but you're undoubtedly impressed and giddy, basking in his undivided attention as you wear your heart on your sleeve for the rest of the evening.

"… and they all looked at it like it was something alien. It was a fax machine—!" Jack laughs, regaling you with the infamous July 4 analog nightmare from hell at the pitt. Dessert is lain between you two, half-eaten and momentarily forgotten as the two of you had been lost in conversation. He'd been worried that he might gross you out or bore you with his job as an ER physician but you had asked and prodded for more gory details, nose scrunching adorably when he explained what a degloving was.

"Okay, fax machines are basically obsolete," you counter with a giggle, lips parting as he feeds you a bite of cake. He waits patiently for you to chew before you continue on. "No one uses them anymore!"

Jack shakes his head in mock disappointment before you return the favor and feed him a bite from your own fork. "Sweetheart, these are vital skills!" Something warm flutters in his chest when you reach up to absentmindedly wipe away a bit of frosting from the corner of his lips, your painted nail skimming across his skin with the movement.

"How about this, I'll call you on the off chance I'll ever need to use a fax machine," you say dryly. A chuckle escapes Jack, low and grumbly that it has your thighs clenching together beneath the table.

"Sure. Or call me whenever, I'll always answer."

The ease of his flirting never fails to make you flustered and Jack capitalizes on it whenever he gets the chance. Like clockwork, you giggle and glance aside, a pretty blush on your cheeks as you look anywhere but his eyes. It's a wonderful side of you that he's steadily growing obsessed with. Yes, your online persona in your SFW space is charming and enchanting while you're essentially a succubus — sex incarnate — when the sun drops low.

But this is you, unabashedly you, and Jack can't get enough of it. He wants more than what you probably expect from him, a warm body to occupy his bed (judging from the stories you've shared about past experiences), and he's ready to go above and beyond to prove to you that he's willing to do whatever it takes so that he could call all of you his.

"Hey, how are we doing? Dessert's good?" The head-of-house manager of the restaurant cuts in seamlessly; he seems to have a good sense of when to enter a conversation.

You smile brightly and Jack nods. "It's delicious, thank you. Every dish has been fantastic," you gush.

"Wonderful, that's what I like to hear," the manager crows before he straightens out his tie. "You two are a beautiful couple. Are we celebrating an anniversary?"

Now it's Jack's turn to get bashful. "Uh, no, a first date, actually."

The manager looks taken aback but he bounces back with a low chuckle, two hands on his chest in subtle apology. "If it helps, the chemistry you two have is undeniable. Truly. But anyways, I came by to ask if you two would like to join us in the garden party out back or maybe a nice little kitchen tour?"

Your eyes shimmer with excitement and Jack gives a yes, offering his hand for you to take. The manager smiles and claps once. "Perfect, let me take you to where the magic happens."

After meeting the famed head chefs and even sampling a few of the desserts at the pastry station, you're positively glowing as the two of you step out to where a small get together of other guests mingle by picnic tables. A few guys that may be the line cooks are handing out beer and soda, giving off a more relaxed vibe than the one inside. It's pleasant and when you feel a chill, Jack's draping his jacket along your shoulders without a word.

"Thanks," you hum, eyes fluttering as you take in his warm and musky cologne that seeps in from the collar. He chuckles and places a hand on the bottom of your spine.

"Of course," he murmurs then tips his head to wear the drinks are being passed around. "Did you want any—?"

"No, I think I'm stuffed. Did you…?"

Jack shakes his head and the nerves from before the date nearly come back in full force. You aren't naive, you know what kind of expectations your job gives people whenever you go on dates. While Jack's been a gentleman the entire evening, you can't deny the fact that him being a subscriber to your NSFW content does skew the way he must see you.

The drive back to your place is quiet and calm, your hand folded delicately in his as he drives. He walks you to your door but much to your surprise, he doesn't step past the threshold.

"I had an amazing time," he says first, his lined eyes crinkling as he gives you a warm smile. "I'd really like to see you again."

You nod, leaning against your doorway as you realize his hand has found yours again. Your joined fingers sway slightly. "Me too. I… I really liked tonight."

He smiles wider as if you've erased any doubts he's had. "Good. I'll, um. I'll let you get some rest. I'll call you when I get my next day off, alright?"

"Yeah, sounds good."

"Great." And with a smooth and unhurried motion, he leans in for a kiss to your cheek, chaste and sweet. "By the way, I want you to know I'm all in. I'm not trying to waste your time or make you think I'm here for the physical aspect. I like you, sweetheart. Truly."

And with a final pinch of your chin, he steps away and bids you good night before walking off. Later that night, you realize you haven't stopped smiling until you climb into bed, alone but completely content.

When morning comes, Jack sends you a good morning text before he cleans up around the house, settle in before his shift later that evening. He doesn't check his phone 'til noon and when he does, he sees a text back from you and a notification from your website.

[Doll just posted a video!] — 3 hours ago.

His stomach drops. While he truly has no issue with you continuing your camgirl career, something twists inside him at the thought of you getting off the night before without him. Is it that feeling of missing out or is it the fact that he hadn't been there to fulfill that need of yours?

Regardless, his heart is pounding when he taps the notification. The video loads and a breath of relief leaves him in a rush.

[New video!] Get un-ready with me! — Skincare Routine.

He chuckles and leans against the kitchen counter, turns his phone sideways to see you fill his screen in the same dress from the night before. You must be in your bathroom, he notes, as you relay your steps carefully to your audience.

"I know everyone will be asking but I just came back from a wonderful dinner. Food was absolutely divine, I'm already considering going back soon. But…" A bashful smile curls onto your lips and Jack's beaming. "The company was even better. Anyways— moving onto the foam cleanser…"

Your routine ends after you apply your serums and creams, signing off on the camera. The comments section pop up immediately.

@.mariasont — your skin looks so good but you look GLOWINGGG

@.pearlessance — were you on a date?? that dress is fantastic!!

Jack chuckles when he sees that you've dropped a like on that commenter about a date but nothing more. Fan the rumors without confirming anything, looks like you're a tease in more ways than one.

Unable to help himself, he scrolls down his contacts and taps yours. The phone rings once, twice, then—

"Jack?"

"Hey, sweetheart. Is this a bad time?"

You sound a tad bit out of breath but you reassure him nonetheless. "No, no, you're fine. What's up?"

"Well, I—" He interrupts himself with a shy laugh. "I don't know if it's too soon but I'd like to take you out again. My next day off is next week on Friday."

"Oh!" You sound positively pleased and Jack can picture you biting your lower lip to hide that smile he's obsessed with. "Yeah, I can make that happen. Are we doing dinner?"

"No, I was thinking of visiting the aquarium this time around."

"The aquarium…"

He bites back a grin, can picture the excitement simmering beneath the slight trepidation of your words. "That's right. Unless there's something else—"

"No, it's perfect!" You cut in with a little giggle. "Jack, did you watch all my vlogs?"

"Of course I did. And it truly can't be that much of a hardship to learn how much you love the place when you've got vlogs of you there nearly every month," he teases. "But if it's something you like to do on your own—"

"No, no, it's fine, Jack, I'd love to." He can hear the way your voice softens. "I can't wait."

"Alright, it's a date. I'll see you next Friday, sweetheart."

Friday doesn't come fast enough this time around. You've got an outfit bought and ready to go, a simple skirt with a blouse that you might've picked to match his eyes. Jack's on time yet again, two PM on the dot, and while he still keeps his hands to himself, he basks in the way your hand constantly seeks out the crook of his elbow.

You regale him with fish facts throughout each wing of the aquarium and he watches with besotted eyes when you basically glow at the sight of the jellyfish. Conversation ebbs and flows and he's pressing soft kisses into your hair like he can't quite help himself.

By the time you've both made it back to his car, he helps you in while placing the massive jellyfish plushy he bought you at the gift shop onto your lap. It's silly and absolutely wholesome.

It's made you undeniably horny for him.

You appreciate it though, you see how he's gone above and beyond to show you that he wants a relationship out of this. He doesn't expect you to be 'easier' because of your job as a camgirl nor does he think he's entitled to anything more than a kiss on the cheek because of what you show online.

And it's making you want him so bad that you feel like the pervert in this situation.

At your doorway, he's got a hand on your waist this time and your arms are draped loosely around his neck while still holding onto the jellyfish plush that's dangling behind his back.

"Today was lots of fun," you say first, nearly chest to chest with him. He nods, feeling the way you shiver when his thumb rubs circles against your hip bones. Above the fabric of your shirt.

"It was," he agrees as he basks in the sweet scent of your perfume. This close, you're practically intoxicating. "I enjoyed the little fish facts too, didn't know my date was a lovely encyclopedia—"

Your eyes roll playfully at the teasing jab, exaggerating your movements as you unwind your arms to step out of his embrace. "If you hate me, just say so—"

"Now hold on, I never said it was a bad thing," he chuckles and you let out a quiet squeal when his grip tightens, pulling you back into his arms. "Thought it was cute."

"Sure you do," you tease back and you realize he's pulled you even closer now. His voice is a rumble, low and gravelly as the distance between your lips is beginning to diminish.

"I do." He murmurs, his nose brushing against yours. "This okay?"

You nod, throat bobbing. "More than okay," you whisper.

His gaze drops from your eyes, back to your lips, before they close the distance. Your heart thunders in your chest as your arms tighten around his neck to pull him lower. He goes easily, smiling against your lips. He doesn't deepen it, though, just steals a handful of more feather-light kisses that elicits a string of giggles from you, your foot popping up and your back bending slightly backwards as he dips you and showers you in affection.

Eventually, he reluctantly pulls away but not without giving you one more kiss. "Have a good rest of your evening, sweetheart," he murmurs. "Make sure you lock the door behind you, yeah?"

You nod, sighing dramatically as you lean against the back of your door as he steps out to the hallway. "I will. Can I see you again soon, Jack?"

His poor little heart thunders wildly at your adorable expression, half-pleading and half-fond. "Of course, princess. Maybe we can do something like this again, maybe a museum or that fair?"

You perk up with a nod. "That sounds like fun."

"Good. I'll see you soon, darling."

You sigh dreamily and blow him a kiss before shutting the door. You lean against the paneling and groan into your hands.

In the silence of your apartment, you wail— "Why won't he fuck me?!"

The time between your last date to the aquarium to your next one at the museum, you and Jack continue to text. Whether it's you giving him advice for a dish he's making or asking his opinion on which top would look well for a brunch you're attending with your girlfriends, the conversations never slow nor do they ever bore.

And in between those texts, Jack is happily gorging himself on your content while only getting off on actresses that hold resemblance to you. It's twisted and he knows it's wrong but he pictures your face in the shower sometimes, thinks of the way your teeth sink in your plush lower lip as his hand tugs at his cock.

You, however, hold no qualms as you drive the dildo deep in your cunt on late evenings, whimpering for the camera you've got set up. You always make it a habit to just plead, whine and beg more than you might naturally would with a partner, but when Jack's on your mind, you have nothing to exaggerate; you just get way more vocal as you think of his strong hands on your waist. The way he had commanded that kiss without being overbearing.

That kiss alone had wrung out three orgasms from you without the camera on.

Maybe it should've been enough to tide you over but as you start your usual midnight livestream the evening before your next date with Jack, a new title spills past your lips in the throes of your first climax. It shouldn't be a surprise at how easily the name comes to you, especially with how natural it seemed for Jack to take care of you—

"'m cumming, daddy—!"

The pings on your laptop nearby that you use for monitoring the chats go wild, the bell ringing that signified the amount of tips that just flooded your inbox from the title alone. You slump over as you catch your breath from where you've been riding your suction dildo, whining softly to yourself as the toy slides out of you. Your inner thighs are quivering as you lift your gaze to the laptop screen.

"Thanks for stopping by," you croon to the camera before shutting off the stream.

Across the city, Jack palms at his bulge, mouth slightly agape as he tries not to cum in his sweatpants like a teenager. "Fuck."

"I didn't really take you to be a museum kind of guy."

"I'm not. Not really… My friend's fiancée recommended it to us, thought we might like the new exhibit," Jack shrugs as he keeps you near with a hand around your waist. The new exhibit had garnered a sizable crowd and the last thing he wants is to lose you. Especially since you seem preoccupied with the information pamplet, both hands holding it open to read while relying heavily on Jack's firm hand. He likes it, the thought of you trusting him so readily.

You hum in acknowledgment before peering above the page. "The map says the new Caravaggio exhibit is that way… I think." Jack chuckles and peers over your shoulder, both of his hands firmly on your waist. You hold the pamphlet up higher for him.

"You aren't wrong," he muses as he reads over the map. You swallow nervously, you can feel the heat of his body seep against your backless top, the way his voice gets all low and gravelly when he's talking just to you. "It's past the abstract wing. Can you fold that up for me, sweetheart? I wouldn't want you to trip over your feet if you can't see where you're going."

You nod instinctively. "Yes—" You swallow back that title that sits at the back of your throat whenever Jack gets so… passively dominant. "Yeah, of course."

He chuckles and lets his arm fall along your lower back, a hand at the dip of your waist as he leads you towards the exhibit. The entire time as you two parade around the wing, Jack keeps you close. It sparks a light in your core, your inner thighs clenching with need when he unwittingly turns on your desire to be taken care of. But he seems so unbothered by it, humming to himself as his thumb slips beneath your blouse to rub your skin while he reads the information beside the painting.

The two of you are admiring Caravaggio's Narcissus when something comes to mind. "Why'd you call me 'bunny'? In my comments?"

He glances down at you, taken aback by the sudden question. "I… thought it'd be nice to have a nickname of my own for you. It reminded me of our first meeting."

A fond smile curls upon your lips. "Why haven't you called me that since we started dating?"

Something fond crosses over Jack's face, leaves as quickly as it came. His hand squeezes your side. "I didn't think it was appropriate. Thought it might make you uncomfortable if I called you that in public."

"I liked it. Like it. I still do," you trip over your words with a flustered smile. "It's like our own little inside thing. Um—no pun intended."

Jack chuckles and that wide smile he gives you has you pushing against your toes to press your lips to his. He hums fondly, nips at your lower lip. "Alright, I'll keep that in mind, bunny."

You kiss him again.

For the next couple of months, you start to see Jack regularly. Dinner dates (whether it's at the first restaurant he's taken you to or he cooks for you at his place) or movie nights, or even him just coming over to unwind after a long shift. Your posting schedule doesn't shift, only rearranges itself to make room for Jack.

A month in, you'd sat him down and tentatively but firmly told him that you wouldn't be stopping just because of your dates. Jack had accepted it without question, took it as if it was what he expected in the first place.

So you continue your usual schedule. Vlogs and short-form content for your SFW socials and full streams for your NSFW audience. Suggestive photos to tide your subscribers over 'til the next full video.

Jack, on the other hand, looks positively giddy with himself. Sure, he's cumming in his fist nearly every night but he's determined to make sure you know that he wants more with you. Fuck. He sounds like a broken record but he's obsessed; the last thing he wants is his dick to ruin this for his heart.

But his good mood is translated into his night shifts, cracking jokes even with angry patients. It has Shen watching over in confused concern, always taking a double-take when he has the chance. Parker and Crus decide that it's just Jack going through a new wave, a new fixation that's probably tiding him over.

Or a girl— but that's Robby's problem to mull over, not theirs.

They get their chance when Jack's scheduled for a double (something he makes up to you with another extravagant VIP dinner the day before), dropping a hint to their chief that their night-shift attending's been weird all week.

The ambulance bay doors slide open in a 'whoosh' for Dr. Robinavitch, passing by Javadi who's talking to Trinity about making mutuals with some big-shot on her Tiktok and Dennis catching up with Perlah about his weekend, to get to Jack in the locker room.

"So. Shen's said you've been weird."

Jack chuckles lightly, throws his stethescope around his neck, and shuts his locker. "I'm seeing someone."

Robby startles. "Oh. That's— brother, that's great."

"What, didn't think I'd admit it so quickly?" Jack grins and pats his shoulder as he steps around his friend.

"No, not really." Robby follows him out, tugging on both ends of his stethoscope. "I'm happy for you. What's her name?"

"Nah, that's all you're getting out of me, Robinavitch."

The sun's setting as Jack turns the page on the novel he's been reading to you. You're sitting between his legs and your back against his warm chest, stretching out on the gingham blanket you've brought as the two of you find cover beneath the large tree.

Today's date had been completely spontaneous. When his schedule had been unwittingly cleared up, he had driven straight to you to take you out for a late lunch picnic at the small fair that's set up for the weekend. With the sandwiches finished off and you'd run off to buy cotton candy for the both of you to share, Jack had fished out a novel in his back seat to pass the time and enjoy the nice weather.

His hand is absentmindedly rubbing your exposed thigh, the skirt of your sundress riding up just enough for him to explore the smooth skin. His cheek is pressed against the top of your hair while you absentmindedly trace shapes atop his jean-clad thighs.

"Feelin' restless, bunny?"

"Hm?" Jack's question draws you out of your stupor, so content in his arms that it takes him a few attempts to get your attention. "No, just… really cozy."

"Yeah?" He presses a line of kisses down your jaw and neck, eliciting a soft squeal from you. Jack would've continued showering you in kisses but he grunts, reluctantly pulling away to rub at his aching prosthesis.

You frown. He's mentioned losing a limb before, knows that he wears a prosthetic leg, but you've never seen him this uncomfortable. "Jack, we could head home if it's hurting—"

"I'm fine—"

"Jack." He pauses and turns his attention to you, your brows furrowed and your lips in a line. "Come on, we can just take it easy at your place. You said you're more comfortable in your crutches, right?"

"Yeah." You can see when he finally gives in, his shoulders rounding out as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "Yeah, alright. Let's go."

Once the both of you get to your feet, you hold out your hand. "Gimme the keys, I'll drive to give your leg a break."

"I don't think so."

"Jack."

"Bunny."

It takes a second but he concedes there too, pulling you in by the shoulders for a swift kiss to your lips. "You're lucky you're cute, sweetheart."

Jack's place is almost as familiar as yours now. He watches you saunter around his place, dropping his keys into the dish bowl on the table by the door, place your things on the loveseat before rummaging through his fridge for a beer.

When you reach him where he's seated on his couch, prosthesis set aside to hand him a beer, he gently tugs you onto his lap before popping the tab open for your can first. "Thanks," you hum, taking a sip while he opens his. His arm is strong around your waist and the easy strength he holds for you, the possessive touch he's got whenever you're near... it sparks a flicker of heat inside you and as you turn, straddling his lap to kiss along his jaw. His scruff is rough against your glossy lips but it only has you mewling.

"Bunny…" he groans as his large hand splays along the expanse of your back, supporting your weight while you tip back just enough for him to place his beer behind you on the coffee table. His eyes flutter shut, basking in your sweet kisses, as temptation guides his hand lower to cup your perky ass. It's your moan, drawn out and desperate, that pulls him out of the heat that's settling thick in his head. Reluctantly, his hands rise back up and an indignant whine spills from your throat—

"Jack, why won't you fuck me?"

He nearly chokes on his spit at your question and when he looks up, you look adorably put out, lower lip jutting out. Your gaze is glassy, lips kiss-swollen. His thumb comes up, presses against your mouth to drag down your lip slowly. "Bunny, why do you think I won't fuck you?"

"You— you've only ever kissed me. You've only liked my non-sexual content. You—"

"Baby," he shushes you gently, releases your lip to cradle your jaw. "It's not that I'm uninterested in you. Trust me— I am. I just didn't want you to think this was all some ploy to just get you in bed with me."

Another whine rises up within you. "But it's been months, Jack."

"Sweetheart, I wanted to make sure you know I was serious. It wasn't just for you, but for me, too. Had to make it known to you that I'm here for the long haul," he murmurs and when you nod in understanding, his lips find yours for a kiss that's got you clenching your thighs. Your back arches back when he leans further in, lips parting to let his tongue probe against yours.

"Gonna… mm— fuck me now?" You pant against his mouth, lashes kissing the tops of your cheeks when his lips drag down your neck to mark your collarbone with marks.

His chuckle is raspy against your skin. "I'm gonna make love to you, bunny. Come on—"

"Why not here?" You whimper, giving your hips a slow roll against his. You can feel his bulge, stiff through his jeans, against your panties.

"I'm not having you on my couch, darling. Not for our first time. We can defile the rest of my house later."

You giggle as you reluctantly get to your feet, knees nearly knocking together while Jack goes for his crutches. "Do you promise?"

"I promise," he chuckles, following you into his bedroom. His mouth goes dry, easy dominance deflating momentarily when he watches you crawl onto the center of his bed, your sundress hemline rucked up to reveal the pretty white lace panties you've got on beneath. His eyes follow the fabric, disappearing in between your ass cheeks, before they flit back up when you turn and lean against his headboard.

You're in your doll mindset now, your hands dancing across your body to give him a show. But while your videos are choreographed, almost clinical to a certain degree to entertain an audience, Jack sees the way your hand trembles just before you drag the neckline of your dress down, tempting him to just rip the fabric off you.

But he's a patient man, understands that this is just as much for you as it is for him. He can see the way your arousal heightens with each teasing touch. "Take it off for me, bunny, just for me."

He must've said the right thing because a broken moan spills from your lips, nodding as you cross your arms and drag the hem of your dress up to reveal a matching bralette to your panties. The bed dips beneath his weight when he joins you, settling down onto the mattress just as you toss a leg over to straddle his waist again.

"Ah, shit," he hisses when he glances down, sees the way the fabric of your panties are nearly translucent with your slick. His hand creeps down to rub your swollen clit through the damp fabric, tilting his head back up to watch your reaction. He doesn't shut his eyes when your open mouth drags along his cheek, a poor approximation of a kiss as you shut your eyes to savor the way his fingers deftly tug the panties aside to dip within your folds. A pathetic moan escapes you. "This all for me, bunny?"

"Mhm, yes—"

"She's drippin' just for me, fuck," he chuckles as his middle finger teases your entrance, enamored by the way your hips rock clumsily against your palm. "Mm, look at that."

It's filthy, the way Jack leans back against the headboard with his head ducked down to watch your cunt practically suck in his fingers, his other hand keeping your panties tugged aside for his viewing. "Please, I wanna feel you," you beg, voice hitching high in a way he's never heard before.

"You sound so sweet for me, bunny," he murmurs as he redraws his fingers from you, tasting you with a voracity that makes you even wetter. "You've been so good for me, pretty girl, don't worry… I'll give you what you want."

And while Jack sounds so benevolent, your lips finding his in a grateful kiss before you're scrambling off to lay on your back under his guidance while he undresses next, it's all a facade to conceal the way he's barely able to hold it together now that he's got you: heart, soul, and now body.

He settles on top of you, lips finding your shoulder for a brief moment of sweet affection despite the filth that's fallen from his lips from earlier, and makes a home between your thighs. You might've teased him for picking missionary as your first time, giggle at how insistent he is on keeping things old fashioned despite your unorthodox relationship, but then the tip of his cock prods against your entrance, mouth dropping slightly as your head falls back against the pillows— he's huge.

"Ngh— Jack…" you whimper as the stretch leans more towards pain than pleasure at first, eyes shut as you feel Jack's lips skim across the side of your neck. "S'too big…"

His chest rumbling, he chuckles in your ear, nips at your jugular. "Don't worry, bunny. I can make it fit."

Lust and adoration intertwine in your core as he pushes deeper, your walls adjusting for his girth while your nails dig into his freckled shoulders. After what feels like an eternity, Jack's fully sheathed in you, pressing kisses along your brow and temple.

"So fuckin' tight—" he grunts, attempting a shallow thrust that has you two moaning in unison. "You ready for me, bunny? Gonna start movin'."

You feel absolutely full, can feel Jack in your gut, but you nod, legs hooking around his waist. "Ready," you manage to say, releasing one shoulder to cradle his jaw for a searing kiss. He pulls out and thrusts in without hesitation, his lips parting for his tongue to taste yours. The two of you make out like teenagers, sloppy and uncoordinated, while his cock drives into you slowly, your body shifting higher up the bed until his hand comes up to cradle the top of your head before it hits the headboard.

He swallows your moans with a grunt of his own, tasting your desperation with each rock of his hips. But when his lungs start to burn for oxygen, he reluctantly pulls back only to be rewarded with your vocal cries for more. He's heard your noises before, almost four million people have, but he's never witnessed you like this, so gorgeously needy on his cock, your moans more like broken whimpers and hiccups interlaced with his name. So unbelievably vulnerable, laid out just for him.

It has him driving his cock even deeper into you, eager to hear the way your mouth sounds around his name whenever he hits that specific spot.

"No, no, no— don't get shy on me now, bunny," he coos, dropping a hand to cup your cheek to guide your eyes on him. "You sound so sweet for me, let me hear you…"

His words elicit another gasp of his name as one particular thrust has you seeing stars, the coil in your core tightening as his hand comes down to rub your clit in time with each rock of his hips. He can feel his own climax but he keeps it at bay, laser focused on your own pleasure.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck… Jack—!" You wail as the coil snaps, his cock buried to the hilt before he fucks you slow and deep to carry you through your climax. With you taken care of, he chases after his pleasure next, hips snapping against yours in a brutal pace that has your toes curling in sweet ecstasy.

His forehead drops to rest on yours, breaths mingling while his own moans pitch into a needier grunt, veering into whimpers while he talks you through it. "Feels so fuckin' good, bunny… s'like your pretty cunt was made just for me… oh fuck— she's just sucking me in," he pants.

The string of dirty talk kickstarts something inside you and you feel that familiar tightness in your core, hiccuping moans bubbling past your kiss-swollen lips as he drives his cock deeper. "Jack— 'm… hah— gonna cum—!"

"Yeah?" He huffs, a cocky half-grin in his lips as he drags his scruffy jaw along your cheek. "Gonna give me another, bunny? Come on… gimme one more," he coos while his pace starts to falter, losing its steady rhythm as he gets closer and closer to his own edge.

When you cum for the second time, he's quick to follow right after, your convulsing walls eliciting his own release right into your waiting cunt. A part of him panics — he didn't wear a condom nor did you say anything about being on any kind of contraceptive — but he feels your heels dig into his lower spine to keep him from moving. The concern still sits at the back of his mind but he lets himself get lost in the sensation of finishing inside you, his thrusts slowing to a halt before carefully laying on you.

"Holy shit," you breathe out, a blissful smile on your lips with your eyes fluttering shut. When Jack pulls out, you offer a slight wince but curl onto his chest as he rolls over onto his back. Your head nestles onto his pec, his arm winding around your bare shoulders. When you turn your head to kiss his freckled collarbone, he chuckles and squeezes you gently.

Jack hums wordlessly. Basking in the moment, he lets himself sink into the warmth of you beside him. There really isn't any need to talk for now and the both of you would've been content to let the moment settle in…

Had it not been for your growling stomach.

His laughter cuts through your embarrased whine, rolling over to hide your face into his chest completely. "Don't laugh—" you pout but he just jostles you gently, gets you to look up at him where he can kiss your nose.

"Stay here, I'll clean you up first," he promises and rolls out of bed. Grabbing his crutches, he heads over to his attached bathroom for a warm, dampened towelette. He cleans you between the thighs, gentle and careful as he drops a kiss to your knee. "About earlier—"

"I'm clean," you interject. "I don't have any partners and I'm on the pill."

He nods, relieved as he tosses the towelette into his laundry basket. "I'm clean, too. I haven't… not since my late wife."

Your smile is heartachingly tender. He's spoken about his late wife before, wears the ring on a chain close to his heart, and how he and his therapist have decided that he's in the right place to move on.

"We can both get tested if you want," you offer. "I don't want anyone else but you."

It's an invitation to a conversation he's been waiting on for a month now and he dives right in. The bed dips as he sits at the edge, a warm and calloused hand on your thigh. "I only want you, bunny. That's not ever gonna change." He cups your jaw, warm and possessive in a way that'll never fail to light a fire in your heart. "Can I be yours, sweetheart?"

You nod with a giggle bursting past your lips. "Yes—! Of course, yes," you swoon with your arms around his neck, his hand releasing your jaw in favor to hug you 'round the waist.

"Yeah?" His pretty crows' feet deepen when he smiles at you, chuckling when you nod again with an eager bob of your head as you gently scratch at his scruffy jaw. "Gonna go steady with me, bunny?"

A laugh escapes you, nose scrunching up at his dated language. "Always and forever, old man."

Although the months you've spent with Jack before the both of you made it official had you feeling like cloud nine, the next following weeks could only be properly labeled as the honeymoon phase now that you're officially his girlfriend. With Jack's night shift schedule and your unorthodox posting timelines, the two of you manage to make it work.

Speaking of work, you had been adamant that because he's your boyfriend, you had no plans on stopping the camgirl site and told him so the morning after. Jack had blinked and nodded as if it'd been something he had already expected. His only caveat was that you'd at least make your new relationship status public knowledge to your subscribers whether it's as simple as a status post on your website. You went above and beyond by posting a selfie with Jack's arm around your neck, his bicep smushing your cheeks while you grinned dopily at the camera.

While your followers had fawned over your new man, occasionally posting faceless boyfriend pics of Jack, you made sure to keep his identity secret as your highest priority whenever he'd make some sort of cameo in your SFW videos.

"Babe, you gotta stop jumping in the frame, I'll have to edit you out—!" You laugh in your most current video, holding out the camera high and up just enough to capture your hand crooked around Jack's arm as the two of you walk the aisles of the farmer's market.

He chuckles and dutifully stops ducking his head. "Just move the camera when I kiss your cheek, bunny. And even if my face shows, I thought you could just slap on an emoji or something on my face when your assistant edits them."

The camera captures the way you look up, a playfully deadpan expression on your features. "You wanna put more work on Francine?"

"You're right, I'll behave."

The clip ends there and the views skyrocket, nearly matching your most infamous videos on your NSFW side. It's gotten so popular that Victoria's talking about it during work hours, in awe of the fact that she's mutuals with you despite the fact that she's gone viral on Tiktok herself.

For once the pitt has a handle on chairs and triage, allowing Victoria to show Dennis her newest editing style, inspired by Doll's Corner. He perks up, recognizes the voice through the walls of the apartment he shares with Trinity.

"Oh, I think Santos is also subscribed to her," he grins.

Victoria frowns. "Subscribed…? Her website's free, Dennis."

Trinity walks past before circling back. "What's free?"

"Oh, um— Doll's corner." Victoria holds out her phone, displaying your instagram profile. "She has her own website but Dennis mentioned that you're subscribed to her…?"

"She avoids her SFW content, probably because it'd feed the parasocialism since Doll seems to be exactly her type," he grins, always eager to have something over his lovable but prickly roommate.

"She's not my type, she's just hot—"

"Hold on, what do you mean SFW content? Isn't all her stuff SFW…?" Victoria cuts in, eyes wide as she scrolls up and down the webpage. Trinity snatches the phone and taps the top right menu button of the page, scrolls towards the 'PRICING' tab before offering the phone back.

Dennis interrupts. "She doesn't really advertise her adult content, it's more of a… if-you-know-you-know situation. You're cool with that, right?"

Victoria swallows, goes through the 'free' content of your camgirl side while her mind races with the blurred and suggestive content, before nodding with a wide-eyed grin. "'Course I'm cool with it. Just— I didn't expect it. Yeah, I'm cool. Dennis, are you subscribed—?"

"No, no—" Dennis startles with a flustered laugh. "It's not really my thing, but I know Dr. Ellis had found her account too. She's popular."

The youngest MS4 merely nods and wanders off, looking very scandalized. Dennis and Trinity watch her go before shrugging, unaware that the true reason why Victoria's so shocked is that she had suspected Doll's newest boyfriend might be Dr. Jack Abbot.

Your SFW content views continue to skyrocket (especially the shortform video where you had Jack flex his bicep for the camera before placing a piece of dessert on top, eating right off his freckled arm before he's pulling you out of frame for a kiss).

There's already been a few questions asking if your boyfriend (lovingly dubbed as Mr. Doll by your subscribers) would ever participate in your content. You haven't gotten around to answering them, leaving them untouched as you post your usual photos and videos for your loyal subscribers.

The truth is, you aren't even sure how to bring up the topic to Jack nor would you know how to figure out the logistics of including your boyfriend without jeopardizing his identity. But the problem is solved a week later where you're in your bedroom, filming a toy haul with a new PR package from a sex toy company.

You're in the throes of your orgasm, nothing on but a bunny tail plug nestled in your ass while you ride a massive silicone pink dildo with some device that literally creampies you. You've got your back to the camera, the cute plug front and center, when your knees drop and you bottom out on the toy with a final moan.

You'd been so lost in your 'review' that you didn't realize Jack had come by early, leaning against the doorway with a dark little grin that you've come to associate with 'playtime'.

"Havin' fun, bunny?" he asks, the camera picking up on his voice sounding like velvet over gravel.

Your giggle is breathy and sweet. The camera captures the way your neck arches, looking over your shoulder to meet Jack's eyes who stays firmly out of the shot. "Mhm, I am."

"Did that thing… finish in you?" When you give him another resounding giggle and nod, he shakes his head with a fond chuckle. "I'll give you five minutes to catch your breath before it's my turn, sweetheart."

When you'd given the video to Francine, your assistant, to edit, she had sent over the last clip where Jack had come in and asked if you wanted it out. Deciding that it seems safe enough to keep since he's not even within the frame and that people have heard his voice before, you told Francine to keep it in.

Later that night, you receive an tsunami of positive comments, most of them fawning over the way Mr. Doll seems to adore you even while making content for the rest of your depraved audience.

@.pearlessance: holy shit HIS VOICE???

@.deathreverse: i bet he talks you through it omfg

@.mariasont: i just KNOW your man is fine

@.enam3l: give us one audio file of him cumming PLEASE

You're wrapped up in Jack's arms later that evening, your back settled against his chest as you read over the comments with him. He's got his strong arms around your middle, lazy kisses pressed to your bare shoulder as the cold edge of his readers bump along your jaw.

"You're stealing my fans, Jack."

"No, they like the way I make you flustered, bunny. There's a difference."

"Maybe," you hum as you swap apps to your instagram, scrolling mindlessly before you pause. "Jack?"

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"Would you… want to be in my cam videos? Just as your voice," you clarify with a shy smile. The curve of his smile is pressed against your neck.

"I'd be honored," he croons. "Maybe you could play with yourself for the camera, let me talk you through your orgasms."

Your cheeks burn, thighs clenching as you rub them together. "Mhm."

"Use your words, bunny."

"I'd like that a lot, sir."

That had been a new revelation. You've called Jack 'daddy' jokingly outside of the bedroom before, just something to steal his attention whenever you're particularly needy (whether it's for something sexual or not). And while he liked it, judging by the fond and flustered grin on his lips, he had sat you down and told you what title actually does it for him.

Sir.

It never did anything for you, thought it might've been too simple or even too formal to ever be used in bed, but it fits Jack perfectly. An older man with his experience and status along with a natural inclination to dominance doesn't need something as desperate as 'daddy' to insert control in the bedroom.

"Good girl," he rasps and takes your chin to turn your head, planting a heated kiss onto your lips. "How about we pick a day for it, hm? Put it on your calendar."

When you nod again, he chuckles and nips at your lower lip. "Can we do it now?"

Despite your eagerness, you and Jack had decided on a Sunday evening the following week, opting for a pre-recorded video rather than a live show.

Like always, you've got your tripod set up at the foot of your bed with you front and center. You have mood lighting set up, nothing too garish and bright and classically 'porno' but rather something warm to get you comfortable. The only difference is Jack seated behind the camera, manspreading like it's his fucking job in those grey sweats you've moaned about a week ago.

"You ready, baby?" Jack's voice is caramel sweet but you know it'll dip lower when he hits the record button. When you give a nod, he reaches up to press the button.

The red light blinks at you but Jack clears his throat. "Eyes on me, bunny."

Your gaze is magnetized to your boyfriend's, feeling deliciously exposed with the way his eyes drink you in. Tonight, you've got on a lingerie set he had bought just for you: a babydoll pink bralette with a matching thong and garters. In the hollow of your neck is a delicate, cursive 'j' on a chain.

"You look gorgeous, sit up for me, sweetheart. Let the camera see your new outfit," he drawls lazily and your eyes drop down to his large hand, gripping his bulge through the sweats.

The camera captures the way you look behind it, your gaze unfocused and your cheeks flustered, but you never disobey sir's words as you sit up on your knees. Your hands dance along the lacy straps, brushing across the sheer panels that hold up your tits. Jack's attention is fixed on you, his teeth digging into his lower lip as he strokes himself through his sweatpants.

"That's it, bunny. Play with those pretty titties for the camera," Jack murmurs.

He continues to take the lead and it's almost alarming at how good he is, how easy it is for you to completely forget you're still filming. He eventually has you propped up against your mountain of pillows, knees bent and thighs spread out.

"Add another finger for me, bunny."

You've already got two in, your middle and your ring finger, while your other hand is groping at your exposed tit. "Sir, I can't—"

"Sure you can, pretty girl. You've taken my cock, haven't you?" Jack chuckles meanly, his hand tugging at his cock now. Your eyes are locked on his length and he capitalizes on it, rubbing his thumb across his tip.

"Yes, but—"

"Come on, bunny, one more. You can do it."

The camera captures the way you whimper, gasping around nothing when you add your index finger into your sopping cunt. Even the lighting catches the shine of your slick against your inner thighs; Jack's got you edging yourself and you're ready to beg.

The stretch burns in the best way, not in the same breadth as Jack's cock, but enough that it has you plunging your fingers so fast that it sounds lewd against the camera.

"Can I cum, sir, please—" You choke out, hand beginning to cramp from the speed and angle you have that Jack notices it immediately. If you've been a bit less preoccupied with your own impending orgasm, you would've noticed that your boyfriend had been staving off his own climax, gripping the base of his length until he's finally given you permission.

Behind the camera, he continues to talk you through it but his voice isn't as measured, it's strained and a tad bit pitchy — his tell-tale sign that he's about to cum soon.

"Cum for me, bunny, let me see you make a mess on yourself," he coaxes and once you take the final fall, he's quick to follow, white ropes of his release painting his thighs and the floor beneath. "So fuckin' hot, Jesus Christ—"

Your cramping hand drops from between your legs as you slump against the pillows completely, legs splayed out for the camera to watch the way your clit throbs from the overstimulation. Jack tucks himself back in and takes the camera, detaches it from the tripod mount to approach your bedside.

"Let's see the mess you made, gorgeous," he murmurs, his voice wrecked as he props a knee up to hover above your overstimulated frame. You giggle up at the camera, taking his free hand (the same one that had been wrapped around his cock moments ago) and gently lick the traces of his release clean off his fingers. He curses under his breath before he affectionately pinches your chin. It elicits a soft laugh from you and the look you give him beyond the camera does something to his chest, a word that tastes something sticky sweet (and maybe starts with the letter 'L'), that he suddenly wishes this part is just for him.

But he moves lower, the camera panning down to where your panties are tugged loosely aside where your puffy, slick cunt is on display. It's lewd and nasty, the way his free hand strokes through your folds before he's bringing up his fingers for a taste. The satisfactory moan he lets out sends a thrill up your spine.

His hand travels to the swell of your thigh, to your hip where he tugs your panties off. The camera jostles as he shoves the soiled, lacy fabric into the back pocket of his pants, before he pulls away.

"I think your fans earned enough of you. Say goodbye, bunny, it's my turn for a taste."

The last thing the camera sees is a wave of your hand before it's set aside roughly, filming your ceiling and capturing the way your giggle melts into a breathy moan before the video and audio cuts.

—

"So when are we meeting the lucky lady?"

The sun sits high as Jack lounges on the roof on a chair that he's brought up a few months back. Robby had brought his own chair a week later, pleased to see his best friend behind the railing this time. The two are relaxing, stealing a few moments of solitude before handoffs are completed.

"Not yet," Jack grunts as he takes a sip of the pressed juice you've packed for him. You've been given a massive PR package of some health brand and he'd been willing to take half of the crate off your hands. "Soon."

Robby gives him a sidelong glance. "Are you ashamed of her or somethin'?"

"No. No, definitely not. I just want to keep her to myself a bit longer before you and Peaches poach her off me." Jack chuckles. "Relax, brother. I'll bring her around soon."

"Alright, I'm holding you to that," Robby chortles before he gets to his feet, back cracking while he stretches. "Go home, Abbot."

Before, Jack would've kneedled, maybe dragged his feet a bit longer to keep from returning to an empty house. He's always craved company, even moreso at the passing of his late wife. But this time, he grabs his backpack and rucks it over his shoulder, offering a casual wave of his hand.

"Ain't gotta tell me twice. I got a pretty girl waiting for me at home."

—

Later that evening, Victoria Javadi's sitting outside on the benches with the rest of day shift, drinking a beer she hopes would taste better after every sip. After turning twenty one, she still didn't see the appeal of drinking beer but after her sneaking suspicion that her night shift attending might be dating the influencer she's admired for so long, she realizes she might need it.

Her thumb punches the 'low' volume button on the side of her phone as she pulls up your tiktok account. Your account has only grown since you've started including your mystery man; the tiktok trends that center around playful pranks or cute videos snipped from longer vlogs with your partner are the ones that hit a million views first.

She takes a deep breath and taps your most recent one, a clip that looks like it had been cut from your last get-ready-with-me vlog, judging by the outfit you have on. You greet the camera as usual, holding out two different purses before leaning this way and that to get all angles of your outfit. Your attention is stolen, however, when the voice of 'Mr. Doll' cuts in from behind the camera.

"You ready, sweetheart?"

You pout, your gaze looking beyond the camera. "I don't know which bag to bring."

"What do you need a bag for?"

"My lip gloss…" you reply sheepishly and a throaty chuckle from Mr. Doll follows, soft and fond.

"The second one, bunny. Come on, let's go."

The video loops and Victoria lets it play before her thumb rewinds the video back herself, listening to that voice before her gasp gets caught in her throat.

Mr. Doll is Jack Abbot.

—

In another apartment across the city, Trinity takes advantage of the empty home and hunkers down in bed. It's a guilty pleasure, she knows, but with the stress of residency along with Garcia's emotional unavailability, she figures a bit of her wage going to one of the most hottest camgirls couldn't be the worst vice in the world.

She scrolls through the paid content of yours with a soft sigh, sinking deeper into her mattress before opting for one of the newer POV content. It's a new series you've started, something that kicked up in popularity from a couple weeks ago when your partner had taken the camera to film you himself after he talked you through your orgasm.

Trinity hasn't had the chance to check it out herself, a bit hesitant considering the POV shots may ick her out if she actually sees a penis when she's been thinking of inserting herself as the viewer on top of you. But curiosity kicks in as she plays the most recent one, heat simmering low in her core as it starts out with you undressing as always, straddling your partner this time as he films you from below.

"I can feel you—" you gasp, your hands braced on the stomach beneath you as it pushes your tits together. Your hips roll, sinfully smooth while the strap of your sheer tanktop drops off one shoulder. It keeps falling, revealing a single breast, but you pay it no mind, too busy dry-humping the body beneath you.

"You're soaked for me, bunny… am I gonna feel you through my boxers?" The man grunts and something tugs at the back of Trinity's mind, a sick sense of deja vu or familiarity. She ignores it, eyes straining to try and focus only on you.

You giggle. "Maybe… can't help it, daddy gets me so wet—" You pause, eyes wide at your little slip.

"'Daddy'?" The familiar male voice repeats and the camera catches the man's hands travel up, sliding between the valley of your breasts to curl around your throat possessively. A ditzy grin spreads across your lips, eyes nearly rolling back as you lean your neck forwards into his palm.. "Is that my name now, bunny? Want me to be your daddy?"

The video plays on but Trinity couldn't focus, not when horror sets in alongside disgust and mortification when her brain finally places where she's heard that voice before. Once it clicks, she gags and pauses the video, tosses her phone across the room as full-body shudders wrack her whole frame.

When Dennis comes home late, it's to find Trinity on the couch, spacing out with a security blanket swaddling her prone frame. Panic sets in and he rushes forward, his fist rubbing her chest out of habit tp see if there's any response to pain—

"Ow, fuckin' quit it—!" Trinity snaps, smacking his hand away as she glares up at him.

He lets out a sigh of relief before crossing his arms. "What the hell happened to you? Was it Garcia—"

"No." A haunted look passes over his roommate's eyes. "Worse. I think I found Dr. Abbot's girlfriend."

—

With your six-month-iversary fast approaching, you and Jack are running out of excuses to keep putting off the inevitable 'meeting of the friends' ceremony. Your own friends are eager to meet the older man that's been starring in most of your content and Robby's starting to threaten break-ins and impromptu dinners if he doesn't get to meet the woman that's made his best friend so happy.

It isn't that you're scared Jack's friends and colleagues won't like you or that he's ashamed of you— it's just the fact that the two of you are becoming grossly codependent, refusing to let the other one out of each other's sight for too long. Inviting friends into your circle would only lessen the amount of time you two have for each other and the two of you would much rather prefer extending your honeymoon period first.

Unfortunately, the decision is taken out of yours and Jack's hands when you wake in the morning to an abnormal amount of bleeding. Your period's supposed to start soon but with the sudden heavy flow and the sharp pain in your abdominal, fear licks up your spine.

Something isn't right.

You carefully bring yourself out of Jack's bed, whimpering at the massive stain you've left, before hobbling over to your phone. What awful timing— your actual doctor boyfriend isn't in to check you out himself but rather he's stuck at the ER working a double.

With the amount of time you've spent with Jack, he's ingrained it into you to always listen to your body, to get help rather than attempting to self-diagnose or to undermine your pain level, so you call 9-1-1 with a shaky voice.

When the operator confirms that an ambulance is on the way, you remember to add one final thing: "Can you take me to PTMC, please?"

—

"Female, mid to late 20s, heavy vaginal bleeding and sharp abdominal pain. Reports of nausea and vomiting with a fever of 102 degrees," the EMT barks out, pushing your gurney through the ambulance bay as the cacophany of the emergency department greets you. When the ambulance had arrived at Jack's place, you'd been barely able to stand upright, chills racking your frame.

Your mind is fuzzy, the fluorescent lights above you spinning like soup while you're pushed into an available room. A couple of nurses trail after a doctor, a penlight flashing in your eyes as said doctor introduces herself.

"Hi, I'm Dr. King, are you taking any kind of birth control or—"

"My IUD," you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as you try to fight through the pain that seems to steadily increase with each passing moment. "Is it—I heard it can be displaced?"

Fast paced conversation erupts around you, swapping differentials and possible diagnoses before scissors are cutting through your pajamas to reveal your bloody panties. A hand presses against your upper abdomen, a gentle palpating movement that tears out a cry of pain from you.

"Order a CT," a doctor barks. "Can't do much until we see what's going on in there."

Dr. King nods and promises to take care of you after you've been pushed some painkillers to tide you over until it's your turn. As you get wheeled off, she notices a delicate cursive 'j' tattooed right above your hip bone.

—

After some time, you're dressed in a hospital gown, waiting for your CT results as the painkillers they've given you keep the pain at bay for the meantime. Your phone sits in your lap, screen on to your text thread with Jack. You know he's somewhere in the department, most likely saving lives, but your texts are unread and it's gnawing at the pit of your stomach.

"Hi," a voice calls out and it's a sweet looking young man, around your age as he rubs in the hand sanitizer. "I'm Dr. Whitaker. We have your CT results and it looks like a displaced IUD. Did anything happen recently or…?"

Your cheeks burn bright red. "Um. Rough sex, I guess?"

Dr. Whitaker's face colors red as well. "Oh—! Um, well, yeah. That'll do it. The CT scans revealed some slight perforation in your uterine lining so we'll go ahead and get that out for you, it'd be a minor procedure so you'll be up and walking in just a few hours."

"Great, thank you," you sigh in quiet relief but as you ponder something, Whitaker sticks around, like he knows you've got a request. "Um, is there a Dr. Abbot in?"

He nods. "Yeah, he's one of my attendings. Has he treated you before?"

"No, actually—"

"Bunny—?!" The curtains slide open and Jack rushes in, concern choking up his syllables when he sees you looking slightly gaunt and exhausted in a hospital gown. Dennis' eyes widen as he steps aside; he's never seen his attending look so disheveled and unkempt. "What happened?"

"Jack, I'm fine, it was my IUD," you explain, looking up while he checks over your vitals. "It… got displaced. I wonder whose fault is that." Your dry tone has Jack looking sheepish and Whitaker looking everywhere but the both of you. It's already taken all of his professionalism to keep from reacting when he recognized you as Trinity's past obsession. She still wouldn't say why she unsubscribed until he realizes the secret boyfriend is Dr. Abbot.

"Sorry, sweetheart," Jack murmurs into your hair as he kisses your forehead. "I'll make sure they'll bump you forward so you can get out of here faster."

You nod and your lower lip juts out, slipping into that sweet mindset that Jack can't get enough of; cotton candy delicate and adorably delectable. "Promise?"

"Yeah, I promise, bunny." His voice takes on that gravelly tone that you've become obsessed with and when you tip your head up, he closes the distance and kisses you briefly.

At that moment, the curtain slides open again. "Whoa— sorry for interrupting, folks." You pull away, fiery cheeks on display, to see another taller doctor enter. "Dr. Whitaker, can you go help Dr. Santos in Central 13? I'm Dr. Robinavitch, you can call me Dr. Robby. You must be the infamous 'Bunny'."

Jack groans and playfully hides his face into the top of your hair as the name registers as your boyfriend's best friend. You smile prettily and offer your hand to shake when Dr. Robby approaches, giving your name instead. The man seems nice but only Jack has the privilege of calling you 'bunny'. "It's nice to meet you, Dr. Robby."

"Just Robby," he insists before he flips through your chart. "Looks like you're up next for the laparascopy. Do I wanna know what happened?"

Your blush deepens. "No, not really. This is an awful first impression."

Robby chuckles, scratches the back of his head. "It's not so bad, all things considered. But now that I finally have both of you here, what do you say to dinner with my partner and I? She's been eager to meet you."

You give Jack a sidelong glance. "Who else did you tell about me?"

"Nearly everyone," Robby cuts in while Jack gives a shrug.

"I didn't give details. I just liked talking about you, sweetheart. That so bad?"

A pleased smile curves upon your lips. "Not at all. I love how obsessed you are with me," you tease. Your boyfriend's eyes roll before patting his friend's chest.

"Alright, come on. Let's get her rolled into the OR so I can take my girl home."

—

As promised, recovery goes by swiftly and a new IUD is put in place. Discharge is expedited when you're dating one of the attendings and soon, Jack's coming into your room with a fresh set of clothes from his locker.

"I liked those panties," you huff as you step into Jack's black sweatpants, leaning against the bed as he kneels down to roll the legs up for you.

When he stands to full height, he helps you into the faded 'ARMY' sweater. "I'll buy you more, bunny." He tugs you in by the waist to steal a few more kisses. "Just glad you're okay. You almost gave me a heart attack when I saw your name on the board."

"Sorry," you pout as Jack sweeps a thumb across your cheekbone. "I tried texting but I—"

"No, baby, you're fine." He hushes you with another soft kiss. "It's good you came in when you did. Come on, I'll take you home."

His arm is thrown around your shoulder as he guides you out through the ambulance bay. The both of you are lost in your own little world, exchanging soft laughter and playful kisses, that you don't see the haunted look in Santos' eyes as she scurries out of the way or Javadi watching in the way someone can't look away from a car crash.

When the ambulance doors shut, Dana leans over the counter to address Robby.

"That the girlfriend?"

"Sure is."

An amused grin curls onto the nurse's lips. "I think I remember her. I see where the nickname 'bunny' comes from."

"What's it mean?"

"I'm not saying a damn thing, Robinavitch."

thank you so much for reading! likes / reblogs / comments are highly appreciated! if you guys want to see more of bunny!reader in this dolly-verse, my inbox is open for blurb requests and ideas! ♡

[yournamesnob]

off the deep end

Pairing: single dad!Brendon Park x nanny!reader

Word count: 8.3k

CW: explicit sexual content, nsfw, 18+, mdni

Tags/warnings: f!reader, age gap (reader is 24, Brendon is mid-late 30s), inappropriate boss/employee relationship, high key perv!brendon, daddy kink, masturbation (m and f), fingering, hand job, angst, car crash, injury, comfort, fight/confessing feelings, dry humping, lil somno, oral (f receiving), protected piv sex

Summary: Your dynamic with Brendon is easy, comfortable, until one night everything changes and you're forced to deal with your feelings for each other.

a/n: something to get me out of this writing slump dear god

Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND, USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI OR USE AI TO TRANSLATE MY WORK. FUCK AI.

"Daddy!"

The shrill of childish excitement lights up the surgery department in an instant, eyes and ears cutting through the sterile floor towards the sound, eager for a reaction from someone, anyone.

It's even more satisfying when Brendon Park, the Shark of orthopedics, stops mid sentence, turning swiftly to the sound, his blank expression curling into a gentle smile as he bends down to pick up the three year old in his gigantic arms.

"What're you doing here, guppy?" he teases. Brendon Park jokes, and glances get thrown between residents, interns and nurses alike.

Ah gossip, the great equalizer.

"Wanted to see you."

The little girl manhandles him, pulling and squeezing his cheeks like he's not a great white but rather a pliable flounder, reducing him to nothing more than a sucker for his kid.

"Oh yeah, where's—?"

"Jesus trouble, how do you run so fast?"

The way Brendon Park lights up for the second time practically blinds everyone. Oh this is definitely making the rumor mill rounds today. So long boring ten hour surgery to come.

"I didn't run!" the child huffs. "I ski...skiddered."

"Skipped?" Brendon looks to you for confirmation.

You roll your eyes at her antics, nodding your head towards her father, gracing him with a smile that makes everyone understand exactly why their big, mean, scary boss is acting the way he is.

The floor returns to its normal shuffle after that, one more second of inaction and the Shark would've definitely snapped.

"Hey," Brendon greets you, a little reserved, definitely surgical in nature.

"Hey Mr. Park," you beam and he instantly stills.

"How many times do I have to tell you," he starts to chide. "At least call me doctor Park."

You sigh out a laugh at that, rolling your eyes playfully as you instinctively step closer. He can smell the faint sweetness of your perfume, the spilled apple sauce on your shirt, the hint of laundry detergent on your fingers.

"I'm glad we caught you," you tell him. "We didn't know if you'd started on time today."

"Just about to go in."

You nod, clinical, like you're absorbing information and processing how you're going to get out of his hair in the next twenty seconds.

"Gotcha, well, you got what you wanted trouble," you hum, moving to grab the child in his arms.

She knows what's coming and so she throws herself onto her dad, tiny hands fisting the purple scrubs, cheek pressed tightly over his chest.

"No! I wanna stay with daddy."

Brendon opens his mouth to speak, to defuse the situation before the guilt eats him alive. But you're no sucker, unlike him.

"Really?" you frown. "You wanna stay with your daddy while he does his surgery instead of going to the park to get ice cream with me?"

In all honesty, he stopped listening to you the second the word daddy left your lips. He's certain his kid can feel his heart beating uncomfortably fast, rattling against this ribcage and threatening to burst out of his chest.

All he registers is the toddler flinging herself out of his loose embrace, almost face planting against the sterile floors and practically buzzing with excitement.

"Brendon?" you turn to him, smile turning into a frown quickly.

He springs back into reality when your hand lands over his forearm, light and grounding, like an anchor he didn't know he needed.

"Yeah, yeah," he responds, pretends, shifts out of your touch like he's already late for something that isn't even remotely time for. "I'll see you for dinner, okay guppy?"

But she doesn't care anymore.

"Okay! Bye dad."

Instead, she grabs your hand, demanding and pushy, and pulls you down the hall.

"Bye doctor Park," you tease. "See you later."

And just like that, calm and cold return to the surgery department, and Brendon Park snaps back into the sharpness that defines him.

It's late by the time he makes it home.

Too late, too tired, too...everything.

He sneaks into his own home like a teenager, light steps, a soft touch as he turns the key, even takes off his shoes by the door before he even makes it into the house.

It's not the first time either, not gonna be the last.

He shouldn't feel bad, this is what he pays you the big bucks for at the end of the day.

It's when he peeks into his daughter's room, catching the two of you snuggled together in her tiny bed, butterfly printed comforter covering her and not you, a book forgotten, Mr. Stuffles the rabbit on the floor that it hits him.

Hard.

He'd been miserable that first year after his girlfriend left him. They'd been planning a wedding, the baby being just another blessing in the string of goodness that they had been experiencing.

At least it had been to him.

It took her a year to leave, to finally crack under the pressure and run away. He didn't know how to be a dad alone, much less navigate co-parenting with the woman who had torn his heart out of his chest with her bare hands.

If it hadn't been for his mother, sisters and brothers, Brendon would not have made it through it.

But even they could only get him so far. He needed to go back to work, needed to find something to keep him going, needed...help. Professional help.

And that's when he'd found you.

Frank Langdon's occasional babysitter, full time student looking for a summer job while you got yourself situated for your master's program.

The little guppy was two at that point and Brendon simply couldn't be there for her all the time. So he poached you away from the ED doctor.

To say the dynamic had started out a little toxic would be...an understatement.

Once Brendon returned to the OR with full force, he fell hard into it, into the love and thrill and control that he could exert over his patients, his work, his process.

All the control he'd lost, the scared man that he had become—frantic and powerless—disappeared the second he got back in those scrubs.

And so did the loving and caring father that had put his kid first.

You ripped him a new one about eight days after first meeting him, a night like this, one where he came back home buzzing from a procedure well done, pupils dilated and ego through the roof.

She was young enough to not remember then, but she was definitely old enough to hold onto broken promises now, and that is what tugged at his heartstrings.

Now, tea parties and recitals were just as, if not more important than getting to do a risky procedure no one at PTMC had done before.

Of course, this time around he'd texted, let you know there had been a complication with the surgery. The shaky intern typing out the message practically stopped breathing every time Brendon asked him to erase everything and start from scratch.

They all thought it was cute how he wanted it to be perfect and gentle for his daughter, but the truth is, he needed it to be for you.

Brendon steps into the room softly, bending down to pick up the stuffy and placing it in between his kid's arms before he closes the picture book and sets it on the nightstand.

Neither of you startle at the movement, the soft glow from the salt lamp casting shadows that you knew were never meant to harm you.

It's only when Brendon places a hand over your shoulder, squeezing gently that you blink awake.

"Hi," you whisper, barely turning back to look at him.

"Hi," he smiles softly. "Are you comfy?"

You scoff out a laugh, soft enough not to wake up the kid but loud enough to make his smile grow twice the size.

"Let's get you to bed then," he places a hand under your neck then, pushing you up by supporting your back with his forearm while you tangle your hands around his other arm and pulling yourself into a sitting position.

Certain you're awake enough not to topple over, he leans over you and places a kiss to his kid's temple, watching her nose scrunch ever so slightly before settling back into comfortable sleep.

You smirk at his antics, using his body as leverage to get up to your feet, hands clumsily digging into the muscles of his back.

He groans lightly, old man that he is, and quickly retaliates, holding onto you so that you'll hoist him up with you.

"So heavy," you joke, straining to keep the two of you upright.

Brendon shrugs. "Just full of love."

"Booo," you chuckle, making your way out of her room, Brendon's hands over your shoulders to steady you. "There's leftovers in the microwave if you want them."

He hums in acknowledgment, letting you go as you make it out to the hallway.

"Eat, then shower?" he asks you.

"I'll take advantage then."

He nods. "Yours is still busted?"

"Yeah, guy said earliest he could come is next week."

"Damn plumbers."

"Indeed."

He stares at you for a long second after the conversation settles.

He's...comfortable. Too comfortable with you.

The past year has been a whirlwind. One summer quickly turning into you deferring your master's program so you could finish out the year with them. Then one semester turned into two, into you moving in, into...this.

Don't get him wrong, Brendon knows where the two of you stand. It's not necessarily healthy, but it's innocent, it's professional, it's...just a pathetic crush, nothing more. A fantasy he'll never allow himself to indulge in.

And yet, he cannot stop himself every time his eyes fall on your lips, the plumpness calling to him, beckoning him forward, demanding attention, truth.

"Goodnight then," he manages, rough and exhausted, desperate yet...not enough. Never enough.

You smile dopily at him. "Goodnight Brendon."

It's his own fault really, he should've knocked. But it's his house for fuck's sake, why should he?

So that's how he gets a complete eyeful of you taking a shower the next morning.

He got a late start which meant making breakfast, taking his guppy to school and then going to the gym, all before nine.

Unfortunately for him, earbuds in, distracted as all hell, he completely misses all the warning signs, the closed door, the steam, your clothes on the floor, the music blaring from the speaker.

He's certain he's dead and this is both heaven and hell simultaneously when he finally dares to look up and—

Jesus fucking Christ.

He should look away, he needs to look away...but he physically can't, his hungry gaze taking in every inch of skin visible through the condensation of the glass shower.

If only he would've reacted a second earlier...

You turn in slow motion, your reaction catching up late. You yelp, hands coming up to wrap around your chest, only aiding in pushing your boobs up further.

He instantly snaps into action, blush taking over every inch of his face and neck as he curses out a long string of apologies, blood pumping through his heart and his...yeah, he needs to get the fuck out of there.

"I'm sorry, so sorry," he stumbles out of the bathroom ungracefully, fast enough that he doesn't catch your own reaction, the way your chest constricts, the way your legs rub together.

Brendon manages to hurriedly hide in the kitchen, heart hammering against his ribcage, eyes wide and mind absolutely running a million miles an hour.

He needs to forget he ever saw that, needs to erase it from his brain...but his stupid erection won't let him.

The tent in his pants becomes painful the second he gives it attention, the flimsy material of his work out shorts just not helping his case at all. He needs to take care of this, needs to stop being such a weirdo before you come out.

So he rushes into your bathroom, locks the door like a sane human being does, and pulls himself out of his boxers methodically.

This isn't pleasurable, no, not at all, never. This is necessity. Emotionless, cold and surgical. He spits on his hand, wrapping it around himself without much preamble, thinking of nothing, searching for only one thing, release.

But he looks down at himself and his brain betrays him.

Imagine her on her knees.

"Fuck no."

How beautiful does she look, skin wet, hair stuck to her neck, eyes wide, mouth open?

"Shut the fuck up."

Her mouth would be so hot, come on, Brendon, give into her—

"Go away."

And yet he groans, the mere thought of you knowing what he's doing two doors away, the way you pushed up your chest, the need to paint it—paint you—white with his spend—

He's biting down on his other hand quickly after as he cums loudly, making sure to aim for the toilet while does.

You're no longer in the shower when he comes back out, your movements confined to your room. He doesn't have the courage to seek you out, so instead he just showers in silence.

The two of you don't interact at all before he's making his way into work.

You left his food prepped on the dining room table, disappearing out of the house the second you did to run some errands.

The tinge of shame and embarrassment linger deep in his bones all throughout the day, following him around like an unwanted shadow.

How would he even start to apologize? You have to talk about it, there's just no other way around it, but...how could he ever tell you it was a mistake when a part of him wanted nothing more than for it to happen again—to get a better look?

Since he made it to work late, he leaves even later. As he makes his way into his home, the same stillness from the night before greets him, only this time, it's heavy, like a breath that's been held in too long.

He goes through his routine quietly, dropping his bag by the door, checking in on his kid before walking down the hallway towards his bedroom.

But before he can make it, something catches his attention.

A breath. A gasp. A moan.

He freezes in front of your closed door, body going rigid with goosebumps, head turning almost robotically as his senses sharpen.

Your light is still on, peeking through the bottom slit of the door. Not uncommon, you like staying up to wait for him before you go to sleep.

No, what catches his attention is the distant...humming.

He steps forward, tentatively pressing his ear to the wood. It's not just a humming, it's vibrations, soft and steady.

Another shaky breath escapes you, louder than you would've liked, and you readjust the toy.

A shiver passes through Brendon as realization hits.

His cock twitches painfully against his underwear. Fuck this cannot be happening right now.

His head falls against your door, stabilizing, grounding. He can't, he will not—

Another moan from you. You're close.

Whatever resolve Brendon has snaps as he pulls himself out of his pants, hot, heavy and leaking.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he whispers as he takes himself into his hand. He begins to pump quickly, the pace excruciating and borderline painful, but he doesn't care, he needs to—

"Brendon," you huff, a breathy moan curling around his name. "Please I'm—Motherfucker!" you curse through gritted teeth, the vibrations stopping abruptly.

Brendon's heart does a leap in his chest.

Oh my god.

He can feel how frustrated you are, can hear how you shift uncomfortably over your sheets, can practically taste how wet you are as you toss the toy with a thump on the mattress next to you.

And Brendon doesn't think. Can't think, can't process a logical thought to save his life as he lifts his unoccupied hand and—

Knocks.

Says your name in that soft, saccharine voice of his that he uses when his child is throwing a tantrum.

Oh how he wishes he could see your face pale in horror at the knowledge of your boss being on the other side of the door.

"Are you okay?" he keeps poking.

You swallow thickly, shame mixing with terror.

"Mhmm."

"Can I come in?"

A broken sound leaves your chest, unprompted and definitely surprising you just as much as it does him.

"Um...no?"

He says your name again, stern and fatherly. He hears you moving around frantically, hiding all evidence of what you were just doing.

"Okay."

"Okay." A Cheshire smile curls at his lips, a thrill of satisfaction coursing through him as he tucks himself into his pants, the outline of his still rock hard dick on full display.

It's now or never.

He opens the door. You never seem to lock it, fucking adorable.

He has to physically hold himself back from pouncing on you as his eyes land on your heated cheeks, on your slightly tussled hair, on how you're gripping your comforter to save your life.

He shoots you a calming smile, boyish and embarrassed, as he steps into your room and closes the door behind him. Locking it.

He hears you gulp loudly as you notice his final movement.

"How was your day?" you barely manage to ask, your throat hoarse, your breathing broken.

He settles down on the bed by your feet, close enough to make your heart beat out of your throat, far away enough that he won't overwhelm you entirely.

"Good, good," he sighs, one hand tentatively inching closer and closer to you. "Lot of injuries today."

"I bet."

He smirks, a huff of a laugh cutting through the tension in the room.

"Listen—" he starts, looking up at you before continuing. You choke on your own breath, body becoming a statue with shame. "I'm sorry, I should've realized you were in the shower. It was very inappropriate of me and it will not happen again."

You let out a shaky breath, settling into the false sense of security, choosing to believe that he definitely did not hear you...yeah.

Brendon has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from grinning like an idiot. God, you're just so adorable.

You nod, shifting forward, closer to him. "It's okay, I know you didn't do it on purpose. It was just...weird I guess."

You laugh, awkwardly, because what a silly predicament the two of you have found yourselves in, clearly.

Brendon doesn't follow your lead, not at all. He just keeps watching you, eyes darkening as he leans into you as well, his hand finally coming up to grab ahold of your foot over the comforter.

He squeezes enough to punctuate the moment, the tension, the heat. Your gaze snaps towards his hand, towards him, towards—

Your eyes widen without your consent as they land on his crotch, on the straining in his scrubs, on his still practically throbbing erection.

"Brendon," you exhale, confusion and desire blending together excruciatingly.

He shivers over you, his grip tightening on you.

"Don't," he warns. "Don't start something you won't finish, sweetheart."

Your gaze meets his then. He looks like a caged animal, practically vibrating as he holds himself back.

Emboldened by your lust, by the pent up frustration left coiling in your lower stomach, you get up on your knees, letting the comforter fall around your waist, the slightest sliver of skin peeking through.

"Oh I intend to finish it," you whisper.

"Unlike your vibrator?"

That breaks the spell quickly, heat rushing up to your face, neck, back instantly.

"Oh my god, Brendon!" you smack his arm, falling back down on your heels.

He smiles dopily, his hand sliding up your thigh as your brain processes all this new information. Distracted, you don't even notice when he slides beneath the fabric. It's only when the backs of his fingers graze your dripping folds that your breathing hitches.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he groans. "You're so wet."

You whimper at the feather light contact, hips bucking towards his touch.

"Please," you're no longer thinking, finally. "I need...make me cum, Bren."

The smirk that adorns his face then, all self-righteous and proud, only gets you wetter.

"Is this what you need, baby?" he leans in, breath hot against your ear as he presses a kiss just below it. "Needed my fingers to get yourself to cum?"

You moan, hands coming up to grab a hold of him, nails digging into the toughness of his arms.

In response, Brendon presses his thumb over your clit, slowly moving the pad in torturous circles. You pull him closer, opening your legs so that he has better access.

"Tell me what you need," he commands. "Tell daddy how to make you feel good."

Oh your head is spinning. A tear falls down your cheek, frustration rocking you out of control.

"Need your fingers," you pant.

He grins against your skin. "You already have 'em."

You whine, patience wearing thin. Who would've ever thought, his good girl, so demanding.

"In me, please," you choke, swallowing the drool that has gathered in your mouth before continuing. "Please daddy."

It breaks him, his ring and middle finger thrusting into you in one swift movement as his thumb picks up the pace.

You instantly hide your face agains the crook of his neck, your breathy moan muffled against him as he hooks his fingers into you, curling them over and over again against you until your legs are shaking beneath him.

"That's it, baby, such a good girl for me."

You shiver against him, melting against his warmth.

"Help daddy out, baby, wanna—" he groans. "Wanna cum with you."

He slows down his movements, keeping you right on the edge between putty and alert.

You nod against him, timid hands grazing down his torso towards his pants. The second your hand slides under his waistband, a hiss escapes him, causing a shiver of praise to boost your ego.

You manage to pull him out, long and thick and hot and heavy against your palm, you can't help but salivate at the sight. You let your drool drip down on him, his hips jerking as the wetness lands over his sensitive tip.

You giggle, overly amused by his reactions, emboldened by how easy it is to tame the Shark with just a simple swipe of your hand over his leaking head.

"Fucking hell, baby," he groans, picking up his own pace in retaliation.

You pull back to look at him then, gazes locking in silent competition.

He looks completely disheveled, broken and almost...reverent. Gratification blooms in your stomach, your hand pumping his length in tandem with his own fingers inside of you, the pace causing the two of you to slowly start to unravel together.

Your mouth hangs open in a silent moan as your body clenches around him, so close to the edge, so, so, so perfect—

"Daddy," you warn. "I'm gonna—"

He grunts, grabbing your hand and pulling it back up to his tip, urging you to focus your efforts there.

It takes him no time to catch up to you, his own body tensing in anticipation.

"C'mon baby," he implores. "Let go for me, cum with me."

A choked moan ripples through you as the coil snaps. Your legs quake, your vision blurs from pleasure, your hand stills over him as you feel his own release take over.

It's overwhelming to say the least, his hot moans heavy in your ear, his spend spurting onto your hand, painting his scrubs and your delicate skin, his warmth...oh my god he's so everywhere.

You can't think straight. Can't breathe right. Can't—

You groan as he removes his hand from inside of you, wetness running down your inner thighs as he does. Pleasure clouds your brain as you watch him bring his hand up to his mouth, his tongue lapping up your release, humming contently at the sweet taste.

Hunger flares in your belly as you do the same, lifting your hand up towards your mouth and sucking down on the spot covered by his cum.

You can feel the moan that ripples through him, his body tensing up with lust once more as he watches you.

"Fuck sweetheart, who would've thought..." he smirks, leaning down to smash his lips with your own, mouth desperately seeking to combine your tastes into one sloppy, searing kiss.

You oblige instantly, opening up for him to take whatever he pleases.

He pushes you down onto the mattress, his imposing body slotting itself perfectly in between your open thighs.

He's about to join you on the bed when you break the kiss.

"Outside clothes," you grumble, sleepy and spent.

It tugs at his heartstrings, his mouth curling into a loving smile as he strips down to his boxers before slipping back into bed with you, pulling your body to nestle snugly against his.

"I'm sorry, baby," he kisses your temple, watching you settle into sleep beside him, completely oblivious to how he licks and cleans your skin before finally allowing himself to succumb to the darkness.

You're woken up by laughter.

Soft and airy, like a gust of wind rustling outside your window.

Your curtains are still drawn, only slivers of light peeking through into your room, the warmth from outside starting to become overwhelming as you toss the comforter aside.

You sit up with a start, memories from the night before crashing through you like a downpour.

You almost, almost could've pretended it had all been a dream. Almost, if not for the stickiness lingering between your thighs, for the Brendon sized dip in your mattress that he left behind.

It's impossible not to feel his lingering presence in your bed, the way the sheets molded to accommodate him, the way his woodsy scent mixed with hospital antiseptic lingers on the cotton.

Fuck!

You're so close to spiraling, to having your chest cave in from the pressure of guilt, but then you hear it again.

That laugh, like a tug, a spark, a lifeline.

School, you're supposed to up to help with drop-off today.

You're quick to dress, pulling on your sleep shorts, hastily forgoing underwear because you simply aren't thinking straight.

It's late, too late to be thinking instead of moving.

You burst into the kitchen, ready to hastily put together breakfast and Brendon's lunch when—

"Noooooo!" the toddler screams at you from her high chair. "Go back!”

You frown at her, moving slowly around the kitchen island to catch her dad, sweatpants low on his hips, topless for added effect, just finishing up at the stove.

Behind him, a plate with a mountain of pancakes, and beside it, a tray, decked out with cut fruit, a cup of coffee, scrambled eggs, bacon, even a cup with a little flower from the backyard.

He must see the flurry of emotions taking a hold of you, so he softens instantly.

"Morning," he steps forward slightly. "We were just coming to surprise you."

Your gaze snaps up to his, searching, panicked, overwhelmed and then...grateful.

Your cheeks heat up softly, not instantly, not rushed, just comfortable, safe, loved.

"I'm sorry bug," you lean over and plant a kiss on her head, unruly curls frizzy from sleep. "But now we can have breakfast together, yeah?"

She sighs, dramatically, before she turns to you, arms high up so that you'll pick her up.

You roll your eyes, obviously doing exactly what the princess wants.

You're about to walk out into the living room when you turn back to Brendon, the expression you manage to catch across his features just barely shy of adoration.

You've done this plenty of times before but it's never felt this...domestic. And you can't help how your stomach twists, how your heart blooms—you like this.

Breakfast continues on in that same way. Stolen glances, confusing feelings and an overly energetic toddler that get maple syrup over everything, especially her hair.

One rushed bath time later, you're putting her hair up into ponytail braids, her request, when his imposing frame slides up to lean against his daughter's open door, purple scrubs hugging his body deliciously.

"Ready to go, guppy?"

The kid nods, bashful, as she takes in the little hair clips in her hair, the beads from her ponytails.

"You look beautiful, trouble," you kiss her cheek and she responds by throwing herself around you, a hug so tight it melts you right into her.

"Thank you!"

"You're so welcome."

When she finally lets you go and runs towards her dad, you catch his stare through the mirror. It's...everything. Stormy, bright, hopeful, sorrowful, angry, pleading, you can't look away.

Later, he mouths. We'll talk.

You nod, shooting him a timid smile before he's being dragged out of the house.

Your brain is fuzzy for the next half hour, your movements slow and sluggish.

You focus on tidying up around the house, going through routine out of muscle memory. Cause the truth is, your mind is far away, stuck on the night before, on his lips, his fingers, his hot breath—

Jesus fuck you have got to get it together.

The postman comes through at the perfect time, envelopes snapping you out of inaction. You sort through them absentmindedly still—energy bill, invitation to the annual hospital gala, ortho research magazine, University of Pittsburg—

Your name.

His address.

Your heart constricts, your throat tightens.

Shaky fingers tear through the sticky adhesive, almost tearing the letter within its confines.

Rabid eyes scan the corporate jargon.

Final notice. Unable to push back start date another semester. Confirm attendance or forfeit spot. And then, a deadline.

Sink or swim.

Reality pounding at the door of your carefully crafted fantasy.

It all crumbles instantly.

You've grown attached, complacent, lost yourself as you found a new place, comfortable, easy, simple. You love your life, you love how easy it is to not have to think, to just do, to soak up the joy and the tantrums and the late nights and...

Him.

He's your fucking boss for crying out loud! He can't...he doesn't...you live in his house, you eat his food, you take care of his kid.

How can you take his money and be with him romantically?

You're taking advantage of him, this is so wrong, how could you ever do that to him? To them? To yourself?

But if you leave...if you leave you lose everything you've grown attached to, everything that makes up who you are now, everything—everyone—you love.

This isn't fair. This isn't how it's supposed to go. How could you have been so stupid to—

Your phone blares, a reminder alarm goes off, effectively cutting off your spiraling but only making you even more panicked.

You're late for pick up.

You don't remember much, just that you're driving a little more on edge than you usually are. The lunch traffic is easing down, luckily, but it's just a reminder that you're late.

The school calls, you tell them you're on your way.

He texts, you ignore it.

The green light turns red after you cross—

And it all goes dark.

You're so out of it that your name doesn't sound real.

There's overlapping voices, bright lights, too many hands touching your sweaty skin.

You try to push them off, try to close your eyes for them to be pulled open, try to complain but your throat is so dry nothing remotely close to words spill out.

You know where you are before the nurses have a chance to ease your discomfort.

You can't be here. Nope, not here, bad place to be cause he's here.

You try to get up the second they transfer you into a bed, even manage to sit before Langdon's hands are pulling you back down against the pillow.

"No, nope, none of that," he chides.

"Frank—" your voice sounds so broken it scares you.

"You're okay, let us take care of you," he stares deep into your eyes, his baby blues reminding you of the exact person you're desperate to avoid. "Please."

Before you can continue protesting, they drug you. Yeah, not their finest moment, not yours either. Lorazepam, just enough to calm you down, to finish their exam.

You're lucid, you think, just...softer. It's only then that your body comes back to you, the weight of your bones, the exhaustion in your muscles.

You don't complain again, only answer questions when they're asked.

You're fast tracked to CT, nothing abnormal though you definitely have a concussion. Your body is littered with little cuts and bruises from impact, apparently a motorcyclist who decided to accelerate to sixty without thinking twice. He's being treated at Westbridge so you'll know more later.

Now...now you're just a guilty, crying mess, injuries wrapped, IV almost done, waiting for an ortho consult because everyone in the ED knows you.

But he's not here yet.

It's been hours and he hasn't shown his face.

Logically, you know why.

He had to go pick her up when you didn't know. He had to call out of work because you weren't reliable, he had to—

The curtain is drawn and a child's voice says your name.

You can't help but burst into tears again, desperately trying to hide away, to brace yourself for the impact that follows her around.

But it only makes her more afraid, more distressed, and it breaks your heart.

With your eyes shut, tears streaking down your face, you don't see him, but you hear him.

Hear how he steps into the room, how he refrains from speaking your name, how he pulls the curtain closed again, how he picks up his kid and settles down on the stool beside your bed.

And then you feel tiny, cold hands press over your cheeks, gently poking at you until you break, calling out your name over and over and over until he says it.

Low and soft, pleading.

You open your eyes, a fresh waterfall dripping onto her fingers, causing her to recoil adorably.

"Yucky," she shivers, wiping your tears on her father's shirt.

That gets a laugh out of you.

"There she is," Brendon's voice is heavy, like the emotional weight has solidified into his body and is crushing over his chest.

You finally look up at him then, relinquishing your fears and staring directly into the place you know is both salvation and ruin.

"Well hello baby shark," Dana's signature snark breaks the moment. "Y'wanna come with me and let the boring grownups talk? I got apple sauce and crayons."

Wow she's so easy to lure away it's a wonder she's still in one piece. Well...who wouldn't be, with a dad like that and a nanny who would kill anyone that even thought about breathing near her with wrong intentions.

She winks at you and shoots a stern look at Brendon before leaving the two of you alone.

He doesn't even let the room settle before he's pouncing, lips on yours simply to prove to himself that you're alive, that you're breathing, that you're still here.

You can't stop crying, can't stop shaking, can't—

He shushes you gently, warm hands cupping your cheeks and wiping away the wetness as it falls.

You choke out a half-hearted laugh. "Not yucky?"

He smiles against your mouth, kissing you one last time before he pulls back to look at you.

"I was so worried," the confession is a mere whisper but it hangs thick in the room, suspended in a web of all the things you've both left unsaid. "When Dana called—" he chokes on a breath. "Fuck, sweetheart I almost—I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, I was resetting someone's fucking shoulder and..." he chuckles at the memory. "Almost made it worse."

"The great Brendon Park, almost ruined by one phone call," you try to joke, try to lighten the mood but...it's impossible. The way he stares at you, his gaze searing, his hands holding onto you as if he's afraid if he lets go you'll disappear—"Brendon."

"I know," he murmurs. "I'm sorry, we should've—I should've—"

You shake your head as much as the concussion will allow, your hands coming up to lace with his own.

"It's my fault," you sob. "I wasn't thinking—I...I got scared."

His brow furrows but he doesn't prod, doesn't force you to speak. He just waits, patiently, like you've seen him do plenty times before with a snotty, emotionally confused toddler.

So you take a steadying breath, grab his hand tighter, and tell him everything. The letter, your panic attack, your uncertainty, your fears, your...hopefulness.

It doesn't matter that your brain doesn't feel comfortable baring your soul to him, your heart does. With each word, the clutches of doubt and panic ease off, your grip lightening until you're unashamedly fiddling with his fingers, tracing lazy patterns over his skin like he...like he belongs to you.

He sits with your confession for a while, a few seconds turning into a few minutes but he doesn't pull away, doesn't make you feel unwanted. So you don't panic either, you just trace his nails with your fingers over and over and over agains until—

He lifts your hand up to his mouth and places a soft kiss onto your knuckles.

"What do you wanna do, baby?"

Baby, like it's simple. Baby, like it's normal. Baby, like you're his.

You search his eyes for malice, for a truth that you desperately need to push on him so that you can focus on a broken heart and not the overwhelming reality of choice, of making it work.

But all you find is patience, kindness, openness.

Fucking girl dad ortho bros that are emotionally intelligent—they're the worst.

You sigh, honest and raw. "I don't know. I just don't want to lose you."

He hums in understanding, rolling closer to the bed.

"I don't want to lose you either," he states, unflinching. "We can take this however you need, you can still live with us, you can..."

He trails off as he notices the hesitancy in your eyes.

"You don't want that?"

He doesn't say it maliciously, but it still sucker punches you all the same.

"I don't know...what about trouble? She's young but she's not stupid. I don't...I don't want her to think that I'm...that I don't love her because it's not the same—"

"She's a smart kid, she'll understand," he's too quick to catch your lie. "Now if you're afraid of things changing..." he catches your guilt flash through your eyes. "Then that's okay. We can go slow. We don't have to figure it all out right now."

You nod, accepting the easy way out.

One step at a time.

You can live with that.

Recovery is...boring as all hell.

The motorcycle guy lived, your insurance companies settled out of court, nothing to worry about according to Brendon who's been fussing over you for the past five days.

He's taken a temporary leave to nurse you back to health and "take care of his girls" as he put it, settling some stupid bet that the surgery department started a few days ago.

The little bug is practically glued to you, helping out her dad in whatever way she can, which isn't much, but it's always appreciated. She's even started reading you bedtime stories, but in truth she's just making things up as she points to the pictures.

At night, when she finally knocks herself out, Brendon settles into bed next to you, those first couple of days unable to get you into bed with him but finally, after much groaning and moaning, claiming he needed the extra room from his king for his back—which is a fucking lie since he always just sleeps tangled around you—he finally comes out victorious.

It's a Saturday when it happens.

No school, no early alarms, no nothing except his steady breathing, his safe embrace keeping you flush against his front, your leg straddled over his hip so that he can pull you in closer—

It's his own damn fault honestly.

You blink awake as a hardness pressed against your front. His heat pulls you in, your sleepy brain not thinking anything other than closer, warmer...so you roll your hips and a jolt of pleasure courses through you.

You're suddenly extremely aware of everything, frustration rearing its ugly head as memories flash from that night again.

You haven't touched yourself since then. Haven't wanted or been able to. But now, this morning you're just...very aware of how much you need it.

You roll your hips again, hoping to wake him up and have him take care of you. You can feel how much he needs it too, how much his body craves yours. If you can just—

"Baby," he groans against your temple, grip on you tightening, pulling you further into him. "What're you doing?"

You huff, desperate, sliding a hand in between your bodies and accidentally on purpose raking your nails along his length.

He hisses against your skin, question answered instantly as his eyes snap open.

"Oh sweetheart," he coos, merciful it seems. "Did you wake up needy, baby? Need me to take care of you?"

You nod, pathetically honestly, but you can’t care less.

He's got you sprawled under him in the blink of an eye, his mouth connecting with yours in a searing kiss before his lips begin to trail a path downward.

You're doing much better today. The cuts have scabbed over, the bruises are starting to fade from purple to brown, movement doesn't make you dizzy, if anything, it makes you just the right amount of lightheaded.

You feel his touch everywhere. Feather light grazes over your abdomen, nails raking up towards your breasts under his obnoxiously soft cotton t-shirt.

He removes his mouth off you so he can pull the shirt off your body, the offending fabric getting tossed to the side as his mouth latches onto your nipple.

You arch into his mouth, strangled moans escaping before his hand comes up to slide his fingers inside. He presses them against your tongue and you instantly suck on them as he too continues his assault.

When he's finally satisfied, he trails lower, hot tongue licking down your stomach until he reaches your pubic bone. His hand slips out from between your lips so he can hold your legs open for him before settling his mouth over your panties, taking a deep breath in and relishing in the way your breathing hitches.

Fuck he's so beautiful like this.

"Thank you baby," he grins against you. Fuck did you say that out loud?

He doesn't let you think on it as his mouth opens up, wide and predatory, and bites down on your mound, his tongue pressing against your clothed clit, working it through the fabric.

"Bren—please, I need—" you pant, already delirious.

"What do you need baby, tell daddy what you need."

Your head spins, heat blooms everywhere.

"Your mouth," you try, hoarse and needy. "Need your mouth."

He doesn't force you to beg, it's not the time for that. Instead, he shows you mercy, pulling your underwear to the side and diving right in.

His tongue is ravenous, licking a powerful stripe from your entrance up to your clit, groaning against your folds at the gathered wetness.

"So fucking good," he mumbles into your skin before his puffy lips latch onto your clit. He sucks and licks and pulls and tugs, all the while your body thrusts into his mouth. You almost hit him before his grip on your thighs tightens and he reminds you swiftly that he's much stronger than you.

You bite down on your tongue, hard enough to feel the sting, the faintness of copper lacing your taste buds. You know you have to be quiet but fuck do you want to scream.

"Bren fuck oh my god," you whimper, your hands threading through his soft waves, the lack of gel sending another shiver down your spine. No one else gets to see him like this.

He bites down on your clit then, pulling slightly before he slides down again, his nose perfectly hitting your bundle of nerves as his tongue and mouth fuck your entrance.

He feels you cumming before you even know what's happening, the coil in your abdomen snapping without even giving you a heads up. Your hands come up to muffle your screams while your body rocks, a tidal wave crashing through you as he does his best to hold you down, to work you through it.

He's gentle, diligent, devout almost as his mouth continues to kiss and lick and suck until you twitch from overstimulation. Only then does he detach himself from you, the bottom half of his face glistening with your release.

You look at him with the most gleeful expression, so proud of yourself, of his smugness.

He settles in between your legs again, pulling them tight around his waist, just reveling in being able to hold you against his naked front.

You're so blissed out, grateful and happy, planting your lips over every inch of skin he'll let you. But you're greedy now, you need more, want more.

You press your front against the bulge in his sweats and he hisses.

"We don't have to—"

"I want to," you kiss him again, your lingering taste euphoric. "Please."

You don't need to tell him twice. He rolls over towards his bedside table instantly, pulling out a silver wrapper and discarding his pants in what feels like seconds.

You can't help but giggle, the boyish smile on his lips and the way his cheeks tinge pink quickly sending you into overdrive.

You need this man inside of you right now.

You watch in awe as he tears the wrapper with his teeth, rolling on the slick condom over his impressive length.

Yeah, he's perfect, and he's yours, there's not a shred of doubt in your mind. You don't know how everything will fall into place but you don't have to, because you'll figure it out together.

He settles in between your thighs again, his chest pressing down against yours, desperate to be as close to you as possible before he lines himself up with your entrance and slowly thrusts himself inside.

You're wet enough that with the lube, he slides right in, your ass flush with his thighs in a dizzying, all consuming instant. He's perfectly snug, fitting so perfectly inside of you that neither of you can help the moan of satisfaction that spills.

It quickly turns into a fit of laughter, easy and shy, like you're both making love instead of having sex. And that just feels right.

He kisses you softly, tentatively, letting you get used to him before he begins to move. But you're impatient, your hips rolling on their own as you seek some friction.

He groans into your mouth. "Fuck baby, trying to kill me."

You smirk against his kiss, cocky for exactly three seconds before he meets your movement with a thrust of his hips. With the air getting knocked out of your lungs, he begins to move, slow and unhurried, all the way out before he thrusts right back to the hilt.

You hold onto him like your life depends on it, pressing further into his skin, his warmth, his safety. You can't get enough of him, of the excitement of tomorrow, of the need that comes from wanting nothing more than to be close to him.

"Such a good girl for me," he praises into your ear. "Letting me take care of you, only complaining a couple times."

You huff out a laugh, remembering the first time he'd helped you to the bathroom and then waited imposingly on the other side of the door until you were done. He's lucky he never tried to get in with you otherwise you would've hit him.

His thrusts pick up the pace in response.

"Let me take care of you, baby," he pleads then. "Whatever you decide, let me help you, please."

You blink back tears, nodding against his cheek, nails digging into his chiseled back.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you moan. "Please daddy—"

You don't get to finish as he groans, hoisting your bottom half off the bed as his mercifulness finally snaps.

He fucks into you like he needs to show you just how much your words affect him. The bed rattles, the mattress squeaks awkwardly but neither of you cares. You need this, need each other.

"Come on, pretty girl," he pants. "Cum with me, cum with daddy."

You're just as affected as him, your second peak slowly but surely sneaking up on you again as he sneaks a hand in between your bodies, pressing the pad of his thumb over your clit.

You clench around him and he hisses, leaning down to capture your lips with his in a searing kiss as warmth floods you both. Your moans get tangled in between hungry tongues and teeth, your bodies vibrate against each other in bursts of pleasure and care and...love.

You're unsure how long you're stuck there, in between real life and whatever the fuck you're feeling, but finally when your body pushes him out of you, he rolls over and goes into the bathroom.

You watch him through hazy eyes as he cleans himself up, his adonis like body always such a sight to gaze upon. He blushes crimson when he catches you watching him, the apex predator reduced to a blubbering mess by just one simple look.

But it's not simple, and you both know that.

Pride swells up in your chest as he runs a wet towel in between your legs, leaning down to kiss you over and over again before he finally deigns the day worthy enough to begin, or rather, three soft knocks on his bedroom door startle you back into reality.

"Can we have ice cream for breakfast?"

You roll your eyes, sharing a glance with him that warms your heart.

Yeah, you're gonna be alright.

a/n: thank you to everyone that participated in the poll! hope this is to your satisfaction dividers by @/enchanthings

[liltrinkets]

nsfw, 18+

thinking about sitting on jack abbot’s thigh, lazily rolling your hips and leaning into his chest, just enough for stimulation but not enough to actually get anywhere.

jack’s wearing his dumb cargo pants, his work phone shoved in the pocket you’re currently sitting on. you learn rather quickly that jack (the old man he is) has his phone set to vibrate. you also learn that someone is very intent on getting a hold of him.

jack realizes his phone is trapped under you, undulating and grinding into the new sensation. grins when he discovers, yes, you are wanton enough to treat his vibrating phone like a pseudo sex toy, grinding harder every time a call or text comes through.

“i should probably get that.” he murmurs, not actually making any effort to dislodge you from his thigh. you just double down, arms around his neck, pussy directly on his dumb cargo pants that you hate so much, clit catching on the rough fabric and the corner of his phone, chasing the periodic vibrations.

“gonna let me get that baby?” he teases, grabbing your hips to lift you up. you retaliate by sinking your teeth into his shoulder, fighting his grip to get your wet cunt back on his thigh.

“oh, she’s feral today,” he comments, smacking your ass once in response to the bite - jack knows it’s gonna leave a mark.

you don’t even react, focused on wiggling your way back down onto his thigh and phone, which is still vibrating through his pants. you were so close, and jack is being so mean, making you hover over the embarrassingly large wet spot you left behind.

“you’re gonna water log my phone,” jack notes, following your eyes to the wet patch. “gonna have to stick it in rice after this. how am i gonna explain to IT that my work phone is broken? tell them it’s because i have a very demanding little girl at home with the world’s wettest cunt? and that she sat on my phone like a little slut, using the vibrations to get off?” jack paused, grinning at the long whine you made, embarrassed and turned on by the idea, hips still wiggling. “is that what i’m gonna have to tell them?”

you don’t respond, mainly because you’re not sure if you can form words at this point, and finally win the war against his grip to drop back down to his thigh, cunt once again pressed hard onto the cargo pocket. you immediately start humping, only further proving jack’s point. you don’t care - you’re so close.

jack leans forward, stubble brushing your ear as he growls, “maybe i should make you tell them. call them and apologize for ruining my phone with your wet, selfish cunt. what do you think about that?”

you come - embarrassingly hard, hips stuttering against him as you continue to soak his pants, vaguely aware that jack is cooing and encouraging you as you do so.

“atta girl, so easy for me. coming just from a few calls and texts from robby,” jack rubs your back, letting you collapse into his shoulder, bright with embarrassment and exhaustion.

after a couple of minutes, jack works his hand into his pocket, slowly removing his phone, making a point to wipe the sheen off on his shirt before checking it.

“hm. lucky girl. robby said they got a hold of shen,”jack tips your chin up so you look at him, stupid smirk on his face, “he apologizes for all the calls.”

[loregifs]

Danny Ramirez in Stars at Noon 2022, dir. Claire Denis

[courteous-otter]

details! 👀

[dilf-docs]

snow on the beach (1)

jack abbot x younger senior resident fem!reader

⤷ chapter summary: two weddings and a funeral? more like two coworkers who fucking hate each other find out during the latter that they have become parents. ╱ 5k

⤷ warnings/tags. 18+ (minors dni), eventual smut, age gap, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, pinning, unrequited love, heavy angst, there was only one bed, hurt/comfort, domestic!abbot, fluff, reader goes by the nickname lola. tw: suicide, use of drugs (x1 marijuana). inspired by the movie life as we know it.

⤷ notes. beta'd by my pookie @joeldjarin who i love a lot. likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated―i'd love to know what y'all think!

ㅤㅤㅤseries masterlist ⋆ next

You knew it was bad when the ringing came back.

Piercing; loud. As if your wounded heart logged itself on your brain with it's broken fragments, dying pulse beating like a drum inside the confines of your worst enemy: your head.

Lola, look at me. Breathe.

You blink back tears at the memory. How much you'd give for him to come now, hold your trembling body down with his steady grip on your shoulder, speaking in that low voice of his for you to calm down, to come back to him. Look at you with those soft eyes he'd rarely show anyone else; bring you back from dark to light.

It's okay, just focus on me. Breathe.

The rasp and the fondness. The small chuckle at your hasty reply assuring you were fine.

Good. Can't afford to lose my best doctor.

You'd throw in a Take that, Langdon! for good measure, just to hear him laugh. Unguarded, like he didn't carry the weight of the world in his hands.

For a second, amid the chaos of the room, it was just two people in the staircase, sharing a laugh like the worst wasn't yet to come. As if you mattered enough to pull him out of the ship's helm, because saving all those people wasn't as rewarding as talking you out from the demons inside your brain.

You're good. Too good.

And you believed him like a lighthouse amid the storm; he was the anchor holding down this place from falling apart.

But he's not here anymore. You'll never feel the warmth of his comfort again.

Instead, all you feel is cold. So cold.

The ringing continues, crushing your skull down with the weight of raw, unprocessed feelings. You can feel them on your skin, all damp with sweat and dried streak of tears, that no amount of water can wash away.

The world doesn't stop spinning, not even when a familiar face shows up in the center, concern written all over her face.

"You alright, kid?"

You want to speak, but it's like there's a big knot on your throat pushing down all words. So you just shake your head softly, like any major effort will make you break apart.

She nods, comprehensive. Dana's always been like that.

"I miss him too, you know?"

You don't dare to say his name. It will only make it real.

That when you cross those doors, he won't be there to click his tongue with disapproval at the overly sweet coffee in your thermos. That he won't make fun of the Taylor Swift and pink stickers inside your locker. That in rooms, you won't be able to search his eyes again, won't find them staring back with a silent pride as you prove useful inside the ER.

And still, tomorrow would be another day and another shift at The Pitt; the sick don't rest. All the same but so painfully different.

Because life goes on, and yet, you can't imagine going back to a world where he isn't around.

Your voice comes out raw from the screams that never made it past your mouth. Tired of the sleepless night after the call.

"What are we going to do?"

She gives you half a smile. "What we always do: Find a way to make it work out."

You hold back a sob with a shaky exhale. She extends her arms in a silent offer.

So you let her hug you, trying to swallow the truth:

Dr. Robinavitch was gone, and there was nothing in this world that could bring him back.

"Imagine being abandoned twice at this age."

"Trinity!" Javadi calls out between her teeth, "don't say that."

The baby coos, looking adorable in her little black dress (courtesy of Dana's daughter) for a moment so grim.

"What? It's not my fault." She holds her finger out and the baby takes it, gurgling. "I'm not the one adopting knowing I'm going to kill myself."

Javadi's eyes wide in shock. Dennis gives her a hard look.

"It was an accident."

"Kahit anong sabihin mo," she mumbles under her breath. (whatever you say)

Whitaker crosses his arms. "I hope that means you're sorry."

"No. It means Congratulations, you just won a sad bachelor pad by default."

Before he can reply, Javadi elbows him. He looks confused and angry at the interruption for a perfect jab back before realizing what, or rather who, she meant.

"Glad to see your humor is still intact."

Trinity jumps slightly at the new voice that's joined.

She smiles tightly as she greets you. "Hey, Lola."

They all share a look. It's Javadi who dares to ask.

"Are you okay?"

You sigh, tiredly. "Been better."

They nod slowly, like any rougher movement might frighten you; shatter that mask that's holding back a broken woman. They most likely had seen you and Dana a few minutes before.

You avoid their careful gaze and look around. There are a lot of faces you recognize, some out of respect, like Dr. Adamson's family and Dr. Garcia; others devoted despite it all, like Jake and Langdon; conflicted, as Samira and Baran; bittersweet, like Collins, who drove all the way from Portland as soon as she got the news. Loving, like Dana: people who saw all your flaws and decided you were still worth of being cared for.

You wonder in which category you fall.

That's when you see him, the one you hadn't even dared to think about.

He moves through the crowd, greeting both coworkers and strangers alike, showing the manners of a perfect gentleman while wearing a face that says nothing except a composure years in the making, carefully crafted to keep every emotion in bay before buried wounds and old feelings drown him.

"Excuse me," you say as he makes his way to your group, fleeing the scene. You're glad none of the trio asks, much like the rest of the staff.

Golden Rule of The Pitt #12: Whatever animosity goes on between you and Dr. Jack Abbot, it's none of their business.

Theories have flown here and there, mostly from Perlah and Princess, but not one was close to reality. It was, if anything, a simple truth: opposites don't match well.

You thought his coolness didn't paint him as an emotionally intelligent man but rather a detached, unapproachable one. He viewed your optimism, naive and felt your need for control was a disrespect to the hierarchy and interrupted the seamless flow of teamwork. His purposelessness outside the hospital in which he carelessly and emptily lived his life made you think of him less. He found your need for approval pitiful, how you'd lie and hide your ambition behind false humbleness.

Jack knows he can't save everyone, even if he tries his best with every live that walks into the ER. You think you can, not only to prove him wrong, but because you've always thought that way.

You see Langdon by the food, trying to quiet down his kids by bribing them with the tray of pastries while Abby mingles with a group of people nearby.

He balances Penny on one arm while trying to stop Tanner from raiding the brownie tray Princess baked.

"Need some help?"

Langdon raises his gaze to meet you, eyes softening. You wonder if it's your palpable grief or the bond that despite everything that happened the last 10 months, hasn't been broken.

"Suit yourself."

You choose to carry Penny, because dealing with a toddler that'll cry if you say no isn't a thing you want to add to today's list of stress.

"How are you doing?" you ask before he gets the chance to question you first.

"Trying to swallow it," he admits, running a hand through his hair. "I mean, I just came back... It's hard to believe. There's so much I wanted to say, but now he's-"

He trails off, reality speaking for itself.

"I know," you force the words out. "It's not easy."

"And how are you doing? I know this is..." he cuts off, trying to find an appropriate word. You avoid his gaze by bopping Penny's nose and attempt to distract yourself with her tiny infectious laugh.

"I'm fine," you interrupt smoothly.

"If you say so," he crosses his arms. "Hey, who do you think will replace Robby?"

No one. Never.

Other one of the things you rather not dwell on. Anybody else on his shoes feels... Wrong.

It's probably all over your face by the way he backtracks.

"I meant his position", Langdon clarifies. "You and I know that place needs an iron grip so it doesn't fall apart."

He gives you a look that's meant to measure you.

"Think Al-Hashimi is going to step in? Heard she petitioned for two attendings for the day shift, though. For better control or something like that."

You raise an eyebrow.

"What are you implying, Dr. Langdon?"

"All I'm saying is there's three senior residents about to finish their residency. Any chance administration might fish from their pool?"

"You're delusional," you snort, "there is no way you catch up to Cassie and me."

He raises his hands in mock surrender.

"I'm fast."

You chuckle, "All right, McQueen. Hit those breaks, will you?"

Frank doesn't desist. "Maybe Collins? I don't know if she got a job in Portland, but do you think they'll call her back? You know Gloria always favored her."

"Jealous?" you quip.

"Slightly." Langdon sighs. "Or hey, maybe it's you."

A small pressure settles in your chest.

"Me?"

"C'mon, Lola. No need to be humble," the young man teases. "Robby respected you. I wouldn't be surprised if he placed your name on his will somewhere," he jokes. When you don't laugh, he sighs. "I'm being serious. He mentioned you to administration almost on a daily basis. Hell, he probably already wrote your recommendation letter."

He says it with a bitter undertone, from his memories. It also brings some of yours too.

But they're fresh, exactly from two nights ago.

People are afraid of hospitals. You, having spent half your life in them, aren't. What you're scared of, is the dark. When the voices inside get too loud. And, a place you never thought you'd step a foot on if you could help it: a police station.

"I'm here for Dr. Robinavitch," you say, trying to keep your voice steady and emotions in bay.

You knew it from the start, that ugly feeling that sank right into your stomach. You came as fast as you could, interrupting your well earned bath after another week at The Pitt, trying not to think on anything and anyone.

But when the officer's face settles into a trained expression, your fears come true.

Motorcycle. An accident. Death.

"We found this among the wreckage. Our agent on the scene guessed it felt from his backpack," he sighs, "it's got your name on it."

In ink, the promise he made. One he'll never voice out. You don't know what hurts more: that he wrote it by hand or that these are his last words for you.

This wrinkled piece of paper: his last gift without meaning to.

No goodbyes. You know he hated them, but it'd be nice to get one.

To see him one last time. Maybe convince him to stay―try harder. Make up a case you need him on so he didn't go. Anything.

Anything if it meant Michael Robinavitch lived to see one more day.

"I'm sorry," is all the officer says.

When he finds you, your grief and shock have settled into silent tears. He calls your name softly, like that one time years ago.

You don't know what compells you to do it: the weight of emotions or the fact you're the only two people Robby had in the world, both contacts logged under emergency on his phone. Maybe you don't want to deal with this pain that cuts right through you alone.

So you fall into him, arms snaked around his body. He's strong; steady. And when he hugs you back, tentative and weary at first, fully when he realizes you need it, you think his hold is the reason you don't fall apart and break into million pieces right now.

"It's okay," Jack whispers, soothingly. His grip doesn't waver once. "We'll be okay."

"Maybe Dr. Abbot takes his place."

That snaps you out of your thoughts. You tried hard not to go back to it, but you did. Probably this is the real reason you didn't want to find him particularly today: you're embarrassed you fell into the arms of a man you hated because you were vulnerable. It doesn't matter it was just a hug.

The face you make must be very transparent, because when Frank replies, he says:

"Sorry, remembered you two aren't exactly friends."

The change of topic works to lift the pressure in your chest a little, annoyance overtaking pain. Regardless, you shoot a murderous look his way.

"He's fine in the night shift. Don't see why he'd be moved to ours."

You'd never hear the end of it if anyone in the hospital found out. You willingly hugged Jack Abbot, even if you weren't exactly completely clear in the head.

You did, and that's that.

(You obviously won't mention the fact that his smell―of clean laundry and wheat soap, had rubbed off on you, smelling him hours after that horrible visit to the Central, strong enough to soothe you into sleep. Or that his arms had caged you, letting you bear all your weight on him, despite initial reluctance on his side. Nope, you're taking it to your grave)

"Okay, princess, relax. Did using the F word piss you off? My bad."

You lean to Penny, whispering. "Your dad is being dumb."

She laughs because your breath tickles. The eldest too since the word dumb sounds fun.

"Don't discredit me in front of my kids!" he loudly whines.

It is then when Abby rejoins you, probably drawn by the sound of laughter. After small talk with her, she takes Penny from you as you excuse yourself.

This time, you walk to the front yard. Most people are inside, mostly coworkers, some patients even. You sigh, unpacking a box of cigarettes and lighting one with trembling hands.

You take a drag while looking back at the house. You wonder if Robby ever felt alone, between walls so big and empty. If when he bought it, he thought about a wife and kids.

"Didn't know you smoked."

You turn around, finding Jack staring at you, hands on his pockets. He looks weird, seeing him only on scrubs so far, maybe the military attire once or twice, as he now wears a plaid formal shirt and black slacks. The top strains on his arms and over the middle, due to his muscles and thick body.

You want to say Thank you for helping me set this up, or anything remotely similar to express your gratitude, but no words push past your mouth. Except a quick, dry retort.

"Just in emergencies," you reply cooly.

He nods. "I see. Didn't pin you for a smoker, thought."

You take a drag. "Is that so?"

"You love control," he chuckles dryly. "My idea of an addiction is quite the opposite."

"I said it was occasional," you bite.

He shrugs, "Never said otherwise."

You're about to argue back when you realize the day's already been as awful as it is and you don't have the energy to keep up a fight.

"What will happen to the house?" you ask.

He tilts his head, taking in the big suburban building.

"Probably will go on sale. It's too expensive," Jack says. "Must be written on his will."

"What the hell was Robby thinking about when he bought it?" you muse out loud.

Jack chuckles. "Only he knows."

You think of the times you've been here: the way the living room catches the first rays of sun on its wooden floorboards, the kitchen full of too many compartments for a single solitary man, the garden with plants he did water but only because you set an alarm on his phone, or the bedroom door that creaked each time it got stuck. The soft thick sheets of his bed.

"Perhaps because it felt like a home," you say softly, throat tight.

Jack chooses wisely to not add anything to your comment. But it sits right there, at the tip of his tongue. Before Abbot gets to even open his mouth, another person disturbs your one on one time.

"Thank God I found you. Someone told me you'd be here."

You both turn at the same time to where the voice comes, from the front door.

The woman smiles, wide, like no amount of misery could kill her professional image.

"Just the two people I was looking for."

You exchange a look.

"Can we talk inside?" she asks.

Abbot replies. "After everyone leaves. Do you think we can do that?"

She shrugs. "I have time."

"Good," the older man smiles, all ease and manners. "Do you want a brownie?"

Noelle Hastings isn't a bad person, but you can't bring yourself to like her.

Her presence unnerves you: because where others see reassurance in her confidence, they see ego behind your own. She was an excellent case worker and you were just a resident who thought of herself a little too high.

And she doesn't like you either, judging by how, as she talks, she only addresses Jack. Rarely throws a look your way; it's fleeting at best.

"I'm sure this is a very difficuIt time for you, obviousIy. Everyone at PTMC," she motions with her hands, "We'll miss Dr. Robinavitch very much."

You squirm in the sofa. As of now, its soft leather isn't providing any comfort.

"Now. you must have many questions."

"Why you?" you cut in, brash. "Robby must've had a lawyer."

"He did. Does," she winces after correcting herself. "They just thought it would be better to have a familiar face deliver the news."

You laugh under your breath in disbelief. She ignores you.

"The house," Jack speaks first, not before shooting a look your way that reads Behave.

"Right, finances. The estate will cover the mortgage, and since Michael had some savings of his own, well, I think that'd make easier the custody."

You both nod, understanding.

Wait.

"Did- Sorry, did you just say custody?"

"Don't worry, I have aIready arranged for her transfer. After today, her foster famiIy will take her until next morning. Then bring her to CPS."

What. The. Fuck. Is. Happening.

"Child Protective Services?" you gasp, brain running a mile while trying to process what she's talking about.

This better be a joke. A sick joke, but a prank nonetheless.

Yeah, in any minute, Mateo will jump from the big plant pot near the door and Santos will laugh as she records from her phone. Javadi will upload a TikTok making fun of you. There's no baby or whatever Noelle is saying. Nothing can get any worse.

"They feeI she'II adjust best in her own environment... So, first, she needs to be picked up and brought back in here."

You remember the baby on the crib as you interrupted the trio. Was that the one Noelle is talking about?

"I'm sorry, Noelle, but I have to stop you right there," Abbot, who had been awfully quiet, resumes. His voice sounds even, not quick like your own, panicked. But, on the color of his eyes, you pick up the all too well glint of adrenalinen; the way he's containing his rage, surprise, confusion and like your own, fear.

"Why? Is there a problem?"

It's you who speaks, "This doesn't make sense."

She gives you both a look that's too much like concern, and then settles back on her couch as if she just figured something out.

"Oh, wow. Okay... I see."

As she fixes her hair off from her face, Abbot speaks again.

"Can you enlighten us, if you're so kind?"

"I'm sorry. Did Robby not tell you anything about this?"

You're afraid of the answer. "Tell us what?"

"Guardianship arrangements."

Okay, this day could definitely get so much worse.

Guardianship? Baby? Robby involved? Jack and you on the mix?

There better be an explanation that's not you going insane from grief.

Your answer comes at the same time: "No."

She presses her lips into a thin line.

"Well, according to his lawyer, Robby sat him down earlier this week to fix his will, about who would take care of the baby in the, um, unlikely event that, you know... He passed."

A heavy silence settles. She breaks it.

"Well, he named you. Both of you."

It's a nightmare. When you wake up and walk into your shift, a text from Robby and where his motorcycle has taken him will arrive. No mention of a mysterious baby or anything crazy like that.

"But, Noelle..." Jack's voice pauses, like his brain too is stuck trying to function and at the same time, understand what's going on. "Robby- He didn't have any kids..."

For the first time, she addresses you directly.

"Do you remember baby Jane Doe? From about four days ago."

"Baby Jane Doe?" Jack parrots.

Your brain scrambles for information.

Baby. Triage. Bathroom. Pedes. Dana asking who could foster her.

"Shit," you curse. "Wait, what does this have to do with her?"

Abott throws his arms up with exasperation.

"Who are we talking about? Seriously."

"Day shift shenanigans," you fake disinterest, pretending to check your nails. Then, you ask Noelle. "What about her?"

"Robby adopted baby Jane Doe."

You feel you're about to throw up.

"I know this is overwheIming, beIieve me. Even I advised him against it-"

"When did this happen?" you interrupt.

Noelle sighs.

"Before he left for his sabbatical. He probably didn't want her to end up going to any family, I don't know. So he started the adoption process, at least enough to leave her under his name so she'd stay in foster care while he was away but guaranteed she wouldn't end up going anywhere else."

Jack nods silently. Your hands clasp over your lap with a force so tight, your knuckles are turning white.

"You know what I told him before he left?" she speaks again, "see you in a week. I knew he'd be back, and perhaps sooner because of the baby. And now, he's-"

She doesn't finish the sentence. It's better for everyone. Taking a deep breath, she forces herself back into professional mode.

"But there are options. You can say no, because this is a big deaI. This is a chiId. Big commitment."

"No shit," you snort. "Tell that to Robby and his altruistic bullshit or whatever compelled him to pull this trick."

Abbot looks at her, as if telling Noelle to focus on him and ignore you.

"Options. You mentioned them. What are some other options?"

"His parents could be a good one," she suggests.

"Perfect!" you clap your hands together, like that ends the conversation and transfers the problem to someone else.

But Jack shakes his head slowly, heavily sighing.

"I'm afraid that can't happen."

You want to ask why, but it feels invasive to. While he knew a lot about your life outside the ER, Robby never really spoke about his. It's a topic you learned to avoid since you saw how his face hardened when you reminisced fondly of your family, like he was holding a long grudge or grief he didn't know what to do with.

"Cousins? Any other family?"

Jack shakes his head again. Noelle and you look equally surprised.

It falls in the room, heavy: both of you never knew who Michael Robinavitch really was.

"What if..." you break the silence, "one of us, on our own, by ourseIves... Chose to honor Robby's wishes?"

Jack adds, "Or both of us. HypotheticaIIy."

You roll your eyes. Not only is the prospect of having a baby in less than 24 hours very much real but also Jack Fucking Abbot wants to insert himself in the picture. With you. Side by side. It's ridiculously infuriating.

"They named you," Noelle explains, "so I just set up a court hearing. In the meantime, may I suggest something?"

You snort, "Can't be any worse than what I've already heard."

"I imagine, logically, your apartments aren't child safe. So, can I suggest the two of you move in here in the interim? For the baby."

Alright, you've had enough. By the way Jack's hand find your thigh and pats it, he probably can tell you're about to explode. It's amazing he remembers the telltale signs after three years.

"You want us to Iive together? Here?" your eyes widen in disbelief at the nerve as you laugh, incredulous. "What makes you think Robby's sad bachelor pad is any better than our places?"

"He had started making the modifications," she replies, defensive.

"Oh, wow. Did he also tell you the color he'd paint the baby's room? So we can buy the correct shade."

She ignores you. "It's the best for the baby, or at least, until you decide what you want to do."

Noelle grabs her briefcase and pulls out a neatly graped file.

"All you need to do is sign here."

It tumbles out of your mouth before you can even regulate it.

"You're fucking crazy if you think I'm going to sign it."

"Lola-"

Why the fuck did she call you that? It feels a profanity to the nickname. Did Robby tell her the story behind? On his bed or just passing by?

Your grief―the sadness you've felt all day now turns into something uglier, meaner.

"No, I'm sorry. You're not guilt tripping me into doing this because Robby decided to have a last minute heroic moment," you scoff. "What kind of sick fucking cruel farewell gift is this?"

Noelle adopts the tone she uses when patients are being stubborn.

"I think we should calm down-"

"Calm down? Calm down?!" you shout. "You are about to drop a baby on me and expect me to be understanding and sweet?"

"I said you could not-"

"Right. So then I have everyone up my throat because I didn't respect Robby's last wish? Because I let a poor baby end up with God knows who?" you spit. "And why do you keep calling her Jane Doe?"

"Not all her papers were done by the time he left," she answers flatly.

You feel frustration bubbling up your throat.

"Oh, okay," you laugh bitterly. "So, Robby has time to fill out paperwork that legally dumps this burden on us but can't bother to name her?"

Jack says your name like a warning.

"No!" you reject his order to calm down. "I'm a senior resident, weeks away from finishing my residency. I barely have time to take care of myself, let alone a baby," you speak with quick, angry words. "A-And Jack here- He's fifty. He works the night shifts and has a penchant for getting shot at on his second job as a SWAT physician."

"Stop talking like I'm not here," he cuts in, tone neutral. Still, the icyness in between doesn't go unnoticed by you and Noelle.

"What I'm trying to say," you focus back on her, "is that we're not fit for this. We don't have time or the necessary skills to do it."

"I think," she speaks carefully, "that he chose you both for a reason."

"The fucking reason being he didn't have anybody else!" Jack tries to make you sit down, but you roughly swat his arm away. "Don't you see? They're trying to put a baby on us like it's just another one of his sad stupid house plants to water. This is a kid, for God's sake. That's- At least eighteen years taking care of someone!" you burst. "Like, a person. A whole ass person. And you want me to sit here, smile and accept it like I'm some martyr? Fuck you," you spit, "whatever this circus is, I don't want to be part of it."

Noelle stands too.

"Those were his wishes, Lola."

Not only does she use the nickname again, but this time with a tone that oscillates in between demeaning and condescending. It gets under your skin.

"Forgive me I'm not a saint for accepting a child with open arms," you scoff. But it doesn't stop there. You feel the venom pour out, little having to do with today's emotional burnout. "Also, why do you care? Because he fucked you a couple of times?"

Jack's voice cuts through the air like thunder.

"Enough!" he shouts. You'd never seen him this angry before. Not even in the ER, back to when he was still your boss, able to keep calm among the chaos. Now, there's a vein on his forehead and disapproval written on his face to the point it darkens his features. He's even angrier than that time, three years ago. "I know you're frustrated, but this isn't the right thing to do. Noelle isn't to blame."

She looks like she silently thanks Abbot's intervention. Out of shame, you refuse to meet her eyes, but you catch the shade of red humiliation on her face anyway.

"If you don't want to follow what's stated on his will, you'll have to go to court, like I said" she speaks firmly. "That's the way it is."

At your silence, Jack takes the floor for both of you.

"Thanks for speaking to us. We... We will talk about it," he stands up, offering his hand for her to take, "and I'll let you know when we're ready to have a proper conversation."

He casts a sideway glance at you.

"Right now... Maybe it's not the best time."

She nods curtly, taking his hand.

"Of course, just let me know. You have my number."

Noelle walks out the house with Abbot following behind. Then, she stands at the door and looks back one last time.

"I'm sorry."

Before you ask her for what, Hastings is gone.

Jack sighs, closing the door. He then turns to you.

"Do I need to tell you how unprofessional and rude that was?"

You get up, making a beeline to where Robby kept his stash of whiskey.

"Save your lectures for someone who cares, Abbot.".ñ

You feel it coming back, but you push the throbbing to the back of your head.

"There was no reason for you to lash out on her like that. She's not to blame."

"She'll survive a few mean words, Noelle's a big girl," you scorn. "Besides, it's not her life that's getting ruined."

"You didn't want kids?"

You take a long sip from your drink. "Not like this, and not with you. No offense."

A faint smirk adorns his lips as he raises his hands in mock defeat.

"Can't blame you."

A beat passes before he continues.

"So, what do you think?"

"That even when gone, Robby keeps finding ways to fuck me up," you mumble through a humorless laugh.

Your eyes sting. The left side of your head begins to pulse.

You can't breathe, falling from light to dark. Jack's face becomes blurry, and all you see through tear stained eyes is him, frantically moving, trying to get to you.

But you're far, deep inside. You can't speak, chest constricted, as if you're underwater.

You're drowning.

Because nobody tells you one day you'll say goodbye to a person without knowing you'll never see them again. That one day they're here, and next, they're gone.

That you'll have to organize his funeral because he's got no one else left in this world.

That you'll have to take care of a baby he decided to adopt without knowing he'd die before he even got to name her.

That the one person you thought you could trust didn't tell you this.

If you can't relate to him, then who are you related to?

You're alone in this world, left to rot―let it fester in a city where his face haunts every corner.

"Hey. Hey! Focus," he calls you. "Look at me!"

Your eyes blink, taken back by the scream, and there he is.

Among the fog: Jack Abbot. A light. Steady in ways he shouldn't be. Forcing himself to act strong because you can't, even if the fear circles inside his eyes, and someone has to.

You feel his hand on your shoulder, with the warmth of a mentor. A friend.

"I told you we'll be okay before, and I mean it." Jack takes your hand in his and whispers your name like a promise. "We'll get through this."

Nobody tells you what to do when there's light at the end of the tunnel, but you know you won't make it.

When you can't compartmentalize your feelings any longer because things keep getting worse.

When those feelings explode and you're left a crying mess, gasping for air on a world that doesn't let you breathe.

But, most importantly, nobody tells you that, one day, the only person who sees you, is the one you hate: The one who cradles you into his arms because you'll fall apart if someone doesn't hold you, and whispers in your ear assurances like he means them, as if hugging you is natural and not a favor.

As if he cares about you enough to forget all diatribes and snarky comments. To forget he once used to be your mentor before it went sour. Before the bitterness and the distance. Before you changed nights to days. Before you forgot how easy it was to read him and know what went in his head. When he could tell what went through yours.

It's good he's forgotten or chosen to: Dr. Jack Abbot must not know this might be the last thing keeping you sane on Earth.

When Jack pulls away, standing as if to put some distance after being too close twice this week, you feel a tiny flutter store itself between your ribs.

"C'mon," he extends his hand your way; a second chance, "we have to prepare this house."

taglist.ㅤ@klmr0 @zmbi3gr1 @sara-alonso @shahabaqsa0310 @itzpixiebabe @alexxavicry @thefemininemystiquee @justtryingtosurvive02 @cestmoijola @heavengirls111 @kathy-hats @jesscolon529 @steverogers123 @peepawhatosy

[louloops]

Clueless!John (also jealous!John) doesn't realise that he's your boyfriend

You weren't sure how exactly it had started. One day you were just hanging out with the ER attending who could always crack a joke when you needed it, the next you were waking up in his bed, tangled with his limbs, his body pressed closely to yours as his warmth kept you company. It's Wednesday night so you two had gone to your favorite dive bar during their usual matchmaking event where they tried to form new couples amongst their clientele, an event with the cheapest beer prices in all of Pittsburgh.

John always seemed to press himself to your left side when people circled around. By the end of the night, tired, tipsy and horny, you had ended up back at his place as usual, riding him until the sunlight started pouring, his strong hands grasping your hips like his life depended on it. And when the morning light hit your glistening body, John could not tear his eyes away, not when you looked like the sun itself.

He had known since the second time you two hung out that he wanted more than whatever was between you. You slid in perfectly within his life.

Also a night crawler, though in the paeds department, you'd first met during a consult, and he had noticed your smile, the way you brought energy and positivity when you arrived. You then had met again at Dunkin the very same day, both wanting your sugary coffees. What were two meetings in one day turned into meeting every day as you'd meet up for some food before your shifts started.

"Turn it off...." You grumbled as the strident alarm of John's phone went off. It was time to get up, time to get ready for the day, actually night ahead. The sun had started leaving, plunging the room into purples and blues, but you were both used to it by now.

John let out an exaggerated groan, detangling himself from you just tough to turn his alarm off before pushing himself back in his previous position.

"Hello, gorgeous."

Lips ghosted your neck and your shoulders as you sighed in content. What a great way to wake up.

By now the routine was organised to the very second. You'd take your shower first, sometimes with John, while he usually made boring black coffee and whatever breakfast foods he had laying around. This time it was yogurt and bananas. Then it was his turn to take a shower and you ran his laundry and dryer before you both headed to work, usually with John driving as he knew which backroads to take to get to the Dunkin closes to work the fastest.

And then you'd both hug, lingering for a few seconds until you each went to your respective floors, him in the depths of the Pitt, you to the children's level. Really, it was two worlds apart.

☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓

Which is why John couldn't understand why today you were leaning against the nurse station, smiling up at Jack Abbot who seemed to go on and on about a story that the younger ER attending couldn't hear. Jack's movements were large, energetic, and you were laughing. Not the polite laughter you reserved for everyone, but the genuine one, the one that made your shoulders shake and eyes tear up. The one only he could usually get out of you.

And then your hand went to Jack's arm, gripping him for stability as you threw your head back for more giggles to escape. And John couldn't have that. So of course he stalked up, unintentionally but with intention, pushing you a bit back as he took his place between you and Robby.

"What are you two laughing about?" It took John all his self control to not let some sourness spill into his tone.

"Dr. Abbot was just telling me about his travels when he had been younger, apparently he had been chased off a field by an angry cow in Scotland." Your tone was light and warm which slightly calmed John's overthinking, but it still wasn't enough.

"I guess you'll have to be careful when you go there with your boyfriend." Jack's tone was teasing. And John couldn't breathe. Because really... he was dumb.

He didn't notice the way Jack's eyes flickered lightly towards him, or the way you had stepped closer to him, seeking his presence. He only heard the sentence, and felt his heart shatter. And clearly he did not manage to hide his emotions as your eyebrows furrowed, arms wrapping around him as he stumbled lightly. He broke free of your embrace, pretexting the need to check up on a patient just to actually take a break outside, breath shortened, head swirling with thoughts.

He hadn't known you had a boyfriend, what did that make him? Your side guy? Were you cheating on your boyfriend with him? Maybe you were in one of those open relationships. He couldn't understand how you had gotten a boyfriend when you spent almost everyday together.

☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓 ☀︎ 𖤓

In all the time you two knew each other radio silence had not happened. Not even when John was hiking the Everest base camp, he'd still manage to find some internet to send you his pictures and a little email. But as you were waiting in the hospital lobby, ready to leave for some well deserved rest, John was not answering any of your messages. Not through SMS, not through insta, not even on snapchat. And that meant that something was wrong, especially so when once you went back down to the Pitt, the day crew had let you know that John had already left an hour ago.

So of course, you drove to John's apartment, using his spare keys that he'd given to you to open his door after knocking and receiving no answer in return.

"John?" Your voice rang out until you heard the shower running. You grabbed his laundry basket also filled with some of your things as you started folding everything, a habit you had developed as you hated doing the dishes but loved laundry while John hated the complete opposite.

Looking around the apartment it was clear that you spent a lot of time here, your clothes were in his hamper, your vitamins littered his cabinets, he even had a fridge magnet picturing your last year's family reunion with your aunts, uncles, cousins, and he wasn't even there. It was the same at your place, his extra switch was connected to your T.V, he had his own little section of your wardrobe, and for some reason his mom's workout equipment was in your extra bedroom since his downstairs neighbours had complained once about Mrs. Shen dropping a weight when she had come to visit.

You were snuggling into his couch, an episode of B99 playing when John appeared, sculpted chest and bottoms wrapped in one of your fluffy white towels he had stolen a few months ago. You wanted to run your hands on his wet body, feel his pale skin on you but his face clearly showed that something was on his mind. And unfortunately for you, John wasn't one to talk about his emotions much.

"What are you doing here?" He spoke out, eyes barely stopping on your figure before he made his way to the kitchen to make himself a smoothie.

"What do you mean what am I doing here? You didn't reply to my texts, didn't even come to see me after our shifts. Is everything okay?" His pace stuttered before he continued what he set up to do.

"Everything is perfectly fine." You got up from your spot, following the man as you leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, watching him throw blueberries into the blender alongside his usual protein shake ingredients.

"Don't lie." His eyes flickered to your face. "John tell me what's wrong." He looked straight at you before turning the blender on, the loud noise drowning out your demand. "John." He mimed not hearing anything and that's when you lost your cool.

Stalking to the kitchen island you pushed him aside as you unplugged the blender. You turned around quickly and gulped as he was now cornering you against the counter, looking down with his deep brown eyes staring into yours.

"I don't think your boyfriend would accept you spending so much time with me... and my bed." He wanted to sound teasing, but John just ended up sounding completely and utterly bitter. "What were you planning on doing? Just using me until your boyfriend realised it? I don't want to help someone cheat on their boyfriend, I'm not that type of gu-"

Your lips were on his in an instant as your arched into his body, droplets of his shower transferred onto you as one of your hands pulled his head down to meet you, the other going down to settle on his abs. He hated himself for it but he simply could not deny you, not when you smelled so good, felt so good against him. So with a groan he pulled you onto the counter top, slotting himself between your two legs.

"I-I can't, not when you're not mine." He groaned, turning his head away though you left little kisses on his cheeks, his jawline, his neck. Light feathery pecks that made him sigh from relaxation.

"John Shen, you are a very stupid man." His eyebrows furrowed as he turned his face back to you. "You might be the stupidest man I know."

"What-"

"You're my boyfriend you idiot."

You wished you could have recorded his reaction because it truly gave you whiplash. His confusion had turned to questioning, to realisation, to the sheepish expression he now bore, pale face flushed, eyes flickering from your face to somewhere else as he realised that he was indeed, quite stupid.

"B-But, you told Jack-"

"We were literally talking about going on vacation to Europe together last week John. You even said that you wanted to see cute highland cows."

"Ah... yes, yes I did..." John wanted to slap himself, so of course he did it earning an amused eyeroll from you. "I just... we never had a talk about us."

You circled your legs around his waist pulling him closer as his breath hitched from the closeness.

"John Shen, will you be my boyfriend?"

He replied by smashing his lips on yours, grounding his hips into your core until you were a moaning mess from needing friction, needing love, needing him.

"Let your boyfriend take care of you, my love."

Masterlists

[millermouth]

steady hands

summary: You love being part of the community of Jackson. But when you try to learn how to defend it, one humiliating accident makes you realize just how useless you feel with a gun in your hands.

smut MDNI 18+ shooting instructor!joel, Jackson!joel, baker!reader, gardener!reader, jack of all trades kinda reader, grumpy!joel, insecure!reader, biggggg joel miller, size kink, enemies to lovers, grinding, kissing, dirty talk (as always), f!receiving oral, fingering, pinv, missionary, outdoor smut, mean to sweet joel miller, some pussy pronouns used, irresponsible gun handling, nightmares, age gap mentioned but not specified, joel calls reader lots of pet names, tiniest bit of brat taming || a/n: guys I can't even lie this was inspired by the song ill make a man out of you from mulan....enjoy!!! wc: 11k

The woods were still crisp for early summer. It was something you'd come to appreciate about Wyoming, after all. No matter how bad winter had been, or how slow spring had sprung, you could always count on a beautiful summer, and even better summer mornings.

But this morning was far from beautiful.

You were sitting with a few others from town, mostly newer folk who'd settled in and were looking for work to do. The woods were quiet around these parts, a couple miles out from Jackson, where the trees thinned just enough to make room for the patrols to see into the valley. It had been a lookout since the beginning, or so you'd heard. A small cabin with a slanted roof, a fire pit out front ringed with blackened stones, a target range cut into the dirt nearby, and guns and ammo stored in the basement in case of emergency and training.

Why you were here, when you could be baking loaves of bread for folks getting out of Sunday worship or sending actual lookout shifts off with their breakfast freshly made, was, well…because you'd started to feel a little useless.

Not useless exactly. That was probably unfair. You did have multiple jobs. You were a part of the community of Jackson. You had a few close friends and plenty of acquaintances. You got along with almost everyone. It was nice, feeling like you knew who took their coffee black, who liked the butt of the bread, who always tried to sneak an extra roll into their coat pocket when they thought you weren't looking. You gardened and sometimes even helped with the horses or the livestock.

But still.

There was a part of you that knew, if anything ever went to shit, you'd never be able to defend your town, let alone yourself. So you'd come out with a group to train up on an early summer morning.

But you sure as shit were terrible at it.

Luckily, the ammo you used on the training grounds were empty shells, nothing actually being wasted on your awful, awful aim.

Because an hour later, the glass bottle in front of you remained whole and smug on the fence line, catching slice of sunlight along its shoulder while the wood of the fence several inches to its left had suffered greatly.

It didn't help that the man that was meant to be teaching you was a grade A Asshole.

Joel Miller was many things. Strong, capable, brave. So many epithets that could be used to describe him. You'd even dare to add handsome if he wasn't always frowning at you or cursing under his breath every time you managed to miss something standing perfectly still.

But the main thing you wanted to call him, was Asshole. Though…you thought if you ever did to his face, it might just be the last thing you ever do.

He was helping a kid down at the end adjust his stance when you heard an argument from beside you about a bet.

“Bullshit,” one of the boys hissed. Matthew, you thought. Maybe Michael? He was one of the kids from town you'd seen around the stables with hair too long, cheeks still a little chubby, and an ego too big. “You did not get Maisie Bell to kiss you.”

“I didn’t say kiss,” the other one said, and in the corner of your eye you watched as he lined up his shot, one eye squeezing shut. “I said she would’ve.”

“That ain’t a bet.”

“It is if I’m right.”

“You’re not right.”

“Two ration cards says I am.”

“For Maisie?”

“For Maisie,” he said, then nodded toward the line of town below the ridge, where you could almost see the church roof through the trees. “And the redhead from the kitchens. Sheesh what I wouldn't do to my hands on 'er. Oh, and that new girl Dina?" he let out a low whistle, "She is so goddamn fine I could—"

The heat that went through you had nothing to do with the morning sun. It rose hard beneath your collar, crawling up your throat until your jaw clenched around it. It pissed you off. Dina was funny and charming and more than a hot piece of ass for some stable boy to run his mouth over. Maisie and Riley were nice girls too, both in your book club, both worth knowing for more than the curve of their mouths or the sway of their hips.

“Maybe you two should spend less time betting on girls who wouldn’t touch you for a warm bath,” you spat, turning toward them, “and more time actually practicing—”

But you'd turned without lowering your gun.

Worse— you'd turned without taking your finger off the trigger.

A loud sound cracked through the clearing.

It wasn't like a typical gun shot, just a sharp, quick pop that punched the rest of your sentence out of your mouth.

Michael grabbed his shoulder and stumbled back, knocking into the rack behind him. A glass bottle tipped from the table and burst in the dirt by his boot, spraying green shards through the dust.

For one second, no one moved.

Then he said, “Ow—fuck!”

Your hands were still around the shotgun, finger still squeezing the trigger, your body stuck in shock.

The kid beside him lowered his own gun in a hurry. A low muttering started to rise from around you— someone else asked if Michael was all right, and Michael, pale and furious and embarrassed, said, “She shot me!"

"Think it's more of a graze—" someone was saying, pulling at the torn cap of his sleeve.

More voices began to overlap as people clustered around him, worry amplifying the noise until you couldn't hear anything because of the panicked buzzing in your ears.

"Give me that."

You blinked to your right. Joel Miller was looming next to you, a thunderous look over his features.

You looked down at the shotgun still in your hands, a gasp running through you.

Your fingers opened at once as if you'd been burned by the wooden barrel. The shotgun dipped toward the ground, and Joel caught it before you could swing wrong again. He took it from you with a look that made your stomach hollow out.

Your mouth open and shut, your voice quiet and lost to the rising murmur around you: "I'm—I'm so sorry—"

Joel didn’t answer. He checked the shotgun with a hard jerk of his hand, jaw tight, eyes not leaving the chamber until he was sure. Then he bent down, grabbed your pack from the dirt, and pushed it into your arms.

“Go.”

You froze with your hands around the straps. A burning, icy thrill ran through your spine, your skin lighting up in humiliation.

“I got no use for kids who don't give a shit about rules or make habits of gettin’ other people killed,” he said. “Go on now. No use to me here.”

You didn’t even think you could speak if you wanted to. You looked down at your backpack, torn and duct-taped in spots, the top strap sewn back down at least ten times since you'd gotten it.

You'd shot someone. What if it hadn't been a blank? What if it hadn't just grazed?

“I—”

“Don’t wanna hear it,” Joel cut in. “Go tell Jesse you're done for the day. He’ll take ya home.”

You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper and nodded, turning away.

For the next two weeks, you went back to being useful.

That was the word that seemed to dig its way into your head, after all. Useful. You baked loaves in the morning with flour dusted up your forearms and dough stuck beneath your fingernails. You wrapped bread in cloth and stacked it on the front table before the church bell rang. When you were done, you gardened the weeds that to creep into the squash beds and watermelon patch, and spent the late afternoons mucking stalls. You went to bed so exhausted you barely thought about what happened at the range.

Michael was fine, of course. He'd come by to apologize for his words the next day with Maria's stone face behind him. You apologized too, made sure he was really okay. Offered him a free bagel or two in exchange for maiming him.

Sometimes you saw Joel.

He didn't laugh or pat your arm understandingly the way the others did when retelling the story that of course made its way around town like wildfire.

He hardly looked at you at all, really. And at first you were grateful for it, too embarrassed to even meet his eye if he ever came by the stables for the horses before training or patrol up in the mountains. You'd run and hide before he even got the chance to spot you, truth be told. And when he came by the bakery, you'd disappeared into the back so fast that one time you’d knocked over an entire sack of rye flour in your haste to vanish.

But by the third week, it'd began to piss you off. Because it was one thing to be ashamed—and you were. But Joel was walking around town like you were something to be scraped off the bottom of his boot. It began to put a sour feeling in your stomach, the fact he had so much power to make you feel so small. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid glare and his silent brooding.

You stopped hiding.

The next time he came into the bakery, you were at the front counter with your sleeves rolled up as usual, tying string around a parcel of bread. Ellie was next to him as they entered, talking with her hands, telling him some story about Dina and a loose chicken that morning.

“Morning,” you said when they sidled up to the counter.

Ellie looked over, her green eyes brightening. “Hey.”

Joel said nothing.

You pulled down the ration bread from the shelf with their name and house number written across the paper wrapping.

Ellie grinned as you handed it to her, "Do you have any of those sweet rolls from last week?"

You hazarded a glance at Joel, who said nothing again.

"Sure do. You staying for breakfast? I could make some coffee."

Ellie perked up, looking at him. “Can we?”

“No,” Joel said stiffly.

“Oh, come on—didn't you hear her say your favorite word, old man? Cofffeeeeeee!" she sung out before huffing a breath, "Do I need to get your ears checked by the nurse again?”

“We got work.” he grumbled, ignoring her jab.

“You always have work.”

“Funny how that happens.”

You reached for the tray beneath the counter and set a couple rolls out, taking your time. “There’s fresh icing too from this morning, I just need to drizzle it on.”

You went into the back, grabbing the small bag of sugary sweet icing you'd made, and began letting it fall in a steady cascade onto the sweet buns.

Ellie leaned both elbows on the counter. “See? Now we have to stay. It would be rude not to.”

You pretended not to notice how Joel's jaw ticked under his beard.

“She makes a good argument,” you said, sliding the small plate toward Ellie next to their wrapped weekly bread loaf.

Finally, those dark eyes landed on you. It was quick and could almost pass off as an accident. A muddling of color that shown in the morning light, his mouth flat. The same hard set to his face as always. But you smiled back anyway.

Because fuck him.

Ellie took one and barely hesitated before taking a giant bite, delighted. “Thank you.” she said with her mouth full.

You looked away quickly, back at Ellie. “Anytime.”

Joel reached into his pocket and set the ration slips on the counter. His hand was close enough that you could see the scar across one knuckle, the dust caught in the creases of his fingers. He took the parceled bread from the counter, leaving the second sweet bun untouched.

"Let's go, Ellie." he said stiffly. Before you could even call goodbye, they were walking out the shop, Ellie throwing you an apologetic glance and a wave of her hand as she stuffed the roll into her mouth.

You picked up the rations he left, and for a moment, thought about chucking that leftover roll at the back of his head as he disappeared from view.

Instead of learning how to shoot guns, you began learning how to take care of them.

Learn it from the inside out, you told yourself.

And to be fair, you picked it up rather quickly. Quicker than you’d picked up aiming, anyway. There was a comfort to it that shooting never gave you, all the pieces laid out on an oil-stained cloth in front of you, metal pins and springs and screws set in neat little rows beneath your hands. There was no bottle on a fence line waiting to make a fool out of you here in the small rec room of the cafeteria after the dinner shift had come and gone.

Tommy Miller taught the class every other night, his sleeves rolled to the elbows and voice patient and kind as he showed you and a few others how to take a handgun apart and put it back together. He had a way of teaching that was so different than his brother. He was patient, never made you feel stupid for asking questions. If a piece didn't fit, he'd simply say: “The gun’ll tell you what it needs most times. You just gotta quit arguin’ with it long enough to listen.”

And maybe, a small mean part of you liked the fact that the first time Joel Miller saw you there, he stopped dead in the doorway.

You'd bitten your cheek so hard to keep the smug smile from tugging your lips as he made his way across the room with a box of empty shells the night you were learning how to make ammunition. His eyes moved across the room to his brother, who patted him jovially on the back, and then the elder Miller's eyes came back to you. And you knew you didn't look very nice—smudge of grease across your cheek and your hair pulled haphazardly away from the gunpowder, thick work gloves that hardly fit and your plaid sleeves rolled up.

But he'd stared long and hard anyway. And then, as if nothing was amiss, his face went back to its hard, frozen state, and he walked out.

It was that night that you woke from an awful dream.

A horde of infected had broken through Jackson, tearing through everything you'd always loved and cared for. The gate was splintered open, the watchtower burned down to the ground. People were running through the street in their nightclothes, slipping in mud and blood, screaming names you knew.

You woke in a drenched sweat, feeling every bit as useless with a gun in your dream as you did in waking life.

But it was the kind of dream that didn't really feel like a dream at all. You'd felt like you were there, like the chill of night was actually on your face, like the roars of infected in your ears were truly bone-chilling. Your chest had filled with so much doom as you tried to fight back. But you couldn't. Every shot went wrong, every squeeze of the trigger sent another round into a fence post, a doorframe, the packed dirt beside an infected's rotting foot.

You could load the gun. You could take it apart and put it back together. You could clean the pieces until the metal shone beneath your fingers. You'd done it a hundred times now.

But you couldn't shoot.

In the dream, it had been all your fault. The deaths. Friends, loved ones, people who had waved to you from the church steps and leaned over the bakery counter telling you all about their latest town gossip.

Even Joel Miller.

He had died in the dream too. Because of you, and your awful aim, and your utter uselessness when it came to defending anything you cared about.

So, instead of trying to fall back asleep— afraid the dream might return—you got up and headed downstairs. Making your way through your dark house that was a small thing in the middle of town, you heard the floorboards creaking beneath your socks until you stepped into your boots properly.

You threw on your Carhartt over your nightclothes, fumbling with the zipper in the dark. It was just the start of summer now, but the mornings still could be biting. The mountains liked to keep their cold weather as long as possible, holding to it until the sun finally dragged it out when summer solstice came.

On the kitchen table, the shotgun you'd been working on for Tommy’s class sat wrapped in an old cloth, its oiled barrel catching a thin line of moonlight from the window.

You stared at it for a moment.

Then, decision made, you slung the strap over your shoulder and headed out.

Surprisingly, Joel Miller was awake at the odd hour as well.

As you walked down Rancher Street, you spotted him on his porch in the old rocker, one boot planted against the floorboards to keep the chair steady. A steaming cup of something was in his hand as he looked out onto the empty street. No one was up at this hour. You shouldn’t've even been up either. You wouldn’t have to open the bakery for another several hours, and the whole of Jackson seemed to know it. The curtains of the houses you passed were still drawn in the houses along the street, the chicken coops were quiet. Even the dogs that usually barked from behind fences must have been sleeping away the dawn with their owners still in bed.

It made your boots sound so loud on the road.

When his eyes caught the movement of your form coming toward the house, you saw him pause. His brows shot up high, then narrowed back into their usual glower. As you got closer and closer, it seemed so did his brows, threading deeper, causing harsher lines to form between them. The sun was just barely beginning to peek over the east mountaintops, the sky beginning to let go of its inky blackness with only a pale line of light touching the surrounding rooftops.

Joel Miller didn’t say anything as you stepped up from the street onto the path to his house. Or as you walked through his front yard. But his eyes never left you.

You tried—very hard and very much in vain—not to care what he saw as you walked up to the porch. He was an asshole, after all. An asshole who had told you he had no use for you, dismissed you for one mistake, and ignored you for weeks after. You shouldn't care if he saw some clumsy girl with a gun too big for her hands, or the bags under your eyes, or the matching floral sleep set beneath your jacket, long sleeves buttoned to your wrists and matching cotton pants tucked messily into your boots.

"Good morning, Mr. Miller." you said, stopping just at the bottom step of his porch.

He took a long sip of his steaming cup before resting it between his hands on his lap.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, kid?"

In any other circumstance, that could’ve been a polite greeting. But the flatness to his voice, the utter disapproval or contempt that threaded through it, made it sound exactly as he meant it.

You stared at him for a long, long moment.

He just stared back.

The rocker gave a faint creek under his weight. You could just smell the contents of the mug—coffee, for sure then. Bitter and dark how he liked it. You shifted the shotgun off your shoulder and set the butt of it into the dirt beside your boot, one hand rested at the top so it pointed up towards the sky.

Finally, it was Joel who broke the silence as he sighed, getting up to stand at the railing, setting one large, calloused palm against the wood as he looked down at you.

"Kid, I don't know what yer—"

"Shut up."

Joel Miller, for the first damn time since he'd met you, seemed to be stunned. His eyes went wide in disbelief.

"Excuse me, young lady?" he scoffed, standing still on his porch.

"Shut up—" you said, and if your voice shook a little, he made no notice, "and listen."

His eyebrows lifted. Then he looked down the empty street, like maybe someone else had heard you speak to him that way and he needed a witness. But there was no one, of course. Not at this hour. Only the closed houses, the pale line of morning over the rooftops, and a dog two porches down watching through the fence with its nose pressed between the slats.

When Joel looked back at you, he only gave a small shrug, one palm tipping up from the railing.

Go on then.

"I am a baker," you said curtly, taking in a shaky, deep breath, "I am a gardener, I am a sewer, I've become a damn good gun cleaner. I've been in Jackson for two years. I deserve to be here."

"Never said—"

"—and I deserve to learn how to defend it too."

Joel's eyes never left you as he heard your case. His face didn't change much, but at least it wasn't glowering anymore. He made no move to dismiss you or walk back inside even if he'd have enough reason to.

"Just because I had a shit first day doesn't mean I can't still learn, old man." you said. It wasn't a term of endearment. "Just because I'm not shooting bullseyes or killing infected yet doesn't mean I can't try, alright? I— I'm brave and—and—" you took another deep breath, "And you're going to teach me how to shoot."

"Like hell—" he stopped, scoffing again, and then went on, shaking his head: "Kid, you and I—clearly, we ain't jivin', why don't you ask another—"

"No."

Joel clicked his teeth, shifting his weight between his feet behind the wooden balusters.

"No one is as…" you glared up at him, the words searing your tongue before you could force it out, "No one is as good as you. If anyone is gonna teach me, it's you Mr. Miller."

There was a long pause, and Joel set down his mug, the steam wafting in the chilly summer morning. You almost wished you hadn't come, that you could go back to ignoring each other for weeks. What was it to you, what this man thought of you? You knew you looked ridiculous standing here, asking for help. You should be shouting at him, telling him he's mean and grouchy like a dog.

"Christ," he sighed, "you don't give up do ya?"

"Nope."

He pulled in another deep breath, looking up and down the road again for a long moment, before his eyes found you once more. You saw how they roved over your figure, over the muck boots and the white blue floral set, over your tan Carhartt, and then onto your face, where he paused for a moment before saying:

"Well first thing, don't hold the damn gun like that."

You looked down where you were leaning your palm over the muzzle of the shotgun.

"Gonna blow a hole in your palm, then I wouldn't be able to teach ya shit."

Your face burned, but you moved to grip the barrel lower and pulled the gun carefully across your belly, holding it with both hands now, pointed well away from either of you.

He nodded, lifting his mug and taking another sip of coffee, watching you, The slurp of the drink filling his mouth held the silence while the birds began waking up around you.

"You sure you'll be warm enough?" he asked finally.

You nodded.

"Alright. Let me get my shoes and we can hit the trails. Stay put."

You nodded again, and then—

"Joel?"

He turned.

"I um... I promise I won't let you down."

He took one more look at you, the harsh line of his mouth eased, eyes settling in a way you hadn't seen before.

He nodded once, and said: "I know, kid."

The sun was well over the mountain top by the time you made it to the ridge.

He hadn't taken you back to the training ground, whether it was to save you the humiliation of seeing the leftover shards of green glass on the ground, or because he liked the view better by the forgotten ranch, you weren't entirely sure.

It sat a few miles out from Jackson, tucked up where the land opened into a long slope of yellow grass and thin fence posts. One of the old checkpoint places, Joel had told you on the ride over. Not one people used much anymore, not unless they were cutting through on patrol or needed to seek shelter from a storm. There was a little graying house at the top of the rise with peeling paint along the porch rail and a tin roof gone dull from years of snow. Beside it, an old barn leaned slightly into the hill, its red paint worn down to bare wood in places, its door hanging open on a rusted hinge.

You barely registered the bird song that filled the skies as he set up a training course, the beautiful view of the mountainside and your horses grazing in pasture of the barn. Every now and then you saw one lift its head to look at you, ears flickering around, before bending down and resuming its peaceful morning loitering.

Joel was beside you, close enough that you could smell the pine of his body wash and the musk of sweat lining his shirt. He had been mostly quiet on the ride here, but not in the punishing way, you began to realize. Just quiet and focused as his is eyes kept moving over the land, the fence line, the barn, the empty windows of the little ranch house behind you.

“Lean just a little over now,” he said from behind your shoulder as you got into position by the wooden posts. “Use the fence as a brace. Easier when you got something steady under the stock.”

You shifted forward until the gun found the flat part of the top of the wood. The air was still chilly through the sleeves of your sleep set, the fence rough enough to catch on the ribboned cuff of your pant leg when you moved into it. Ahead, he’d pinned a target to the trunk of a tree, three rings and a bullseye in the center.

“First thing,” he said, “you don’t point that barrel anywhere you ain’t willing to put a hole through. Don’t matter if you think the thing's empty. Don’t matter if I told you it’s empty. You treat it like it’s loaded every second it’s in your hands.”

"I know, Joel."

"Repeat it," he said, a little firmer, and the way his breath brushed the side of your neck, it made you shiver. You didn't reaalize he'd gotten so close.

"Treat it like it's loaded." you muttered, leaning over the stock, looking down the line of the barrel.

"Good." he grunted. "Finger stays off the trigger til you're ready, keep both eyes open."

"You sure are bossy." you said under your breath.

"'Scuse me?" he chuckled, "Ain't you the one who dragged me out here at the brink of dawn?"

You rolled your eyes, but bent forward.

“Careful with that,” he said. “Eyes are useful for shootin’. Would hate for 'em to get stuck like that.”

You couldn't help the chuckle you let out—great, so he's got dad jokes too.

“Now stay where you are,” he said. “I’m gonna move the shotgun where it’s supposed to sit. Easier than tryin’ to explain it five different ways, alright?”

You felt your cheeks burn a little, but nodded.

He moved behind you, close enough that the warmth of him settled at your back before he ever touched you. One hand reached around yours, thick fingers closing over the fore end of the shotgun to shift it against the top rail of the fence, enough to settle it steady against the wood. His other hand came to your shoulder, guiding the butt of the stock into place. It was heavy, but bearable thanks to the support of the fence in front of you.

"Want it over your shoulder, not pushin' into the collarbone. S'gonna kick harder than a mule and you'll be hollerin' about bein' sore for days."

You scoffed a bit, but let the stock settle over the crest of your shoulder as he positioned it.

“Now press your cheek right here,” he said, moving his hand from the barrel to tap the side of the stock. You tilted your head, trying to place it right. You nearly gasped when you felt the thick press of his fingers on the other side your neck as he guided you into position without thought. Not rough or impatient, only warm, certain, his callouses catching lightly against your skin. "There ya go."

Your body became suddenly very aware of him from that one touch. The scrape of his jacket against yours as his chest came in closer, the weight of him behind you, the heat of him against your back.

"Stay still, you're squirmin'—"

"—am not—"

You felt the breath of a laugh over your shoulders, and it made your skin rise in gooseflesh. The target was becoming blurrier by the moment.

"Now—"

You held very still as you felt him line his body behind yours, his breath now against your neck, his voice low and gravelly like honey on hot asphalt.

“Think about all that bullshit you been carryin’ around,” he grumbled. “Starin’ daggers at me for weeks. Comin’ up on my porch tellin’ me to shut up, callin’ me old, actin’ like I decided you don’t belong.”

"Joel—" you protested.

"S'okay, didn't take none personal." he said as he stepped up even closer, one hand going to your hip. “Breathe in.”

You sucked in a shallow breath.

He clicked his teeth. “Try again. You know none of that is true, don't ya, darlin'? Let it all go here. Don't belong in that head a'yours.”

You closed your eyes, annoyed and a little embarrassed, and pulled air in deeper this time, taking in the smells of the open Wyoming air. Cold morning. Damp grass. Coffee on his breath. Mint from when he'd been chewing the sprig on the way there. Pine soap. The fence rail rough beneath the gun.

His breath was so warm against your cheek as he murmured: "That's it, now let it out."

You let the breath leave you, nice and long and through your mouth—and with it went the bickering on his porch, the shame of the range, the weeks of him not looking at you, the ugly little voice that kept saying you were useless no matter how many loaves you baked or horses you brushed or shotguns you cleaned.

"Open your eyes now, and squeeze that trigger." he murmured, lips brushing your ear. As he said the word, his hand pressed forward on your hip, long, thick fingers winding around the sensitive skin just under the waistband.

When your eyes opened, the sun felt a little brighter, the day a little clearer. The target sharpened against the tree, the black rings settling in your sight.

Your stomach dipped for one horrifying moment, and then—you squeezed.

The shot cracked across the ridge, echoing off the sides of the mountains. Joel was right—the butt of the gun kicked hard, but you only felt it jostle your body back into his, harder, the force caught by your shoulder instead of biting into your chest.

You gasped, everything happening so fast before you were blinking rapidly and seeing the paper on the tree ripped just left of center.

“Shit—”

“Not bad for a first try.” you heard him say.

"I wanna go again." you said, breathlessly.

“Jackson’s gonna be needin’ their morning bread soon,” Joel chuckled, but he didn’t move. “Tommy’s gonna be wonderin’ where his cinnamon rolls are.”

You smiled wide, the adrenaline of the shot still coursing through you.

As your breath settled, both of you were still leaning over the fence, your body pressed back into the hard line of his. His hand hadn’t moved from your hip. Neither had yours from the shotgun. It would’ve been easy, maybe, to step away. To laugh, to clear your throat, to make some comment about those cinnamon rolls or old men or how if he'd stop being so bossy you could've probably hit the bullseye.

But…you didn't.

You only tilted your gaze over your shoulder.

He was so close—so close you could see almost every gray hair in his thick beard like winter's snowy streaks in a dark sky. You could see every line on his plump bottom lip, the shining spot where his tongue had just passed over it.

"Thank you, Joel." you whispered, "For…"

You trailed off, because Joel wasn't looking in your eyes anymore. They were such a pretty hazel you'd never noticed, and were fixed on your mouth.

"You're welcome." he whispered.

Your lips parted lightly when he tilted his head over your shoulder, and he took that as invitation to lean in.

He was so warm.

Like kindled fire in a cabin, like the first morning of solstice. The prickle of his mustache brushed your nose as he took your lips with his, breathing you in so deeply it made your knees go soft beneath you. You let out a whimper, hands tightening around the barrel and grip of the shotgun, wishing so badly to put them in his hair, all over his broad shoulders and thick muscles.

He seemed to know exactly what you needed, his one hand coming up to take the gun from your hands, placing it quickly but carefully against the fence. He only broke the kiss to turn you fully towards him before his lips were on you again, hungrier and needier as he pushed his body into yours.

His hands were all over you in an instant, planted on your hips and squeezing you harder, making you whine under his touch.

Your tongue traced his bottom lip, teeth nipping, begging wordlessly for entrance, and he gave it so easily. So eagerly. He groaned, opening his mouth for you, letting you lick inside, suckling on his tongue before you nipped again at that nice bottom lip.

His hands were everywhere—under your jacket but above your cotton top, sliding up your waist and back down again, never settling for long. They were so big and broad, squeezing and groping anywhere he could hold.

Yours wound around his neck so you could drag him closer, breasts pushed to his chest, the layers between you suddenly unbearable. His jacket. Your sleep shirt. His flannel. It was too much fabric—too much of everything that wasn’t his fevered skin against yours.

How could you ever have thought he was such an asshole? This grumpy old man— this stubborn, bossy, impossible man, was just as needy as you. Maybe worse. All that silence, that staring. Those weeks of pretending he didn’t see you across bakery counters and barn aisles and muddy streets. He needed this as much as you did, someone to set him straight, yes, but also… to tell him he was needed and good, too.

You moaned when his hands traveled lower, both palms filling with the round flesh of your bum, dragging you up against him. One hand pulled up beneath your thigh so your leg was over his hip, opening you enough for him to grind the hard denim of his cock against you.

“Oh shit—” you gasped as your back got pushed into the rails of the fence.

He was thick. You could feel it even through his jeans, through the stiff seam and the metal of his zipper, the heavy shape of his length ground into the cradle of your legs perfectly.

Joel’s mouth left yours with a wet sound and moved to your jaw, then your chin, then the side of your throat. His beard scraped at your skin, his mustache rough beneath your ear.

“S’alright, darlin’,” he murmured, rocking into you again, slower this time, meaner for how much control he had over it. “Just needed someone to show you how it’s done, didn’t ya?”

Your nails bit into the back of his neck.

“Joel—”

“Been fightin’ me all mornin’,” he said, his mouth dragging lower, teeth grazing where your pulse beat too fast. “All damn month, really.”

You couldn’t even argue. Not with his hips pressed just right and his hand gripping your thigh harder, holding you open against the fence.

“S’okay,” he said, voice rough against your throat, tongue laving over your carotid. “I’ll show you how to take me just as good, yeah?”

“Oh, yes,” you breathed, already nodding. “Yes, please, Joel.”

"What good manners you have, baby," he cooed.

Luckily he couldn't see the way your eyes rolled at that, but your mouth fell open as he bit down on the tender flesh of your shoulder.

"Oh!"

He growled, pleased, the sound vibrating up from his rib cage and against your skin before he push his cock into you harder than before. The fence post pressed into your back, a little painful through your jacket, his hands holding you tightly between it and himself.

“Tell me,” he groaned. “How long?”

"How long what, old man?" you tried to clipped retort, but it came out more like a whimper as his hands pulled you closer, dragging your cotton-covered seam over him harder. You had one hand thrown back over the fence rail to keep your balance, the other fisted tightly in his hair. Your head fell forward to watch where his lap met yours, thin floral pajama pants bunched tight where his stiff denim pressed into them over and over, the friction making your thighs tremble around his hips.

"How long has this sweet little pussy been wet —since we got up here, hm?"

"Fuck you," you moaned, which only made him laugh.

His head came up to look you straight in the eye, one hand going to the side of your face, thumb against your cheekbone, the wide breadth of his palm covering your cheek. His fingers dug lightly into the side of your neck as he forced your gaze back up to him. It was shockingly sweet for how menacing his smile was.

“Your little act doesn’t work on me, sugar,” he murmured, staring at your lips. “C’mon now. Tell me.”

You glared up at him, though it was a weak thing with your chest heaving and your leg hooked around his waist. "You're such an asshole."

He bent down to nip at your nose, "'fraid I think you might like that most about me."

The both of you were very still now, though you'd brought both of your ankles up to lock at his lower back, fully relying on him for balance. Your chest heaved with fresh lungfuls of air, finally catching up to what had felt lost and shallow before.

"And what about you?" you asked, tipping your chin up. "You really hate me as much as you act like you do?"

“Could never hate’cha,” he murmured, leaning down again, his voice lower now, almost too soft for the way he was still holding you against the fence. “Only thing I hate is how fuckin’ bad you make me want you.”

You blinked up at him.

"Is it really that much of a surprise, baby?" he added when he saw your expression.

"I mean—you—"

He was beginning to kiss you again, your flustered state seemingly invitation enough to resume his affection, gentler this time. He kissed your mouth softly, then the corner where the seam of your lips met, then up your cheek and over your brow.

"—you said we don't get along, that I should find someone else to teach me—that, that you had no use for me—"

Joel pulled back one more time, looking down at you. The hand that had been hooked under your knee came up to your face too, until he was holding your head between both hands, palms rough against your cheeks, fingers cupping the bowl of your skull.

His eyes moved over your face, and for once, there was no glower there. No hard set to his mouth. Just Joel, looking at you like the words had been sitting badly in his chest too.

"Should'a never said that, I know. I'm sorry. I was an asshole up at the trainin' range that mornin'."

"Yeah, you were." you pouted.

“Only said them things on the porch ’cause I know I shouldn’t want’cha like I do.” He shook his head, jaw tight, the confession seemingly costing him something. “Can’t fuckin’ help it though, baby. I can’t.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

"You're too young—" he whispered, "—too sweet for me. You're right, I'm old, I'm mean as a dog…"

Your delicate fingers wrapped around his thick wrists, holding him there, keeping his hands on your face.

“Truth?” you offered.

He nodded quietly.

Out there, you could just hear the breeze over the open fields around you. The soft nickering of the horses grazes, the birdsong of the woods beyond. It was awfully quiet where just you and Joel stood pinned against the old fenceline.

"I've wanted you for so, so long." you murmured.

His eyes flickered between yours, narrowing, almost disbelieving. Your grip on his wrists tightened.

"I have. And…and… I've been wet since we got here. Thinking about this—being all alone with you and—even if I can't fucking stand you glowering at me like that—"

He pushed his lips into yours again, but this time, it wasn't only the flame of hunger and eagerness, but the gentleness of tender affection.

“C’mere,” he whispered into your lips, hands sliding down your sides.

His hands were back on your body, pulling you closer, slipping under your jacket once more before finally reaching under your cotton night shirt. You could feel just how rough-hewn his fingertips were, how calloused and worn they were against the tender flesh of your body. But they felt so right, like this was where they belonged all along.

“You’re so soft, baby. Wanna feel how soft you are under these.” His fingers hooked lightly at the waistband of your cotton pants. “Take ’em off for me.”

You listened, of course you listened. He let your wobbly legs down gently from his hips, one hand staying firm at your waist until your boots found the grass again. Your knees felt useless beneath you, weak from the heat of him, from the way his voice had gone low and syrupy thick against your mouth. You reached for the ribboned hem of your sleep pants with clumsy fingers, and Joel watched you like he was trying very hard to stay patient.

The cotton slid down your thighs, catching for a second at your knees before you stepped out of them and your boots. Morning air touched your bare skin at once, cool enough to make you suck in a breath.

You started to pull your coat off too, but Joel caught the front of it in one fist and held it closed around you.

“You’re gonna get cold, baby,” he murmured, bringing you back into his arms to kiss you on the lips once more. “Keep it on.”

He was soon bending, kissing your chin, the soft skin of your throat, down your top and lifting it just enough to lick into your navel, making you giggle and squirm. He threw you a knowing look when you bit back a laugh at the crack of his knees, and you nearly opened your mouth to say something rude before his lips found your skin again.

He kissed lower, down the soft slope of your belly, until his mouth was pressed just above your mound where your panties still covered you. Stupid sleep underwear, you chastised yourself, suddenly annoyed you hadn’t thought this far ahead. But Joel didn't seem to care. He kissed the little bow at the waistband, something slipping from his mouth that sounded awfully like 'how cute'.

Your breath caught in the crisp morning air when his tongue dipped out over your cotton panties, right where your clit pulsed beneath. He let out a low hum of satisfaction, one thick finger coming up to pull the cotton aside.

“Why don’t you spread these pretty legs for me, hm?” His eyes flicked up to yours. “Or do I need to teach ya how to do that too?”

You scoffed, still in your head enough to want to bite back a curse at him, but he was already moving your leg for you, pushing your knee toward the fenceline until your boot found footing on the bottom rail. His eyes never left the damp spot darkening your panties.

As he pulled the cotton aside fully, he sighed, face tilting a little as he looked.

“You’re staring,” you murmured, nervousness fluttering in your belly.

His eyes glanced up at you, and your heart ricocheted into your throat. You felt bare. Exposed. Ready for him to turn cold again, to go back to that surly look and stone quiet like he’d only just remembered himself.

Instead, his thumb stroked once along your thigh.

“S’just so pretty,” he murmured. “Tryin’ to take my time, is all.”

Your mouth opened in another quick gasp as his lips pressed onto the swollen bud of your clit. You felt his tongue dip out lazily, curled like a basin for collecting the arousal that had pooled for him. He licked up and up and up, before suckling on your sensitive bud again. He moaned with you when your head fell back, your fingers digging harder into the fenceline where you held yourself up.

"That's it, that's it," he cooed when he pulled away to blow gentle air against your pussy. "What a good girl you are, just want a little taste before I put my cock in ya."

Oh god, the old man really had a filthy mouth.

He was diving back in again, now with a finger to prod at your entrance. Your knees suddenly felt wobbly, hardly able to keep you standing.

He licked and sucked at your pussy like he’d been waiting for it, messy and hungry now, no patience left in him. His finger pushed inside, thick enough to make you gasp, your walls clenching down around it as he groaned into you.

"Ohhhh…" you chorused together.

"Fuck, you're tight," he breathed.

"Oh god, Joel." you said at the same time.

"I know, I know," he cooed again. His voice had gone dark and syrup-thick, coated in arousal, every word dragged rough from the back of his throat.

“Just gotta open ’er up,” he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh before looking back at where his finger disappeared inside you. “Ain’t no way my cock’s fittin’ in here before I get you ready.”

“It will,” you chanted, hips undulating up into his mouth. “It will, it will—”

He moaned at your eagerness, crooking his finger before pulling it out to the first knuckles, and inserting a second finger. You gasped, stretched over his thick digits, the ache of it full and perfect and worse because he looked so pleased with himself. Because he knew exactly where to press, where to push, how to lave his tongue over your clit until your body was singing his praise.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathed, watching your face as his fingers worked deeper. “There you go. There you go.”

Your head tipped back against the fence post, wood catching at your hair.

“She gonna squeeze my cock this tight too, huh?” he murmured, mouth brushing slick over your clit. “She likes my fingers in ’er.”

"Yes, yes, yes," you whispered, your eyes hooded but forcing yourself to watch him. Your other hand carded into his thick graying hair at the crown of his head, nails scraping through, and he made a rough, pleased sound into you. Almost a purr. Almost a growl. His eyes fluttered for half a second before he looked back up at you, mouth wet, beard shining, fingers still buried inside you.

"M'so close, Joel, so so close, pleeeaseee…"

"There's those sweet manners again, baby. Why don't you go ahead and beg me some more? Maybe I'll let you come right now, and then I'll make you come again around my cock. Huh? Sound good? Let me hear your pretty little begging again, baby, go on now."

He said it all while panting, tilting his head up so his eyes could watch you. You put on your best pout, bottom lip sticking out so he could see how much you really really wanted it.

"Pleeeeease, Joel, please—" you mewled, "your fingers feel so good, so thick, please let me come. I'll be good, I'll be good."

"Good girl," he murmured, breath hot against you, "go on, let me feel her soak me. Come, baby,"

It felt like your belly had been waiting for the words. The overwhelming build finally tipped, the wave cresting hard before crashing through you all at once. Your body went molten as you locked up around his fingers, pleasure coursing through your veins in hot, licking bursts. Your eyes squeezed shut, your mouth falling open around a low, obscene moan you had no control over.

Joel rocked you through it, fingers pushing in and out, fucking you with them while his tongue pressed gently at your overstimulated clit until you were twitching and pulling away from his mouth.

When he pulled his fingers from your walls, you nearly fell to the ground, your legs unable to hold you up. Joel caught you before you could drop, hands firm beneath your thighs as he lifted you fully against him, both your legs winding around his waist now. Lazily, sleepily, you watched him shrug out of his coat and throw it down over the grass. Your eyes were still too heavy to take all of him in properly, so your hands did it instead—big shoulders, broad chest, thick arms built from hard work and long hours.

Just as much a part of Jackson as you were. Maybe more.

He could do everything. It made you a little sick with envy, even now, even with your body still humming from his mouth and his fingers.

Joel saw your face change, but he was busy lowering you onto his coat, easing you down into the grass instead of keeping you pinned against the fence.

“What is it, baby?” he whispered, one hand cradling the back of your head as he settled over you. “What’s in that pretty little head of yours?”

He was half watching you, half working open his jeans until his cock was freed from the denim, heavy as it bobbed, flushed red and bobbing thick between you as he leaned closer.

You licked your lips, reaching for him, but Joel caught you by the wrist before your fingers could wrap around him. You gasped in surprise, but he only brought your hand to his mouth, kissing each pad of your fingers one by one.

“Don’t think I’ll last too long if you start that,” he murmured. “Tell me what’s goin’ on.”

You shook your head. “Nothing. You’re just…you’re so…”

You sighed dreamily, distracted by the feeling of his swollen, wet lips against the tips of your fingers.

“Old?” he offered. “Cranky? Rude?”

Your mouth twitched. “Yes, and…”

He laughed a little, but you went on anyway.

“I was just thinking about how perfect you are.”

Now he really smiled wide, shaking his head before nipping at your index finger. "Think you've got the wrong man, baby," he groaned a little, and then leaned over you.

You shook your head again, winding your arms around his neck, one hand cupping the nape of his hair while your nails scraped lightly along his scalp.

“Don’t think so.”

He hummed, kissing you again, and began to roll his hips against you so his cock slid up your belly, heavy and hot against your skin. The kiss deepened, lips slotting together, wet and tender, tongues sliding slow as your hands tightened in his hair and his weight settled over you.

“I don’t know if you’re gonna fit,” you whispered when he pulled his hips back too far and the head of his cock slipped up through the seam of your pussy.

He licked his lips, looking down at you. “Told ya I’d teach ya, didn’t I?”

You smiled, nodding. “M’nervous.”

“Don’t gotta be. I got ya, baby.” His thumb brushed along your hairline. “We’ll start nice and slow.”

He did as he said, sitting back a little just so he could grasp his cock in one hand, the other still cradling your head, petting your hair where it had fallen across his jacket. The head of him notched at your entrance, wet with arousal and spit, but the difference between two fingers and his cock suddenly felt impossible.

“Easy now,” he whispered, kissing your lips. “Take a breath for me, honey.”

You did as he said, for once without some retort, and pulled in a deep breath.

What started as control quickly turned into a gasp as he pushed inside.

“Oh fuck!” you squealed, clawing at his shoulders over his shirt.

He chuckled, and you wanted to slap him.

“Come on now, honey,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your open mouth. “You’re all tensin’ up. Curl your toes. Deep breaths. C’mere, gimme a kiss.”

Your toes curled automatically, did your best to pull in another breath, and he leaned down to kiss you earnestly, swallowing the next rough sound that left you as he pushed in another inch.

His tongue licked behind your teeth. His chest pressed yours down into the coat. The weight of him made the ground feel farther away somehow, the grass cool beneath your hips, his jacket bunched soft and worn under your shoulders.

“Oh yeah,” he breathed against your mouth, rougher now. “Ain’t that so good, baby? How’s that feel?”

Your head fell back onto the collar of his jacket. “Soooo…full. Fuck.”

“Almost all of it,” he murmured, jaw tight. “Just a little more. Pussy feels amazing, baby. S’like heaven.”

Your eyes squeezed shut as he pulled back a little, your mouth opening in a small, helpless shape when the drag of him caught every tender place he’d opened with his fingers.

“Yeah,” he sighed, watching your face. “There you go. She’s warmin’ up to me now.”

One of his hands slid from your hair to your throat, resting just beneath your jaw, not squeezing, only holding you there while his thumb brushed the jumping line of your pulse. "think she's even startin' to like me."

“You’re so corny,” you groaned, but your chastising cut off when he slid his cock in all the way, his heavy balls pressing against your ass at last.

“Oh—” you choked. “Oh, oh oh.”

Joel nodded like he felt it too, like he needed the confirmation just as badly as you did. Then he kissed you again, and you let him, loose and dazed beneath him, tongue sweeping out to taste his. You could still taste yourself there, musky and sweet on his mouth, and it made your walls contract around him.

Your body was starting to understand him now. The first sharp stretch softened into heat, your muscles loosening by degrees, letting him settle deeper until the fullness became less frightening and more necessary.

“Fuck,” he breathed, forehead pressing to yours. “You okay? How’re you feelin’, baby?”

“So good, Joel,” you whispered, fingers flexing in the fabric at his shoulders. “So good. Please, please fuck me.”

He groaned, ducking his face into your neck. “Gonna give it to you good, baby.”

He started slowly. Though, you weren't sure if he was exactly gentle. He was so big and there was too much of him for anything to feel really gentle. But he was careful, controlled in the sawing of his hips that pulled halfway out, and then pressing back in. Each stroke was concise, your fingers digging harder into his shirt, each little hiccup of air pressed from you.

His coat dragged beneath your back, the grass brushing cold against your bare thighs. Your sleep top had ridden up beneath your own jacket, leaving your stomach exposed to the morning air, but Joel was warm over you, broad and heavy and panting against your throat. Every time he pushed in, your body shifted against his, the ground catching you, the earth taking what the fence no longer had to.

The open air of the field collected your simpering sighs and loud, mewling moans, the day warming around you so that you saw sweat beginning to dapple his forehead when he brought his head up to look at you.

“So pretty, baby,” he breathed. “Such a pretty girl takin’ cock so well.”

You cried out when he changed the rhythm, picking up speed.

“I know, I know,” he moaned, his voice catching rough in his throat. “God, you feel so good, baby. Pussy feels like it was made for me, huh?”

“Yes, Joel, yes—ohhh, yes, yes, yes.”

“She’s tightenin’ up on me again,” he panted, eyes dragging over your face. “Gonna come for me already? What a good girl you are. C’mon, I wanna feel it around my cock.”

Your eyes widened when Joel’s hand slid down your body again, over your thigh, hooking it higher until your leg was thrown up over his shoulder. Your body folded beneath him, his cock reaching deeper as he leaned down into you.

“Fuck!” you squealed, holding tightly onto his hair.

He looked down at you with a little pout, a mock-sympathetic expression pulling at his mouth.

“Doin’ so good,” he murmured. “Takin’ my cock like such a good girl, baby. Come on now, let me feel her again. She feels like fuckin’ heaven.”

“Jooooel,” you whined.

But that crest of a wave was swelling worse now, higher, blood coursing hot through the river of your veins, sparking as it flooded your belly. Your hips tightened. Your muscles locked. Your whole body seemed to pull toward him, toward that hard, dragging stroke, toward the pressure building so tight you could hardly breathe around it.

“Oh god,” you gasped. “Oh god.”

“Make your old man happy, baby,” he panted, hips snapping harder now. “Come on my cock. Know you wanna. Know your pussy loves it.”

“Shut up,” you cried. “Shut up, shut up.”

He grabbed your face again, mock pout gone, teeth bared with the strain of holding himself together.

“Where are those sweet manners you had not too long ago?”

You squealed as he built up a faster rhythm. His hand hooked around your neck, pulling you up just enough to make you look down between your bodies, where his cock was splitting you open over and over.

“You see that, baby?” he groaned. “She’s milkin’ me. Beggin’ me to let her come, ain’t she? Look how good she’s takin’ me.”

“So good,” you murmured between moans.

It was true. His cock was covered with your thick arousal and come, pearly white and glistening around the shaft every time he pulled out, only to swing his hips back into you again.

“So why don’t you use those good manners and ask me?” he rasped. “Hm? Too proud already? Or are you too cock drunk?”

You pushed weakly against him, and he let you lay back down fully, following you down to kiss you. His mouth was wet, his breath uneven, his body still working yours into the coat beneath you.

“Gonna make me beg for it now, sweetheart?” he asked against your lips. “That it?”

You shook your head, too far gone to answer properly.

“I ain’t above beggin’,” he chuckled, though the sound broke wetly into a groan when you clenched around him again. “Wanna feel it so badly.”

He reached down between you, his thumb finding your swollen clit and strumming it with the perfect pressure.

Your eyes popped open, you didn’t even have time to beg. To ask. To tell him.

Your body locked up all at once, eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure burst bright and black behind your lids. It tore through you in waves, hips jerking beneath him, thighs shaking where he had you folded open. Your mouth fell wide around a sound you barely recognized as yours.

Somewhere outside the buzzing of your orgasm, outside your own moans and the pulse pounding in your ears, you heard Joel groaning louder.

“That’s it,” he gritted against your cheek. “Fuck, that’s it, baby. Give it to me. Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”

His thrusts started to lose their rhythm, turning deeper, rougher, his hips driving into you with less control each time. His hand tightened at your jaw, his forehead pressing hot to yours mouth open against yours, and then he pushed into you one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go.

Joel groaned your name like it had been dragged from somewhere low in his chest, and then he filled you, cock pulsing inside you as his body went heavy over yours, his breath breaking against your mouth.

For a moment, neither of you moved. There was only breath.

Yours, thin, uneven, still catching in your dry throat when you tried to swallow. He felt heavy over you, his breath thick against your cheek. His weight felt good, like a blanket, though your legs had begun to cramp until he let your leg down.

The open summer morning moved on around you. It all came back to your ears eventually, the cricking of the open barn door, the horses in the pasture and the birds singing from far away. The field smelled like fresh grass and weeds and sunshine, Joel's coffee still faint on his breath.

You hummed against him as he kissed the crook of your neck, his mustache and beard prickly against you. He feathered his lips up your throat until they were over your own lips, which you pressed gently against his. He pulled back, just looking at you. And you did the same. You brought your hand up to his face slowly, tracing the line of his brow, down his sharp nose and over the bow of his top lip.

"You are so perfect." you said dreamily.

He breathed a little laugh through his nose, a crooked, disbelieving smile pulling his lips. A shyness you weren't sure you'd ever seen.

The heat between you had started to cool. Your skin prickled beneath your open jacket, the air finding every place his body didn’t cover. You shivered, and Joel noticed at once.

“Chilly?”

“Only a little.”

He sighed, like he hated that he had to move, then leaned down to press one more long, lingering kiss to your lips before sitting back.

You made a small sound when he pulled out of you, your body too sensitive for even that. Joel’s eyes dropped between you, his jaw tightening for a second at the sight of himself slipping free, slick and spent against your thigh.

"Poor baby," he said, his thumb reaching out to slide up your wet and abused folds. You whined at the touch, and he pouted down at you.

"Easy, easy, I know. Gonna take care of her when we get home."

He sat back on his heels and tucked himself away first, hands slower now, less steady than they’d been when he’d taken the rifle from you. Then he reached for your sleep pants where they’d been left in the grass, shook them once to knock off the loose dirt, and turned back to you.

You blinked up at him, limp and boneless, still spread over his coat.

Joel looked down at you for a second, one brow lifting. “Don’t make me do all the work now, baby.”

You smiled sleepily. “You seemed to like doing all the work a minute ago.”

His mouth pressed into a line, but it didn’t hide the amusement in his eyes. “Smart mouth,” he muttered.

Still, his hands were gentle when he guided one foot through the pant leg, then the other. He pulled the cotton up your calves carefully, pausing when the fabric caught at your knee, easing it loose before working it higher. You lifted your hips only when he tapped them, and even then, barely.

“There ya go,” he murmured, drawing the waistband back into place beneath your rumpled top. He helped you sit up slowly in his lap, one hand braced behind your back, the other fixing the front of your coat around you. His knuckles brushed your stomach as he straightened your shirt, then pulled the jacket closed enough to keep the morning air off your skin.

You stayed like that for a moment, hiked up over his thighs, and he let your limbs fold around him again, hands back into his messy hair.

"I meant it—you—" you began, then licked your lips, staring up into his pretty hazel eyes again, "you're good, Joel. You're perfect."

He opened his mouth to protest, but sighed instead.

"Thank you for bringing me out here," you went on, "I'm sorry if I was mean earlier."

He smiled crookedly, "I was too."

You shook your head, "You had reasons to be."

He leaned down and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to your lips, "Bakery is gonna be wonderin' where you are, we better get back."

You held on tight even when he began to move, and a little mischevious smile twitched your mouth.

"What?" he asked, smile growing.

"One more shot?"

thank you so much for reading! I love youuu!!!