@ultimatewolverine's very unorganised reading list sideblog (tagging in process) sagi - 29 - they/them • MDNI reblogs are queued. likes and follows from main.
Summary : Dex is jealous of your sex toys. What else is he jealous of?
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : switch!Dex, switch!reader, Dex is a little pathetic in this one, obsessive jealousy, stalking, possessive behavior, BDSM/kink dynamics, sex toys, collars/restraints, safeword use (Green/Red), emotional masochism(?), rough sex, dacryphilia, mentions of past sexual mistreatment from your exes, murder/violence references, blood/injury, emotional dependency, humiliation and praise kink, no anatomical detail as per usual, Dex being jealous of literally anything that has ever touched you. (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 13.7k
Notes : I hope y’all don't mind that I wrote a one shot instead of the series! This is my first story in a while that was unrequested and just something that I wanted! Enjoy!
Dex had watched you long before he ever touched you. Not that you ever found out.
To you, Benjamin Poindexter had only been the strange but polite man who started appearing in your life “by chance”. You knew he probably lived around the area, because he happened to be walking down your road and held the door when your hands were full, who remembered how you had your coffee after hearing you order it once in a local cafe, who showed up in the elevator just as the doors were closing and asked if you got home safe last night like that was a normal thing for a near-stranger to worry about. Then, he claimed he was visiting a colleague who lived in your building.
You thought he was sweet in a weird way. A little stiff, a little serious, a little too focused when you spoke, like every word out of your mouth mattered to him religiously.
You had no idea how much of it had been arranged. You thought it was just a little series of coincidences. Dex knew better. Dex had learned your schedule first: work, grocery store, laundromat, home, repeat. Then he learned the smaller things from his shadowy window across from your apartment: you checked the lock twice before bed, you forgot to eat when you were busy, you kicked your shoes off the second you got inside.
He told himself he was protecting you. That was what he called it at first, because protection sounded more legal than obsession. He told himself the neighbourhood was unsafe, that you were too trusting, that someone had to watch you and your window and the dark corners of the street beneath your building because no one else would. He told himself a lot of things, and for a while, he almost believed them.
Then there was the box under your bed.
That fucking box.
At first, Dex didn’t know what it was. It was small and tucked away like a dirty little secret. Maybe it was something you only pulled out when you were alone. Maybe it was something you kept hidden where no one else could see. Except Dex saw everything. He had a good view after all, a couple of stories up.
One night, he saw you come home exhausted, hair messy and shoulders slumped, still in your work clothes with your face drawn in a frown, making his hands flex in the dark because he hated anything that wore you down. He was by his window, watching you with the same dead-eyed patience he would with a target. You were safe. You were home. He should have left it there.
Then you reached under the bed, pulled out the box, and opened it.
Oh.
Dex went completely still.
It was… oh, no.
You pulled out a toy. The first one was a turquoise dildo, stupid and fake and smooth, curved like it had any fucking right to be shaped for you. Dex hated it immediately. He hated the colour, hated the size, hated the shine in your hand. He fucking hated the way you looked at it like it was familiar, like it belonged in your bed, like it had earned the right to be near you. It had known you before he did.
Because no. No, no, no. No, no, no! You didn’t need that!
You didn’t need that stupid silicone. You didn’t need some fake, lifeless object inside you like it could ever understand the divinity it was touching, like it could ever deserve the warmth of your body, like it could ever know what to do with the adorable little sounds that slipped out of your mouth when you started giving in. Dex had one too. It was real and throbbing so painfully against his zipper that his vision almost blurred, but that only made the humiliation worse, because he was standing there in the dark wanting you while some stupid thing got to be held by your hand and plunged into your body without earning any of it.
He couldn’t even bring himself to touch himself. His hand twitched once toward his belt, and then stopped, fingers curling into a fist so tight his knuckles ached. It felt too insulting to you, somehow. To stand there outside your life and get himself off like a stranger when what he wanted was to be chosen, to be invited in. Touching himself would have felt like admitting defeat to the fucking fake piece of silicone, and Dex would rather splinter his hand open against glass than give that thing the satisfaction.
Then, another night, you took out something smaller. It was sleeker, more curved. Dex watched it sit in your palm, watched your thumb brush over it, watched your body settle back against the sheets like you already knew exactly what it was going to do for you. A vibrator, he realized, and the hatred came back so fast it was almost clean.
Of course. Of fucking course there was another one. Another stupid little object pretending it could take his place, not that he had a place at all.
Dex had hands. Dex had fingers that never missed. Dex had aim so perfect and patience like a sickness. He could hit a target without thinking; he could find the weak point in anything. If he had the right to touch you, if you let him get his hands on you properly, he would learn you so thoroughly there would be nowhere left for you to hide. He would make you understand that you had never needed anything from that box. You had only needed him to finally get close enough.
That toy was nothing. Plastic garbage. An object. And Dex was still jealous.
He hated, hated, hated it until the feeling sat under his skin like a fever. He hated that it touched you without wanting you. He hated that it got inside you without worshipping you. He hated that it could make your thighs part and your breathing change without even understanding what blessing had been given.
It had no mouth, no hands, no eyes, no mind. It couldn't watch the little twitch in your lips when you tried not to make noise. It couldn’t possibly hear the difference between a sigh and a groan. It couldn't know when to slow down, when to go harder, when to hold you still and make you take what you were pretending not to need.
Dex could. Dex would. If he had you underneath him just once, he would make sure you forgot that stupid thing had ever worked at all.
His fist curled against the brick wall beside him until his knuckles ached. He was hard and furious and breathing too quickly.
You didn’t know it yet, but you didn’t need that to get off. You needed him. It was only rational.
You needed his focus, his precise attention. You needed to be laid out beneath him and taken apart piece by piece until you understood that pleasure didn’t have to come from a lifeless object. It could come from him. It should come from him.
Then your body arched. Your mouth fell open, your fingers tightened, and the thoughts inside Dex went black.
He punched the brick wall once, hard enough to split the skin over his knuckles and damage the paint. Pain flashed hot through his hand, bright enough to cut through the jealousy for half a second, but not enough to make him look away. Nothing was enough to make him look away. Not when the toy disappeared between your thighs again, not when your head tipped back, then when your chest rose and fell beneath the thin fabric of your shirt. Dex watched with his teeth clenched and blood sliding down his fingers, consumed by a jealousy so vile it should have disgusted him.
The next day, when he thought it couldn’t possible get worse, he was proven wrong.
The rose toy was worse.
The rose toy made him want to burn the whole world down, because what the fuck did you need that for when he had a mouth? Dex stared at it from his window with a hatred he usually reserved for threats, for guys who looked at you too long on the street, for anyone who stood too close to you in line. But this was not a person who he could threaten or scare away or hurt. It was stupid little thing that sat between your thighs and pretended to do what his tongue should have been doing.
His mouth watered. His eyes dragged over you through the window, over your parted legs and rumpled clothes and the rise and fall of your chest. He watched your chest shift with every uneven breath, watched the way your body trembled when the toy stayed right where you wanted it.
But when did you ever stop to think about what he wanted?
He wanted to put his mouth there. He wanted to drag his tongue over every inch of you. He wanted to learn what made you gasp, what made you mewl, what made you grab his body and hold him exactly where you needed him.
He wanted to master you, and that was the only word for it. Not have. Not fuck.
Dex wanted to know every weak spot, every angle, every sound, every ruined expression you made when pleasure got too big for your body and spilled out of you. He wanted to know how much you could take. He wanted to know how pretty you looked when you were overwhelmed. He wanted to know if you would say his name like a warning or a prayer.
The toy didn’t deserve any of that. It had never protected you, never watched your door, never memorized your footsteps on the stairs, never wanted to crawl inside you.
But it had touched you anyway.
By the time you were finished, the inside of Dex’s mouth was bleeding and his breathing had gone unnaturally calm. He watched you clean the toys and tuck them away, watched the box slide back beneath your bed like it hadn’t broken his heart into a million little pieces.
After that, he hated the box like it was alive.
By the time he actually got close to you, Dex had already hated that box for months. You never knew that when he carried your groceries upstairs, he already knew which cabinet you kept the mugs in. You never knew that when he asked if you slept well, he already knew which nights you had tossed and turned. You never knew that when he looked around your apartment for the first time, polite and almost shy, he knew exactly what was hidden under your bed.
Then you kissed him one night outside your door, giggling because he had gone so still, because he looked like he might actually die if you didn’t kiss him right then and there.
After that, he was yours. Or you were his. Dex didn’t really care which way you phrased it. It was the same thing.
By some miracle, he became your boyfriend.
He hated that word, and loved it all the same, because it sounded too tame for what you had done to him. Boyfriend sounded casual, temporary. As if it was something that could end.
Lover was a better title, he thought. It felt more whole and all-consuming. But then your friends had cringed the one time he said it, and Dex had gone so still afterward that you could almost hear him tearing himself apart over it.
He hated the idea that he had embarrassed you, hated even more that someone else had been there to see it, until you had to cup his face and tell him no, baby, you didn’t embarrass me. I thought it was sweet. Maybe, though, we should just say boyfriend with my friends, okay?
And because it was you asking, he said of course, baby.
Still, nowadays, he slept in your bed more than he did his own. He stood in your kitchen in the mornings. He learned the smell of your shampoo, learned the shape of your body under his hands instead of through glass and his own sick imagination. And when you finally let him touch you properly, Dex nearly lost his mind, because he was good at it.
Of course he was good at it. Dex had focus like a camera lens, and once that focus turned on you, there was no part of your body he didn’t want to understand.
His fingers pressed and curled and learned you with frightening speed, finding the places that made your mouth drop open, the places that made your hips lift, the places that made you grab his wrist like you wanted him to stop and keep going at the same time. His mouth was patient, devoted, mean when it needed to be. He held your thighs open like he had been waiting his whole life to prove a point, like every gasp he dragged out of you was a personal victory over the stupid little rose toy.
When your hands fisted in his hair, when your thighs shook around his head, when his name broke out of you, all breathless and helpless, Dex thought, yes. there. That was what you were supposed to sound like.
The first time he filled you up because he’d convince you to go on the pill, your whole face changed. Dex saw your eyes go wide, saw your lips part, saw your breath catch in your throat like you hadn't expected him to feel like that. For one strange second, he looked almost startled by his own satisfaction. Then he bent over you, mouth brushing your ear, and fucked you because he could, and he was grateful for it, gasping thank you, thank you, thank you over and over again, while his face was buried in the crook of your neck.
After that, you stopped using the box.
Dex noticed the dust beginning to collect on the lid. He noticed the charger cords stayed tangled and unplugged. Now, when you were needy, you reached for him.
And there was nothing he loved more than you pawing his shirt, his wrist, his belt, his mouth. You reached for him in the morning, half-asleep. You reached for him at night with that little impatient noise in your throat that made him coo before giving you exactly what you wanted.
Good.
That was how it should have always been.
Sometimes, when you were asleep, Dex would look at the bed frame and think about the box beneath it. He should have been satisfied, but he wasn’t, because it still existed.
And maybe, much later, you started noticing things too. You’d see the way Dex could flick a bottle cap across the room and land it in the trash without looking. The way his hands looked natural around the knives in your kitchen.
You knew something. You weren’t stupid.
By the time you realised he was Bullseye, it was too late. By then, you already loved him. By the time you realised there was something violently wrong with him, you didn’t care enough to leave.
And the box under your bed stayed untouched, even though Dex thought about it every day.
—
The day he finally did something about it, he came back home to your apartment after a good couple of hours of donning the Bullseye mask, being a good guy and killing at least half a dozen task force agents.
Usually, when Dex came home buzzing like that, you were there.
Usually, the second he stepped through your door with that electric stillness in his body, you would look up from the couch or the kitchen counter or the bed, take one look at his face, and your eyes would change from curious to knowing immediately. You wouldn’t ask what happened. You wouldn’t ask where he had been. You would just set down whatever was in your hands and say, “Come here, baby.”
And Dex would go to you like a starving little thing. You would let him bury his face in your neck, let him grip your hips too hard as you murmured sweet, filthy little things into his ear about how he could take it out on you, how you could handle him, how he didn’t have to hold it all in himself.
Sometimes you made him wait. Other times, you made him ask. Most of the time you let him fuck you against the nearest wall before either of you even made it to the bedroom, because you liked him like that, wrecked and keyed up and desperate enough to turn all that focus on to you.
But that day, you weren’t home. Earlier in the morning, you had kissed him on the cheek with your keys in your hand and said, far too sweetly, “Baby, I have overtime today.”
You’d said it like it was just a schedule change. As if you hadn’t just sentenced him to four or five extra hours all alone.
Dex had been fine then, and said okay, because a normal boyfriend would. He had watched you leave, watched the door shut behind you, watched the lock turn, and told himself he could wait. He had waited for worse things. He had discipline. He had control.
But now, control was suddenly a very stupid word.
He was still buzzing. His hands felt awake. Every little sound in the apartment was a little too overstimulating, and he needed something to distract him from it: the refrigerator humming, a pipe knocking behind the wall, traffic below, the faint settling creak of the floorboards under his boots.
He stood in the middle of your apartment and breathed.
For one insane second, Dex considered going to your workplace.
He could picture your startled little gasp when he appeared where he shouldn’t be. He’d drag you to a single-cubicle bathroom, crowd you against the sink and cover your mouth with his hand because you had laughed last time, whispering, “Dex, we shouldn’t,” while your fingers undid his belt. He remembered the first time he had done it, remembered your skirt shoved up, remembered you biting his shoulder to stay quiet, remembered how smug he had felt afterward when you had gone back to work with his handprint on your hips beneath your clothes.
He could do it again.
He almost did.
But then his eyes moved toward the bedroom. Toward the bed and the space underneath it.
That fucking box.
It was such a stupid thing to notice, such a small thing. A corner of it was barely visible in the shadow under the bed, tucked away like it had nothing to fear from him. Like it hadn’t sat there while you slept beside him, while you kissed him, while you reached for him, while you let him make you fall apart and then kept that little graveyard of old pleasures under the same bed.
Dex stared at it.
The focus in him that had been looking for you found the box instead.
Before he could think better about it, he went into your bedroom, dropped to one knee, shoved his hand under the bed, and dragged the box out hard enough that it scraped against the floor. The lid snapped open under his fingers, and the dildo was on top.
Smooth, curved, stupid, fake little thing, sitting there like a dare.
Dex picked it up, and the second it was in his hand, he felt disgusted. There. There was the problem. There was something he could actually put his hands on. This. This thing. This lifeless piece of silicone that had touched you and survived.
Not anymore.
Dex had gone to the kitchen without even realizing he’d moved, grabbed a knife he recently sharpened, and came back with his breathing shallow and even. He sat on the bedroom floor with the open box between his knees and cut into the dildo like he was gutting a fish. The silicone resisted for half a second before splitting, and that drag of the knife through something shaped to imitate what he had made heat crawl up the back of his neck.
It was satisfying, mutilating this stupidly lifeless object.
His hatred didn’t care about logic. His jealousy had never needed the thing to be alive. It had only needed the thing to have touched you. That was enough to make the destruction feel intimate, corrective, and necessary.
He cut it again. Then again. Then, the rampage took shape quickly after that.
The man who folded his shirts in your drawer and rinsed his mug after coffee and kissed your forehead when you slept in too late was gone. As far as these toys were concerned, he was Bullseye.
The blade dragged through silicone again. His hands twisted. The fake curve lost its shape. He ripped it open, ruined it, carved it into useless pieces while his breath came harder and harder through his nose and his thoughts went noisy and repetitive:
It touched you.
It touched you.
It touched you.
The smaller vibrator went next. He hated how sleek it was, how obviously designed to find something inside you that belonged to him now. He slammed it against the floor once, hard enough that the crack of plastic snapped through the room. The sound felt good, so he did it again. A piece broke off and skittered under the dresser. He grabbed the rest of it and brought it down until the casing split open and its mechanical guts spilled out like it had finally been exposed for what it was: A battery. A lie.
Dex’s hand was bleeding again by then. He didn’t know if it was from the agents, the knife, the plastic, or the way he kept hitting things too hard. He didn’t care, though.
He picked up the rose toy next.
He remembered seeing it between your thighs through the window. He remembered his mouth salivating like an animal. He remembered wanting to bite through his own hand because that stupid little thing had been sitting where his mouth should have been, making you shake, making you breathe like that, ruining you without considering worship.
Dex’s fingers closed around it.
“You didn’t need this,” he muttered.
His voice sounded strange in the empty apartment.
“You had me.”
Not then, some small sane part of him might have said. Not yet. You hadn’t had him then. You hadn’t even known he was watching.
Dex ignored that thought.
He drove the knife into the gummy outer piece and tore it open. The rose came apart under his hands, the casing cracked, the wired snapped, pieces dropping into the box with the others until the whole thing looked like a little crime scene made of plastic and his own deranged need to be the only thing you ever reached for again.
The rampage didn’t make him calm.
It made him worse.
Because once he started, he couldn’t stop at the toys. He snapped cords. He ripped the satin lining out of the old box because it had held them. He crushed a bottle of silicone cleaning liquid in his fist and watched it spill slick and useless across the floor, then cursed and cleaned that part immediately because it was your floor and he was desperately trying to convince himself that he was definitely not an animal.
By the time the box was ruined, Dex was breathing hard. The buzzing under his skin hadn’t disappeared, but it had direction now. His knuckles stung and his eyes stayed fixed on the mess in front of him with a focus so total it almost looked peaceful.
Then he gathered every broken piece.
He took the box outside behind the building, to the old metal bin near the alley where no one ever looked. He arranged the pieces, added kindling, added flame, and stood there watching as the fire caught.
The silicone melted slowly.
The dildo warped first, losing its already tattered shape, collapsing as the heat ate through it. Dex watched with his hands at his sides and felt something in his chest loosen by degrees. The vibrator casing blackened. The rose toy pieces curled and shrank into un ugly, unrecognizable puddle.
The smell was awful, chemical and bitter, crawling into the back of his throat.
Dex watched anyway. He needed to suffer through it to know he did it.
He watched until the pieces were ruined beyond saving. He watched until nothing in the bin looked like something you could have held, could have wanted, could have used.
Only then did he go back upstairs.
Dex laughed once under his breath, not because anything was funny, but because the sound had nowhere else to go. He washed his hands in your bathroom, scrubbing blood and soot from his knuckles, cleaning under his nails with the same discipline he used after a kill. Then he dried his hands on the towel you always insisted was decorative and stood in the bedroom again.
He stared at the empty space under the bed no. There was no taking all the damage back now, not that he wanted to. But… it just felt wrong.
Well.
Now he needed to replace the box, didn’t he?
That was what a boyfriend did after destroying his girlfriend’s private sex toy collection in a jealous, post-murder fugue state. He should replace it with something better.
There was a shop around the corner. Dex had passed it before with you and you had squeezed his hand and laughed under your breath when he looked away too quickly from the window display. It wasn’t because he was shy. Dex wasn’t shy with you anymore. He could put his mouth between your thighs and stay there until you were crying lightning and his name into the pillow, but there was something different about seeing all of it displayed in public: rows and rows of things made for people who didn’t have him.
He went anyway.
The little bell over the door chimed when he stepped inside. A woman behind the counter looked up. “Hi, let me know if you need help finding anything.”
Dex stared at her for half a second too long. “I’m fine.”
Spoiler: he wasn’t.
He walked past the first display and immediately regretted having eyes. Dildos, vibrators, and suction toys. Things in pastel colours and matte black. Things with little labels that promised intimacy from something battery-powered and dead.
No. Absolutely not. He wasn’t buying you anything phallic. He wasn’t buying you anything designed to replace a tongue. He wasn’t paying money for a thing that would sit in your drawer and pretend it could do what he did.
He ignored every masturbation item with the offended dignity of a man who had, less than an hour ago, cut your dildo into pieces because it had hurt his feelings.
He wouldn’t buy you any pretty little objects that promised to “hit the right spot,” because Dex’s fingers hit the right spot. Dex’s mouth hit the right spot. Dex knew your body now, and anything that claimed it could do the same made him want to start another fire.
He moved deeper into the store, and that was when he found the restraints.
He picked up a metal pair of padded cuffs with real locks and tested the weight in his palm, expression blank. Good and sturdy. Soft enough not to hurt you unless you wanted it to. He placed them in the basket.
Then silk ties. Black, then red, then a dark blue because he imagined that one against your wrists and had to stand very still for a moment. Rope came next, the kind that would look filthy wrapped around you but would not actually hurt you.
He found a blindfold and the thought of you wearing it made his mouth go dry. You, trusting him enough to give up sight. You, lying back and letting the world narrow down to what he was doing to you. That was good. That was right. That didn’t replace him. That made him necessary.
Into the basket.
A gag made him pause when he imagined your mouth around it and then imagined not being able to hear every little sound he worked so hard to drag out of you. He frowned at the display for a while, then chose one anyway because some nights, maybe, you would like being made quiet. Some nights, maybe, he would like the sight more than he hated losing the sounds.
Then he saw the collar.
It was not flashy, just black leather, with a small metal ring at the front. His hand closed around it as the leather bent slightly under his thumb. He pictured it at your throat. Pictured his fingers hooking under the ring to pull you close. Pictured you looking up at him with that half-angry, half-wanting expression you got when he was being too much and you liked it anyway.
Mine, he thought.
Not because he wanted to own you like an object, not exactly. Dex was too broken to make the distinction cleanly, but he knew this much: he wanted you choosing it. He wanted you holding your chin up while he fastened it around your neck. He wanted to see it on you and know you had let him put it there.
He put it in the basket.
By then, the sales assistant had started watching him with polite concern.
“Shopping for a gift?” she asked.
Dex looked down at the basket. “For my girlfriend.”
“That’s sweet,” she said, which was such a wild misunderstanding of the situation that Dex only stared at her.
“Yes,” he said finally.
Sweet. Sure.
He added a proper storage box too, black and lockable, because if he was replacing your box, he was replacing it correctly. He added massage oil after checking three labels and rejecting anything that smelled too artificial. He added a small bottle of specialised cleaner because you would complain if he didn’t, and because even in the middle of this deranged little shopping trip, Dex was still painfully, pathetically attentive to the boring practical details of loving you.
At checkout, the woman rang everything up without comment.
Dex kept his eyes forward.
He didn’t look at the wall of vibrators behind her. He didn’t look at the glossy pink boxes promising pleasure in ten different speeds, because if he looked too long, he might start thinking about the one currently melting behind your building, and if he thought about that too much, he might smile.
So he paid, took the bag, and left.
When he returned to your apartment, he arranged the new box carefully. Handcuffs tucked to the side. Rope coiled neatly. Silk ties folded. Blindfold, gag, cleaner. The collar went on top. Maybe he should’ve gotten a leash. Oh well. If you really liked it, he’ll bring you to the store and get you to choose.
Dex stared at it for a moment before he closed the lid and slid the box under the bed where the old one had been.
There.
Fixed.
Not really, of course. Not in any healthy or normal sense of the word.
But when had Dex ever been healthy or normal about you?
—
You came home tired that day
When you unlocked the door, Dex had been waiting in the kitchen, wearing one of the shirts he had slowly migrated into your drawer.
“Hi, baby,” you murmured, already smiling when you saw him.
Dex walked towards you immediately, too fast, probably. He kissed you before you could take off your coat, hands going to your waist, mouth lingering like he had been counting the hours since you left because he had. You laughed into the kiss and pushed at his chest.
“Missed me?”
“Yes,” he said, too honestly.
For a while, everything was fine. You changed out of your work clothes. Dex followed you around like a shadow, trying not to look too often at the bed. He made tea. You drank half of it. You complained about overtime, about your feet hurting, and Dex listened with a deadly seriousness most men reserved for hostage negotiations.
Then you went into the bedroom to put something away. You crouched by the bed to shove your bag out of the way, and that was when you saw the box.
A new box.
It was black, neat, expensive-looking, tucked exactly where the old one used to be.
You pulled it out slowly, already suspicious, because Dex didn’t misplace things. Dex arranged. Dex corrected. Dex replaced. When you opened the lid, you immediately saw the collar laid right on top like a dark little apology ribbon.
For a second, you said, “Oh, wow," because you genuinelyliked it.
It was gorgeous. The cuffs were padded and clearly not cheap. The silk restraints were soft. The rope was smooth, the kind that would not burn if handled properly. The collar was simple black leather, pretty in a way that made your stomach give one stupid little twist before. It was thoughtful. Dex had gone shopping with your body in mind. He had pictured your wrists. your throat, your mouth. The little sounds you made when you were overwhelmed and pretending you weren’t.
And then you remembered the empty space where your actual things should have been.
“Ummm…” You looked up. “Where’s my stuff?”
Dex stood in the doorway, too still. That was answer enough, really.
“What stuff?” he asked, badly.
You stared at him. “What?”
Because really, what the hell did he think he was gonna get away with like that?
“My old box, Dex. The one that was here. The one this is replacing.”
“You don’t use it anymore.”
You blinked. "That's not what I asked.”
Dex shifted his weight, and there was something almost innocent in the confusion on his face. Though not innocent like harmless. Dex was never harmless. He looked innocent like he genuinely couldn’t find the part of the situation where his logic had failed. You had stopped using the old toys. You had him now. He had bought you better things. Things for both of you. In his mind, he had done everything right. Why did it matter?
“You have me,” he said, like that settled it.
You stared at him for another beat. Then your tiredness warped into irritation. “Dex. Where. Is. My. Stuff.”
His eyes flicked away.
Your stomach sank. “Did you throw it out?”
“No.”
“Did you put it in the dumpster?”
“No.”
“Please tell me you didn’t donate it.”
Dex looked appalled, like that wasn’t his modus operandi. “Of course not.”
“Then where is it?”
He hesitated and Benjamin Poindexter did not hesitate unless the answer was somehow worse than every option you had given him.
“I destroyed and burned it.”
What. The. Fuck?
For a second, you genuinely couldn’t speak.
“I…” you looked empty. “You burned it.”
His mouth tightened. “You don’t use it anymore.”
“Oh my god.” You stood up with the collar still in your hand. “I know I don't use it anymore.”
“Then why—”
“Principle, Dex!”
He frowned, and that made you want to throw the collar at his head.
“Principle,” you repeated, louder. “It was mine. I bought it. You don’t get to decide something is useless and destroy it because you personally don’t like it.”
“You don’t need them,” he said again, and he was starting to feel like a broken fucking record.
“Principle!”
“You have me.”
“Principle, Dex!”
He looked genuinely distressed now, but not because he understood. Not because he had suddenly realized that taking your things from under your bed and burning them was unhinged. He looked distressed because you were upset, because the warmth had drained out of the room and he didn’t know how to get it back without lying about the one thing he couldn’t make himself regret.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. A pathetic last ditch effort, really.
You laughed once. “No, you’re not.”
“I am.”
“You’re not.”
“I said,” he managed through gritted teeth, “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry I’m mad.”
Dex went quiet. There it was.
You watched him realize you had him cornered. His face went tense, his eyes a little too dark, his mouth pressed into a hard line. Dex was sorry you looked hurt. He was sorry your voice sounded like that. He was sorry there was a chance you might pull away from him and mean it. But he wasn’t sorry the toys were gone. If he was honest, he was relieved they were gone. He was relieved they were ash. He was relieved they could never sit under your folds again.
“Say it,” you said.
His eyes lifted to yours. “Say what?”
“That you’re not sorry you burned them.”
His throat moved.
“Dex,” you scolded.
He looked away again.
You stepped closer. “Say it.”
“I’m not sorry they’re gone,” he said at last, honest and rough.
Your anger went hot and bright. “Of course you’re not.”
“You don’t need them,” he said, almost pleading now, like if he could just explain it properly, you would understand. “You don’t. You reach for me now. You wake me up when you want something. You pull my hand between your legs. You say my name. You don’t need something fake. You don’t need something that works like—” He stopped, breath hard through his nose. “You don’t need it.”
You stared at him, stunned all over again by the sheer deranged sincerity of it. “You hated it.”
His silence answered for him.
“You hated my toys.”
“They touched you,” he said, as if that explained anything.
“They were objects.”
“They touched you,” he said again, as if he repeating it enough would make you believe.
He said it like he was naming a crime. They touched you. That was the entire case. The entire verdict. In Dex’s head, the old box was not just a box. It was proof of a life before him. Proof that your body had known pleasure without him.
“You’re jealous of fucking objects,” you said, “Do you hear yourself?”
His mouth tightened.
“You are. Oh my god, you are so fucking jealous.”
“It was made to—” He cut himself off, eyes flashing, dark and humiliated. “You used it instead of me.”
You dragged one hand down your face. “I used it before I knew you.”
Dex swallowed then started, “Then what…”
“That still doesn’t mean you get to burn it!” you exclaimed, cutting him off.
Dex looked genuinely lost for a second, and that made the whole thing worse. He had walked himself straight into a psychosexual spiral and couldn't understand why the conclusion was not obvious to you. You belonged to yourself, yes, fine, he knew that was what he was supposed to think, and he did think that, but your pleasure had become his job, his purpose, his proof that you chose him. The old toys were obsolete. They made him imagine you alone, reaching under the bed instead of reaching for him, and even the thought made his brain go static with jealousy.
“I bought you better things,” he said, smaller now.
You looked down at the box again, then back at him.
“No,” you said. “You bought things that need you.”
He went still, because you were right.
“You bought cuffs because they need your hands. Rope because it needs you to tie it. A blindfold because it makes you important. A gag because you think would look pretty on me. A collar because—” You stopped, glancing at the leather in your hand. Dex’s eyes followed the movement immediately, hungry and ashamed. “Because you wanted to put this on me.”
His breathing changed.
“You replaced my box with yourself,” you said in deft realisation.
Dex looked at you like you had cracked open his skull and read the ugliest scroll inside it.
“I bought things for us,” he said, but his voice had gone rough.
“You bought things that couldn’t touch me unless you were there.”
His lips parted, closed. Opened again. “I wanted to be there.”
“I know.”
“I should be there.”
“Dex.”
“It should be me.”
Dex looked almost sick, eyes fixed on you, shoulders tight. He was jealous, yes, but the jealousy had gone molten now, mixing with want and shame and the awful fear that you might still want something that wasn’t him.
Your frustration gentles for half a second. Then you remembered how fucking expensive those toys were.
“Principle,” you snapped again, because you needed the word to land in his skull. “Dex, I’m not mad because I desperately needed a vibrator. I clearly don’t. I’m mad you destroyed it.”
“I replaced it.” He had the audacity, even now.
“You replaced it with what you wanted.”
“I thought you’d like it.”
“I do like it!” you shouted, then immediately hated yourself for giving him that.
Dex’s eyes flicked to the box.
His face went blank, trying not to startle you further. “I’m sorry.”
“But you don’t regret it.”
He swallowed.
You stepped closer again, and he let you.
He could be terrifying. He could be impossible. He could turn an argument about property into an existential crisis about a lifeless object touching you before him. But when you came close, when your anger had nowhere else to go but into his space, he stayed. He let you corner him. Let you press the collar flat against his chest and watch his whole body react.
“What did you think was going to happen?” you asked, voice low now. “Honestly?”
Dex’s eyes dropped to the collar.
“You thought I was going to come home, find out you burned my things, and what? Say thank you? Let you put this around my neck?”
He looked at the leather in your hand. Then at your face.
The want in him was so obvious it was almost embarrassing.
“You did,” you said because you knew. “You thought you were going to put this on me tonight.”
His breathing went uneven.
“You were going to be all sweet and insane about it, weren’t you? You were going to touch my throat and call me yours and pretend burning my stuff was just a little misunderstanding because the new box is prettier.”
Dex said nothing.
“No,” you said.
He looked up.
“You don’t get to do that,” you told him.
Disappointment flashed behind his eyes, then confusion. Then that needy, miserable focus again, like he didn;’t know where the scene was going anymore but he still wanted to follow you there.
You stepped forward until he backed into the doorframe.
“You don’t get to burn my things and reward yourself,” you said, pressing the collar higher against his chest, up toward his neck. “You don’t get to make this about what you want.”
Dex’s throat bobbed. “What are you doing?”
You smiled but it was slightly sadistic. “What do you think?”
His eyes dropped to the collar again. For one second, he genuinely didn't understand.
Then you lifted it to his throat, and he froze.
His brain went haywire so visibly you could almost see the wires sparking behind his eyes. He had thought about that collar on you. He had probably thought about it all afternoon. He had imagined his fingers hooking beneath the ring to pull you close. He had built the whole fantasy around possession moving outward from him to you, about you wearing the thing he chose, about you looking up at him and letting him see proof that he had replaced everything in your life before him.
But now your hands were at his neck. Now the leather was against his skin. Now your fingers were brushing the vulnerable place under his jaw, and the fantasy inverted so violently he looked like he was falling into an unpredictable void of your lust.
“Oh,” he breathed.
You paused with the buckle still loose.
Dex’s eyes had gone wide and dark, his mouth parted, all his vicious certainty suddenly gone. He looked overwhelmed by the speed of his own neediness. The collar was supposed to mean you were his, in that fucked-up symbolic language he had written in his head. But with you fastening it around him, with your furious hands at his throat, with your body pinning him in place without force, it meant he was yours.
Oh. He knew the difference now.
“Oh my god,” you murmured, studying his now half-lidded eyes. “You like this.”
His lashes fluttered once.
“Dex,” you said, squeezing his cheeks together with one hand. He swallowed against the leather as you buckled it with your other hand.
The tiny click sounded obscene in the otherwise quiet room.
His eyes closed for half a second, and his whole body seemed to shudder inward. When he opened his eyes again, he looked wrecked.
“Color?” you asked.
Oh.
“Green,” he managed. Because of course it was.
You pretended not to be pleased as you hooked two fingers through the ring. Dex stared at your hand. You tugged once.
It was barely anything, but he followed immediately.
The sight of it made your anger burn hotter and lower at the same time. Benjamin Poindexter, following one small pull at his throat like his body had decided before his pride could argue. All that violence, all that jealousy, all that insane possessive logic. And here he was, looking at you like punishment was the only language he fully understood.
You pulled him out of the bedroom by the collar, and into the living room, where the good chairs were.
He looked confused and turned on and miserable, which was exactly what you wanted him to be. He still didn’t fully understand the principle. Fine. You would make him understand by the end of the night.
“Strip.”
He obeyed fast.
You watched the fabric hit the floor and felt your mouth go dry despite yourself. He was all lean muscle and restrained violence, chest rising and falling. It should have been absurd. But it was also fucking unfair how good he looked, how the leather made him seem both more dangerous and more helpless, how his eyes stayed locked on you like he would do anything if you kept looking at him like that.
“Don’t look so eager,” you said.
His jaw flexed. “You put it on me.”
“You bought it.”
“For you.”
“Funny how that worked out.”
Dex’s eyes darkened.
You pushed him back into the chair by the window, the one you usually curled up in with a book. He sat because he wanted you to push him, because being handled by you was the closest thing to absolution he understood. You had the cuffs on your other hand, the ones he had imagined around your wrists, and his gaze followed them with naked hunger.
“Hands behind the chair.”
He hesitated, but because he did not want to. He hesitated because some stubborn, spiraling part of him was still stuck on the same loop, still fighting from inside his own head. He had done everything right. He had removed what you didn’t need. He had bought better things, and you were clearly using them now. Why were you still angry? Why did you still want the old ones? Why wasn’t this enough?
You leaned down, holding the collar ring between two fingers. “Dex.”
His eyes snapped to yours.
“I said hands behind the chair,” he snapped.
This time, he obeyed.
The cuffs clicked shut around his wrists one after the other. Dex tested them once, shoulders pulling tight, then went still, his chest rising hard beneath the collar. You stood in front of him with the key in your palm and watched his eyes move over you, your work clothes, your tired face, your angry mouth. He looked like being denied forgiveness was hurting him. He looked like it was making him harder to breathe.
You stepped closer, close enough that his knees bracketed your legs, close enough that he had to tilt his head back to keep looking at you. The collar put his throat on display. You could see every swallow, every uneven breath, every tiny betrayal of his body when you touched the ring again.
“I’m not letting you go,” you said.
His lips parted.
“Not until you promise me you’ll buy me new ones.”
Dex’s face changed immediately.
“No.”
You almost laughed. “Excuse me?”
“No.”
You smiled as if he had just fallen into your trap. “Then I guess you’re not going anywhere.”
“No. No, no, no.” The words started coming faster, tumbling out of him with a desperation that made his voice crack. “No, you don’t need them. You don’t need those. You have me. I’m here. I’m right here.”
You narrowed your eyes, but your anger snagged on the way he said it. He was not being smug now. He wasn’t calm, or even really arguing anymore. His wrists pulled once against the cuffs, metal clicking behind the chair, and he looked almost startled by his own helplessness before his eyes found yours again.
“Use me,” he said.
Your stomach tightened. “Dex.”
“Use me,” he repeated, rougher now, pleading. “You don’t need them. You don’t need it. Use me. I’ll do it. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good. Just don’t make me buy you something that replaces me.”
“No one said you were replaceable,” you frowned
“You want them back.”
“Because they were mine.”
“You want them back,” he said again, like he couldn’t hear the difference. “You want them back, but I’m right here.”
You grabbed his face, fingers firm on his jaw, and kissed him before he could say it again. It was supposed to shut him up. It did, for maybe half a second. Then Dex made a sound into your mouth, needy and broken, and started kissing you back like he was trying to climb out of his own skin. His hands flexed uselessly behind the chair. The collar pressed into your fingers when you tugged him closer, and his whole body followed the pull so immediately that heat between you legs through your anger.
You kissed him again. And again. And again, until his breathing was wrecked and his mouth was swollen and his begs had turned into a whine against your lips.
“No,” he whispered when you pulled away. “No, baby, please. Don’t make me. Don’t make me buy those. Use me. Please use me.”
“You don’t get to beg your way out of consequences.”
“I’m not,” he said, even though he absolutely was. “I’m giving you something better.”
“You are giving me a headache.”
“I’m giving you I.”
It shouldn’t have made your heart jump. It shouldn;t have made you look down at him, collared and cuffed and half out of his mind, and think that maybe the worst part was not that Dex was insane. It was that he was insane in ways that made you want to love him more
You stepped back.
Dex’s eyes followed you immediately.
“You want me to use you?” you asked.
“Yes.”
“You want to be useful?”
“Yes.”
“Then watch.”
His face changed into a flicker of confusion first, then anticipation, then frustration when you turned away from him and started unbuttoning your shirt.
Dex went silent so abruptly it almost made you smile. His eyes were locked on your fingers, on each button sliding free, on the thin strip of skin appearing beneath the fabric.
You stripped in front of him because you were angry and petty and tired of him thinking his jealousy got to be the only thing in the room. Your shirt fell to the floor. Then your trousers. Your bra. Your underwear. Dex watched every inch of you like it hurt him not to touch, his wrists straining once behind the chair before he forced himself still.
Dex’s mouth opened, as if he was getting exactly what he wanted, but then you walked to the couch and picked up one of the decorative pillows, the cotton one you usually shoved behind your back when you watched TV.
Dex’s eyes shifted again as realization crept in.
“No,” he said.
You arched a brow.
His breathing changed. “No.”
“Oh?” You held the pillow in between your legs, watching his eyes go dark and frantic. “You don’t like this?”
“Don’t.”
“You were jealous of plastic, baby. Surely you’re not jealous of a pillow too.”
Dex made a sound that was almost a growl and almost a whine. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Don’t make it sound stupid.”
“It is stupid.” You sank down to the floor in front of him, grinding down on the cushion keeping your eyes on him. “You burned my toys because you were jealous of objects. You’re sitting there in a collar you bought for me because you couldn’t handle a vibrator existing under my bed. And now you’re looking at this pillow like you’re going to kill it.”
His face twisted.
You had meant it to be teasing. Cruel, yes, but controlled. A punishment, a lesson, proof of how ridiculous he was being. But when you settled over the pillow and shifted your hips once, Dex’s reaction was so immediate and visceral that the room seemed to tilt around it.
He didn’t look angry anymore.
He looked distressed.
His wrists jerked against the cuffs, the chair creaking under the force, and his breath punched out of him like he had been hit. You saw his brain do the horrible thing it always did, watched him turn a pillow into another rival, another thing touching you, another thing getting what he wanted while he sat there forced to watch.
“Dex,” you said, but you moved again without thinking.
His whole body flinched.
“No,” he choked. “No, no, no, no, please.”
You froze.
He was staring at you, eyes wet now, breath coming too fast. He wanted to obey. He wanted to be punished. He wanted to be good. But he also could not bear the sight of you taking pleasure from anything that wasn’t him, even in play, even as a punishment.
“Baby,” you said carefully, uncertain now.
Dex shook his head, almost violently. “Red.”
Oh.
Just like that, you stopped.
Neither of you had ever used that safeword before, but you were glad he did.
You were off the pillow almost immediately, scrambling to him.
“Oh,” you whispered. “Oh, fuck, baby, I’m sorry..”
Dex’s gaze snapped to you.
You dropped in front of him, hands going to his face first because you needed him looking at you. His skin was hot under your palms. His eyes were wet, not fully crying yet but close enough. He looked wrecked, and not playfully desperate like usual, not turned on in that cocky way he got when he thought he had pushed you into giving him what he wanted. The sight of you using anything else, even a pillow, even as a punishment, had wrecked him.
“You actually hate it,” you said softly, almost to yourself. “You actually hate seeing that.”
He nodded pathetically. “Mmmhmm.”
“You said you hated the toys,” you murmured, thumb brushing over his cheek. “I thought you were being insane. I mean, you are being insane, but I didn’t realize it was hurting you like this.”
Dex looked away, ashamed, furious, overwhelmed by being understood too clearly. You leaned in and wrapped your arms around him carefully, pressing your face into his neck. For a second, he didn't move. Then his whole body sagged into you as much as the cuffs allowed, breath trembling against your shoulder, face turning blindly toward your warmth.
“We’re done,” you said. “I’m taking these off.”
You reached behind his neck for the collar first, but the moment your fingers found the buckle, Dex jerked his head to the side.
“Dex.”
“Green,” he said quickly.
You froze.
His voice was rough and wet, the word scraping out of him like he had dragged it up from somewhere raw. “Green.”
“You just said…”
“I know, I know, but—” He swallowed hard, throat shifting against the collar. “Green as long as you use me.”
Your breath caught.
Dex looked at you then, fully, and the tears finally slipped over. His face twisted with it, like he hated himself for crying but couldn’t stop. “Not the pillow. Me. Use me. Please. I don’t want to stop if it’s me.”
“Dex.”
“I need this,” he said, and it came out so naked that it hurt. “I need to know I’m better than a piece of plastic.”
Fuck.
“Oh, baby.” You cupped his face again, thumbs catching the tears before they could reach his mouth.. “I know you are. Of course you are.”
“Then why are you still mad?”
The question came out small, almost confused. Because there it was again: the part of him that truly did not understand. The part of him that had made a perfect little equation in his head and couldn't see where it failed. If he was better, why did you care? If you had him, why did the burned things matter?
You sighed, pressing your forehead to his. “Because they were mine.”
Dex shut his eyes.
You felt him breathe, shaky and uneven.
“I’m yours, too.” he whispered.
Your whole body went still.
Fuck fuck fuck. You were going to fold again, were you?
Dex opened his eyes. Damp lashes, ruined mouth, collar snug against his throat. He looked up at you like that was the only answer he had, the only thing he knew how to offer in return. I’m yours, that could balance the scales. Like giving himself over completely should make up for taking the box from you.
You should have argued. Instead, you kissed him.
“Yes,” you whispered against his mouth. “You are.”
Dex made a broken sound, and then he was kissing you back as much as the cuffs allowed, desperate and clumsy, trying to lean into you with his wrists still locked behind the chair. His mouth tasted like salt and need. You kissed him slowly at first, grounding him, giving him something real to focus on that was not the pillow, not the old toys, not the psychosexual spiral eating itself alive inside his head.
“Color,” you murmured.
“Green,” he said instantly.
“Not because you think I’ll be mad if you say red.”
“Green,” he repeated, steadier this time. Your hand slid down to the collar ring, and his breath hitched.
You kissed him until his begging started to lose shape.
It wasn’t really words anymore, just broken little sounds against your mouth, the scrape of his breath, the helpless pull of his wrists against the cuffs every time you shifted in his lap. Dex kept trying to follow you, kept trying to give you more than his body was allowed to give.
Your hand slipped between you, hiking in his thighs, meaning to wrap around him, to give him pleasure with your fingers.
Dex jerked so hard the cuffs clicked behind the chair.
“No,” he gasped into your mouth.
You froze immediately. “Color?”
“Green,” he said, frantic. “So fucking green, green, I just— not like that. Please, baby, not like that.”
You pulled back enough to look at him. His eyes were wet, pupils blown black, his lips swollen from kissing. The collar sat snug around his throat, rising and falling with every shaky breath.
“Then what do you want?”
Dex swallowed, and the motion pressed against the leather. “Use me.”
Your breath caught.
He looked ashamed of how badly he needed it and too desperate to hide. “Please. I don’t want your hand. I don’t want anything else. I want you on me. I want you to take it from me. I want you to ride me. I want to be what you use.”
“Oh,” you whispered.
His whole face changed at that, like the understanding alone almost broke him.
You climbed into his lap slowly, one knee on either side of his thighs, watching him fight himself not to move. He was already hard beneath you, hot and straining, his body tense with the effort of staying still while you settled over him. His hands flexed uselessly behind the chair. He wanted to touch you so badly it looked like pain.
You took the ring of the collar between two fingers and pulled his face up to yours.
“You sure want me to take what I need from you?”
“Yes,” he breathed, almost frantic now. “Yes, baby. Please. I can do it. I can be good. I can be so good for you.”
Oh.
Then you sank down onto him, so slowly that both of you stopped breathing.
Dex’s head fell back against the chair, mouth open, the sound that left him too raw to be pretty. You felt him stretch you open inch by inch, felt the heat and weight of him filling you so completely that your own voice broke before you could stop it. You had to stop halfway down, fingers tightening around the collar ring, forehead dropping toward his as your body adjusted to his stretch.
“Fuck,” you whispered.
Dex’s eyes opened at once, glassy and wild. “Say it.”
You blinked, barely able to think. “What?”
His voice cracked. “Say I’m better.”
Your heat clenched around him. “Dex.”
“Please,” he begged. “Please, b-baby. Tell me. Tell me I’m better than it.”
You should have scolded him. You should have told him again that this wasn't the point, that you were still angry, that he did not get to turn this into another deranged little competition. But then you sank the rest of the way down, taking him fully, and Dex made a sound so broken and grateful that your whole body went hot.
“You’re better,” you breathed.
He shuddered beneath you, hard enough to make the chair creak. “Again.”
You moved your hips once, slow and deep, and his entire body strained against the cuffs. “You’re way fucking better.”
Dex’s eyes fluttered, his breathing turning ragged. “Again. Please. Again, baby, tell me again.”
So you did.
You started riding him properly, lifting yourself up and sinking back down, bouncing on his length until neither of you could pretend this wasn’t affecting your train of thought. The cuffs rattled behind the chair every time he fought the urge to grab your hips. His thighs flexed under yours, his chest rising too fast, his throat exposed beneath the collar every time you tugged the ring and made him look at you.
“You’re better,” you said, breathless, riding him harder. “You’re better than it.”
Dex groaned, loud and wrecked. “Yes. Yes, fuck, yes.”
“You’re better than the stupid, the vibrator, the rose toy.”
His face fell with pleasure and humiliation, eyes wet, mouth open like every word was going straight through him.
“Better than the box,” you panted. “Better than anything under my bed.”
“Anything,” he echoed, desperate. “Anything. Say anything.”
“You’re so needy,” you whispered, but you were not much better. You were moving faster now, chasing the way he filled you, the way he looked under you, collared and cuffed and entirely yours. “You’re so fucking jealous, baby.”
You grabbed his jaw and kissed him, barely a kiss at all with the way both of you were breathing. Dex tried to follow your mouth when you pulled back.
“Look at you,” you murmured. “You just want me to choose you, dont’cha?”
His eyes locked on yours.
You rode him harder, your voice breaking as the pleasure started making your thoughts blur. “You’re better than anything. Better than anything I could buy. Better than anything I could touch.”
Dex looked like he was going to fall apart beneath you.
“Again,” he begged. “Please, again.”
“You’re better than anything,” you gasped, fingers tight in the collar. “Or anyone.”
Dex stopped thrusting his hips up so abruptly you yelped into a halt.
You barely had time to catch your breath before his eyes opened and darkened. “Anyone?”
Your stomach dropped.
It was one word. One stupid word you had said without thinking because you were dizzy and full of him, because Dex had begged you to tell him he was better and you had.
Oh. Fuck.
“Dex,” you said carefully. “No.”
His muscles flexed. “No?”
“No. We can’t do this.”
He stared at you, still in his lap, warm and shaking from the way you had been riding him. Still close enough to feel how badly he wanted to move, how hard he was holding himself back by force alone.
“Dex,” you tried again, softer this time.
His eyes did not move from your face. “Uncuff me.”
It should have scared you, how fast he switched.
One second, he was pliant beneath you, desperate to be used. The next, his voice had gone flat and enraged, eyes narrowing like a predator.
But it was still Dex. Your Dex. He would never hurt you.
“Color?” you asked.
“Green,” he said immediately. Then, rougher and impatient, “Uncuff me.”
Your hands were not steady when you reached for the keys, then behind him, squirming because he was still inside you, and his size wasn’t making it easy for you to jostle around like that.
The cuffs clicked open, and for a second, he only trailed his hands up your thighs he was so gentle, rubbing circles on your sweat-slicked skin.
“I know you had someone before me,” he said.
He knew, because Dex was jealous, not delusional.
He knew you had a life before him, knew there had been men before him, had even heard your friend’s tinny voice over the phone once saying, I met your crazy ex today? while you laughed awkwardly and changed the subject too quickly. He had stood in your kitchen with his hand frozen around a mug, filing that away in some dark corner of his mind.
But knowing was one thing. Hearing you say “anyone” while he was still inside you and your hand was tight in the collar he still wore for you, was another thing entirely.
Your face went hot. “Obviously.”
“How many?”
“Dex.”
“How many?”
You swallowed. “I’m not talking about my exes while we’re having sex.”
His hand went up to the collar ring, not to pull it off. To press your fingers there. To make sure you were holding it right.
“How many?” he asked again, and this time his voice was demanding.
You tried to climb off him. “Baby, no. You don’t want this.”
Dex moved so fast you barely registered it.
One second you were above him, the next he had you up and over his shoulder, your breath punched out of you in a shocked little yelp. The room tilted. Your hands grabbed at his back, his waist, anything. Then he was putting you down on the couch, bending you over the arm with one hand between your shoulder blades, still wearing the collar.
“Eyes forward,” he said.
Your thighs clenched at the sound of his voice. “Dex—”
“Eyes forward.”
You hated that you listened. You that your body shivered.
He pressed in behind you, close enough that he made your knees weak all over again. One hand slid over your hip, shaking with restraint, almost tender before it turned possessive. The other covered kept your ass up for him to line up. “Tell me how many.”
You exhaled hard. “Three.”
Dex went silent.
Then, softly, terribly, he echoed it, “Three.”
“Before you,” you snapped, trying to sound angry even though your voice was already ruined. “Before I even knew you like this. Before us. Dex, this is stupid.”
He laughed once. It sounded broken. “Names.”
“No.”
“Full names.”
“No, I’m not giving you their full names so you can go insane and hunt them down.”
His breath hitched behind you.
Oh.
That was not the wrong thing to say. That was the worst thing to say. Because now he had pictured it. Now some awful part of him had lit up at the thought, and you felt his body go harder against yours, felt the way his grip tightened like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin.
“Fine,” he said, trying so hard to compromise. “First names.”
“You don’t want those either.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t,” you whined, “You think you do because you’re jealous and insane and horny and trying to hurt your own feelings.”
His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades.
For one second, he just breathed there, shaking. When he spoke again, his voice was wet.
“First names,” he whispered. “And what was wrong with them.”
He knew it would hurt. Dex wasn’t confused about that. He was not so far gone that he thought hearing their names would make him feel better. He knew it would put pictures in his head he would never be able to scrape out. He knew he would imagine their hands, their mouths, their stupid little claims on you. He knew every detail you gave him would become a weapon turned inward first, he wanted you to press this emotional knife into his ribs just to see if the pain proved how much he loved you.
But that was exactly why he needed it.
Dex didn’t know how to be reassured gently. Soft comfort slid off him too easily. He needed the wound opened first. Needed to be shown the ugliest picture and survive it. It was emotional masochism dressed up as jealousy, and the sickest part was that he knew. He wanted you to hurt him with the truth so your praise would feel earned when it came after.
“Tell me,” he said again, voice breaking at the edges.
“Dex…”
“I need to know,” he said, and the desperation in it cut through you. “I need to know what they did wrong. I need to know I’m better. I need you to say it while I’m fuckin’ deep inside you, while you’re fuckin’ clenching me, baby please.”
You closed your eyes.
His mouth pressed to your back. It was almost a kiss. Almost an apology. Then he pushed into you again, and the sound that tore out of you was so loud it made your own face burn.
Dex groaned behind you, ugly and wrecked. “Tell me.”
You gripped the couch cushion, because fuck it. What the fuck did you owe them anyway?
“Finn.”
His hips snapped forward harder.
You cried out, body jolting against the couch.
Dex groaned like the name had hurt him exactly the way he wanted it to. “What was wrong with him?”
“His nails,” you gasped, already struggling to keep your voice steady. “College boyfriend. His nails were always too long and when he fingered, it hurt. I took it, but then he blamed me when I bled.”
Dex’s hand slid over your stomach, pulling you back into him, his breath breaking against your skin.
“Careless,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“I’m not careless.”
“No,” you said quickly. “No, baby, you’re not.”
“Say I’m better.”
“You’re better.”
He thrust harder, and your answer broke apart into a moan.
“Say it properly.”
“You’re better than Finn,” you choked out. “You’re so much better than him.”
Dex shuddered and you felt it in his chest, in his grip, in the way his mouth dragged wetly over your back.
He was crying, you realised, when you felt hotlittle drops against your spine while he kept fucking you like jealousy had turned him feral. Dominant and ruined at once, giving orders while crying because he had asked for the knife and now wanted you to twist it.
“Next,” he said.
“Dex,” you moaned, shaking your head. “Please.”
“Say red and I’ll —fuck! — stop. Until then…” His fingers tightened around your hip. “Next.”
You tried to breathe. You tried to remember why this was a bad idea. You remember that you didn’t want your stupid dickhead exes in the room with you while Dex was behind you, collared, crying, and pounding into you like every name was a target he needed to hit.
“Matteo,” you managed.
Dex’s rhythm stumbled for half a second, then came back harder.
You sobbed his name.
“What was wrong with him?”
“You don’t want this one,” you managed to hiccup.
“Yes, I do.”
“No, baby. You really don’t.”
He laughed, but it wasn’t amused. He moaned again as he managed, “Tell me.”
“He was a creep,” you finally said, the words scraping out of you. “From my old job. He shared p-private pictures. With his friends.”
Dex stopped breathing, his forehead hit your back again.
“Oh,” he whispered.
It was horrible.
You felt the tears fall faster now, sliding down your skin while his hand trembled on your waist. For all his violence, this was the part that broke him. Someone had treated you like something to pass around. Someone had treated you like you were anything less than sacred.
“Dex,” you warned softly, because you could feel him thinking.
Dex made a small, broken sound, then moved again, harder, like he could fuck the memory out of your body. You gasped, eyes rolling back.
“He didn’t deserve to look at you,” Dex said, voice shaking.
“No,” you breathed.
“He didn’t deserve anything from you.”
“No.”
His tears kept falling, pathetic and hot against your spine, even as his body stayed rough behind yours. He had asked for this. He had wanted the wound. Now he was bleeding into it.
“Tell me I’m better,” he begged.
“You’re better than him,” you said quickly, before he could ask, before he could spiral too far away from you. “You’re better, Dex. You don’t make me feel like I’m just here to be shown off. You make me feel wanted.”
He sobbed against your back.
“Again.”
“You’re better than Matteo.”
Harder.
“You’re better than him.”
Harder.
“You’re better because you actually care if I want it,” you gasped, barely able to speak now. “Because you ask. Because you listen. Because even when you’re like this, even when you’re out of your fucking mind, you still need me to want it, too.”
Dex’s whole body jerked.
“Next,” he choked.
You shook your head, cheek pressed to the couch cushion, eyes wet now too. “Dex, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I hate this.”
“Say red, then.”
You couldn’t bring yourself to. Because he was right. You might pretend to hate this, but fuck, you were sick.
Sick enough for this to get you off.
You managed a pathetic little, “g-green.”
His breath hitched, satisfied. “Thought so.”
He liked it, too. He liked it like self-punishment. Liked it because it hurt.
“Last one,” he whispered.
You swallowed around a moan. “Colin.”
Dex’s hips snapped into you so hard you cried out.
The hand on your hip slid up to your chest, holding you back against him as he bent over you, making the most pathetic sound you had ever heard from him.
“What—hnghhh— was wrong with Colin?”
“He was possessive,” you said, barely coherent. “But not like you.”
Dex went rigid. “Like w-what, then?”
“Shit,” you gasped. “He was controlling. Mean. He wanted to own me, but he didn’t love me. Not like you. He didn’t want to be good for me. He j-just wanted to win.”
Dex was sobbing now.
You could hear it. Feel it. His mouth was pressed to your shoulder, his breath hitching, tears smearing over your skin while his body kept driving into yours with desperate, punishing force. He had you pinned beneath him, yes. He was the one moving you, the one holding you, the one demanding answers. But the collar was still around his throat, and you now managed to trail your hand up and grab the ring. You held the fucking collar and tugged, and he was surprised he didn’t come then and there as he gasped, breaking a little more.
“I’m not him,” he said.
“No.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, t-too.”
“I’d never—” His voice cracked. “I’d never make you feel like that.”
“I know, baby.”
“Tell me.”
“You’re better than Colin.”
His rhythm faltered. “Tell me why.”
“Because you’re mine,” you moaned. “Because you— fuck!— want to be mine. Because you don’t just want to have me, you want me to choose you. You want t-to be useful. You want to be good— hmphh— to me.”
Dex sobbed so hard his hips stuttered.
“Yes,” he gasped. “Yes, fuck, yes.”
“You’re better than all of them.”
“Again.”
“You’re better than Finn.”
He groaned.
“Better than Matteo.”
His grip tightened.
“Better than Colin.”
He started breaking, cracks building through him in these beautiful little fractures. Your pleasure was already rising too fast, your thighs trembling, your voice gone thin and helpless beneath him.
“Dex!” you cried.
“I know,” he whispered, frantic and wet. “I know, baby. I know. I’ve got you. Tell me again.”
“You’re better,” you sobbed. “You’re better than anyone. Anything, Dex, anyone.”
He came with your hand fisted in his collar.
The pull of it dragged a sound out of him that was almost a sob and almost your name, his whole body folding over yours as he spilled into you, shaking so hard you felt it everywhere. You could hear the broken relief in his voice as he kept whispering yours, yours, yours like he could make himself believe it if he said it enough.
That was what tipped you over, when your orgasm hit so hard your whole body seized beneath him.
You cried out into the couch, fingers yanking the collar ring without meaning to, and Dex choked behind you, shuddering again like the pull had gone straight through him. Pleasure tore through you in waves, hot and blinding, your legs trembling, your voice breaking on his name until it didn’t even sound like a word anymore.
Dex held you through it, crying into your back like he was the one who had been ruined.
When it finally ebbed, he stayed folded over you, his mouth pressed between your shoulder blades, breath ragged. Your hand was still caught in the ring of the collar.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
The couch was too small for both of you, but Dex made it work because Dex always made himself fit wherever you needed him.
His body was still trembling in little aftershocks, but the violent edge had burned out of him. What remained was his mouth against your shoulder, his hand spread over your stomach, his thumb moving in slow, soothing circles like he was trying to apologize through touch before words.
You could feel the little ring of the collar cool against your wrist when his head dipped and nuzzled into the space between your neck and shoulder.
Fifteen minutes later.He wasn’t crying anymore. His lashes were damp, his breathing uneven, but he had settled down.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, though he still wasn’t sure for what.
You were too boneless to answer properly. Your whole body felt heavy and melted into the cushions, your skin still humming everywhere he had touched you. You only reached back, clumsy and tired, and found his hand.
Only then did you realise that it was red from how hard he was pulling at the handcuffs. Because despite the fuzzy liner, it was still metal underneath.
Dex threaded his fingers through yours immediately. That was answer enough for him.
He kissed your shoulder again. Then the back of your neck. Then your cheek when you turned your head just slightly.
These were small, careful kisses. Sweet, almost shy.
His voice stayed low when he spoke again. “I’ll be good.”
You closed your eyes.
The jealousy had calmed, but he still needed to be chosen.
Dex held you like service. Like worship. Like if he could keep you warm enough and safe enough, maybe it would balance out everything else he was.
His hand slid over your side, checking without asking. He smoothed your skin gently over your hip and your thigh. His mouth touched the back of your shoulder, and his breath relaxed when you relaxed into him instead of pulling away.
You should have been angry.
You were angry, maybe, somewhere far away. Obviously, there were things to say later. Things about boundaries and consequences and the fact that Benjamin Poindexter could not solve every insecurity by turning it into sex so absolute it felt like a salvation.
But right now, Dex was curled around you like a guard dog who had been allowed into bed after making a big mistake, and you couldn’t bring yourself to bring it up.
His big arms were careful around your body, face pressed to your skin. The collar still snug at his throat because he had not asked you to take it off, because maybe he liked the reminder that even when he got like that, he was still yours.
Your fingers brushed the ring lazily.
Dex melted immediately.
“Oh, what the hell,” you mumbled with a hazy smile, mostly into the couch cushion. “I don’t need those toys anyway.”
Dex tried not to look smug, but you felt it.
You knew what that little hitch of breath meant, the way his mouth pressed to your shoulder and stayed there, hiding whatever painfully pleased expression had crossed his face.
You didn't have the strength to scold him for it.
He kissed your shoulder again, grateful this time.
Still, you knew you had just signed a death warrant for Finn, Matteo, and Collin.
You hadn’t given Dex their full names, but Dex had heard enough. He could find people with less. He had found you, hadn’t he?
You knew they were as good as dead. And if Dex could destroy and burn your old toys with that much passion, you couldn’t imagine what he would do to living men who had actually hurt you. Whatever came for them would not be quick or merciful. You knew that.
You shouldn’t want that.
On principle, you shouldn’t want that.
On the principle that you were better than them, that you were obviously morally superior, that you should not want three men dead just because they had once made you feel small, even if they deserved it.
But then Dex nuzzled closer in his devotion. His lips brushed your shoulder, and even half-conscious, he murmured your name like a prayer. His hand slipped over your stomach, protective now, his thumb moving in small circles like he was still trying to soothe you from your last.
You looked down at him and thought, I hope you make them beg.
Robin Hood and Reader - That of two hearts one heart make we - part two
part two of this
I am so eager to see this film (damn the September release date here!) and am loving all new clips and pics that are coming out.
Disclaimer - my interpretation of Robin is very much based on the trailer and pics of Hugh that we have so far had. Reader is not Jodie Comer's character.
warnings: mention of trapping animals, implied sexy times, use of c word (googled what the word would be to use during medieval times and it was basically that so...), implied masturbation (f), hand job (m receiving), implied murder, talk of killing someone, implied mention of administering abortifacient
****
You glanced outside but could not see either of them anywhere. You sighed. Since he had returned, Beatrice and Robin had been virtually inseparable. On the one hand you were pleased that the girl and her father were getting along so well...on the other, you did not relish the heartbreak that would come when he eventually moved on. And move on he would because he always did.
As you stood on your front step, a cart rattled along the road. The driver, the husband of a woman you knew, raised a hand in welcome and you raised one back.
‘Yer girl and that Robin Hood are in woods by the by,’ he said pulling to a stop.
‘Oh?’
‘Aye. Covered in muck. Trappin’ rabbit by look o’ it. Had bows wi’ em too,’ he let out a small laugh, ‘girl’s more her father’s daughter e’ery time I see her.’
You sighed. Of course they were and of course she was.
‘Thank you,’ you said and he nodded before trundling on.
The ease with which people accepted Robin back into the village and more importantly as Beatrice’s father made you nervous. The man had not made himself inconspicuous and your daughter had been too free with letting everyone know who he was to her. Bursting with pride in fact. It was dangerous for them to be so open, not just because of gossips but who knew which vigilante or sheriff’s men might be lurking. You sighed again and went back inside. They would be back when whatever adventure they were on was done, filthy and hungry. Although, as you went to the table, you noticed that a heel of bread and a hunk of cheese was missing. So maybe they wouldn’t be hungry after all. And when all was said and done, you could do with whatever meat they might come back with.
You spent the rest of the morning working. The light was good and you were able to get a lot of fine needlework done. When you finally looked up, rolling out the stiffness in your shoulders, you saw two figures walking down the road. The man was correct, they were filthy, bows slipped over their shoulders, the spoils of their day clutched in one of Robin’s hands. You put your work down and walked out to greet them.
‘It is customary to let your mother know where you are going to be most of the day,’ you chided.
Beatrice just grinned and looked up at her father.
‘My fault,’ he said.
‘Oh I’m quite sure it was,’ you replied, ‘all you’ve done since you arrived is lead my girl astray.’
‘I’m his girl too,’ Beatrice said quickly, the look on her face daring you to disagree.
You looked at her and sighed.
‘Yes, my chick, yes I know you are,’ you said softly.
You could not really begrudge her this. For thirteen years she’d gone without a father – your husband barely counted – and now he was here and he was exciting and bold and did not scold for getting grubby. You ushered Beatrice inside and took the rabbits from Robin.
‘Thank you for these,’ you said.
‘Not a bother. There’s plenty.’
‘I know,’ you smiled, ‘they’ve made merry with the vegetables Beatrice has been trying to grow.’
‘Aye she told me. Think this might have been a touch of revenge,’ he chuckled.
You smiled thinly and turned to go inside.
***
’My dove.’
‘What?’
‘When you called Beatrice ‘my chick’ earlier, it reminded me. My dove. I used to call you that.’
Your hand stilled as you stirred the pot over the fire. He did. He had.
‘Just a silly name,’ you said stiffly.
Robin had been sat by the door, sharpening some tools. You didn’t see the look he gave you.
‘Aye. I suppose it is.’
He stood and went outside, back to the work he had picked up around the place since he came back. You sighed and glanced over at the bed in the corner. Since his return Beatrice had shared your bed and Robin had taken hers. It was not ideal but it served for now. If he planned on staying…no. No you couldn’t let yourself think that. He wasn’t going to stay. He was going to leave – either of his own accord or at the end of a rope – and he was going to break the girl’s heart. Maybe you should not forestall the inevitable and tell him to go now. She’d hate you, you knew that, but you’d be here for her always. He would not.
You looked out of the door. Robin was repairing some old buckets, ones used in the forge, mending them would save you some pennies at least. You watched as he worked. He’d gotten old. He was older than you but he seemed an old man now. But for all that still vibrant. And exciting and…you watched the shift of muscles under the thin shirt he wore. He was still in good fettle, for a man his age. Whatever that was. He’d never been exactly sure.
You still thought of it sometimes, the bedding. He’d taken your maidenhead. Taken. As if you hadn’t given it up willingly and come back the next night for a repeat. And the next. Mornings. Afternoons. The way he sought you out, the way you sought him out, taking his hand and sneaking away with him. Finding a shed or stable or barn, hitching your skirts up and opening your willing legs to him. He’d made a whore of you, according to the village, but you didn’t care. You relished the pleasure he gave, craved it. His cock, fingers, mouth.
One evening, in the gloaming, he’d walked you to the river. He’d stripped down and walked into the frigid water. You watched him from the shore, worried about being so open.
‘Come on,’ he’d beckoned.
You looked him up and down. His cock was already hard. You blushed at the sight and blushed further as you felt the flood of arousal between your legs. One last look around and you stripped off your own clothing. Reluctantly you walked onto the water, gasping as it hit your legs.
‘Oh my goodness!’ You exclaimed.
Robin laughed and grabbed you around the waist, pulling you to him.
‘You’ll soon warm up lass,’ he’d said, his eyes dark with lust and his voice deep with it too.
You felt his hand on your backside and felt the goose flesh rise under his touch. His other hand moved to the back of your neck.
‘Kiss me,’ he said, demanding it of you. You did not mind when he demanded things.
You kissed him, opening your mouth to his and touching his tongue with yours. He kissed you back, hard and claiming.
‘Follow me,’ he said, and parted from you, taking your hand and leading you further into the river. You had no idea where he was leading you and worried for a moment that his intention was to drown you, though for why you could not say.
What he did was lead you to an outcrop of rock and a cave you had no idea was hidden there. He kept hold of your hand and helped you across the wet rock. Inside you were amazed to see a small camp.
‘Is this yours?’ you asked.
‘One of many,’ he smiled. A small hiding place, a bolt hole.
You looked around.
‘Could I not have worn my clothes? We could have arrived here from this other bank?’
You looked at him and saw him smiling.
‘And pass up chance to see you bare?’
You hit him on the arm.
‘You are a wicked, wicked man!’
He laughed and pulled you too him.
‘Oh aye I am. But you still come to me don’t you, my dove?
You did. You always did. And you let him lay you down on the pile of skins there on the cave floor and fuck you. Hard, deep, your cries of pleasure echoing around the cave’s walls.
You turned quickly and realised you had been daydreaming. Robin had been talking to you.
‘Are you well?’ he asked, looking concerned.
‘Yes, yes,’ you said quickly and turned back to the pot on the stove.
‘I said I’ve done these repairs. Do you want me to take them to the forge?’
‘No,’ you said, ‘the smith can come and collect them. You’ve…’
You stopped and banged the spoon heavily on the side of the pot.
‘You’ve….?’
You took a deep breath.
‘You’ve shown too little caution. I…I am just waiting for the day you get hauled off by the sheriff’s men.’
He had the audacity to shrug.
‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Maybe not here! But I have no doubt that there is some warrant still out for you,’ you put a hand to your forehead, ‘you are steeped in blood Robin, and I don’t want that at my door.’
He was silent for a long time.
‘You want me to go?’
‘I..I don’t know.’
‘You know she’ll just try and come with me.’
You turned to him, shocked.
‘That’s not a threat, I don’t want her to come any more than you do. But I don’t think any force on Earth could stop that girl when she sets her mind to it,’ he groaned as he sat down on the stool by the door, ‘reminds me of someone…’ and he glanced up at you.
Despite yourself, you laughed.
‘Besides, we’ve talked. She knows my life, who I am and what I’ve done. She knows the risks.’
‘Does she know how much it will hurt when you leave?’ you asked.
He stared at you. No. No she didn’t. And he didn’t either.
***
It was some nights later when you woke with a start. You were alone. Beatrice had been helping with lambing at a farm nearby and had chosen to stay overnight. The moon shone in through the window. The quiet unnerved you but you could not think why. You had felt unsettled for some days, more so after you had remembered the time you and Robin had spent in the cave. You had thought more of it, you were sure that was the night you had made Beatrice. He had driven himself into you with such purpose, as if that was his goal, to leave you with a small piece of him. Maybe it had. But at the same time as him simply taking his pleasure of you, you had felt more loved than any time previous. Neither of you knew then it would be the last time.
The last time. Did it need to be though? You had not craved such intimacy much over the years and had you done so, you knew that you could take care of it yourself. But he was the only man who had ever made you feel so alive. You pulled your knees up to your chin and thought. With Beatrice away, your mind drifted to the other room. You warred with yourself for some time. It was sinful, it was giving him the wrong idea, but then you remembered how it felt to have him thrusting into you and you sighed at the thought of it.
Climbing out of bed you went to the door and peered into the other room. Robin was laying on his bed. He turned his head when he became aware of you.
‘Is all well?’ He asked, raising himself up on one elbow.
‘No.’
He sat up.
‘No? What ails you?’
‘Wanting,’ you said after a long pause.
He looked at you through the gloom.
‘Wanting,’ he repeated, ‘and what is it you might want?’
You leaned against the door frame. You knew he could see the way that your nipples had pebbled against the thin cloth of your shift. You didn’t say anything but just turned back into your own room. You heard the creak of his bed as he rose and followed you.
When you felt him behind you and his hands landed on your shoulders you shuddered. You felt one hand move, untying the ribbon at the end of the braid you put your hair into. His fingers combed through your hair as he separated the strands.
‘I like your hair down,’ he said, his voice low, ‘wild and wanton.’
‘Is that what I am?’
‘Always. My wild and wanton dove.’
You closed your eyes as you felt a large rough hand press over one breast. You saw his hand move, squeezing and caressing. You touched your fingers to the back of his hand and it stilled.
‘You want me to stop?’
Your head fell back against his shoulder. You could feel the hardness of his body, of him, against you.
‘No,’ you said.
Your eyes closed as you felt the brush of his breath on your neck.
‘I’ve had dreams about this,’ he muttered, feathering kisses along your shoulder, pulling your shift away and leaving the skin exposed, ‘there’s never been anyone quite like you.’
You let out a small laugh.
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Oh believe it, my dove,’ he purred, turning you and taking your face in his hands, ‘you cast a spell over me I’ve never been able to shake off.’
You smiled a little.
‘I’m not a witch, Robin.’
‘You may not be but you’re something…other,’ his eyes roamed across your face, ‘you possess a spark, a fire, I’ve not seen in any other woman.’
‘You flatter me.’
He chuckled.
‘You’d scold me if I did. No flattery, just truth.’
He moved then, his head towards yours, his lips touching softly against yours. You felt the loneliness of the last thirteen years leave you and you were terrified with the force of your desire.
‘Is this a ploy to make me stay?’ He asked when you had parted.
You looked at him.
‘No,’ you shook your head, ‘just wanting and lust. Is that a problem?’
He laughed again.
‘Giving me another chance to slip my cock into your soft cunt? I see no problem.’
You bit your lip and lifted a brow.
‘You’re not as young as you once were,’ you began, ‘are you sure you…’
‘The cheek of the devil you have!’ He laughed, ‘don’t worry, I can get it up.’
‘Oh. Because I do have some herbs that might…’
He stopped you with another kiss. Being teased like that, oh he’d missed it. Other men would be too fragile in their masculinity to stand it but it just made him love you more…
Well, that was a new thought. No. Not new. It was always there. Deep in his bones, his love for you. It was as much a part of him as any arm or leg. He reached down and plucked at the hem of your shift. You helped him pull it off over your head. He stared at you, your breasts, stomach, thighs. He ran a finger across the stretch marks on your belly.
‘You’re stronger than I’ve ever been,’ he said, ‘thank you for her.’
‘I should be thanking you.’
He let out a small laugh.
‘All I did was fuck you and spill my seed. You did everything that actually matters.’
‘All that work and she turns out exactly like you,’ you pouted.
He ran a hand through your hair again.
‘Not exactly. But enough that it scares me.’
He was quiet again, as you pulled on his shirt. He lifted his arms and you threw the garment on the floor. He was still all muscle, maybe smaller than all those years ago but still strong and healthy. You ran your hands over his chest, fingers threading through the hair there, going white now. He had more scars than you remembered. One on his side looked big. You ran a finger across it.
‘How did you not die?’
‘Sheer stubbornness,’ he smiled.
You lifted your brows. That sounded about right.
You moved your eyes down. His cock was hanging there, his balls. You reached out a hand and took hold of him. He grunted but stood still as you moved your hand. His breath hitched as he grew harder.
‘Hmmm, so no need for those herbs then…’ you smiled.
‘I’m old, I’m not dead.’
You kissed him again, your hand continuing to work on him, slipping down further to cup his balls. He groaned when you gave them a squeeze.
‘Can you still get with child?’ he asked.
You nodded.
‘Do you want to?’
You shook your head.
‘I have something,’ you said.
‘More herbs?’
‘More herbs.’
He kissed you.
‘Have quite the way with them is what I heard,’ he said.
‘And what have you heard?’
He grinned, wolfish.
‘You’re a dangerous woman.’
‘Hmm,’ you said, giving him a last squeeze, ‘best do as I tell you then.’
***
He’d been slower, more cautious, than before. You wondered if his back bothered him, his joints, that maybe the frantic fucking of those years before was not something he relished. He was no less determined despite this. He made you come twice with his cock and once with his mouth. You thought your back would break, the way it arched off the bed as he licked his tongue flat against you, your legs locked around his head, your hands pulling on his hair and pushing on his head all at once.
After, you lay with his head resting on your chest, weaving your fingers through his hair. His beard tickled but you liked it.
‘Was I wrong to do it?’ you asked.
‘Do what?’
‘Kill him,’ you said eventually.
Robin raised his head and looked at you.
‘No,’ he said simply.
You merely nodded and he returned his head to his pillow.
After a while, he sighed and started to sit up.
‘I should return to my own bed,’ he said.
You watched him get out of bed and pick up his shirt. You made no effort to cover yourself, just lay there naked as the day.
‘Must you?’
‘If Beatrice returns and finds us together...I don’t want to get the girl’s hopes up.’
‘What hopes?’
He sat back down on the side of the bed.
‘She’s not spoken to you?’
‘Huh, no. Not since you appeared,’ you complained, kicking him.
He smiled.
‘She has a fancy that we will wed. I’ve told her it won’t be but I don’t think there’s any getting through to her.’
is this even a question ???????? this is peepaw's wet dream <33333
he's so good at eating you out that it keeps distracting you :( eyes fluttering shut phone dropping to your chest but he just pulls away n rubs his scratchy scruff against the soft skin of your inner thigh, "don't get distracted, honey. want a cartful ready to go, yeah?"
and you nod, a little too fucked out already n out of breath "m'kay," and go back to scrolling while he goes back to your pussy. he hears you gasp, just under your breath, "oh this one's nice. do you like the pink or white?"
"get both." he grunts, barely glancing at the screen while he grinds his cock against the mattress. "let daddy get it for you."
It’s midnight, of course, and he just can’t get back to sleep. Not while the thought of chocolate cake haunts him. There’s some in the fridge, some that you have specifically told him to wait until tomorrow to eat.
Apparently he’d already had too much sugar today. But it’s 10 minutes past midnight, so it’s technically tomorrow.
He takes atleast 15 minutes to slip out of your embrace, not wanting to wake you. Mostly to avoid the lecture, but also because he would hate to ruin your sleep.
Or share his cake.
He manages the feat of heading downstairs and pulling the cake from the fridge in total silence. But after barely two bites, he hears it.
“Ahhh…” He glances down, spotting your toddler still in her pyjamas, hair messy from sleep, with her mouth open waiting to be fed.
She’s definitely his daughter.
“Hi sweetheart. Shouldn’t you be in bed?” He picks her up, smoothing some hair out of her eyes. Still not much of a talker, her mouth stays open, repeating the quiet “Ahh” and glancing at the cake on the counter.
“Just one bite, okay? Then you have to brush your teeth and go back to bed. We wouldn’t want to wake mommy, right?”
“It’s a little late for that.”
Zayne does his best to not look guilty, but you clearly see right through him, shaking your head as if you knew this would happen.
“Give her a bite, the poor thing. She got the sugar cravings from you.”
“Right. And what exactly did you come down here for?”
Plot: The Pitt needs Jack but he's asleep. Accidental cuddling when you go wake him up. No established relationship. This is the Oh moment. 1.6 K of fluff.
A/N: I decided it was only fair do a Jack Abbot version of the sleepy on-call room trope I did for Robby in A Match Being Struck. John Shen whump if you squint.
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You didn’t see Shen and Parker playing Rock Paper Scissors down the hall as they each hoped to avoid being the one to wake Abbot. You missed Parker’s arms go up in victory, followed by her peace sign as she walked off with a smug smile. All you saw was Shen leaning over the counter, drink in hand, as he said,
“Can you go grab Abbot for me? He’s asleep and I can’t have a repeat of last time.” He shuddered at the mention of it.
“Just put your drink down before you wake him,” you said. He curled the cup closer to his chest at the mere suggestion he separate from it.
“I can’t risk it. That was a dark day.” He was looking past you, lost in thought reliving the last time he’d woken the sleeping attending. Abbot, the former soldier who understandably had seen some scary things that often led to PTSD. Abbot, the part-time SWAT medic, who might not react well to being startled awake by a coworker and might knock said coworker’s favourite Dunkin’ drink from his hand. Shen had been devastated, low on caffeine, and the least chill you’d ever seen him. It would have been funny if the rest of his shift hadn’t been so rough because of the spill. “Please, dude,” he begged. You sighed and agreed to get Jack.
The room wasn’t as dark or as quiet as it should be for sleep but soldiers and nightshift workers could sleep anywhere and anytime. Jack was laying on his stomach on a couch in the staff lounge. His prothetic leg was within reach, leaning against the arm of the couch. You considered calling his name loudly, startling him awake from a safe distance but that felt mean. As soon as he was awake, it would be nothing but noise and chaos until his shift ended. He looked so peaceful, you really didn’t know how things went so south with Shen.
You made your way closer, opting for a soft approach. Sitting down gently on the edge of the couch by his ribs, you said his name and waited for movement from him. You tried again, nothing. You eyed his back a moment, making sure it moved with breathing. You put a hand on his shoulder, and slowly slid it across his back, smiling when he started to stir. See Shen? This was how you carefully woke a sound sleeper. You dragged your hand back across the same simple path of his shoulders, smug that your soothing gesture had solved everything when Jack mumbled,
“Hey, sweetheart.” What?! No. That was not the desired effect, especially not when hearing that term of endearment in his sleepy voice seemed to short-circuit a very important part of your brain. In his stirring, his forehead came to rest against your thigh. He sighed like a weary sailor finding land after seasons at sea. You squirmed slightly at the heat his heavy exhale brushed against the seam of your pants. He started move more purposefully, and you thought he was waking up. Instead, his arm reached for more contact and you froze when it snaked slowly around your thigh, his hand tucking underneath your leg, and successfully stopping you from pulling in your next breath.
It was the second time today you’d seen a man hug something protectively to his chest but you were having a very different reaction to this one. You managed a shaky breath, but Jack Abbot wasn’t done. On another sleepy exhale, his hand skimmed up the underside of your leg, sparking sweet sensations as it slid until his palm was nestled in the nook of your knee. That alone might have been survivable but the placement of his hand meant that his forearm laid along your inner thigh and his elbow was cushioned in the most uncoworkerly corner of your body: your crotch.
You made a sound. One you’d definitely never made at the hospital. One Jack Abbot definitely heard, because he tightened his hold on you and said,
“Lay down with me, honey.” The sudden surge of temptation to accept his invitation was so strong, it constricted your chest. Your heart twisted at how sweet he’d sounded. He’d said it so lovingly, like you were together, like you were… Oh. Oh no. Was he thinking about his dead wife?! “Need you,” he said softly and it was a knife through your heart.
“Dr. Abbot,” you said as professionally as possible but not being able to breathe properly really took the power out of your voice. Overwhelmed by the delicious feelings flooding from all points of contact with him and horrified at yourself for the lust flowing through you while he was wholesomely just deeply in love with his late wife, you reached out for something to help steady you. Aiming for the couch, but being off-kilter because of the cuddly boa constrictor of a coworker currently coiled around your leg, your hand landed left of where you’d planned, right onto his head where it sunk into a soft sea of salt and pepper curls. You made another noise in frustration, torn between needing this to end and never wanting it to. Letting your hand slide off him turned into more of a caress, and his eye cracked open.
He stared up at you sleepily, almost suspiciously, but maintained his strong grasp. For a second there was a flicker not unlike the look in Shen’s eyes as he had cradled the iced coffee to his chest. Or the look in a dog’s eye when they’ve got something they know you’re going to try to take away and they plan to fight you for it.
“Hi,” you said, more than a little breathless. “Shen needs you.”
He woke up quickly then, jerking his head and hands away from you, turning one way then another before he was sitting alert and army-trained on the couch.
“Fuck, sorry, I thought I was dreaming.”
“About your wife,” you added on, needing to acknowledge it.
“What?” He asked, his face twisting at the out of the blue mention of her.
“What?” You echoed, wondering why he seemed confused. He tilted his head at you, quietly considering.
“I wasn’t dreaming about my wife.” The statement came lightly but it made the air in the room incredibly heavy. It felt like he was actually admitting something else. Something potentially life-changing.
You sprang from the couch, set on a quick escape, only to hear a clatter as his prosthesis was knocked from its resting place. Mortified at not only putting hands on an attending and stirring up memories of his late wife, now you could add destruction of property or hate crime against the disabled by throwing around his much-needed leg. You crouched to reach for it, desperate to right the wrong. Jack had the same instinct about saving his leg, only faster. This meant you sort of collided, landing with your arm outstretched along his and your chin on his shoulder.
He looked down, at where you had not managed to grasp his prothesis, but instead had your hand wrapped around his. Thankfully you weren’t attached to a heart rate monitor when he turned his head to look at you, because all sorts of alarms would be going off and a whole team would be running in to save you when his nose bumped yours. Marvelling at his face just a breath away, you didn’t know how you were going to recover from this.
“Wanna know who I was dreaming about?” He teased, tempting you with the idea of you two.
“I think I understand now why Shen dropped his drink,” You whispered.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, a hint of a laugh, and the corner of his mouth started to lift in a smirk before he pulled his mouth to the side to hide it. Jack shook his head at you, and it took him out of your space enough that you could think clearly again. You stood on shaky legs and backed away towards the door as he accused,
“Hey, you started it.” You stayed quiet, unable to defend yourself, because you had, in fact, started it with the shoulder slide. At the door, you paused as he started adjusting his prosthesis,
“Is your leg alright?” You asked, hoping you hadn’t damaged it. Jack peered up at you, amusement brightening his eyes.
“Is yours?” He asked, gesturing to where your skin was still suffering from aftershocks.
“My leg is,” you looked down at the limb in question, “fine,” you lied, trying to downplay your reaction to him. But did that sound too nonchalant or even ungrateful to say about your perfectly fine leg to someone holding a prosthesis? “It’s great,” you overcompensated, mildly concerned that might be bragging. He nodded,
“Yeah, it felt great.” You laughed at his unexpected feedback.
“You did not just say that. Is that your medical opinion?” He smiled at you, all too pleased with himself and your heart skipped a beat. It was a toss up whether having him alert and flirty or semi-conscious and cuddly was more hazardous to your cardiac health. From the gleam in his eye, you knew he was about to deliver some devastatingly flirtatious line. You needed to get out while you still could. “Go find Shen,” you ordered, fleeing the room.
You sped-walked down the hall, leg still tingling while you wondered if this was a newfound version of phantom limb, and how long the symptoms would last. Peeking over your shoulder to see if Jack had come out yet, you rounded the corner quickly and crashed into someone in scrubs. Beyond the contact, there was the sound of plastic hitting the floor and liquid splashing.
SUMMARY: You really need to keep your job as a maid for Ransom Drysdale even if you hate the ass of a guy.
CONTENT: Dark elements: power imbalance, degradation, sexual harassment, blackmailing, implied DUBCON/NONCON smut.
A/N: The prompt for the 12th of Jukebox is Tainted Love – Soft Cell / “I cannot stand the way you tease”.
As per usual: please like, comment, and especially reblog – that’s the only way to make sure other people see it too. Here’s my taglist for the challenge and my general MASTERLIST for more.
Prove it
“I cannot stand the way you tease,” Ransom had whispered, ignoring the fact that you’d only done your job.
His words echo in your head today when you start your work, cleaning the large house or tending to the other tasks you’ve been assigned. In theory, you can quit...but then you’ll be out of a surprisingly well-paying job AND a place to live and fuck knows you can’t afford to lose either. So you grit your teeth, put on the maid uniform – a skimpy dress – and get to work.
You’re halfway up a ladder, dusting off the bookcase, when the door to the study opens and Ransom enters. You don’t turn to look at him, but you can hear from the way he walks that he is pissed so it worries you that he hesitates before walking to you.
Warm hands ensnare your ankles and for a second you’re afraid he’ll pull you off the ladder.
He doesn’t. His hands slide up your calves, then up the back of your thighs.
“Mister Drysdale...” you start.
“Shhh.”
You’re clinging to the shelf, body stiff with fear of what he’s doing. Goosebumps are racing from where his palms are touching your skin and you’re not sure it’s all aversion.
He’s a horrible employer. A horrible person.
But you haven’t been touched like this in ages. As his fingers slide under the fabric of the skirt, you have to bite back a whimper.
“Such a slut,” Ransom sneers, hands now on the curve of your ass. “Bet you’d let me fuck you just so you could stay.”
You hate him. Hate that he’s right too.
“Please don’t...” You can feel his fingers dig into the plush of your ass in anticipation. “Don’t fire me.”
pairing: zayne x caleb
cw: 18+ MDNI, smut, oral (m. recv), caleb just loves zayne's hips, hickies, down baaad caleb and zayne, caleb taking control then letting zayne take control, slightly whiny caleb
"Caleb," Zayne sharply inhales as Caleb's tongue trails a line across his hip bone, sucking at the exposed skin where his slacks hang loose, his belt undone.
"Just focus on me."
That's always Zayne's problem, he's too focused — too aware of rough fingers that ghost over his skin, of warm breath that now fans across his abdomen. Too absorbed with the vision of his friend on his knees.
"You've been so tense lately," Caleb's smirk is dangerous, knelt between Zayne's legs. "Let me distract you for a little bit."
His hands find the band of Zayne's pants, pulling them down the rest of the way, falling softly around his ankles. Caleb moves slow, running his palms appreciatively up Zayne's thighs, his cock twitching as his hands slide closer. The languid movements cause his stomach to tense, tossing his head back against the wall. Skin too warm, prickling with anticipation as warmth pools in his stomach — achingly hard as Caleb strokes him slowly through his boxers.
"Hey," his hands dip below the band of Zayne's boxers, freeing him from the fabric. His thumb swipes over the tip, letting pre cum coat the skin there, before giving him one slow, teasing stroke.
"Look at me," Caleb says it low, gravelly in his throat, running his tongue along the underside of Zayne's cock.
It takes a few panting breaths for Zayne to finally look, opening his eyes to see the smirk in Caleb's gaze before he wraps his lips around him, just taking him in, his warm tongue swirling around the tip. His eyes stay locked on Zayne's when he takes him further, nearly hitting the back of his throat.
Zayne's fingers tangle in Caleb's hair, gripping when he pulls off slightly, only to take him fully again. Caleb groans at the pull of his hair, the vibration of it pulling a low moan from Zayne's throat.
Caleb slips him out of his mouth, pulling back to guide his spit-slick palm down Zayne's length. His other hand finds Zayne's hip, gripping at it as he leans in to nip again. Tongue running over love bitten skin, like he can't help but mark him.
"Say my name," his breath shudders as his fingers press into the skin, need tugging at each syllable. "I wanna hear you." He takes him halfway again, hand stroking the base he's yet to take fully in his mouth.
"Caleb," Zayne's palm slides to cradle Caleb's jaw when he hollows his cheeks. "You're taking me so well." His voice is muted, face flushed, breathing heavily as he looks down at him over his glasses.
There's a slight tremble in Caleb's hands now, a low whine building in this throat. He gently threads his hand with Zayne's, pulling it back to his hair. A silent plea, a quiet encouragement.
It breaks the dam in Zayne's chest.
He threads his fingers softly in Caleb's hair, pulling sightly, his hips involuntarily jerking forward to meet the bob of Caleb's head. He lets Zayne use him, bob him up and down with the grip on Caleb's hair.
His hands find Zayne's hips again, soothing his thumbs of the curve of the bone, the other fingers pressing into the skin — encouraging Zayne to set the pace.
Zayne voice is a mix of low moans and sharp inhales, groaning out Caleb's name with each slide of his tongue, begging please with each suck.
"Fuck," he hisses out, hips stuttering. "I'm-" he throbs hot in Caleb's mouth, the tight knot in his stomach desperate to unravel. Caleb keeps his hands on his hips, taking over with a new pace.
He pushes back Caleb's bangs, something tender there he's not ready explore.
When their eyes lock, he cums down Caleb's throat. He swallows, releasing slowly with a small thread of spit still connecting them.
It snaps when Zayne wraps his hand around Caleb's collar, pulling him into searing kiss. Pushing him against the wall with a grunt, tongue swirling against Caleb's and tasting himself.
His thumbs slide into Caleb's belt loops, leaving marks of his own on the skin at this throat.
"You've got my attention now," he breathes against the shell of Caleb's ear. "What will you do with it?"
AN: my humble snowapple offering based on this initial post <3 ty for reading!
MYTHBLOSSOMS 2025 please do not edit, copy, steal, translate my works. do not feed my works to ai or chatbots. characters not owned by me. all dividers or banners are made by me unless directly specified, please do not steal.
Hell was the journey but it brought me heaven - A.C
☆ Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!Reader ☆
(previous part) (next part)
summary: After a life shaped by violence, Andrew finds something he was never meant to have: love. That is, if he can protect it from his world.
word count: 42.2k
c.w: graphic violence, blood, religious imagery, kidnapping, torture, trauma/ptsd, implied past child abuse, murder, smut (piv, unprotected sex).
a/n: me to my wife "It's gonna be 20k at best". as you can see, it was a lie. thank you so much to her for proofreading it. dealing with the 1000 blocks rule was a nightmare, so please forgive how it looks.
❤︎ Thank you so much for reading!
Andrew wakes up, gently pulled upward from the dark.
At first, he doesn’t know why his body feels so different: no jolt, no sharp inhale like he’s surfacing from underwater, and more importantly, no agonizing screams from the ghosts in his head. No echo of Smurf’s voice into his ear, telling him that he only matters when he is useful, no Julia, no Cath, no Baz…just him and the undeniable feeling of warmth and gentleness enveloping his body.
For a disorienting second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t open his eyes. He lies perfectly still, too anxious that the absence of dread might be the sign of another delirium. After all, his mind has built kinder lies than this in the past: mornings where he woke up believing he was out of harm’s way, that somebody was alongside him, that he would at last be spared, only to open his eyes and discover nothing there but air. Andrew implores.
(Please. Not like the other times. Let this be real. May mercy, for once, choose him. He would take every punishment. Trade all he possesses. His remaining years. His blood. His soul. Live an eternity in the noise of his ghosts if he could just keep this single second of bliss untouched.)
Something shifts below him, and only then does he truly register it: the warmth is not a trick of his mind, not another tender cruelty meant to vanish the second he trusts it. It’s…you. You and your body, receiving him like he has always belonged there. His cheek is pressed just above your breast, his ear resting over your heart, each inhale from your chest lifting his head in small motions. He feels the rhythm: the pulse under his skin, the expansion of your ribs, the heat radiating from you into him.
(One. Two. Three. Four. Your heart answers his, beating leisurely. Bare skin against bare skin, he feels like a man who is wandering into a cathedral with mud on his boots.)
The longer he lies there, the more details surface: your thigh draped loosely over his hip, one of your hands tangled lazily in his curls, probably falling asleep holding onto them and never loosening your grip. He wants to etch every detail of your body someplace within him where nothing can distort it. He inhales deeply. You don’t smell your usual shampoo and soap, no, that version of you belongs to the sunlight and the outside world. This morning, Andrew gets to know the one that is bare in his sheets. You feel musky, like the earth after a rainstorm when the air turns heavy and thick. It takes him a few more moments to grasp that it’s the scent of sex.
He slowly opens his eyes, bracing for the possibility that the illusion would fracture, leaving him alone once more, but nothing moves. You remain where you are: lashes resting against your cheeks, lips slightly parted in sleep and your hair spilled messily across the pillow. His hand, which had clutched your waist and – he notices with guilt – left a bruise from holding on too tightly in the bliss of last night, shifts now to brush the thin gold chain at your collarbone, thumb sliding along the heart-shaped pendant. He doesn’t understand how he ended up here. How a man like him gets to wake up like this, to touch you like this.
(Profane hands that have broken things. People. Fingers that know how to stitch wounds closed and how to open them. He feels like he should apologize. Wash and scrub himself raw before touching you again. Impious hands on consecrated skin.)
And yet here they are, resting on you as though designed for this all along. Moving upward by a few inches, pressing his palm into the mattress to lift his weight enough so he doesn’t disturb you, Andrew hovers above your body to study the shape of your face in the morning light that slips in through the blinds. How it paints your features in golden lines like sky itself marvels at his own creation.
He lowers himself until his nose finds the curve of your neck, breathing you in once more, slower. He can distinguish the salt that lingers in the faint traces of sweat and saliva where his tongue had traveled last night along your collarbone and throat. He recalls how, spent and trembling, you had pulled him down, guided him to your breasts and how, overwhelmed by the sentiment of being the one held, he had kissed every inch of skin he could reach. He lets his lips trace a path of unhurried kisses along the delicate line of your bones: where your jaw meets your neck, the smooth curve of the shoulder and the sensitive hollow beneath it, before going downward to your sternum.
(He wants to know you through every sense he has. To map this morning with his lungs and mouth. To memorize the striae of your skin, the birthmark under your left breast that he had found last night. To learn the language of your body. The world can have the composed version of you. He gets this one in his bed.)
He tries not to disturb you, to keep his caresses light, but your body responds anyway with a drowsy protest, brows knitted and fingers tightening unconsciously in his hair. “Mm…Andrew,” you mumble, voice hoarse with sleep, burying your face against his shoulder. “it’s too early.”
He goes perfectly still at the base of your neck, lifting his head just enough to have a look: your eyes are shut, yet there’s a smile threatening at the corners of your mouth. “Sorry,” he whispers.
You crack one eye open, unimpressed. “Liar.”
He huffs a quick breath, no longer attempting to suppress his smirk. “Maybe.”
Squinting up at him, your hand slides from his curls to his chin, thumb stroking sluggishly along his cheek. “Mornin’,” you murmur.
“Morning.” You tug him down by the back of his neck to kiss him, lips already parted in expectation. He stays dumbfounded for a beat, then two. He gets to have this. To experience kisses in the morning with a woman who reaches for him. To have someone in his life who really wants him for the man, not the weapon. To be just like his brothers in this simple, ordinary way. To be loved and to love back. He melts into the embrace, one hand braced against the mattress to keep on crushing you with his weight, the other settling on your ribcage.
Your mouth moves against his lazily, before travelling along his jaw and back to his lips, grinning. “We barely slept,” you breathe in-between, voice low and satisfied, “and I entirely blame you for it.” He feels heat climbing up his neck. “You’re blushing,” you observe, elated, pulling back just enough to see it for yourself. Before he can protest or deny, you shift beneath him and, with a push at his shoulder, roll him onto his back. He lands there, momentarily dazed, curls falling across his forehead as he blinks up at you.
(He could stop you. Reflexes honed by years of training and jobs. He knows how to pin someone. How to reverse leverage. However, the woman he loves is naked. And he is not good at refusing her anything.)
You climb and straddle him, knees on either side of his hips and hands shifting up his chest as you lean, hair spilling around your faces like a curtain, kissing him again. He tilts his head, meeting you, afraid to respond too avidly as his fingers wander along your body, avoiding the breasts. “Andrew…” you murmur against his lips, “you know you can touch me, right?” He nods once quietly, but his hands refuse to budge. “Hey, hey,” you smiled gently, palms coming up to cradle his cheeks, “it’s okay. Just because we made love yesterday doesn’t mean we have to do anything more today.”
(Made love. Not a transaction. Not something timed and watched by Smurf through the half-open door. Made love. Not fuck. The phrase is beautiful. Better than anything he has associated with sex. How you say it easily. Love.)
“There’s no need to rush,” you continue gently. “We can just stay like this.”
He clears his throat, the sound rough. “It’s not that I don’t want it. I just…” He exhales, frustrated with himself, with his body. “I don’t always…it doesn’t always…cooperate.” He braces himself for the awkwardness, the disappointment. Instead, there is only your smile.
“Oh, Andrew,” you say quietly, leaning down to press a peck to his mouth. “Last night was amazing but we kinda strained ourselves. And if we add up that you barely sleep on a regular week…I think your body is allowed to rest.”
“You’re not disappointed?” he asks quietly, still searching your face for pity.
“Disappointed? Andrew. Honey. I’m naked on top of the man I love. I’m pretty sure I won at the lottery of life.”
His throat works to respond but you plant another kiss on his lips. Pulling back, your gaze gravitates to his jaw. “Oh,” you giggle.
“What?”
You reach up and swipe your finger just below his ear, near the hinge of his jaw, shimmers on the pad of your thumb. “Sorry but you’ve got a little souvenir,” you tease.
He frowns. “From what?”
“Me. I kissed you there.” He touches the spot automatically, trying to feel it. “Do you want me to…?”
“No,” he replies quickly before shrugging, eyes lowering for an instant. “I can keep it. It’s fine.”
“Andrew,” you say half amused, half incredulous, “you’ve got my lip-gloss all over you.”
“I don’t mind.”
(It’s not about the gloss. It’s about the mark. The mark you left on him. Other people will think and proclaim that you are his. Pope’s girl. The title will shield you from harm and men. The truth they won’t understand is he is yours. Blessed by the simple fact that you chose him.)
“Fine,” you whisper, dragging your thumb gently across his lips to smooth some of the shimmer down so it’s less obvious without erasing it entirely. A faint sheen still catches the light whenever he turns his head. Satisfied, you shift, sliding off his hips and curling into his side instead, tucking yourself against him as his arms close around you. Head resting over his chest, leg draped across his thigh, your fingers trace idle, absent shapes along his skin while you hum contentedly. “You’re very quiet,” you comment, nails scraping lightly over his sternum as you tilt your face up to look at him.
He studies the ceiling for a moment before answering. “I’m always quiet.”
“Not like this.”
(He doesn’t ask what you mean. He knows. There is the silence he wears as an armor. Carved from years of swallowing words so they could not be used against him. The one that makes him efficient. And there is this one. The silence when he is full. When he isn’t waiting for something to go wrong.)
He lowers his gaze back to you and your cheek resting on his heartbeat, looking content, serene. He doesn’t know how to explain aloud the way it is brand-new for him. That right now, in this bedroom, he feels like standing in the aftermath of a storm, realizing that the sky has no intention of collapsing. That Smurf won’t ever be able to ruin this. Before he can try, the quietude is interrupted by a small, unmistakable growl that makes you freeze, blood rushing all along your neck and face. “Pretend that you heard nothing.”
“You’re hungry.”
You peek up at him, an embarrassed smile on your face. “Maybe.”
(Hungry. You made him happy. Held him. Let him sleep. Fed a part of him he didn’t know how to name. Called it ‘make love’. Now you’re hungry. The equation feels simple. You fed his soul. He will feed your body.)
“I’ll make breakfast,” he responds, already moving deftly beneath you and mentally inventorying what’s in the kitchen.
“Andrew, it’s okay. I’m not going to faint if we wait a bit longer.”
“You’re hungry,” he repeats.
Your body slides off his with a reluctant noise, the air cool against his bare skin. He stands up too, taken aback when you cup his jaw and press your mouth to his softly, lingering for a beat. “Morning,” you murmur once more.
His hand goes instinctively to your waist. “Morning.” Pulling away slowly, his fingers trail down before he turns toward the dresser and opens the top drawer, retrieving a pair of black boxers. He steps into them without ceremony in the same quiet ritual he performs every morning.
You, however, ignore your own clothes on the chair entirely. Instead, you reach past him, your bare arm brushing his back in the process, and grab one of his shirts, softened from years of wear and faded in places. You slip it over your head, the fabric falling down your frame and settling just past your hips. Then you bend, unbothered by his staring, and fish out another pair of his boxers, stepping into those as well. He goes very still. You smooth the shirt down over your hips and look up at him innocently. “What?”
“That’s mine.”
You step closer, barefoot against the floor. “Well,” you whisper, hooking one finger into his waistband, tugging him closer by an inch. “Guess we’re sharing now.”
“You can keep it,” he manages to say.
(You can have them. His clothes. His truck. His house. His name. His heart. Lay claim to all of it and he would not protest. Let this be the altar he chooses willingly. Take what is his and make it holy.) “Come on,” he adds quietly.
You narrow your eyes playfully. “You gonna cook?”
“Yes.”
“Eggs?”
“Yes.”
“Sunny side up and not letting the bacon touch it?”
“Yes.”
You beam. “God, I love you.”
──────────
Andrew was fourteen. Smurf called him into her bedroom, not raising her voice. She never needed to, each summon traveling through the walls to his spine. “Baby,” she said when he stepped inside, her smile already in place all bright and practiced. She was sitting at her vanity, brushing out her blond hair, gold bracelets chiming at her wrist while her room smelled like a heavy perfume and cigarette smoke. “Close the door.”
He did. He stood straight, hands at his sides, shoulder squared in the way she liked, waiting. There was a man in town who has been “messing the business,” she told him. A supplier who thought he could shave a percentage off the top and not get noticed. A man who forgot who was running this coast. She said it lightly, like it was gossip, like other mothers might mention a neighbor who borrowed sugar and never returned it.
Andrew listened. “I need you to remind him,” she said, meeting his eyes in the mirror, “that we don’t tolerate disrespect.” She turned on her stool, crossing one leg over the other, studying him like she was appraising a weapon she kept polished and hidden under the bed. “You’re my good boy, right?” she asked gently, tilting her head. He nods. “That’s what I thought.”
They drove together in silence, just the two of them. She didn’t explain much more. She didn’t have to. He knew what ‘remind him’ meant. The man was waiting behind a storage unit near the marina, pacing, already defensive when he saw Smurf step out of her car with her oversized sunglasses. “Janine,” he started. “We can talk about this.”
She didn’t even look at him, just at Andrew, her Pope. A slight tilt of her chin and that’s all it took before he stepped forward. The first hit was almost anticlimactic, just a fist to the gut that folded the man in half with a startled wheeze. The second was harder. The third started to make him bleed. There was shouting: from the man, from the seagulls overhead, from somewhere far away. But not from Pope. He knew where to hit to make it hurt, to keep someone conscious long enough to understand what was happening to them. Knew how to stop just short of permanent damage because that was what Smurf preferred: a pain that lasted, a reminder to not fuck with the Cody family. The man went down and Andrew followed. Another strike. And another.
His whole world narrowed down to the impacts and the dull satisfaction of the noise inside his head finally going quiet. When he stopped, the man was bleeding from the mouth, one eye swelling shut, curled on his side in the dust. Andrew stepped back automatically, looking at the ground, waiting.
Smurf approached slowly, heels crunching over the gravel, sunglasses still in place. She crouched beside the man and removed them, folding them neatly before tucking them into her neckline. “You see,” she said conversationally, smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I hate when people mistake my generosity for weakness.” The man tried to speak but it came out wet. She leaned closer, voice lowering. “If I have to do this again, I will.” Her hand brushed along the man’s lips, wiping away a smear of blood with her thumb before deliberately smudging it across his cheek. “And next time,” she added, almost fondly, “my boy won’t stop where he did.” She looked up at Andrew with a radiant smile. “My guard dog is very loyal. Aren’t you baby?”
“Yes.”
Smurf stood, brushing dust from her clothes. “Let’s go,” she said lightly. On the drive home, she hummed along to a cheerful tune on the radio, reaching over to squeeze Andrew’s thigh. “You did good,” she told him. The words felt like a reward, not yet understanding that his mother was building him brick by brick.
Back at the house, Julia was on the couch, Craig perched on her lap and trying to read his first book. She looked up when they entered. Her eyes flicked briefly to Andrew’s knuckles, already reddening, then to Smurf. She didn’t ask questions. She never did. Andrew washed his hands in the kitchen sink, the water running pink for a few seconds before clearing. He scrubbed harder than necessary, until the skin stung. He didn’t comprehend why he felt like he needed to erase his bones.
That night, Smurf kissed his mouth before bed. “My protector,” she whispered.
He lay awake long after the house went quiet, staring at the ceiling, replaying the afternoon and the man’s face. The sound of the bone cracking under his skin. The way the noise in his head had gone silence when he was hitting. Smurf’s hand on his thigh in the car, how she had called him good.
He wondered if that was what love felt like.
──────────
You follow him into the kitchen clothed in nothing but his shirt and your smug smile. The fabric hangs loosely around your waist, collar falling just enough to expose the dim constellation of marks he left along your neckline that you make no attempt to conceal.(no, you’re too pleased of them. that’s why you picked this precise shirt. if he can walk around with your lip-gloss smeared on his mouth and chest, you can fucking parade. fair is fair.)
Andrew moves through the kitchen, already absorbed on his task. He opens the refrigerator, takes out the bacon and the carton of eggs, lining four of them up on the counter in a straight row before he even grabs the pan. You lean against the doorway and simply observe. There’s something nearly ritualistic about the way he acts, hitting each egg on the exact unchanged spot on the post. Same slant, same pressure.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
The shells go neatly into the trash, before he rapidly rinses his fingers under the faucet and dries them thoroughly. The pan gets on the stove, the flame adjusted with precision and lowered right before he adds oil, bottle back into the cabinet the instant he’s done with it.
(the more you spend time with him, the more you realize this isn’t just preference. it’s what makes him feel balanced, structured. he likes knowing where things are. that they go back where they belong. that the fridge door closes all the way. that the seal gets checked with an extra push. lining up objects seems to line up his mind.)
You step near him silently, acknowledging the invisible bubble he’s created around the stove. You grab plates and forks from the cupboard, adding paper towels to the pile because you already know he’ll want them and arranging everything on the table. He doesn’t speak while he cooks. But you can distinguish that silence now and how it’s not dismissal or detachment, he is simply…in it. Entirely absorbed in the task: spacing the bacon strips evenly on the separated pan so they don’t overlap, adapting the heat, glancing back at the eggs to make sure the whites set properly.
You place your hip against the counter, tilting your head to watch him.
(he looks outrageously domestic like that. barefoot, making breakfast without being asked. how andrew cody went from ex-convict and criminal to husband of the year is still beyond you. but you know better than to complain.)
(also: you’re still a bit glad he hasn’t brought up the wedding dress comment from last night. not that you’re scared. fuck no, you’d marry him yesterday if you could. but this little bubble you’re in right now? you love it.)
And the worst part about the whole breakfast-making thing? He is doing it in nothing but his boxers. Back broad, shoulders eased, curls still mussed from sleep. You don’t hesitate. You step closer and wrap your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades, your hands flattening on his stomach. He stiffens for half a second at the contact before relaxing. You start drawing kisses along his spine and going upward, until your mouth discovers the spot just behind his ear, making him inhale sharply. “You’re distracting,” he murmurs.
“Oh, am I?” you hum against his skin, utterly unapologetic, fingertips stroking the edge of his boxers.
“Careful,” he stammers, glancing down at the stove. “Hot pan.”
“Mm.” You press another kiss on the same spot watching, delighted, goosebumps ripple across his shoulders. “Seems under control to me.”
The bacon pops abruptly in the pan. Before you even register it, his hand drops to your hip, determined and instinctive, nudging you a few inches to the other side of his body without disrupting the movement of his other hand flipping the bacon. You blink. (oh. okay. that’s actually…hot. you don’t know which 101 boyfriend class he took but it’s definitely not the same one the rest of the male population attended.)
You settle again, undeterred, resting your chin on his shoulder so you can observe what he’s doing. His forearms make most of the work, flexing with each maneuver of the spatula under his freckled skin, making it particularly tough to concentrate on anything remotely close to breakfast.
(you might be drooling a little.)
“You know I’m a grown woman, right?” you whisper after a moment.
“Oil pops,” he answers simply, the bacon snapping again to illustrate his point. “Wouldn’t want you to get burn.”
“And…you can’t?”
He shrugs. “I don’t mind it.”
Your fingers, which had been resting loosely at his waistline, start tracing patterns along his stomach with the lightest drag of your pads, refusing to utter another word to this sentence. (you don’t ever want to know why he wouldn’t mind getting burnt. you’ve seen enough of the scars scattered across him to understand that pain is an aspect of his life he learned to accept long before you ever met him.)
He lifts the eggs cautiously with the spatula, sliding them onto the plates with precision so the yolks remain perfectly intact. Same with the bacon, arranged neatly beside them. You step away, retreating to the table so he can have the space to finish his ritual: the stove knob turned off and checked twice, the pan moved to the sink, the quick wipe of the stovetop. Only then does he turn toward you, plates in hand. And suddenly, you grasp that this whole breakfast is him trying. You can see it in the small frown carved between his eyebrows and the tremor in his hands as he sets the plates down on the table like he’s afraid of ruining the moment.
He loves you. Truly. Yes, he told you so last night but that was mid-sex. This, is different. Just him, you and the certainty landing heavy in your chest: Andrew Cody would burn the entire world, including himself if it meant protecting you. (probably not the right moment to tell him you’d do the same. ready to burn and destroy whoever attempts to rip Andrew away from you. which is insane considering you’ve never punched anyone in your life. you’ve seen the guns the Cody brothers keep hidden in the house. never dared touch them. wouldn’t even know where the safety is. still. you would figure something out.)
“Eat,” he orders gently.
“Aye aye, sir,” you reply enthusiastically, your fork going straight into his plate to rob a piece of bacon.
He pauses halfway through sitting down beside you, brows furrowing like he’s struggling to understand the reasoning behind this. “You…you have bacon.”
“I know,” you say brightly, biting into it anyway and chewing with exaggerated satisfaction while keeping your eyes on his face. “Yours tastes way better.”
He studies you for a second longer, still frowning in pure confusion. Then, instead of protesting, he quietly pushes his plate a few inches to the side towards you. The gesture is tentative and careful, like offering without fully knowing if he’s doing it right. You open your mouth to tell him it’s not necessary, that it was just teasing, that he doesn’t have to surrender his breakfast for this but before the words come out, he picks up his fork and reaches over, stealing one of your own pieces.
You lean back in your chair, observing him with growing amusement as he attempts to act casual about it. Trying very, very hard. You can practically see the gears turning in his head, probably comparing this moment with the way his brothers are around the people they see. But Craig wouldn’t even be here right now. No, he would send the girl home before breakfast while Deran would act like this whole thing was effortless without the intent of calling back. Andrew looks like he’s carefully following instructions from a manual he doesn’t quite understand. And that’s infinitely better. “Good?” you ask.
He swallows. “Yeah.”
“Better from my plate?” A pause. He nods once, more confidently this time. “Wow, look at you.”
“What?”
“Sharing the germs and all,” you tease.
He looks down at the food, then back you. “I don’t mind your germs.”
You try to hide your grin, but it still creeps across your face as you sneak another bite of his bacon, which he retaliates with a mouthful of yours. You gasp, pointing your fork at him in mock outrage. “Now careful mister, if it’s war you want, war you’ll have.”
“You started it.” His voice is calm, but there’s laughter in his eyes. The stiffness in his shoulders loosens, the crease between his brows fades, his movements stop being so cautious. You can see it happening in real time. He’s relaxing. And you realize, seeing him like this, that he’s learning. Learning how to be Andrew.
Your foot nudges his under the table. “I think we’re good at this.”
“At what?”
You gesture between the two of you with your fork. “This.” He follows the motion with his eyes: the table, the plates, your leg brushing his under the table. Something softer settles in his expression, a small grin forming just enough for the dimples to appear.
“Yeah.”
And the thing is…the smile doesn’t fade. Not when the plates slowly empty. Not when you both linger at the table afterward, your legs tangled beneath it while you ramble about work, Andrew listening like every word matters. He barely interrupts, just the occasional quiet “yeah,” or a small nod, his hands resting on his thighs while his eyes drift between your face and your hands as they move when you talk. And every time you catch that smile still there, your brain goes stupid. (seriously, it should be illegal for a man like him to smile like that while you monologue about someone trying to pay in Canadian dollars.)
The smile stays. And it’s still there when you take his hand and tug him toward the bathroom, still there when it fills with steam, still there when the two of you step beneath the spray of the shower, warm water trickling over your shoulders as your bodies naturally find their way into each other’s space. You reach for the bottle of soap resting on the shelf and squeeze some in your palm. “Turn around,” you murmur.
He does without hesitation, your request apparently carrying more weight than you thought. Your hands move slowly, working the lather over his warm skin, a small sound escaping Andrew’s lips as your palms glide down the length of his arms and over the muscles that flex instinctively beneath your touch. He leans into the contact without realizing it, another whimper coming out when your thumbs press tenderly into the knots near his shoulder blades. You shift around his sides now, soap trailing paths across his ribs and stomach. He watches your face the entire time. Like he still can’t quite believe you’re here.
He lets you wash him completely without protest. And when you reach for the shampoo bottle next, he tilts his head forward automatically, the gesture so instinctive it almost makes you kiss him against the glass wall. Instead, you pour a little of the content into your hand and work it into his curls, massaging his scalp. Andrew’s shoulders drop immediately. “You have really nice hair,” you murmur.
He opens one eye halfway. “…Yeah?”
“Mhm.” Your thumbs circle slowly near the base of his skull. “Very nice curls.” Another hum escapes him. “And you’re being very good right now.” His breath stutters faintly at that. You conceal a smile, rinsing the shampoo out and guiding the water through his hair until the foam disappears fully. “You’re doing great,” you add softly.
His eyes stay shut. Like he’s storing the words somewhere deep inside himself. Once you’re done, he reaches for the soap. “Come here.” His movements are slower than yours, but there’s a tenderness to them that makes your chest sting a little. His palms travel across your back, down your arms, over your sides. Every touch deliberate, every inch of skin treated like worth remembering. “You smell good,” he whispers.
“That’s your soap. Are you complimenting yourself right now?” you laugh.
His mouth twitches. “Maybe.” The kiss that follows is clumsy with water and bubbles, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. Eventually, you both step out, wrapping yourselves in clean towels as the steam continues to fog the mirror and moving around the bathroom in the awkward dance of two people sharing this type of space for the first time. Andrew opens the cabinet, pulling out a toothbrush from a sealed pack and holding out to you without a word.
“Mine?” He nods once. All done, the brushes go into the same cup, side by side, his red against your green. You stare at them for a second. “How about we watch something?” you suddenly ask.
“What?”
You shrug, nudging your hip against his. “Heard there was some new documentary on Nat Geo, sounds good to you?” For a second he just looks at you. The dimples follow quickly after.
“Sounds good.”
──────────
A week after meeting his brothers, Craig had texted you to ‘come by’, which in his language apparently meant ‘there will be fifty people there and we will all end up hopping in the pool fully clothed or fully naked’. You showed up with a six-pack you could barely afford on a barista wage and the vague understanding that this was purely how friendship with Craig worked: loud, chaotic and a little intense.
Someone had dragged speakers into the backyard, shitty music blasting from them while people you didn’t know were everywhere: on the patio, inside the house, perched along the edge of the pool with their feet in the water. Craig spotted you instantly. “Yo, there she is!” he shouted from a lounge chair, jumping up and crossing the yard in three long strides, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you straight off the ground.
You almost dropped the six-pack. “Craig!” you yelped, laughing as your feet dangled helplessly before he set you back down.
“You made it!” he smiled, already thieving a beer from you. “Can’t believe you got out of your cave, doll. How does it feel to be human again?”
“Hey, hey,” you whispered to Craig, curling your finger to beckon him closer. “How about you shut it, doll. Some of us have real jobs.”
“Oh, she’s feisty tonight!” he exclaimed, completely unaffected, taking a long swing of the liquor. “I like this version of you.”
“You like every version of me as long as they bring alcohol,” you shot back.
“True.” He slung an arm over your shoulders and dragged you through the backyard crowd to the side of the house where a ladder was placed against the wall. “Gonna jump from up there,” he announced proudly, already planting one foot on the first rung. “Good luck kiss?”
“In your dreams, Craig,” you snorted, shaking your head.
He threw his hair back dramatically. “Cold. Absolutely fucking cold. If I die, you’ll have it on your conscience, doll.”
“And I’ll be so sad,” you replied, wiping fake tears. “Now get climbing, Craigo.”
He didn’t demand further encouragement. Within seconds he was up the ladder, beer bottle somehow still in hand, several people in the yard beginning to notice what was happening. “Craig’s on the roof!” someone shouted, a cheer rising instantly while you stepped back near the edge of the pool, folding your arms. (these men are idiots. nice and funny, yes. but also idiots.no doubt who the middle child was.)
He downed the rest of the drink and tossed it away, launching himself off the roof with absolutely no hesitation. He hit the water hard, drenching everyone standing nearby, including you, who jumped back with a startled sound as cold water sprayed over your legs. Craig resurfaced in the middle of the pool, triumphant.
And that was when you sensed it. That strange pull of attention where your neck felt warm before you knew why. You turned your head to see Andrew, standing near the back door of the house. He wasn’t laughing, wasn’t cheering or drinking. His arms hung slackly at his sides, shoulders still and his posture rigid compared to everyone else around him. He felt like a rock in the middle of the current. And his eyes…they were on you. Not the pool or Craig. You. The moment your eyes met his, there was a shift in his expression, like he realized you had caught him staring. For a split second, you expected him to look away. He didn’t. You broke eye contact first. (don’t look back, don’t look back. be cleverer than that.)
A few seconds passed before Craig returned alongside you, dripping water and grabbing another bottle from a cooler. “Hey,” you said quietly enough for only him to hear.
“Sup?”
“Your…brother. He’s been looking at me.”
Craig peered at his brother, still at the same place, still watching. He shrugged. “Yeah, that’s just Pope.”
You frowned. “He’s not partying.”
“Doesn’t really do that.”
“No drinking either?”
Craig took a sip from his bottle. “Nah.”
You studied Andrew once more, how he hadn’t shifted an inch even as several people squeezed past him, smoking weed and laugh-tripping. “Is he always like that?” you asked.
“Pretty much.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Got a little worse after prison though.”
You blinked. “Prison?” Craig nodded. “For what?”
Craig waved his hand vaguely. “Some…thing. Look, my bro’s weird, ‘kay? Always has been, always will. You’ll get used to it.”
Later that night, you got home a little buzzed.
The quiet of your apartment felt disturbing after the anarchy of the Cody’s house. You stumbled into bed, tossing onto one side, then the other, incapable of erasing Andrew’s eyes from your mind. You ended up looking at the ceiling. (this was so stupid.)
After a few minutes, you sat up abruptly. Your laptop sat on the small desk across the room. You hesitated for maybe three seconds before swinging your legs out of bed and padding across the floor. The screen glowed in the darkness when you opened it. You sat down slowly, fingers hovering above the keyboard.
(you are absolutely not doing this.)
A pause.
(okay, you are absolutely doing this.)
You typed before you could talk yourself out of it.
Andrew Cody.
The results appeared instantly, but most of them were boring: property records, a few local mentions about a skatepark in town. You clicked one, nothing useful. Another, still nothing. Then, a small article from 2013 popped halfway down the page. The headline was short.
Local Man Sentenced in Robbery Case
Your stomach tightened as you read the whole thing: Andrew D. Cody, 36, had been sentenced to six years in Folsom State Prison following a robbery involving multiple suspects. Authorities confirmed that no weapons were used during the incident. Three accomplices have not yet been identified, if you have informa-
You shut your laptop before finishing the sentence, leaning back in your chair and staring at nothing. Folsom. Robbery. Six years. (you had heard of Folsom. even people who had never been near a prison knew that name. one of the worst prisons in the state. maybe the country. you had read enough over the years to know that prisoners there were packed like animals and treated like even less. that men coming in were getting out…as someone else.)
Your brain tried to reconcile the information with the image of the quiet man in the doorway watching you like the rest of the room didn’t exist. Six years. (he probably got out before. that happened, right? good behavior, reduced sentences…not that you would ask him. god, no. ‘hey andrew, quick question, I googled you and saw you went to prison, care to elaborate?’. yeah, great opener.)
You pushed yourself up from the chair and walked back toward the bed. The apartment felt so much smaller and quieter suddenly. You slid under the covers, staring up at the ceiling again. Folsom. Six years. Robbery. Three accomplices. (you were sure you could guess two of them.)
The article lingered somewhere at the edge of your mind, but it wasn’t what kept you awake. No, it was the image that kept returning vividly of Andrew Cody, standing there, and looking at you like he had been doing it for much longer than just this evening. And the strange realization that the thought didn’t scare you nearly as much as it probably should have.
──────────
“Andrew! Look!”Your voice cuts through the noise of the skatepark like sunlight breaking through clouds, all bright and excited and utterly impossible for a weak man like Andrew to ignore. Not that you need to call for his attention. He is always watching. His vision is beginning to blur at the edges, the lack of blinking drying his eyes, but he refuses to look away.
(He doesn’t care. He can’t. He has been attempting to blink as little as possible the past one thousand six hundred and twenty seconds. He counts your pushes on the board. One. Two. Three. He doesn’t like three. Odd numbers feel unfinished and crooked. But he refrains from asking to do just one more for his peace of mind.)
You turn near the edge of the bowl, wheeling along the lip instead of dropping in.
(Not yet. But he knows you. Knows the obstinate woman you are. Soon enough you’ll want to try it.)
You roll back to him, your face catching the light, his attention moving to the line above your eyebrow. The stitches he removed a few days ago left only a pale mark, hardly noticeable unless someone knew where to look. He knows and tracks it instinctively. He remembers standing in your bathroom with tweezers, his heart pounding harder than it ever had throughout the jobs, delicately snipping the thread and pulling each stitch free. You had sat on the edge of the sink, observing him patiently, a warmness blooming inside his chest the entire time. You hadn’t been worried, not even a little. Just calm and trustful that he would not mess it up, that he would take care of your fragile skin.
(He still recalls each stitch. The way the skin had opened when you tumbled. The blood. The sound. He still hears it sometimes. Replays it when he wants to punish himself. To remember that you will carry that scar on your face forever because he was too slow. Too far away. Too…)
“I think I’m getting better! What do you think?” Your voice pulls him back. You’ve rolled to a stop in front of him, one foot to the ground, the other still resting on the board, face a shade deeper from the effort and the sun.
“You’re good,” he replies, remembering Craig’s advice ‘You gotta speak, man. Chicks don’t like dating a brick wall’ and how he had patted his back after saying it. Andrew had taken notes. “Very good. I’m…proud, sweetheart.”
(Did he say it right? Too much? Too little? His brothers had told him a lot of things. Craig had insisted women liked compliments. Deran had just said to bring condoms. Neither of them explained what to do with his hands.)
His palms hover ineptly on the side of his jeans as he studies your face closely.
(Signs of failure. That he is not a good boyfriend. That he said the wrong thing. That his solace will be taken away from him.)
But your grin only broadens, your fingers lifting to your necklace, thumb rubbing along the little heart pendant. Andrew feels his brain short-circuiting a brief instant. The woman he loves, the one he gets to date, the one who chose him, is in front of him, coy, because of what he said. You glance down a moment, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips, before looking back up at him through your lashes. “Proud?”
“Yes,” he answers quietly. “You did well.”
“And?”
Andrew blinks. “And…?”
You tilt your head, eyes glinting in amusement. “That’s it?”
“You’re good at…” he clears his throat, suddenly very aware of the heat rising along the back of his neck, “…many things. You’re balanced on the board,” (You understand him wordlessly.) “You’re very…determined.” (Stubborn. Annoyingly so. Especially when you refuse to sleep until he puts his head on your chest.) “And your foot placement is better now.”
Your mouth twitches. “Okay,” you whisper, leaning a little closer. “But if I want a less…skateboarding coach-compliment and more a boyfriend-compliment?” (He thinks of what Craig would say. Immediately discards the idea. Craig’s compliments often involve the words ‘hot’ and ‘bangable’. You deserve more than that. To hear that you are his sun. Warm enough to make him forget the cold places in his head.)
“You look happy,” he replies quietly, studying your face again.
“Well,” you say, almost shy now, “it’s because I am, mister Cody.”
“I…I like seeing you happy.”
Your fingers tighten around the pendant, thumb brushing the little heart again. Andrew is enraptured by the movement. He thinks of that night during the job, when he saw it on the velvet cushion, how small it had looked compared to the diamonds around it. How he had wanted you to have something from him, even if you were not his. (Back when he thought it would just be that. A gift. A thing you might wear occasionally. A thing that would make him feel…closer. Like he left a small mark somewhere in your life without disturbing it too much.)
You continue rocking the board back and forth under your foot, observing him patiently, probably expecting him to continue. Andrew’s mouth opens. Closes again. (There are other things he wants to say. The things he can’t say aloud. How every time he buries himself deep into you, the noise stops. Everything: the ghosts, the shouting, the old memories scratching the inside of his skull, they go silent. And there’s just you. So, he stays there for hours. Until the room grows dark and the only thing he can feel is the rhythm of your fingers running through his hair. How you never complain, never push him away. You even whisper that he’s doing good.)
He clears his throat, trying to come up with words safer to say. But before he can continue, you unexpectedly lean forward and press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Maybe…maybe I should go back to skating now,” you whisper.
Andrew nods. “Okay,” and when you start to wheel away, he adds automatically. “I’m watching.”
You turn your head back to him, chuckling. “That, I have no doubt honey.” Then you push off again. (One. Two. Three. Odd. He tries to let it go.)
You ride along the edge of the bowl first, testing your balance before going downward and climbing back up, a little more confident with each pass. He inspects everything: the shift of your weight, the bend of your knees, the corrections you make with your hips when the board wobbles. The rest of the skatepark fades to the edges of his awareness. All he sees is you. (He guards his sun. That’s what it feels like every morning when he wakes up. That the world handed him something impossibly bright and said, ‘don’t let anything happen to it’.)
You slow down after a few more back and forth, coming back to him, sneakers scraping the concrete as the board stops, your eyes sparkling with stubborn pride. “Did you see that! That was good, right?” you ask, breathless. “No longer looking like a total rookie?”
“It was good.”
You lean closer. “Say it again.”
“It was…good?”
Your nose wrinkles with your grin. “No. The other thing.”
Andrew pauses, before it occurs back to him. “I’m proud of you.” Your entire face lights up, and before he can process what’s occurring, you grab the front of his shirt and pull him down into a kiss, right there, in the middle of the skatepark. He still isn’t entirely sure how he ended up in a life where a woman like you embraces him proudly in public, but his freezing state lasts one heartbeat before his palms move to your waist and neck.
Someone whistles nearby, probably one of the teenagers who come up every weekend. Andrew barely hears them, all he registers is you. Your mouth, your breath, the softness of your tongue against his. The way the kiss lingers just a little longer than would be considered appropriate, even in Craig’s standard. When you finally pull back, your foreheads almost touch, your breath mingling with his. “Can we go?”
“Go?” (He is confused. You told him this morning before work that you really wanted to try skating again today. That you needed it after the accident. That you had been thinking about it for days. You’ve barely been here an hour. You don’t want to stay?)
Your fingers slide onto his shirt. “Yeah.” Your voice drops in a low murmur. “Somewhere quieter.”
“You don’t want to skate anymore?” he asks carefully.
You shake your head. “We can go back tomorrow. Let’s drive somewhere.”
“Where do you want to go?” he asks, instantly taking your hand in his and the board in the other.
You lean up, brushing another quick kiss against the corner of his mouth. “Your place, my place…whichever you prefer.”
“The house is closer.” (Seven minutes if traffic is clear. Nine if the light on Mission Avenue is red. Five if he sends laws to hell.)
Your smile curves at that, like you can hear the calculation happening inside his head. “Then the house it is.” Your fingers tighten around his hand, tugging him toward the parking lot, walking faster than before. Fast enough that he has to lengthen his stride to keep up, the skateboard now tucked under his arm. When you reach the car, he opens the passenger door automatically, the movement practiced after the number of times he drives you around. To work, to the grocery store, to the beach, wherever you want him to take you. You climb in, tossing your bag on the floorboard while he walks around and slides the skateboard into the trunk. He takes a second longer than necessary before closing it, just to keep his impatience down. “Hey,” you say after he settles in. “I’m proud of you too, Andy.”
Andy. Andy. Andy. He doesn’t hesitate. His hand moves to the back of your neck and he leans across the space between the seats, not caring about the painful twist of his body it requires from him. Your mouth meets his immediately, like you were waiting for it.
(He is your Andrew. Your honey. Your Andy.)
He counts the sounds he draws out from your lips.
(One. Two. Three. Four. Even number. Better.)
──────────
Moving Craig’s furniture had been a terrible idea. Not because you didn’t want the things. There was a never-used television, a bunch of recent game consoles, speakers that were undoubtedly costing four digits. Those were worth it. When you lived on a barista’s salary, ‘free’ had a kind of beauty that couldn’t be argued with. No, the terrible part had been the lifting.
“Okay,” he had exclaimed thirty minutes earlier while dragging a leather chair down the hallway. “One more trip.” It had not been one more trip. Now, your shirt clung damply to your back, sports shorts sticking unpleasantly to your thighs, and sweat rolling down your temples, which had very likely reached an impressive deeper shade. You didn’t even want to question your current state of odor. Craig looked worse. His shirt had been discarded halfway through transporting the television in his car (which, considering the man, was not that surprising. always a good occasion to remove clothing.), leaving him barefoot in the kitchen, bare-chested and sweaty, his long dark hair tied up roughly. “Man,” he huffed opening the refrigerator and leaning halfway inside it, “want something to eat?”
You wiped the back of your hand across your forehead, realizing just how soaked you truly were. “Yeah, that would be cool.”
He emerged holding food wrapped in plastic. “Here.” You accepted it without question. (you were too hungry and exhausted to be suspicious.)
But the instant you took the first bite, regret struck with immediate and undisputable force: the texture was wrong, the taste even worse. Your brain tried desperately to identify the flavor and fell somewhere between ‘rotten eggs’ and ‘it had once been turkey’. Craig was watching you expectantly. “Great!” you managed with a smile, mouth still full. But your eyes intuitively drifted across the kitchen to land on Andrew, who was at the counter, assembling a sandwich silently, fully absorbed on his task: bread laid out side by side, mayonnaise spread in four slow strokes to cover each slice, cheese trimmed to fit the edges, two slices of ham placed with a vigilant symmetry. (patterns. you realized he liked patterns. or at least that he seemed serene when things followed one.)
Over the past two months you had started noticing things like that: the way he sometimes counted under his breath, the way he lined up objects when he set them down, adjusting them until they felt correct, the way every text he sent ended with ‘Andrew.’ as if you might forget who you were speaking to if he didn’t sign it properly. The way he observed everything around him without ever seeming to move much himself. You had known him just long enough now to stop being intimidated by the silence, to realize it wasn’t emptiness.
Andrew Cody looked still most of the time, but everything was in his eyes. You had seen amusement there, concern, confusion, a gentleness that seemed almost embarrassed to exist. And right now… Right now, he was glancing up at you. Just a second. Enough for his gaze to flick to the food in your hand, then back to your face, reading the desperate plea you mouthed silently, “Help.” The corner of his mouth twitched. It was quick, almost invisible, but unmistakable. And that was all it took. A laugh bubbled up your throat so suddenly you had to bite down on it before it escaped, turning it into something halfway between a cough and a choke.
“You good man?” Craig asked, patting your back. Andrew’s stare traveled to Craig’s hand on your back, watching the gesture before returning his attention to the counter. (you briefly wondered how the hell you got there. how you went from ‘doll’ and ‘sugar’ accompanied by a suggestive smirk and the occasional half-serious invitation to stay the night to…’man’ and ‘bro’ and a thump between the shoulders like you’re part of his crew. the flirting had stopped almost overnight. you thought it might have been the day he saw you and Andrew sitting side by side at the beach, quietly talking and staring out the ocean.)
You nodded quickly, giving Craig a thumbs-up while still trying not to swallow the first bite. “Yeah,” you managed through the mouthful. “Good. Great. Amazing.” (awful. you hate it. you’re fairly certain that death tastes sweeter than this.)
Craig grinned, satisfied. “Knew it.” His phone buzzed loudly on the counter and, glancing at the screen, he muttered. “It’s Renn. Fuck.” He answered as he walked toward the sliding glass door. “Yeah yeah, hold on a sec.” Before stepping outside, he peeked a look at the two of you: you against the counter, Andrew pretending to focus on his sandwich. You could feel the slow smirk spreading across his face when he added, “Don’t eat it all. I want some when I get back.”
“Yeah,” you said immediately, “no problem.” You waited precisely three seconds after the door shut, lunging for the trash. You spat the bite out and rinsed your mouth under the tap before stepping up to the counter, right next to Andrew and his still amused expression. “Andrew. Your brother just tried to kill me.”
“You trusted Craig with food,” he corrected, like that explained the whole thing. (which…sure.)
“Okay, fine,” you conceded with a laugh. “It was suicide.” His expression didn’t change much when his eyes dropped to the sandwich in front of him, staring at it with a frown before reaching for the knife. Slowly, carefully, like everything he seemed to do in life, he cut the sandwich diagonally in half, sliding the plate toward you. “…You serious?” He nodded once, the faint crease between his eyebrows deepening at the idea you might doubt him. “You’re giving me half your sandwich?”
“You…” he took a small breath. “You can have it all if you want.”
(eating the entire sandwich he had just spent twenty minutes assembling? you were sure people could go to hell for less than that.) You shook your head quickly. “No way. Half is perfect.” The first bite made you close your eyes in pure delight, a tiny sound of pleasure escaping your lips treacherously. (okay, hey. would it be really unreasonable to walk up to Craig and say ‘I’m kidnapping your brother to marry him and live off his orgasm-worthy sandwiches forever. Don’t mind?’)
“This is really good,” you said, still chewing. “You just saved my poor empty stomach from starvation and food poisoning.” He didn’t respond, though his shoulders had relaxed. You both ate silently your half of the sandwich, watching each other. (maybe he was doing it out of habit. or maybe that was what made him, him. and you were nothing but a fierce competitor in this silent staring contest. maybe even a little of a cheater.)
You leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, his eyes immediately flicking to the empty plate on the counter. “Thank you,” you murmured. You pulled back with a grin. “It will be our little secret.”
Eyes traveling briefly between you and the glass door where Craig was still talking on the phone outside, Andrew’s voice came lower and rougher than before. “Our little secret.”
──────────
“Isn’t your boyfriend’s name Andrew?”
You’re reasonably confident your head has never snapped up so rapidly in your entire life. You’re still halfway bent over, one arm buried inside a cardboard box of syrup bottles on the floor of the back room, the abrupt motion making you feel dizzy. “Um. Yeah…why?” you reply carefully.
Behind you, Deon and Maira exchange the sort of look people get when they know something you don’t. Which, from experience, is never a good sign. You hastily straighten up, discarding the inventory sheet and dusting your hands on your apron while trying to read their faces. Maira is leaning against the doorway, the sleeves of her hoodie pushed up to the elbows, her smile suspiciously wide. Deon, next to her, his apron no longer tied to his waist, has one elbow casually perched up on her shoulder. “Oh my god,” Maira laughs, nudging him. “It is him!”
“Who is ‘him’?” you ask, attempting your absolute best to keep your voice natural. (no need to panic. or get too excited. this could be nothing. maybe it’s a random customer named Andrew. Andrew is a very common name. there are millions of Andrews. millions. statistically speaking, at least three of them probably exist withing a five-mile radius.)
Deon jerks his chin toward the front of the shop. “There’s guy out there asking for you.”
At those words, your stomach performs an impressive acrobatic trick. “What guy?”
Maira raises an eyebrow. “The postman. He wants to know if you’re free for dinner,” she replies dryly. “Are you listening! The guy you’ve been yapping about for the past, what? Two months? Three?”
Deon interjects. “Think it’s closer to four.”
“…What?”
“Scary,” he responds, counting on his fingers. “Curly hair. Built like a sex god. Very quiet.”
Maira nods enthusiastically. “Yes! And he said your name!”
“Is he…” you clear your throat. “Is he at the counter?” Both of them nod enthusiastically in perfect synchronization. (okay. stay calm, stay calm, stay calm. there’s no need to panic. it’s just…a perfectly normal situation. just a guy whose name is Andrew, who sounds like Andrew and who probably is Andrew.) “How do I look?” you ask, panicked and hands flying to your hair.
“Great,” Deon reassures you, stepping forward to help you rearrange the apron strings that twisted themselves behind your back. “You are gorgeous, you are confident, you have a great ass. All is well!”
“Thanks Dee.”
“You’re welcome, Sponge Cake.” He pats your shoulder. “Now come on May, tell her she’s super hot to impress her man.” Maira snorts but plays along, placing a hand over her heart. “You’re super hot,” she declares flatly. “And he’s gonna fall on his knees when he sees you. Probably gonna ask you to marry him on the spot because of your wonderful brewing technique.”
“That was the least convincing pep talk I’ve heard. And that comprises the day I told my dad I was dropping out of college and he said, ‘as long as you’re happy’.”
“I’m a nursing student!” she exclaims. “My encouragement style is mostly ‘please don’t die’.”
Deon claps his hands. “Okay, now go!” You hesitate a brief instant, aware of your heart pounding intensely once again.
(why are you so nervous? it’s Andrew. your Andrew. you’ve literally seen him naked every day for the past thirty-two days. not that you’re counting. but since you’ve started dating and he realized you were taking the bus, he has so far: picked you up from work. dropped you off at work. waited in the truck outside work.)
Yet Andrew has never crossed the threshold. Which means this is the first time he’s visiting you in your little universe. Your café. Your register. Your apron (that will forever smell like vanilla syrup after you poured half a bottle on it eight months ago).
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “You are gorgeous. You are confident. You’re not gonna fall. It’s gonna be fine.” You push through the swinging door, and there he is. Andrew stands at the counter, hands flat on the wood as he studies the menu board above the expresso machine, eyes proceeding with the lines of drinks and options. And you know, you know, from the stiffness in his shoulders and the tremor in his forearms, that he is struggling not to feel overwhelmed. (eighteen drinks. four milk options. twelve syrups. three sizes. anyone would be.)
“Hi,” you say softly as you step behind the counter.
The moment he hears your voice, his whole face and posture seems to unlock, the tension along his spine easing like a knot untied. “Hi,” he breathes.
“You okay?”
He nods. “Yeah.” His eyes flick between the menu and you. “You have…a lot of options.”
Extending your hand across the counter, the tips of your fingers brush the back of his hand. “It’s okay,” you reassure him. “I don’t know what half of those are.”
That earns the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. His voice drops lower, careful. “Can you make something like what we drink at home?”
The word ‘home’ lands deep in your chest. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Of course. What size?”
Andrew hesitates. It’s subtle, but you recognize the signs instantly: the dim flare of his nose, the way his jaw clenches when he feels like he’s taking too long to respond. “…Normal?”
“Okay. Normal it is,” you smile, grabbing the medium cup and walking up to the machine, letting the familiar routine settle your hand. (you’re fine. totally fine. your boyfriend just casually used ‘we’ and ‘home’ in the same sentence. no need to cry right now.)
Behind the swinging door that separates the back room from the counter, you can feel Deon and Maira trying to eavesdrop. You hear the sound of their shoes squeak against the tile and their whispers. You ignore them and grab the black marker near the register. Technically, you’re supposed to write the customer’s name. Just the name and nothing else. Your hand hesitates a brief instant above the cup. The first letter is the toughest to write, heart thumping so loudly you’re convinced Andrew can hear it. You continue nonetheless.
Honey
The word sits there in your handwriting: the real one, not the usual rushed barista scrawl. And before you can talk yourself out of it, you add a small heart next to it. One beat. It’s how long you stare at it before sliding the cup under the machine.
Behind you, Andrew clears his throat. “Oh my god, yes. Sorry,” you stammer, turning back to him. “I swear I’m not usually this...”
“Am I bothering you?” he asks suddenly. Your head snaps up. His hands have clenched at his sides, shoulders stiff. “I can go if you want.”
“No!” you exclaim, startling him. You clear your throat, trying to regain some composure. “No, I’m very happy to see you here. I’m just surprised. The good kind, I promise.”
The small exhale coming out of him is endearing, like he expected your reply to be yes, to reject him from this side of your life. Like he doesn’t know that every part of it has been making space for him since the moment he walked into it. He shifts his weight, gesturing toward the pastry display. “Can I also…get one of those?”
Your eyes follow his finger to the glass. “Yeah, of course!”
“That one, please,” he whispers.
You lean back to see that he’s pointing at the cinnamon roll. “Okay, perfect. And…do you want that for here or to go?” you ask, punching the order into the register.
He glances around the shop, taking in the small tables, the windows looking out onto the street, the student typing. “For here. Please.”
Before you can move, the swinging door bursts open, Deon sliding behind the counter like he hasn’t been listening to the entire conversation. “Got it,” he intervenes, grabbing the metal tongs and placing the roll on a small plate. “Deon,” he adds, offering a hand across the counter. “I work with this one.”
Andrew hesitates, the gears in his head turning and certainly going: germs – counter - stranger. He shakes it anyway. “Andrew.”
“Oh, I know,” Deon laughs, shaking his head. “Trust me I know.” (how about poisoning your coworker’s coffee?)
The tray gets filled with his drink and plate, Andrew’s gaze dropping to the cup, fingers turning it until the word you wrote rotates into view. Honey. For a moment he doesn’t budge. His eyes stay there, on the letters, undoubtedly checking twice their existence. The corner of his mouth twitches. He picks it up guardedly, like it contains something fragile. It’s the only thing he takes from the tray. Checking briefly on Deon, who is suddenly incredibly invested in reorganizing a stack of napkins, Andrew clears his throat. “It’s…” he murmurs, sliding the tray containing the plate back to you.
“What?”
“It’s for you.”
You stare at the plate, then at him. “For me?”
“You didn’t eat a lot at lunch.”
“So…you bought me food?” The faint frown in between his eyebrows returns. You recognize it now: how his brain is probing the moment for mistakes. How it must loop the same questions. Did he misinterpret something? Was that incorrect? Did he embarrass you? Before the worry has time to grow roots, you add, “Thank you.”
The change is immediate, the words fully settling in: his shoulders loosening, his whole expression softening and his breathing quieting. He nods once, picking up the cup and stepping away from the counter like someone trying not to disrupt a carefully balanced structure and chooses the table by the window. Not because it’s comfortable. Because it faces the door. You know that instinct, he told you about it once, late at night, when you asked him about his scars. He doesn’t pull out his phone to scroll or check the time, no, just sits there, looking out at the street, where nothing interesting ever happens: just a bookstore, a florist and a bank. Deon bumps your shoulder. “Go talk to him.”
“I’m working.”
“So what? The guy came here to see you! And don’t tell me it’s just to drink cause who in their right mind pays four dollars for a black coffee?”
Maira pushes the door open with her hip and grabs you by the shoulders. “Put on your big girl pants,” she says warningly. “We got the counter.”
You look at the two of them then back at Andrew. Who hasn’t moved. Still watching the street and holding the cup and waiting. You grab the roll and walk toward the table, where Andrew looks up at you when you slide into the chair next to him. Not startled. More like…a man who sensed you getting closer. He is still holding the cup, his thumb brushing the edge of the little heart. “Hey,” you say softly, tearing off a piece of the roll. “What are you looking at?”
“The street.”
Your smile creeps back. “Why?”
He takes a slow sip of coffee before replying. “I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
“You.”
“But…” you’re pretty sure your brain stutters, “I finish in an hour.”
“I know.”
“You’re gonna sit here an hour?”
He nods calmly. “Yes.” (I love you, I love you, I love you.)
“That’s ridiculous,” you whisper, resting your hand on his thigh under the table.
That earns you a tilt of his head. “Why?”
“Because you could go home.”
Andrew considers the idea for a split second. You can witness the thought across his face before he shakes his head. “I like being here.”
You gesture vaguely around the café. “This place is boring.”
But Andrew is not looking at it, just you, one hand still around the coffee, the other traveling to yours on his thigh and lacing them together. “No,” he says quietly. “It isn’t.”
──────────
Andrew was eight. Sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet with a plastic bowl of marbles spread out in front of him, Andrew was not playing with them, no, he was sorting them.
(Green in one row. Blue in another. Then yellow. Clear ones last. One. Two. Three. Four.)
He arranged them cautiously along the dark lines of the carpet pattern, making sure each marble touched the next but did not roll away. That was the best thing he had discovered so far, through trial and error, to ease the pressure in his rib cage without breaking anything. Across the room, the television aired a movie Smurf had left running before walking out with a man. On the screen, someone screamed while another man bled on the floor, gunshots cracking every few seconds in the empty house. Smurf said it was important to see how things worked. Julia sat beside him with her knees pulled to her chest, chin resting on them. But she wasn’t watching the movie. Her focus was set on him.
“Andy,” she said quietly. He didn’t answer, too busy adjusting a marble that had rolled too far from the others. “Andy.” He glanced up. His twin sister’s hair was knotted, falling into her eyes. In moments like this, she appeared older than eight, an old soul that had seen too much of the world and how rotten it might be for kids like them. “Remember the pool?” Of course he remembered. How Smurf had laughed when the boy called him weird, how she leaned down and purred in his ear to show him what happened to people who said things like that. The water had been cold and the boy’s hair slippery in Andrew’s hands. He could still hear the screams when the head went under: the kid’s voice bubbling into the water, Julia shouting behind him, Smurf laughing somewhere above it all. How he hadn’t felt anything but the sense that he was doing what he had been told. “That was bad,” Julia whispered.
Andrew studied the row of green marbles. “Smurf said it was fine.”
“Smurf says lots of things.” From down the hallway came the cry of a baby, small enough that the sound was weak and uneven, the sound of a being that had not yet understood that his mother would never answer. Julia shook her head, anger flashing across her small face. “She didn’t even check on him.”
Andrew stood, feet carrying him to the nursery room and the baby’s noise growing louder with every step. Craig lay in the crib with his tiny face scrunched and red, fists waving helplessly through the air. His cries calmed the moment Andrew leaned over the rail, climbing onto the lower run to lift him carefully. He tried to hold him the way he had witnessed people do in the hospital when Smurf brought the baby home: one arm under the body and the other supporting the back of his head. Craig quieted almost immediately, the howling breaking into small hiccups as he pressed his cheek against Andrew’s shirt.
(One. Two. Three. Four. Andrew swayed him. He wasn’t sure if he did the right thing. All he knew was that Craig cried. Crying meant sadness. He didn’t want his baby brother to be sad.)
“He loves you,” Julia murmured from the doorway, watching them. Andrew looked down at the baby. Craig’s tiny fingers clung to the fabric of his shirt, innocent eyes fixed on him with the absolute trust only babies possessed: a love that came easily and without question, unaware of the faults in the person it chose.
(Andrew loved him too. If someone hurt his brother, he would hurt them back. He already knew how to punch. How to break. How to make someone bleed. For the people he loved, he could learn how to do worse.)
“We should leave,” she said suddenly.
Andrew looked up. “Leave where?”
“Anywhere! Somewhere that isn’t here.”
He stared at his brother once again, at the small hand gripping his shirt. “Smurf would be mad.”
“She’s already mad all the time!” Julia stepped further into the room, her voice dropping to a whisper like the house itself might be listening. “She makes you do things. Bad things.”
(The pool. The boy under the water. Smurf laughing. Smurf laughing. One. Two. Three. Four. He counted Craig’s hiccups.)
“I saw the bus station when she drove past it last week,” she continued softly. “People leave there. They go to different towns.” Andrew attempted to picture it: a bus, a road, a place where Smurf wasn’t. Where nobody praised and applauded when someone drowned. His brother had fallen asleep, warm and heavy in his arms. Andrew contemplated taking him. “He can’t come,” Julia spoke quietly, as if she had overheard the thought. “He’s too small.” Andrew couldn’t answer.
Later, Julia discovered a backpack in the hallway closet and stuffed it with the things that seemed important: crackers from the kitchen, two apples, a flashlight from the kitchen drawer and a twenty-dollar bill she had hidden weeks ago under her bed. Andrew folded Craig’s baby blanket and slipped it inside. His twin sister didn’t ask why. They departed after midnight. The house was silent then, the television finally dark and Smurf still gone someplace with a man whose name Andrew did not know. Outside, the night air was chilly and Andrew instantly held onto Julia’s hand to walk down the street.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counted the cracks in the pavement.)
Julia kept whispering about plans animatedly. “Maybe we can stay near the ocean! Or somewhere with trees. Or a big city. Andrew listened but kept counting. The bus station waited under a buzzing yellow light, making them both halt when they reached it “We did it.”
(His sister sounded happy. But the world felt too large here. Too open. One. Two. Three. Four.)
And then, abruptly, the way most vile things in Andrew’s life occurred, he heard a resounding noise inside his head: Craig crying, alone in the crib. Andrew felt frozen on the spot. Julia turned toward him. “What?” Andrew stared back down the street they had come from.
(Craig was still there. Craig couldn’t climb out of the crib. Couldn’t open doors. Couldn’t stop crying if nobody came. Sad. Sad. Sad.)
“He’s alone,” he managed to reply.
Julia’s face crumpled. “We’ll come back for him later.” Andrew imagined that.
(Craig waiting. The crying. The empty house. Smurf leaving him there. Sad. Sad. Sad.)
He shook his head, his voice quiet but unmovable. “No. He’s our brother.”
Julia shut her eyes, seeming very small all of the sudden. “Okay.”
The walk back was silent, but Andrew counted every step of it. The house waited at the end of the street, looking exactly the same as when they had left it. But something had changed. Because now, Andrew understood what he hadn’t before.
The house was not a house.
It was a mouth.
And they were walking back into the place that would swallow them both whole.
──────────
Two weeks after he came to the café, you understand.
Why Andrew chose the table by the window. Why he sat facing the street instead of the wall. Why his eyes kept drifting to the street. At the time you supposed it was just one of his habits, one more quirk among the many you had started noticing and loving: the way he aligned every product in the bathroom until the labels faced the same direction, the way he checked door locks twice before bed. It could have been caution, or anxiety, or something he learned in prison.
Now you know. The television hums in the living room, Friends playing to an audience of exactly one person: you. The house is dim except for the light of the screen, your feet tucked beneath you on the couch, an empty mug resting on the coffee table and your hands hiding inside the pocket of Andrew’s hoodie. (he said they’d be back before midnight. it is way past midnight.)
The issue with loving a man like Andrew Cody is feigning ignorance. Because you know. Not everything, never everything, but enough. “The less you know, the safer you are from the cops.” They have repeated that sentence to you so many times it has practically become a household rule, a silent pact that exists between the four of you like an invisible line across the floor: you don’t cross into their world and they try, as much as they can, to keep it from touching yours.
You respect that. Mostly. But knowing something in theory is not the same as sitting alone in a quiet house while the clock moves closer and closer to one in the morning. Not when the man you love is out there in the city doing a dangerous job. You hide your hands into the sleeves of the hoodie you borrowed weeks ago and never gave back. You will, you keep telling yourself. When it won’t smell like him anymore. When it will just be you left on it. (he swore he’d come back.)
And the way he said it had been so quiet, so certain, that you believed him. Because Andrew rarely promises things. You had been standing in the kitchen, making your coffee and pretending to be much calmer than you really were when he stepped closer, his hands finding your waist. “Hey,” he murmured.
You recall smiling a little. “Were you staring at me again?”
His thumbs brushed lightly against your sides. “I like looking at you.”
You reached up and adjusted the collar of the fake security uniform he had pulled on for the night. “Just come back to me.”
And when he pressed a kiss to your forehead, and whispered back, “I will,” you trusted him. (he promised.)
The television audience bursts into laughter the moment you catch it: the metallic click of a key turning in the front door. Your head snaps toward the sound. For a brief second, your brain refuses to process what your ears are telling you, the moment stretching oddly long as the laugh track from the show continues behind you, bright and oblivious to the sudden rush of panic in your chest. But the handle really turns and your body moves before your mind catches up, feet dropping from the couch to the floor as you stand quickly, relieved.
It’s sharp and immediate, your lungs remembering how to breathe because they’re back. Andrew came back. Craig comes in first, loud as always, carrying two heavy black duffel bags slung over his shoulders. Deran follows close behind him, halfway through dismantling one of their guns, hands still gloved. “Jesus Christ, that was close man, I can’t…” Craig stops mid-sentence when he notices you in the middle of the living room, the expression crossing his face quick but unmistakable: guilt. It sits on him awkwardly, like he tried to wipe it off before walking in but didn’t quite manage. “Hey.” (you don’t like that face. you don’t want to know why there’s guilt there. you only want one thing.)
“Hey,” you reply, but your eyes move past them, searching for the last brother entering the house. Andrew closes the door cautiously behind him, one hand remaining against the wood for a beat. And another. Something about that slight pause, the way he stays there, shoulders hunched and breathing heavy, sends a thread of unease to crawl down your spine. He looks…wrong. Your brain begins detecting details faster now: the arm close to his side, the way he moves slower than his brothers, the curls damp and sticky to his forehead. The unnatural paleness of his face. (don’t panic. if you panic he’ll shut down.)
Craig and Deran are already proceeding through the house, vanishing down the hallway to stash the bags and weapons in places the cops, or even you, will never find. But Andrew doesn’t follow. He takes two steps into the living room, passing by you without registering your presence. Then three. His hand reaches out, gripping the arm of the couch like he abruptly needs something solid to hold onto. Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. “Honey?”
He lifts his head when he hears your voice, turning back to you. For a moment, his eyes don’t quite focus. His breathing remains wrong, too shallow and uneven. But he forces a soft expression onto his face anyway. “Hey,” he murmurs.
You step closer, freezing when you distinguish it: the dark stain spreading across the side of his shirt. You always knew it would happen one day. But it’s always ‘one day’ until it becomes ‘today’. The blood is darker than you anticipated, almost black under the dim light, soaking slowly through the cotton of his uniform. Andrew notices where your eyes went, hand travelling instinctively to press against his side, attempting to cover it. Your throat tightens. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” (of course.)
He lowers himself onto the couch with careful control. Except you are watching closely enough to see the truth: his jaw clenching when he sits, his breath catching halfway through. Your feet move before you can stop them, kneeling in front of him. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine.”
“Andrew,” you reply, calm and firm, leaving no room for discussion. “Move your hand.”
He hesitates. You see the instinct fighting inside him: endure it, downplay it, pretend it isn’t happening. You lean closer, lowering your voice. “Move your hand. Or I will move it for you.” His eyes search your face for several seconds before he exhales through his nose and lets his hand drop from his side. The cotton of the uniform is soaked along his ribs. Your stomach flips again, but you swallow it down as you reach for the hem of his shirt again. “Okay. Good. You’re doing good. Now, lift your arms.” It isn’t loud, but it’s unmistakably an order. You feel guilty for doing this, but you know that Andrew Cody has spent most of his life obeying commands and that he will follow yours too. He lifts his arms just enough for you to peel the shirt up and see the wound beneath: how the blood glistens along the cut, still seeping. You straighten abruptly. “Okay, stay here.”
“Wasn’t planning on leaving,” he mutters faintly.
You rush to the kitchen before he can see your hands shaking, pulling open every drawer until you find what you need. Scissors. Towel. Alcohol. When you return, Andrew has shifted and you didn’t hear it. He’s no longer sitting upright, no, he’s stretched out across the couch, one arm hanging over the edge, eyes half-closed like the effort became too much. Your pulse spikes. “Andrew.”
“Yeah,” he mumbles.
You kneel beside the couch and slide the scissors under the edge of the uniform. “Don’t move.”
“No worries.”
You cut the shirt open delicately, exposing the wound. “You’re late,” you say suddenly.
“What?”
“You promised we’d finish the season tonight.”
He frowns. “Season?”
“Friends,” you reply, reaching for the towel and pressing it against his ribs, your shaking getting worse. “We had four episodes left. Phoebe was going to give birth.”
Andrew exhales slowly, eyes drifting toward the television still on. “Right.”
“You said we’d watch it after,” you continue lightly, casual. Almost like you’re bothered and not beyond frightened.
“Sorry.”
You keep talking while your hands work, pressing the wound and forcing a teasing tone into your voice. “Oh, you should be. Do you know how long I waited? I had to rewatch those of last night and almost started the next episode without you.”
Andrew’s eyelids droop. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“You better.”
You glance up at him. His eyes are drifting again. “Andrew.” He hums and your hand moves to his shoulder, shaking him. “Hey. No sleeping.”
He blinks slowly. “Tired.”
“No, you’re not. You don’t fall asleep okay?” His head tips to the side. “Andrew.” He doesn’t respond, his eyes rolling back. “Hey, hey, hey. No, no. Look at me. Come on,” you shake him harder, realizing that his breathing slows, “Andrew, baby, look at me.” Your voice cracks. “Andrew?” No response. You grab his shoulder. “Andrew, wake up, please.” The head rolls with the gesture, heavy and unresisting. Still nothing. “Pope, wake up! It’s an order!” You scream desperately, the word tearing out of your throat.
The hoodie is warm with his blood now, soaked through where your hands press against the wound, but you don’t let go. You press harder instead, like force alone could keep the life inside him from slipping away. “Craig! Deran! Help!” Your voice cracks again as it echoes through the house. “Craig!” You turn your head toward the hallway, toward the garage, toward anywhere they might still be. “Deran!”
You pray they’re still here. That they haven’t left yet and that they’re close enough to hear you. Because a part of your brain is already trying to rewrite the last ten minutes, trying desperately to replace this moment with something else, something normal. You should be on the couch right now, half-asleep against Andrew’s shoulder while the two of you finish the last episodes of Friends. Or he could be resting his head over your lap, staring at you instead of the television like he always does. You should be tugging him in bed to kiss him until your lips were numb. Should be making love until the only thing he utters is your name. Andrew should be alive and warm beside you instead of lying motionless under your hands. But no one wakes you up.
“You promised,” you sob, your forehead pressing against his chest who slowly rises, your fingers gripping his shirt to hold him here. “You promised you’d come back.” Only silence replies to you. “Please don’t do this.” Your voice breaks completely now. “Please.” Behind you, the television audience erupts into another burst of laughter. And in the middle of that cheerful noise, with your hands covered in his blood and your heart breaking open in your ribs, you understand a thing that makes the terror swallow you whole. Andrew Cody isn’t answering you anymore.
──────────
“I hope you’re taking off the shirt for me.”
He paused halfway through pulling the shirt over his head, one arm still caught in the sleeve as he turned toward the sliding doorway that opened to the backyard. You leaned against the doorframe, observing him with the sort of easy smile that constantly made his heart squeezing in his chest. Andrew finished removing the shirt and tossed it onto one of the lounge chairs beside the pool without looking. “You’re gonna have to focus,” he replied.
Your eyebrows lifted. “Oh, I am,” you grinned, stepping outside and letting the screen door slide shut behind you, “I just didn’t realize that the focusing came with…such nice scenery.”
He didn’t smile but felt the warmth creeping up the back of his neck anyway as he turned to the punching bag hanging from the metal frame Craig once used for pull-ups, steadying it with one hand. He wished this moment were something else, simpler, ordinary. Just a boyfriend showing off. What belonged in the kind of life where teasing led to laughter instead of preparation for violence. But that wasn’t the existence he had.
He loathed that it had come to this, the cold logic sitting in the back of his mind and reminding him of the things he knew all too well: that he had enemies, men who knew his name, his brothers, men who would not hesitate to aim for whatever hurt the most if they sought to reach him. And the thing that hurt the most was standing shoeless in his backyard, smiling at him.
(And if that day came and he had not prepared you…Stop. Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four.)
He forced the spiral down the way he had learned to do as a kid, breathing slowly through his nose until the numbers lined up in his head and the tautness in his chest loosened enough that he could turn back toward you without allowing any of it to display on his face. “You ready?” he asked.
You tilted your head. “Define ready.”
Andrew gestured toward him. “Come here.”
You strode forward without hesitation or apprehension, just the faith that had constantly been when it came to him. He reached for your wrist, closing his hand around it firmly enough to demonstrate but not enough to hurt. “Someone grabs you,” he coached. “First, don’t panic. Second, don’t try to pull straight back.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re stronger than you.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Hey! Keep the mean talk and tonight you sleep on the couch.”
Andrew ignored that part and transferred his grip on your wrist, directing your arm so you could observe the angle. “You rotate here,” he explained, guiding the motion toward the base of his thumb. “That’s the weak spot. ‘kay?” You twisted your wrist the way he indicated you, hand slipping free. “Again.” He seized your wrist once more. You repeated the action, faster this time, the angle a touch incorrect at first before you corrected it halfway through and slipped free. He nodded. “Again.”
You did it three more times, movements gaining confidence with each attempt, the hesitation giving way to instinct. The fourth, you twisted free so quickly he barely felt it, looking almost pleased with yourself. Andrew let go and stepped back to the punching bag. “Next thing.”
Your eyes followed him, a small sigh escaping you as you walked over. “You know, when you said, ‘training session’, I have to admit it wasn’t quite what I pictured. Especially when you took off your shirt.”
He grabbed the bag to steady it and gestured toward it. “Just punch.”
The first hit landed with a thud that barely made the bag sway. Then the next. And another. You weren’t graceful about it. Your stance shifted too much, your shoulder rolling forward awkwardly, but you kept trying anyway, stubborn in the way you were about everything that mattered to you. “Okay,” he acquiesced after a moment. “That’s enough.”
You stretched your fingers, wincing. “Good. Cause I absolutely hate that.”
“It’s not over,” Andrew interjected, stepping in front of you. “Punch me.”
You stiffened. “No.”
“You won’t hurt me.”
“I refuse,” you protested, arms crossed. Andrew didn’t budge, holding your bewildered stare with the same persistence he used when waiting for Craig to finish one of his ridiculous arguments. “Andrew.”
“Do it.”
“Fuck,” you muttered, lifting your fist and punching his chest.
He grabbed your wrist instantly. “You’re hesitating.”
“Well yes!” you huffed, exasperated. “Because I love you!” (The words still felt unreal every time he heard them.)
“Don’t hesitate.”
Your jaw tensed at that, pulling your hand free to hit once more. This time, the impact landed properly against his chest with a solid sound. “Fuck, did that hurt?”
Andrew shook his head. “No, I told you.”
Fingers lingering against the spot you had hit before leaning forward, you pressed a quick kiss where your fist had gone. “Don’t ever make me do that again,” you murmured.
(He wants to vow that you won’t. But the world he lived in didn’t spare saints. And if the day ever came when he wasn’t there to stand between you and the men who might want to hurt him…)
Andrew raised his gaze to the open sky above the backyard.
(Please. Let this knowledge never be necessary. Please never let the world touch you the way it has touched him. Let him always be there first.)
Because if the day ever came when you had to use what he was teaching you, Andrew wasn’t sure there would be enough left of him to forgive the sky for it.
──────────
Everything is a blur.
Moving like fog inside his skull, swallowing time and moments whole so that Andrew can never tell where one hour ends and another begins, whether he has been here minutes or days. Only that he drifts up and down through layers of pain and noise and darkness like he’s sinking beneath the water and occasionally brushing the surface long enough to gulp air before the current drags him under again.
There are voices. They come and go, distant waves crashing beyond the edge of his consciousness, too far to make out, then closer, then gone again. Deran’s voice is the easiest to recognize despite the muddle, loud and furious even when he is trying to whisper. “It’s all your fucking fault!”
Another voice answers him, fearful and shaky. Craig. Andrew attempts to open his eyes then, to comfort him, to tell him it was not his fault, but the effort collapses before it truly arises, his body heavy and unresponsive, limbs weighed down by the feeling of sand being poured into his bones.
Pain exists too. It pulses somewhere along his side, blooming through his ribs every time he breathes, but even that sensation feels distant, dulled, as if it belongs to someone else. Everything is bizarre there, moments sliding into each other without edges, the world flickering in and out like a weak signal struggling to stay connected.
He descends again in the shadows.
-
The next thing he registers is a voice. Your voice. It arrives differently from the others, softer but sharper all the same, cutting through the fog. “Andrew…” Your voice breaks, and he craves nothing more than to hold you, to comfort you, to tell you he is here. “Please, stay with me.” He attempts to respond but his mouth doesn’t budge. Warmth presses against his skin, a compression against his ribs that sends a ripple of flames through his body despite the haze, and he realizes vaguely that hands are holding him down or holding him together.
(Your hands. He knows them by heart now.)
There are more voices. A stranger. He wants to tell him to go away, to leave his family alone. That he desires to die in peace with the voice of his angel close to him. But the stranger keeps speaking. “Hold him.” “He’s losing a lot.” “Keep pressure there.”
Hands run over him. Bandages. Cloth. It tenses around his ribs and the pain slices abruptly enough to drag him halfway toward the surface before the darkness swallows him once more. But despite it all…your voice remains.
Even when everything else fades.
-
Time dissolves. He floats. At some point, he becomes aware of the smell: wrong, metallic and thick. Blood fills the air, intense and unmistakable, mixing with something sharper he gradually recognizes as alcohol and antiseptic. The scent coats the inside of his lungs every time he inhales, yanking him closer to consciousness whether he wants it or not.
He perceives voices again. His brothers. They are arguing beyond the edge of his vision, the words warped by distance and the cloud inside his head. “You should’ve done more!”
“I know! But I didn’t ask him to do this!”
“You know that’s what he does! And that almost killed him!”
His body refuses to stir, the stinging in his ribs throbbing harder now and tugging a rope of fire through his chest. He sinks. But a gentleness interrupts all this chaos. The voice of his angel. “Stop it, boys.” The room goes quiet, your voice trembling, but the authority in it lands that even Deran doesn’t contest it. “Please, stop. You’re not helping.”
Silence stretches for a moment.
(He wants them to keep fighting. To keep shouting. To break things if they have to. Anything to prove him that the world still exists outside his skull because the silence inside feels too much like being buried alive.)
But a hand brushes tenderly through his hair, pushing the curls away from his forehead with a care so familiar that his body recognizes it before his mind can follow. “Andrew,” you whisper, the word reaching him like a line thrown into the deep water. He senses the soft pressure of your lips on his forehead, “you’re okay, now.” He desires nothing more than to have faith in your words.
-
Time folds in on itself.
Sometimes he drifts so far that nothing exists at all, the world melting into a blank and merciful quiet where even the pain can’t track him, and other times the edge of things returns in scattered pieces: your voice nearby, the gentle stroke of your hands, the rhythm of your breathing rising and falling beside him.
At one point, he feels the bed shift beneath his weight, the mattress dipping as someone moves beside him, warm water touching his skin. A cloth follows it, sliding slowly across his chest, and it takes several seconds for the disjointed fragments of sensation to have a meaning.
You are cleaning him. The fabric travels over the dried blood along his stomach and ribs that ache even through the haze. He hears himself make a sound, small and weak and unfamiliar that barely resembles a voice. Your hand pauses instantly. “I know,” you murmur, fingers smoothing over his hair before returning to their work. “I know, honey.”
You move slowly, patiently, like every inch of him matters while Andrew floats there, half aware, half gone, your hands traveling across his skin. A peculiar discomfort curls in his chest. Not pain, no. Shame. Because you witness him like this: fragile, damaged, helpless. The same hands that have choked men, held knives and guns, broken bones without remorse now lie useless at his sides while you wash blood from them.
He doesn’t deserve the way you handle him, and yet your hands never dither to cleanse the blood from his shoulders, chest and the long smear of it throughout his stomach. When the cloth leaves his body, the absence registers instantly and he starts counting the seconds until your return.
(One. Two. Three. Fou-)
Your breath strokes his temple as you lean close to wash his hair, warm water trickling within his curs while your fingers comb gently as you wipe away the last traces of blood from his scalp. Water runs down the side of his face, but you are already there to steady his head. His whole world now narrows to the sensation of you.
(His angel is kneeling in the dirt. Lowering herself to touch what is ruined. Washing the sins from a body that has no right to ask for forgiveness.)
Your voice breaks the thought. “There you go.” Andrew feels a palm cup the side of his face, lips finding the tip of his nose. “All handsome again.” The words are meant to be light, teasing even, but your voice trembles, betraying the exhaustion and terror underneath. He can’t open his eyes to tell you he hears you and that the sound of your voice is the only thing pulling him out of the shadows.
That his angel is still beside him, and as long as she refuses to let go, even death must await.
-
When Andrew finally wakes for real, the confusion is gone. Pain remains, of course. It rests deep along his ribs like a smoldering coal, flaring brighter each time he breathes too deeply or shifts even minimally against the mattress, but it’s a clean pain now, contained, no longer the distant echo of something happening to someone else.
No, this time it’s a clear and undeniable signal from his own body. Which means he is here. Alive.
The ceiling above him comes slowly into focus: the familiar crack running across the plaster, the discoloration where the paint never quite dried evenly after the last repair, the afternoon light filtering through the curtains across the room.
He’s in the house.
Andrew lies still for a long moment, hollow and drained. Memory sluggishly returns the same way everything else has since he was shot: in fragments that find their places. The couch. The smell of blood. Your voice screaming his name. Your palms against his side. The room spinning while you begged him not to close his eyes.
Andrew swallows, turning his head to try to forget. You are there. The chair alongside the bed has been pulled close enough that your knees touch the mattress, folded into it like your body simply stopped wherever exhaustion caught you, hand still wrapped around his and your thumb on the inside of his wrist, checking his pulse. Your head rests on the edge of the mattress, face wan. The skin around your eyes is swollen and in a deep shade of purple, hinting at him how you must have shed tears long after your body had nothing left to give.
He keeps studying the lines of your features the way he has done a thousand times before when you were laughing, or reading, or concentrating on a simple task of your daily life. But this is different. This is the face of someone who has witnessed horrors and survived them.
He recalls the sound of your voice breaking when you shouted his name, your fingers refusing to stop the pressure against the wound even when the blood soaked through your sleeves. Andrew stares at the ceiling once again. The room is quiet now. The whole house is quiet. Even the world outside the windows seems to be holding its breath.
The existence he has lived, the one that had been crafted by Smurf, the jobs, the violence, the endless cycle of danger and escape had constantly been his only to carry. Not anymore. Now there’s you. And loving you means something different than what he has known his whole life. More than shielding you and promising to come back. It means making sure you never have to go through another night like that.
Andrew turns his hand slowly in yours, the gesture small but sufficient for your eyes to flutter open. For a second you look confused, disoriented. Then your gaze finds his, relief and disbelief spreading across your face. “Andrew,” you whisper, the name cracking. You sit up too quickly, your free hand reaching for his face and brushing his cheek as your eyes fill up. “You’re awake.”
Andrew manages to nod, still observing intently your face and the fear and exhaustion lingering behind your relief, the way your fingers tremble even while you smile at him. This is what nearly breaking you looks like. He can’t live with that, not ever again. He squeezes your hand, making you inhale sharply like the smallest proof of life still feels impossible. One last look at you is enough to realize there was never a choice to make.
Because if loving you means saving you from the life he lives…then he will burn that life down with his own hands.
──────────
He exhaled loud enough for you to hear on what must have been the fifth time. “You’re gonna hurt your back.”
You grinned without turning around, chin resting on your bent knees. “I’m comfy.” A small pause ensued, the kind that suggested he was contemplating whether it was worth arguing again. (it was not. he should know it by now.)
“You could sit up here.”
“I like the floor.”
Another sigh. “You’re stubborn.”
You tipped your head back just enough to glance at him upside down. “Oh, so you’ve noticed?”
Andrew was sitting on the edge of the couch, one leg tucked under him and the other planted firmly on the floor beside you. The remote rested forgotten beside his thigh. His attention had been pulled away from the episode the instant you had walked into the room with the brush.
Which came in contact with your hair after you felt him hover tentatively above your head for a while. “Hold still,” he murmured.
The first slow pass of the brush slid through your hair. He didn’t tug or rush, halting when he found a knot, fingers replacing it to untangle the strands before continuing, the back of his hand stroking your neck every now and then. Each movement was methodical, thoughtful, like he was solving a problem one piece at a time.
The television audience burst into laughter, neither of you reacting. You simply…sat there, paying attention to the noiseless rhythm of the brush traveling on your head. You leaned into it without thinking. “You’re good at that,” you complimented after a moment. He hummed, not quite answering. “No, seriously,” you insisted, smiling to yourself. “You’ve done this before.”
His hands paused for half a second before starting to divide the hair into three even sections. “Yeah.”
You pivoted just enough to throw him a quick look over your shoulder, but his eyes remained focused on the braid forming between his fingers. “Who?” you asked.
“Julia.” The name landed quietly in the room. You knew it already. The basics, at least. That she had been his twin, that she was gone now, that her absence resided inside him. The wound that would never be allowed to heal properly. Andrew’s fingers proceeded steadily, crossing the strands over each other. “She liked braids,” he added after a moment. “Two of them.”
“Like pigtails?”
“Yeah,” he pulled one section tighter before crossing it once again. “Said they stayed out of her face better.”
You grinned. “Smart girl.” Andrew didn’t respond, but you could sense the corner of his mouth lifting behind you. “How old were you when you used to do that?”
The weaving came to a standstill. “Kids.”
“That’s pretty young to learn how to braid.”
“She showed me. Our mother wouldn’t help.” (yeah. from what you’ve gathered about that woman, that tracked.)
You waited, giving him the space to continue if he wanted to. About Julia. About his mother. About anything from his past that gave him those nightmares. He didn’t. The plait resumed instead, his fingers moving a little slower, like he was savoring the feeling long buried in his memory. “She liked it tight,” he added quietly. “Said it lasted longer that way.”
You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “What was she like?”
Andrew’s hands stilled again, long enough for you to notice. “She was…” he cut himself short, searching for a word and abandoning it almost immediately. “Julia.”
The braid was almost finished now, the strands neatly woven together down your back, and the gentle tug you felt each time he crossed another section “Hey,” you said quietly, “you don’t have to talk about her if you don’t want to.”
Andrew tied off the end of the braid with the elastic he had slid around his wrist earlier. “I know.”
You reached back and pulled it over your shoulder before resting against him. He didn’t protest this time, no, his arms moved, sliding under yours and around your waist, dragging you altogether onto the couch for your back to rest against his chest. His chin came to rest on your shoulder. (fine, maybe it was better than the floor.)
You played absently with the end of the plait. “I think we could have been friends.” He didn’t answer right away. His nose brushed the side of your neck when he shifted, his breath warm against your skin. One of his hands found yours, fingers lacing together. The question slipped out before you could stop yourself. “You think she would have liked me?” The room went quiet again except for the television that you both didn’t pay attention to. The answer came like it was never a question in his mind, his other hand settling over your stomach as he pulled you closer to kiss behind your ear.
“She would have loved you.”
──────────
“Hold still.” Your hands slide guardedly around his arms before he can protest further, steadying him as you step closer, careful not to press where the bandage sits beneath the fabric of his shirt.
“Okay, honey,” you murmur. “Slow.”
Andrew allows the help. It’s not something that comes effortlessly to him. For most of his life, assistance has been another word for weakness, something Smurf had trained out of him the same way she had trained hesitation out of him, to take pain silently and keep running. But this is different. Because whenever he peers down at your hands holding onto him, helping him walk, he sees the tremble of your fingers and how you keep glancing up at his face, checking his pulse in the middle of the night to assure yourself that he is still there. Alive.
“Ready?” you ask. He acquiesces once. The first step into the hallway is slow. The second even slower, his arm draped around your shoulders while your own remains wrapped around his waist, guiding him through the house as the floorboards creak beneath your combined weight. “Better today, right?” you question, the hand that isn’t around him lifting to brush the back of it across his forehead. “No fever? How’s the pain?”
Andrew tilts his head toward the touch, letting you examine him like that, the cool sweep of your skin against his skin before your hand drops again.
(It’s the sixth time today. Not that he minds. His angel counting his pulse like beads on a rosary, making sure that death hasn’t come back to finish its work. Hell will take him eventually. It won’t matter. He has already tasted heaven.)
“I’m fine,” he answers.
Your eyes narrow in warning. “That was not the question.”
“It’s better,” he corrects.
You seem to accept it, or at least decide that pushing further right now would only make him retreat into silence, a quiet, “Okay. Better is good,” escaping your lips. He moves carefully. Not because he can’t walk, he can, but because the wound along his ribs reminds him with every breath that bodies have their limits, even his, and ignoring them now would mean disappointing the woman currently holding half his weight. “Slower, please,” you remind him (or his body) gently.
“I am.”
“No, not that.”
Andrew glances at you, frowning. “Walking?”
“Breathing.”
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your lashes to dull the pain. Good thought. It works. A distant heat is better than a blade.)
“See?” you whisper happily. “Much better.”
He doesn’t point out that the improvement has very little to do with the mechanics of breathing and everything to do with the fact that you are still here, beside him, in the house that nearly became his grave. The hallway opens toward the living room and its long windows that overlook the trees, Andrew’s eyes drifting there automatically, cataloguing every detail the way he always does: doors closed, locks intact, nothing disturbed. The result of the training Smurf carved into him before he was old enough to grasp what it represented.
But something else draws his attention next: the couch. Or rather…what remains of it.
The large red sectional sits in its traditional place near the glass table, but the cushions along one side are absent, stripped away to expose the interior frame underneath them and the material that once covered the spot where he collapsed seven days ago has been removed entirely, leaving raw foam where the blood had sodden too deep to clean. The cushions are now stacked unevenly against the far wall while a blanket has been thrown over the exposed section in a hurried attempt to hide it.
Andrew stops walking, his gaze lingering on the couch. “What’s wrong?” you demand, tightening your grip around his waist.
(There had been so much blood. And your voice shattering somewhere above him. Screaming for his brothers. Screaming at them. To help him. To rescue him. This is the part that remains with him at night. The terror. The pleading. Thinking that he would die there and that you would witness it. He doesn’t know if that will ever leave him or be another ghost along the way.)
His arm shifts around your shoulders. “You didn’t clean it.”
Your eyes flick toward the furniture and then away again so hastily it would have escaped anyone else’s notice. But not his. “I…I tried,” you reply quietly. “But the blood soaked through the cushions and I…I didn’t want to throw the whole thing away. I mean…Craig and Deran said that I could get rid of it, but I didn’t know about you since it belonged to…” you swallow, cutting before the cursed name can come out, “So I just took the worst part off.”
Despite the silence, Andrew hears the word anyway. (Smurf. The house is full of things that belonged to her. Furnishings. Walls. Memories that crawl through the floorboards like insects.)
He recalls Smurf sitting there, one leg crossed over the other, bracelets chiming while she observed the room like it was a chessboard, her sons scattered across it like obedient pieces. Pawns and knights and whatever she needed them to be. Each of them pretending they had chosen the square she had already decided they would die on.
He had stood exactly where he stands now, younger and quieter, waiting for her next move. Waiting to learn whose blood would prove he was still useful. “We’re getting rid of it.”
You blink, clearly not expecting that answer. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“But…” your eyes go back toward it uncertainly, “I thought maybe it meant something to you since it was…”
“I never liked it.” The sentence comes out calm and certain. “Always been uncomfortable.”
(Not the real reason. It sits deeper. Tangled in the memories of Smurf’s voice. Smurf’s orders. Smurf’s kisses. Bad thoughts. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts his breaths before focusing back on you.)
“Good,” you exhale with a smile. “I hated it so fucking much. I didn’t know how to tell you it was the most horrendous couch I’ve ever seen.” The corner of his mouth twitches. It’s small, brief enough that you almost miss it, but your face brightens anyway like you had been waiting days for that tiny gesture. “See,” you murmur triumphantly. “There’s my smile. Now come on Andy, a few more steps and we’re in the kitchen.”
Andrew lets you guide him forward again, the two of you advancing past the living room while the furniture remains behind, a discarded relic of something rotten by time and love. He doesn’t look at it.
(And plans on never doing so ever again. Soon he will drag it outside and burn it until there’s nothing left but ash. Exorcise the altar of his old religion.)
“Okay,” you pull one of the stools out before he can argue, hands close enough to catch him even though he hasn’t stumbled once since leaving the bedroom. “Sit.” Andrew lowers himself carefully, one hand braced against the counter while the muscles along his side flare around the wound. “You okay?” you ask.
“Yes.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
“No, because…I’m still scared you’re about to pass out.”
“I won’t.”
You squint at him, a few seconds stretching between you before you sigh dramatically and plant both hands on the kitchen island. “You’re so bad at this, you know?”
“At what?”
“Being taken care of. You’re a very…very bad patient,” you reply, a smile making its way on your face. “And honestly, I don’t know how nurses do it.” Reaching out, your fingers brush lightly along his jaw before you lean forward and press a kiss against his mouth, half for affection, half for reassurance. Andrew can almost taste it.
“I thought you liked playing nurse,” he murmurs against your lips.
“Oh, I do.” You peck another kiss on his lips. “But that was funnier in bed.”
(It was. How you had stuttered the first time you suggested it. How, on top and breathless, you had proposed his fireman outfit next time. And how there hasn’t been a next time.)
The memory turns sour. He despises the wound. Not just because it slows him down…but it has also placed a distance between the two of you he cannot seem to be able to close.
He had tried. Three days ago, when the worst of the fever had faded and you were lying beside him in the bed, careful not to be too close, Andrew had murmured the suggestion on the pillow. But your hand had come up, two fingers pressing against his lips.
“No,” you had whispered. “We’ll wait.”
Andrew didn’t mention it again. Even right now. Instead, he watches you as you pull back from the kiss, your fingers still resting against his jaw while the playful expression slowly fades into thoughtfulness.
“But seriously,” you add after a moment, “if you need something…you ask me, okay? Anything.”
“I will.”
You study him, probably searching for signs of lies, before finally seeming satisfied enough to step away. “Good.” You glance toward the refrigerator. “I was thinking about going to the store. We’re running out of milk.”
(He knows what it is. It’s subtle, but he recognizes it. You want him to ask for help so you can aid. Not because he needs it. Because it makes the fear in your chest settle a little. Helping means he’s alive. His angel keeping vigil.)
Andrew tries to think. “We need eggs.”
He hasn’t seen your face brighten like that since the day. “Okay. Eggs. Perfect.”
“And coffee.”
“But we already have coffee here.”
“More coffee, please.”
(He would go willingly bankrupt on coffee if it meant seeing you light up like that.)
You grab his truck’s keys from the counter, running back to him and pressing a quick kiss against his temple. “Don’t move, okay? I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” you say, walking to the front door.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the seconds until the car disappears behind the gate.)
Andrew remains seated, listening to the fading sound of the engine long after it has gone, the house settling back into its usual quietness around him. Then, he exhales through his nose and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. The screen lights up, the page he had been staring at the night before is still open where he had left it when you stepped out of the shower, wrapped in steam and one of his shirts, pretending to scroll through something meaningless. Houses for sale. Rows of them scroll beneath his thumb: white siding, narrow driveways…He keeps moving.
(Not Oceanside. Too close. Too many men who know his name. Too many memories that could follow him in the dead of the night.)
He adjusts the search radius to two hours. Three at most. Far enough that the old life would have to work harder to find him, but not so far that Craig and Deran would become strangers. He won’t disappear, no. But he will throw the board in the fire and start a new game. One where he is no longer a pawn waiting to die for someone else’s victory.
The results refresh with new houses appearing. He studies each image: front yard, windows, distance from the road, blind spots…He moves past them. A white house near a freeway. No. A narrow bungalow with cracked siding. No. He scrolls again. There is no budget filter selected: Craig and Deran had handed him a cut of the job big enough that he hasn’t decided what to do with most of it. They stated it was because he took the worst of the risk that night, but he knows better. His brothers gave it to him because they were scared. Scared of seeing him bleeding out on Smurf’s couch.
Somewhere in the haze of that night, between the pain, the blood and your voice, he remembers a single clear thought. If he didn’t make it, at least Craig and Deran would take care of you. They would make sure you never had to worry about rent or food or the thousands of small things that made your life…yours. They would show up when things broke, fix what needed fixing, keep the world from being too hard on you.
The knowledge had been strangely comforting in those final drifting minutes before the darkness. But he didn’t die. And now the money sits there waiting, untouched. Until now. He keeps scrolling until the fourth house appears on the screen and Andrew’s thumb pauses.
The photo shows a house tucked into the edge of a quiet valley, oak trees stretching wide above the roof. The siding is painted a deep green, nearly the same color as the leaves surrounding it, the kind of place that looks like it belongs exactly where it stands instead of fighting the land for space. Ojai. He taps the listing. More photos appear: a kitchen filled with light and windows open toward the trees, a living room without heavy furniture choking the space but sunlight stretching across the wooden floors. The backyard appears next: wide and flat behind the house, bordered by oaks. No steep slopes. No crowded neighbors. Just open ground beneath the branches. Large enough for a ramp. And…three bedrooms.
Andrew goes still.
(Three. Three. Three. Odd number. But good number.)
He doesn’t know when the thought first started appearing in his mind, but sometimes, in the quiet instances between sleep and waking, he sees it. A small figure running through a house like this. Curly hair that refuses stubbornly to be tamed no matter how many times he tries and a laugh that sounds like yours. He never sees the face clearly, doesn’t know if it’s a boy or a girl.
Just that they have his curls and your smile. The idea sits in his chest, all fragile and impossible at once, and if that day ever comes, if a sinner like him is allowed that kind of grace, Andrew finds himself hoping they inherit everything from you. Your kindness, your softness, your light. Everything that makes you…you. Let them have his hair if they must. But the rest of him: the violence, the darkness that follows his blood like a curse. He hopes that part stops with him.
His eyes move back to the house. Ojai. Population 7,527. Close enough to the ocean that he could still drive there if he needed the sound of the waves and far enough for Smurf’s ghost to lose the trail. Because the truth is…He cannot let this house swallow you the way it swallowed Julia. He will not watch these walls poison you the way they poisoned her.
His thumb presses the save icon, the small star beside the listing turning gold. Andrew leans back on the chair, the phone still resting in his hand, observing the images of the house.
(Three bedrooms. Three. Three. Three.)
You brought heaven into his life the moment you walked through the door. The least he can do now is build a haven strong enough to keep it.
──────────
“No one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever.”
The words landed before Andrew even recognized that Baz had spoken them. Maybe they had been shouted. Maybe they hadn’t. He couldn’t recollect the volume of them, only the certainty. The way Baz said it like a fact. Something obvious. Something that didn’t require explanation because everyone already knew it was true.
For a moment he didn’t move, hands staying exactly where they were, resting against the edge of the table.
(No one is ever gonna have a kid with you.)
He tried to blink, to shake the sentence loose from his head.
(Ever.)
The word seemed to echo louder than the rest.
(Ever.)
He inhaled slowly through his nose.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
The argument about Lena had already started evaporating around the edges of the moment, the details slipping away almost instantly. It could have been about Baz’s new girlfriend. Or about food. Maybe about him interfering too much. About him acting like she was his. He couldn’t recall the exact words anymore, and it didn’t matter now. What mattered was the sentence.
(No one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever.)
He had spent most of his life trying not to ponder about that possibility. Not for lack of wanting it. But desiring had always been treacherous in this house, Smurf having a way of seizing those wants and twisting them until they became something ugly and humiliating. That she could hold between her fingers and turn until it broke.
So, Andrew learned early not to voice those thoughts out loud but still, they emerged sometimes. A small kid running through a room, someone small enough that he could pick them up with one arm. The image had never lasted long, pushed away before it could take shape.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
But now Baz had said it. Out loud. And Baz wasn’t just anyone. Not some stranger on the street throwing words around without knowing what they meant. Baz grew up with him. In the same house, the same rooms, with the same suffocating rules. Saw him when he lost control. When he hit things too hard. When the anger came too fast and too sudden. Saw him being Pope. The part of him that never seemed to come back clean.
But Baz also knew what Andrew was like when the world went quiet. And if Baz believed it…then maybe it had always been true.
(No one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever.)
Andrew swallowed, throat dry. He focused on the counter once more: on the scratches carved into the wood, on a water ring left by someone’s glass.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
Counting usually worked, it pushed things away. But the sentence kept slipping back between the numbers.
(One. Two. Three. Four. No one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever. One. Two. Three. Four.)
He attempted again but the words followed the rhythm of the counting.
(No one. One. Is ever. Two. Gonna have. Three. A kid with you. Four. Ever.)
Andrew shut his eyes briefly, the vision of Lena appearing instantly, uninvited. Her small hand gripping his when they crossed the street, the sound she made when she laughed, all sudden and loud. He had spent more nights taking care of her than Baz had. More mornings making her breakfast. More afternoons picking her up from school. But now Baz’s voice slid into the space where those memories resided.
(No one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever.)
He didn’t argue. Didn’t ask Baz what he meant because somewhere deep inside him, beneath the counting and the silence, a thought had already taken root.
Who would want that life?
Want a child with a man like him?
Maybe it had never been a possibility in the first place.
And hours later, back in Smurf’s house, when the lights were off, and the rooms had gone silent, the words still followed him into the dark. The kind that sounded less like an insult and more like a curse.
No one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever.
──────────
The alarm rang ten minutes ago but you have not yet swallowed it.
The phone lies face-down on the nightstand where it had vibrated against the wood earlier, the familiar tone meant to remind you of what you have done every morning for years: a small ritual as ordinary as brushing your teeth or tying your hair up before work, yet your hand remains motionless instead of stretching toward the blister pack, waiting patiently beside the glass of water.
Andrew is awake. You sense it in the fluctuations of his breathing, the subtle tension that travels through him when consciousness returns. But he stays exactly where he is, curled against you with his back along your chest, legs tangled together beneath the sheets, one of your arms draped around his waist while the other has your fingers running through the thick curls at the base of his neck.
You’ve discovered quite early in your relationship that Andrew sleeps best like this. Not holding you. Being held.
It had surprised you the first time he drifted into it without thinking, turning until he rested against you, his head tilting so your pads could slip into his hair, and the second you began scratching down his scalp, his entire body had relaxed so instantaneously and helplessly you almost giggled. Now it is routine. Every night, he feigns to just settle for a moment. It’s never just a moment. Your thumb traces slowly behind his ear, nails scraping gently along it as his breathing deepens, savoring the sensation while your gaze drift to the nightstand once more and to the packet of pills that remains there.
Andrew shifts a little against you, one hazel eye opening to glance toward the bedside table before flicking back to you. “You didn’t take it?” he asks, voice still rough with sleep.
You hum tenderly, digits combing through his curls as he angles himself a little further in them while you watch the morning light creep along the ceiling. “No…Not yet.”
He goes still for a moment in that silent, cogitating state you’ve learned signifies he’s noticing everything and speaking nothing. “You always take it when you wake up.”
“I know.”
His fingers glide absently along your forearm where it crosses his chest, tracing small idle patterns on your skin. “You forgot?”
“No.”
He turns his head so he can completely look at you now, not blinking much, not moving much…just that steady, intent gaze that makes it feel like every word you say is being placed carefully somewhere in his mind where none gets lost.
Your pads continue their movement because if you halt, he’ll notice, and if he notices he’ll start thinking too hard, and if he starts thinking too hard the quietness of this morning will evaporate under the weight of all the things Andrew Cody has learned to fear wanting. “You didn’t forget…?” he questions after a moment.
You shake your head against the pillow. “No.”
Silence sinks between you while his thumb keeps dancing along your forearm, back and forth, back and forth, his favorite thing to do every day to ground himself in the fact that you’re there. He peeps once more toward the nightstand and the tablet before going back to you. And this time you perceive it: the uncertainty, the carefulness when his chest rises before he speaks.
“You think about stopping them?” he murmurs.
“Maybe...I mean…” you exhale, the words seized someplace amid your chest and throat. Your fingers remain exploring his curls, half because you know he adores that and half because it gives your hands work while your thoughts stumble over themselves. (why is this suddenly so tough to say. it’s not like you hadn’t envisioned this conversation a dozen times in your mind over the past week. weeks if you were honest with yourself. envisioned it playful. casual. blurted out during breakfast or after sex.)
But now that you’re actually here, with Andrew warm and quiet in your arms, the words feel enormous. Andrew notices. (of course he does.) His thumb pauses mid-pattern. “You…don’t want to take it today?” he rasps.
You swallow. “Maybe, yeah.”
The words fall into the room, fragile and that could collapse if either of you gets too loud and for a long minute Andrew doesn’t speak, doesn’t budge in your limbs, doesn’t even breathe. They seem to travel through him, lodging in the cautious machinery of his mind where every possibility must be examined before it is trusted. He stares at the ceiling before his eyes return to you. “You didn’t forget,” he repeats.
“No.”
Adam’s apple bobbing, his hand resumes its repetitive path. “But if you don’t take it,” he says slowly, the sentence forming piece by piece, “then that means…” he stops.
The term stalls inside him, and you sense it: that hesitation that belongs only to Andrew, that instinct not to assume anything good too quickly. You tighten your arm around him, pressing a small kiss to the back of his shoulder. “It means we’d see what happens,” you murmur.
His eyes close momentarily. “And what happens,” he breathes, “could be a baby.”
Your heart stutters a little hearing him voice the word. “Yeah.”
The expression on his face is so unguarded it makes your chest ache. There’s hope there, fragile and almost fearful to exist. “You want that?” he asks.
You nod. “I think I do.”
“With me.” It comes quieter this time, like stepping onto a rope he isn’t certain will hold the weight of his emotion.
You smile gently, sliding your palm down from his curls to the side of his shoulder so you can guide him onto his back, the two of you untangling a split second before you follow him, straddling his hips without breaking the warmth between your two bare bodies. “Yes.”
“You want that…with me?” His eyes flick away, ashamed by how much the answer matters.
The vulnerability in the question cracks something wide open inside your chest. Andrew Cody is many things: careful, observant, frighteningly composed every time the world goes wrong. But he is not a man who asks for reassurance unless the answer truly matters to him.
(And right now, it so clearly does.)
You see it in the way his eyes shine, the faint wetness gathering along his lower lashes, trying very hard not to let it spill over. In the manner his mouth closes afterward like he already regrets questioning because good things, in Andrew’s existence, have continuously had a habit of vanishing the moment he reached for them.
“Oh, honey.” Your voice softens as you bend down before he can retreat in his self-hatred, pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, his temple…little kisses scattered across his skin while you cradle the nape of his neck. “Of course.” Another kiss. “Yes.” Another. “Yes.”
His breath shudders out of him, something long trapped inside his lungs that found a way, free. His hands come up slowly along your back, afraid of holding you too tightly, that the pressure might somehow break the fragile miracle of you lying there above him and speaking those words. “You’re sure?” he rasps.
“So fucking sure.” Your mouth travels down the line of his jaw and lingers there, warm touches alongside him while your fingers slip back into his hair and gently tug, the motion making his eyes flutter closed.
“I want you to be the father of my kids,” you mutter against his throat, the words knocking the air out of him. “I want little versions of you running around.” Another kiss. “With your curls.” Your lips brush the faint freckles dotting his shoulder. “And your cute freckles.”
His hands clench on your waist. “You don’t know…what you’re signing up for,” he says softly, but the protest is weak, almost wonder-struck.
You chuckle on his chest. “Oh, I do.” You lift your head enough to observe him all over again while your hand slides deliberately by his torso, tracing the lines of him. “And if you want five kids,” you confess, “I’ll give you five.” His eyes widen but you continue. “If you want seven,” you press a kiss at the center of his chest, “I’ll give you seven.” You move lower, your mouth brushing above the month-old scar where the bullet injured him. “And if you want ten,” Your lips skim his stomach. “I’ll give you ten.”
The laugh that evades him then is quiet and breathless and so full of disbelief that it makes your chest ache. You don’t reckon hearing him laugh like that before. “You’d be pregnant for a decade,” he hums.
“Hm. Pretty sure it would be worth it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You push back up on his body, your hands trailing the same path your mouth just traced, your nose rubbing his. “But seriously, all I know is that I want them with you. No one else.”
His gaze searches your face like he’s still trying to find the trick in it, still attempting to locate the moment where you’ll laugh and say you’re joking, but all he finds is you looking back at him like the future you’re describing is the most obvious thing in the world. “You would…do that?” he whispers.
“A whole baseball team of kids? For you?” you smile softly, a kiss ending on his lips. “In a heartbeat.” The second kiss loiters, deep and unhurried, your bodies fitting together naturally as his arms pull you closer. You use this moment to tug at his tousled hair, earning a whimper from his mouth while yours progresses down his jaw, your voice dropping to a low sound. “So…”
“So?” he grunts.
“What if,” you ask against his ear, “we tried now.”
His breath hitches. “Right now?”
Your fingers guide his head deeper into the pillow while you hover above him, biting his jaw. “Why not?”
Andrew looks up at you as if he’s still struggling to comprehend how this morning became real, how the conversation that had started with an alarm and a pill you hadn’t taken has somehow veered into this. “Okay.”
“Okay?” You echo, rolling your hips on him, a soft breath that sounds like relief leaving him. Your hand slides down his chest, palm flattening beside his healing scar. “We’re gonna have to be careful,” you remind him.
His gaze drops on it, then back to your face, nodding. “I…I trust you.”
And with each caress that worships his body, he makes small sounds in the back of his throat. “Look at you…” you coo softly, “so sensitive this morning.”
Andrew closes his eyes briefly, breathless and helpless. “Don’t stop please.”
(and who are you if not someone who refuses to starve him any longer)
(yes, maybe it’s a little reckless after only a few months to be entertaining this. Most people would call it too soon.)
(a baby after, what? three months? but this man under you is not most people. and the way he looks at you right now makes the entire concept of caution fucking laughable.)
(he can burn and destroy for the ones he loves. that doesn’t frighten you.)
(if anything, it makes you ache for him. no one ever taught him the other side of it. no one ever showed him what it feels like to be loved like that in return.)
“Let’s make our baby.” Your whispered command ghost over his lips, your chest pressed together as your eyes locked on his, pupils blown wide with want.
“Yes,” he begs like a prayer. “Anything you want, please.” He pushes himself upright beneath you, bringing you with him until you’re sitting securely in his lap, and your hands rise to his shoulders, nails pressing into the firm muscle there as you steady yourself.
A sharp gasp leaves you when his mouth latches on your breast. Andrew makes a small sound in return, almost awed, his hands tightening at your waist while his forehead rests on your chest, the heat of his mouth causing you to arch into him. One of his hands goes from your hip to run his knuckles against your heated core, his other splaying gently over your ass in an attempt to not grip you too hard. He is pure tension beneath you, energy wound tight in every line of his body and waiting to be freed. And as you look at him, really look, you comprehend deep into your bones that this man, with all his shadows and all his gentleness, is someone you would follow anywhere life chose to twist and bend.
Because Andrew handles you like time has not yet promise you forever. Like he is attempting to carve this moment inside his brain. His palms travel reverently across your skin, like you are not solely a woman in his arms, but the entire sky he has finally been allowed to reach. “Andrew.” His name comes out strangled. You’re on fire, body tipping dangerously close to the edge while he licks you slowly, savoring you and ignoring his name.
And you sense it a few seconds later: Andrew reacting to your body betraying how close you are with a tremble that runs through him, absorbing every small change in you as if it were occurring inside his own skin. He peers up at you, the sound of your name departing him, the syllables stumbling from his mouth like they belong there. (because they do.)
Even when his breath grows uneven and the muscles in his shoulders tense beneath your fingers, his eyes stay on you with that same unblinking intensity you have come to recognize as uniquely his. Andrew likes seeing you. No…he needs to.
Your nails press deeper into his shoulders as your body tilts forward, Andrew releasing your nipple from between his lips while your inhales stammer closer as his knuckle keep circling and pressing your clit. You huff a soft snort that is half laughter, half protest. “Andrew.”
“Hm?”
“That’s not how we’re gonna have a baby.”
The corner of his glistening mouth lifts against your skin. “I know,” he replies, pushing the tip of his finger into your heat, “Just want you to feel good first.”
“Honey,” you moan, tugging on his curls so he has to look at you properly, “That’s so fucking sweet. But right now,” the second finger makes you shut your eyes in pleasure as your entire body shook, your core nearly dripping with desire to be filled by him, “Right now, I really, really need you, ‘kay?”
Andrew’s darken hazel eyes find your face the second you ask, wide and attentive, already watching the way your lashes fall closed and the way your mouth parts on the words. He nods without hesitation, the swollen head of his cock replacing his fingers in, his gaze focused utterly on you, your pleasure being the only thing anchoring him in the moment. “Okay,” he breathes, all thick solid muscles taut as he lays back in bed, letting you take control. His panting gets labored as you rock your hips back and up, taking him fully. His hand is at your hip, holding you down to allow you to grind your hips freely. “I love you,” he whispers, keeping his hooded gaze on you. “I’ll take care of you both. I promise.”
His soft words cause your cunt to clench around him, lights prickling at the edge of your vision. “I know you will,” you reply, increasing the pace of your hips. “Gonna spoil us rotten.”
“Yeah,” he says, a ragged breath escaping as he thrusts up, making you moan out his name. “I’ll give you everything…everything I have. You and our baby.”
“Ours…they will be just ours,” you reply in wonder. “I love you, please don’t stop.” Words fall from your lips in fragments you barely recognize as language anymore, because all you can see is him: the man underneath you, the man whose gaze holds yours with such fierce, unguarded intensity that the rest of the world feels like it has simply fallen away. There is only Andrew.
His hands clinging onto your skin like he craves the proof of you, like he is mooring himself to something physical while the universe tilts dangerously on its axis around the two of you, your bodies moving with urgency. His words keep reaching you through the storm of sensation, low murmurs against your skin, your name leaving him again and again like a vow he cannot stop repeating. The space of the bed becomes its own small universe where nothing exists except the pull of him, the steady heat of his hands, the way his eyes refuse to leave yours even when his breath falls short.
You are sparks colliding in the dark. Galaxies brushing against each other. You are a kaleidoscope of collapsing stars, breaking apart and reforming in endless patterns that only the two of you can see. Wave after wave crashes through you, dragging you somewhere deep and bright and terrifyingly alive, and Andrew’s name spills from your mouth in a long, trembling sound that feels less like speech and more like surrender. You feel every line of him. Every breath. Every ounce of the strength he uses so carefully when he holds you.
For one suspended moment you feel like nothing at all, like your edges have dissolved completely. And in the same breath you feel like everything.
──────────
The first thing Andrew noticed was the man’s eyes.
Not the voice, not the laugh among the cluster of guys at the far end of the bar, not the beer bottle turning between his fingers under the light hanging above the counter, but the eyes: narrow, calculating, fixed across the room with a patience that Andrew recognized instantly because he had seen it before in men who believed they had time.
That the thing they were surveying would eventually wander close enough to take.
Andrew had been standing against the wall near the pool table, a beer untouched in his hand. At first the room had been just that: noise, movement. Just an ordinary night in his brother’s bar…until his gaze snagged on the wrong detail. The man was looking at you. You were with Craig at the pool table, courtesy of Deran who had recently brought it after he ‘purchased’ (stole) it from another bar.
One hand braced on the felt, you leaned forward to line up your shot, the hem of your dress high on your thigh when you bent while Craig gave you instructions that you were clearly ignoring judging by the way you laughed and nudged him out of the way with your hip before striking the cue ball. Craig cheered and the room kept moving. But the man didn’t.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
You straightened with a grin, raising the cue stick happily, and Andrew felt the familiar, unwelcome awareness rise in him of cataloguing like he had learned as a kid: tracking the way people watched you when you laughed, when you bent over the table, when you pushed your hair behind your ear.
(Too graceful for a place like this.)
That thought irritated him. You were just Craig’s friend. Craig’s sweet, beautiful, kindhearted friend who kept showing up beside him without making a big deal out of it: at the skatepark asking for another lesson, at parties finding him in the crowded room to stay against the wall so he wouldn’t be lonely. Who treated him like he was simply Andrew instead of the strange, broken thing most people eventually decided he was.
Andrew shifted his weight while his eyes drifted once more toward the corner of the bar where the man stood now half-shadowed, and the longer Andrew observed, the more certain he became that the man’s attention had not wandered once away from you. Not to Craig’s loud voice, not to the cluster of drunk girls laughing at a table, not even to Deran who handed him another drink. Just you.
The man’s stare stayed fixed in that heavy manner Andrew identified clearly, the kind that stripped a person down piece by piece and kept going with a lazy tilt of his head when you moved forward to line up another shot.
His jaw clenched. Not because of the dress or the way the fabric rode up. None of the Codys cared about that. Craig didn’t, he had already clocked Andrew’s interest and promised that he wasn’t stupid enough to get in the middle of it. And Deran…Deran had never looked twice at a woman in his life. But the man cared. Andrew could see it in the way his fingers stopped turning the neck of his beer bottle when you spun with joy, the way his mouth pulled into a slow, private smile like he had already chosen something.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
The man thought he was watching prey, that the world belonged to him. Probably the type who hid in dark corners and took his time, anticipating for the moment a girl would drink too much or wander outside alone. Scanning over the room, Andrew logged distances.
(Door to the alley. Six steps. Seven if someone stepped into his path.)
The bar was loud enough to swallow any possible noise. Andrew imagined crossing the room calmly, just another man walking through the bar, pausing beside where the stranger sat and telling him it was time to leave. And if the man refused…The alley behind Deran’s bar was narrow and dark without cameras. His brother had refused to put them, something about how the things that happened back there didn’t belong on a tape.
He envisioned the man’s confusion when the door shut behind them, the instant when realization hit that the predator had drifted too close to a creature larger than him. Andrew’s hands closing around his throat, pushing more and more until the struggling stopped and the body went slack. Until the space inside Andrew’s chest that had started squeezing the moment those eyes settled on you finally went silent again.
(It would take six minutes. Maybe less.)
Afterward would be plain and simple: Craig would help, Deran too. They always did. They would wrap the body, load it into the truck, drive far enough out of the city for the lights to disappear behind them with only the desert, and the man who thought he had spotted something soft and easy across a pool table would vanish into a hole in the ground so deep and nameless that nobody would ever remember him. His gaze didn’t leave the man who smiled when you laughed. If the man didn’t stop observing…if those eyes didn’t travel away from you…he might take them himself.
Warmth touched his arm, the contact so unexpected that his body jerked a little before he even grasped what had happened. You. Your hand rested against his forearm, eyes a little glassy with the soft buzz of alcohol. “Andrew?” He blinked. The bar rushed back into focus around him. “You okay?” you asked, thumb brushing the sleeve of his shirt. Andrew glanced past you to the man who was still here, still watching, still… “Andrew,” you repeated gently.
His attention snapped back to your face. “Yes.”
You tilted your head. “I asked if you could drive me home?” The words came out a little sheepish, probably because of the hour and that you were drunker than you had intended to be. “Craig is staying,” you added. “And Deran obviously isn’t leaving, so…”
“Yes.”
You smiled. “Thank you.”
The walk to the truck felt longer than it actually was. Andrew remained a step behind you the entire way, his instinct reminding him to look at the parking lot, at the possible shadows between the cars. The man never came out. But still, he kept monitoring.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
Sliding into the passenger seat with a quiet sigh, you leaned your head back against the seat while he started the engine. For a moment, neither of you spoke, you watched the passing streetlights across the windshield while Andrew drove, occasionally looking in the rearview mirror, searching the empty road behind them for headlights that never appeared.
“You’re very quiet tonight,” you murmured eventually.
Andrew shook his head, dragging his attention back to the present. “You had fun?”
You nodded sleepily. “Craig cheats at pool, you know that?”
“It’s Craig.”
“True,” you chuckled, your eyes closing for a moment before reopening. “Next time we play against him together, ‘kay?”
Andrew glanced at you then, just for a second, watching the way your head tipped against the window and the faint smile lingering at the corner of your mouth, the easy warmth of a person who had spent the evening with friends and drinking a little too much, trusting the world to remain harmless.
(Too trusting.)
But he only nodded. “Okay.”
Back at your place, you unbuckled slowly, fumbling with the latch before laughing quietly at yourself. “Okay,” you said, turning toward him. “I can make it from here.”
“You sure?”
“No worries, I’m a grown woman, I can still walk.” Andrew was going to protest to at least walk you to your door when you inclined across the seat. The kiss settled between his cheek and the corner of his mouth, soft and messy while your hair brushed his jaw. “Thank you, Andrew,” you murmured. Then you were out of the truck, your steps a little unsteady but determined as you walked toward the entrance. He kept counting until you were inside, safe.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
He could leave. He should. But he didn’t. Because the man at the bar had stared at you like you were a prey to catch and ravage. And men like that didn’t always give up when the night ended. Andrew shifted in the driver seat, his gaze fixed on the front door of your building. Minutes passed. Then more. No one came. But still, Andrew stayed. Eventually the sky began to pale at the edge of the horizon and only then did he start the truck.
But the next night he came back.
And the night after that.
And the night after that.
He didn’t tell you. His angel didn’t need to know someone was out there keeping the wolves away.
──────────
“Wait, wait…you’re doing what?”
Craig’s voice bounces off the kitchen walls in that familiar half-laughing, half-confused tone he constantly has when his older brother says something important too calmly like it’s nothing more than a grocery list. Andrew doesn’t answer right away. It’s easier to stare at them than to repeat himself and the words he had been rehearsing in his head for a week.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He has to do this.)
“I’m leaving,” Andrew declares.
Silence follows. Not the empty one, that doesn’t exist with the three of them, but the dense thoughtful kind that falls between brothers who have spent their entire lives in the same house and recognize when a sentence is about to change their routine. Craig leans back against the marble counter, eyebrows raised with a grin spreading across his face, probably waiting for the punchline that will never come while Deran, who seems way more serious and focused, stands with his arms folded across his chest.
“Leaving the house?” Craig asks.
Andrew shakes his head. “The jobs.”
Craig squints. “You mean, like…taking a break from them?”
“No,” his voice stays level. “I’m done.”
Craig straightens slowly, the grin fading from his face as the words land properly this time, his gaze flicking briefly toward Deran like maybe the younger brother will say something first but nothing comes out. Deran studies Andrew with an air that shows he has been expecting this conversation for a while. Andrew’s eyes drift out the glass door to the backyard and the patch of darkened dirt where the couch had burned. Or what used to be a couch.
He can still see it clearly in his head: you, near the pool with a hammer in your hands while the three of them dragged it outside, swearing under their breath about how heavy the thing was. It had always been heavy. Heavy with years. Heavy with every job planned there, every lie told there, every order Smurf had given from the center cushion. Andrew had transported that couch before, when he was younger. Back when Smurf redecorated every few years and the boys were expected to move the furniture obediently. Even then it had felt like lifting a thing larger than a couch, perhaps the center of the house itself.
And you, all fierce and shaky with joy, were waiting to swing the hammer down into the wooden frame.
Crack. The sound echoed through the backyard.
Again. The frame splintered.
And again. Wood split open like a bone.
“Fuck her!” you had shouted, breathless with laughter as you raised the hammer once more. The three brothers had heard people curse their mother before: neighbors, enemies, the occasional drunk who didn’t know better…but never like that.
Craig had choked on a guffaw and cheered, Deran had stepped forward next, grabbing the hammer from your hand before bringing it down hard on the armrest. And Andrew had observed the dismantlement of the last throne Smurf ever sat on.
Then Craig dragged the broken pieces into a pile, Deran poured lighter fluid over the wood and you…you lit the match. The flames climbed rapidly, the couch cracking as the wood inside it gave away under the heat, collapsing on itself while sparks ascended into the darkening sky. You were standing there in the glow with a wild, triumphant grin on your face when you grasped Andrew’s hand to yank him closer and kiss him like the victory belonged to both of you.
(His angel defeating the curse. Freeing the three boys they used to be. The ones who had once believed this house was theirs before it became Smurf’s kingdom and they grew to be the weapons she stored indoors.)
The memory lingers for a second longer before focusing back on the kitchen and his brothers still staring at him. “I got shot and-”
Craig snorts. “Yeah, man, thanks but we noticed.”
Andrew doesn’t smile. “And I could have died.” He keeps his eyes on the countertop, on the scratch running through the marble where Baz once dropped a knife a lifetime ago. Another ghost carried by the house. “I know we say that all the time. That danger comes with the jobs.”
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
Andrew exhales slowly through the nose. “When I was laying there…” his fingers rest flat against the furniture, “…all I could think about was her. And how I wouldn’t get to know.”
Craig tilts his head. “Know what?”
(One. Two. Three. Four. He has to focus on the counter. The scratch.)
“What it feels like,” he says slowly, “to live a life with someone who loves me.”
Deran studies his oldest brother’s face, shaking his head with a slight smile. “Sounds like you’re announcing more than just leaving.”
(Breathe in. Breathe out. One. Two. Three. Four. Breathe in. Breathe out.)
“I found a house,” Andrew confesses.
Craig lets out a laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “Of course you fucking did.”
“It’s in Ojai,” he adds.
“Okay that’s…wow. That’s not exactly down the street.”
Andrew nods. “It’s quiet.”
(That’s crucial for him. Quiet means no sirens at three in the morning. No strangers showing up at the door. No jobs planned over the same kitchen where they’re standing now.)
He hesitates for a moment before adding, his voice a little rougher than before. “That doesn’t mean I’m…gone.” Craig looks up. Andrew shifts his weight. “I’m not disappearing,” he continues. “You can come over. I’ll come here. We’re not…” He gestures vaguely around the kitchen. “…not that.”
Deran’s mouth twitches while Craig observes him, shaking his head with an amused expression. “Pope,” he replies, softer now. “You’re our brother.”
Deran acquiesces. “Not exactly something you can move out of.”
Craig bumps his shoulder against Andrew’s, the warmth of it grounding in a way he hadn’t realized he needed. “Yeah, you could move to the moon and it wouldn’t change that.”
For a brief moment the three of them are simply there. Brothers. Then he clears his throat abruptly, remembering he is Craig and honesty can only last so long. “Anyway,” he says, pushing off the counter, “you already bought it?”
“Yes.”
Craig shakes his head. “Jesus, Pope.”
(One. Two. Three. Four. Breathe in. Breathe out. He can’t react to the name.)
Deran watches him cautiously. “You told her?”
“No, not yet.”
Craig’s eyebrows shoot up. “You bought a house,” he repeats slowly, “and she doesn’t know about it?”
Andrew finally looks up from the marble. “I’m going to tell her.”
Craig stares for another second, then lets out a snort under his breath. “Man,” he mutters, pushing his hand through his hair, “please call me when you do, so I can see that.”
(His brother doesn’t understand. But that’s alright. To Andrew it’s simple. He loves you. You love him. You want children. This house cannot be the place those children grow up in. The rest follows logically.)
“There’s more.”
There’s a collective exhausted groan to these words. “Oh fuck,” Craig mumbles. “Of course there is.”
Reaching into the pocket of his pants where the small red box feels heavier than it should and that had sat there the entire conversation, Andrew places it on the counter, opening the box. The diamond catches the sunlight, a brief sharp flash of light across the marble to which his brothers whistle with variations of “holy shit”, leaning over the counter to examine it.
Andrew attempts to close the box with two fingers but Craig immediately slaps his hand. “No, no, leave it open.” Andrew pauses, allowing his brother to stare at it once again. “Fucking Jesus Christ.”
Deran tilts his head. “How many carats is that?”
He shrugs. “Don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Craig questions, straightening up.
“I didn’t ask.”
His brother stares like he has personally offended him. “You didn’t ask.”
“No.”
Craig turns to Deran in disbelief. “He didn’t ask.”
Deran is still studying the ring, turning the box slightly so the diamond catches the light again. “That thing is not small.”
“Must be at least two carats,” Craig ponders, bending closer.
“More,” Deran replies without looking away.
“Three?”
“Looks like three.”
Craig looks at Andrew. “How much did it cost?”
“I didn’t check.”
Craig nearly chokes. “What? You didn’t check?”
“It was for her.”
Even Deran starts laughing. “So, what? You walked into a jewelry store, pointed at the most expensive ring, and said ‘that one’?”
“Yes.”
(He doesn’t add the rest. Doesn’t mention that the ring had been bought seven days after you got together. That he walked past three other jewelry stores before finding one that felt quiet enough to think. That the woman behind the counter tried to show him a dozen different rings and he ignored every single one until he saw that one sitting under the glass.)
(Doesn’t tell them that he didn’t need to guess your size. That he had just measured silently one of the rings in the small dish beside his sink while you slept.)
Deran is still peering at the ring box when he states it with a smile. “Smurf would have hated her.”
Craig snorts. “Oh yeah,” he replies, pulling out beers from the fridge and tossing one to Deran before setting a third in front of Andrew. “Would have fucking despised her.”
The youngest leans back against the counter, taking a sip. “She would’ve tried to tear her apart in about five minutes.”
“Five minutes is very generous, bro.”
Andrew shakes his head, certain. “She wouldn’t have succeeded.”
Craig glances at him and grins. “No,” he admits. “She wouldn’t have.”
For a moment the three of them stay there in the kitchen, the afternoon light pouring through the glass door before Craig looks at the ring box again. Then at Andrew and Deran. He lets out a slow breath through his nose before raising his bottle. “Well,” he declares thoughtfully, “If Pope can pull this off…” He gestures vaguely toward the ring. “…there might actually be hope for the rest of us.”
Deran laughs. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
Craig bumps his shoulder lightly. “I’m serious, man. Look at him.”
Andrew raises an eyebrow.
Craig tilts his beer toward him. “Our big brother,” he says. “Retiring from crime. Buying houses. Proposing.”
Deran lifts his bottle too. “Well…to Pope getting married.”
“Andrew.”
Craig clinks his bottle against Deran’s. “Fine,” and taps it against his. “To Andrew.”
──────────
The bell above the entrance rang quietly when Andrew stepped in. He paused just inside the doorway, letting the door close behind him while his eyes adjusted to the dim lights of the place.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
He had already walked past three jewelry stores that afternoon: the first had been too noisy, the second too crowded (Too many voices. Too many strangers brushing past each other.), and the third had windows too exposed to the street. Andrew hadn’t liked the idea of standing under bright lights where anyone could observe him from the street. This one felt better. Like a place where he could think. A woman behind the counter looked up with a polite smile when she noticed him. She was older, silver hair pinned back and glasses sliding down her nose.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Andrew nodded, walking toward the counter. “I’m looking for a ring.”
Her expression softened the way people’s faces probably did when they heard that sentence. “An…engagement ring?”
“Yes.”
The word sat in the air between them.
(Engagement. Ring. Engagement. Ring.)
The woman smiled warmly. “Well, that’s wonderful. Do you know what kind she might like?”
He shook his head, quietly replying. “No.”
“Well, that’s alright! We can look together!”
She unlocked the glass case and began pulling out velvet trays one by one, placing them on the counter delicately. Rows of diamonds under the lights: round, square, clusters, thin bands, thick ones…She began explaining the settings, the cut, the metals, but Andrew barely heard the words.
(Not that he needed to. Courtesy of his profession.)
He examined each ring and imagined your hands, wrapped around a coffee mug when you were half awake in the mornings. Sometimes sticky with sugar from the pastries you stole from the café. Other times tangled in his hair.
(He pictured one of the rings sitting there on your finger. While you are standing in the kitchen barefoot and opening the fridge. Brushing your teeth at the sink. Tucking your hair behind your ear while you read. Reaching across the table to steal the last piece of toast from his plate.)
“This one is a classic solitaire,” she said gently. Andrew nodded politely but didn’t touch it. Another tray immediately came. “This one had side stones.” Another. “This setting is very popular right now.” He continued to listen but his eyes kept drifting across the case, searching.
(It had to be the best one. Anything less wouldn’t make sense. Something bright enough to keep up with you.)
The woman slid another velvet tray onto the counter. “This one is very elegant…”
Andrew’s gaze moved past it. And then it halted. The ring wasn’t on the tray she had just placed down. It sat apart under the glass in the display case beside them, resting alone on a small velvet stand like it had been waiting patiently the entire time. Three stones. The center diamond larger, oval and clear with two smaller ones flanking it. Andrew stepped closer to it and watched the light above the counter strike the stone and scatter back in return. The realization didn’t arrive like excitement but like an answer.
(Like the universe had placed it there for him to find.)
The woman followed his gaze. “Oh,” she said softly, opening the case and lifting the ring carefully with a small pair of tweezers before setting it on the velvet pad between them. Up close the diamonds looked almost alive under the lights. Three stones. The first one was you, bright and warm. Impossible not to notice when someone entered a room. The second was him, standing beside you, keeping watch. The third…Andrew’s breath paused.
(The third could be the future. The future with small fingers wrapped around yours. A little voice in the kitchen while you made coffee and Andrew made pancakes in the mornings. Someone learning to skate.)
(Too soon. You hadn’t talked about that. He hadn’t asked. He didn’t even know if he was allowed to hope for it.)
(Three stones.)
(Of course it would be this one. The answer had simply been waiting there for him to see it.)
“Yes,” Andrew said quietly.
The woman looked up. “Sorry?”
Andrew pointed once. “That’s the one.”
──────────
You know Andrew will be a fantastic father. You recognize it in the way he handles the little boy who fell on the other side of the skatepark.
There’s the sound before anything else: the sharp smack of small knees hitting the ground, followed by the wavering inhale children make when they’re hesitating between laughing and crying. Andrew turns instantly. Jogging across the park, he is already crouching before the boy has even shed a tear, his voice low and calm in a tone he reserves for children and frightened animals.
You observe him from where you stand, near the edge of the ramp, one foot remaining on the brand-new skateboard Andrew gave you yesterday after you came back from a shitty day at work. Andrew crouches in front of the boy, checking the kid’s elbow, the other brushing off his knees while he murmurs something that makes the boy sniff and nod bravely. You smile without meaning to. (of course he’ll be good at this.)
It’s no longer just a thought, it’s a certainty deeply anchored to your chest. You’ve seen the way Andrew watched children at the park when they skate past him, too fast and fearless, his eyes tracking them with that attention he gives to the ones he wants to protect. This sentiment is in all he does. In the way he always shifts you to the inside of the sidewalk when cars pass, his hand resting at the small of your back. In crowded places where strangers press too close, his fingers finding yours inevitably. In the quiet patience he has when you ramble about meaningless stuff, listening with attention. (you think you’ll do it tonight.)
The idea slips into your minds, probably waiting there all along. (you imagine Andrew’s face when requesting him to drive to the store. his confused frown. his eyes widening when he realizes what you’re asking him to buy. the two of you waiting together in the bathroom afterward, hand in hand while the minutes pass. Andrew counting under his breath.)
Your chest warms at the thought. Across the skatepark, the little boy is giggling now, wobbling back onto his board while Andrew steadies him cautiously with both hands, making sure the wheels are balanced before letting go. (yeah. he’s going to be fantastic.)
Your fingers brush absentmindedly over your stomach, just a split second of anticipation, a smile on your face.
The movement is so sudden your brain doesn’t grasp it at first. One moment, the sun is warm on your face, the sound of wheels mixing with children’s laughter, Andrew’s voice across the park.
The next, something closes around you from behind. Hard. A pair of arms wrap around your waist with a crushing force, lifting you straight off the ground before you even have time to turn your head. The world tilts. Your skateboard rolls away from your foot.
“What-” The word barely leaves your mouth, a hand slamming over it, large, rough. Your scream dies against the palm on your lips. Your brain scrambles to catch up with what your body already knows. Someone is holding you. Your feet kick wildly in empty air, your elbows jerking backward to hit the solid muscles behind you, but the man doesn’t loosen his grip. If anything, he tightens it, dragging you backward across the concrete so quickly your shoes barely graze the ground. Another set of hands grabs your legs.
(no. no, no, no. please, no.)
Your entire body lurches sideways, disregarding the violent rhythm of your heart against your ribs. You twist violently, nails clawing for anything you can reach, but the men move with efficiency: one arm pins your torso against a chest that smells like sweat and motor oil while the other man lifts your legs like you are nothing but a ragdoll.
(Andrew. he’s right there. just across the park. you only have to scream. now.)
A fabric presses against your face, the smell hitting you instantly. Strong. Chemical. Your lungs pull it in before you even gather what’s happening. When you do, your face instantly attempts to pull away but the hand only constricts more your mouth, forcing the cloth harder against your nose.
The world spins. Body jerking in their grip, panic floods your veins as your brain tries desperately to stay awake but the skatepark blurs more and more in shades of purple and green. The open door of a truck. Dark inside. Andrew. You try to shout his name, but your tongue feels heavy. Your arms suddenly won’t listen to you. Your vision tunnels. The sunlight disappears.
One more breath of the bitter chemical smell. And the world goes black.
-
Consciousness returns all at once. The first thing you notice is that everything is wrong. Your body feels wrong. Your arms ache, a deep burning pain that stretches from the shoulders down to your wrists, legs cramped and stiff beneath you, folded in an impossible position that, when the truck jolts over a bump in the road, sends a bolt of pain straight through your spine. Your head throbs. The air smells stale. A mix of gasoline, dust and sweat.
You attempt to open your eyes but nothing changes, just complete darkness. You recognize with the sensation on your face that you have a thick and suffocating bag on, each inhale rebounding against the inside of the cloth. Heart stuttering, you try to move your wrists, but only pain answers. A thing bites into your skin. Plastic. Your hands are pulled behind your back, wrists crossed and locked together so firmly that when you twist them, the band only cuts deeper, digging into the skin like a knife.
Zip ties.
Legs shift next, desperate for balance, but they don’t move freely either, something tight around your ankles so that when the vehicle makes a sharp turn, your entire body slides helplessly across the metal floor until it slams against the wall.
Voices wander ahead of you. Men. At least three. Talking. You can’t understand what they’re saying. (think.) Andrew’s voice appears in your mind, calm and steady the way it always is when he is explaining a rule. “Don’t panic.” For a moment, you focus on breathing the way he trained you. (in. out. slow. in. out. slow.) The pulse is still rapid but your thoughts begin scrambling for something solid to hold onto. For the things Andrew taught you in the backyard. (how to twist your wrist when someone grabbed you. how to strike the nose. the throat. the knee. how to shoot if you ever needed to.)
You try to recall, to force your body to follow the movements you practiced. Your wrists twist against the plastic restraint. Nothing happens. You try again. Push one hand outward. Pull the other inward. But the zip tie only gets even more restrictive. (okay. think.)
Your fingers press against the plastic band, searching for any gap, any weakness, anything you might be able to slip through if you turned your hands the right way. There isn’t one and your shoulders only burn from the strain of the position. Andrew never showed you how to escape this. He instructed you how to fight, to run, to hit, but this…Hands tied. Legs bound. Bag over your head. There’s nothing you can do without vision, nothing you can do if you can’t stand. Fear starts creeping through you in slow, icy waves.
(what if they ki...no. don’t think that. Andrew would want you to fight.)
The certainty arrives with surprising strength.
(he would want you to stay calm. to wait. to watch. to look for the moment when they make a mistake.)
You can hear the men laughing in the front of the vehicle, relaxed, like this is nothing to them. You force your breathing to slow once again. (you will fight. the first chance you get. Andrew taught you that much.)
You might not know where they are taking you, not know how far you’ve gone. But one thought, quiet and unshakable, settles inside your mind. Andrew will notice you’re gone. That something is wrong. And wherever these men think they’re taking you…Andrew will find you.
-
He knows how lucky he has been. How the dices of his existence have stayed on the same face long enough for him to forget what it feels like when they turn.
(Lucky. That’s what he has been. Not in the way people would get the word. No, Andrew has never confused luck with comfort. Luck to him has always meant survival. Luck meant a job that went wrong but not wrong enough. Luck meant walking away when someone else didn’t.)
But the kind of luck he has been living in lately is entirely different, quieter and more fragile and infinitely more dangerous to lose. Because for the past few months, Andrew Cody has been waking up next to you, breathing the warmth of your skin and the rhythm of your heartbeat beneath his cheek, feeling your fingers slipping into his hair. Every morning since the first day has felt like someone rolled the dice for him and somehow they landed in his favor every single time. And today, the dice rolled again. Only this time…they came up wrong.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
The road stretches empty ahead of the truck, long bands of asphalt cutting through the industrial outskirts of Oceanside while the sun slowly sets, but Andrew barely sees any of it, his attention fixed on the screen mounted beside the steering wheel where you location pulses with a blue dot. Moving. Still. His eyes keep flicking toward it, measuring the direction, the speed, the road, the signal that crawls along in slow, merciless increments, eyes never lingering long, conscious that staring at the screen will not bring you back any faster.
(He has work to do. One. Two. Three. Four. Andrew forces his gaze back to the road. He must not recall the rest. The truck door. The arms around you. The cloth. How he sprinted. How the distance was already too great. How the truck disappeared. One. Two. Three. Four.)
(And the faces he recognized. Not the names. Just the faces. Pete’s crew.)
The blood running down his face two years ago when Andrew took the man’s eye with pliers slow enough that Pete had time to understand exactly what was happening before the world went dark on one side forever had been a lesson. A simple one. A warning carved directly into his flesh, left alive so he could remember it. Apparently, he didn’t learn enough. Andrew exhales slowly through his nose, his expression unchanged as the blue dot continues to move across the map.
(That’s alright. Some lessons require repetition.)
The road narrows as the truck turns off the highway, gravel beneath the tires while the industrial outskirts of the city begin to unfold in rusted silhouettes of metal buildings and silent loading docks. Andrew observes the blue dot slow, then pause entirely, the signal settling over a structure. A warehouse.
(Of course. Men like Pete have faith that empty places mean safety.)
Andrew turns the headlights off before the truck even reaches the path leading toward it, the vehicle rolling forward under its own momentum, engine idling low while he guides it behind a row of rusted shipping containers where the structure disappears from the view of the highway. Andrew sits there for a moment, hands resting lightly on the wheel while the last vibration of the motor fades beneath the hood.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
Gravel crunches beneath his boots as he steps out, the smell of rust hanging around the building while the wind pushes loose sheets of metal along the roof with a rattling sound that echoes across the empty lot. The trunk opens quietly. Beneath the spare tire and tool kit, his fingers slide to the lining and lift the panel that hides the compartment built into the frame of the vehicle, a small false floor designed for the exact moments when his world stops pretending to be civilized. The gun comes first, fitting into his palm like an old friend from another life.
(Checks the chamber. Loads it. The magazine locking into place.)
The bottle and lighter sits beside it: clear liquid inside, thick and volatile, the smell alone enough to remind any soul who has worked with it what fire can do when it’s given something to eat.
(Twists the cap once. Confirms it’s sealed.)
The warehouse stands fifty yards ahead of him, dark, but not silent. Andrew pauses long enough to listen to the voices through the half-open metal door.
(Men. Three. Maybe four. The sound of boots on the floor. None from you.)
A sudden, violent crack interrupts him. A man howls. “Fuck!”
Another voice (Yours. He would recognize it anywhere. Even if the world split in half and you stood on the other side. Even if heaven locked its gates and hell opened its mouth beneath his feet. He would cross it for all eternity to reach you.) bursts into laughter, cut off by the sound of a slap. The sound rings through the hollow space of the warehouse and travels through the thin door, the echo of skin against skin sharp enough that Andrew feels it deep beneath his ribs where the cold control in his chest sits.
Inside, one of the men laughs. “Still got some bite, huh?”
Another voice interrupts, irritated and nasal. “Stupid bitch broke my nose!”
(Good. If you fractured it, then you had enough strength left to do it. They have not shattered you. And for the hand who just hit you…)
Andrew envisions it calmly, the bones inside it, the tendons running through the fingers, the way the skin stretches across the knuckles when a fist closes, and he wonders briefly whether it would be cleaner to cut it at the wrist or the elbow and whether the blade would slide easier between the joints if the arm were bent backward first.
Another wet sound interrupts the men’s conversation. “Did she just spit again?”
“Fucking little psycho.”
“Yeah,” another voice mutters. “Like her man.”
Andrew slowly unscrews the cap of the bottle in his hand, the chemical smell rising.
“You know what your problem is?” the broken-nose man continues, his voice thick with blood and humiliation. “Nobody ever taught you manners.”
“Maybe the belt wasn’t enough of a lesson earlier, huh?” one of them laughs with the unmistakable sound of a knife running on metal. “Think Pope is still gonna like what’s left of your face when we’re done?”
Andrew closes his eyes for half a second. When he opens them, the man standing outside the door is no longer Andrew Cody. Andrew is the man who buys groceries. Andrew is the man who listens when you talk about your day. Andrew is the man who kisses your forehead when you fall asleep on the couch. The man outside the warehouse now is something else entirely. In the ancient scriptures, angels of death walked through burning cities, the destroyers sent in the night to mark the doors of the guilty and pass judgement upon those who believed themselves untouchable.
The man entering is no longer Andrew Cody.
It is Pope, and wrath walks with him.
The door swings open with a long metallic groan, the men standing only a few feet away from the entrance, their bodies half turned toward the noise but not yet fully comprehending what they are seeing, the mind always necessitating a moment to accept the shape of its own ending. Andrew doesn’t look at you. Not yet. Looking would slow him down.
(Rapidity is the key. Every second that passes gives them a chance to think. To react. To harm you again. The only law that matters here is the one written in the oldest instincts of the human body. Move first. Finish fast. Leave nothing behind that can still hurt the one he came for.)
The bottle in his hand swings as he crosses the distance between himself and the first man, the one closest to the door who has just enough time to widen his eyes before Andrew’s arm snakes around his neck and locks there with brutality, the man’s back slammed against his chest while Andrew’s other hand tilts the bottle upward and empties its contents over the man’s head and shoulders in one motion, the liquid soaking instantly into his shirt.
The man smells it before he understands. “Wait!” Andrew strikes the lighter, the flame reflecting in the man’s eyes before Andrew touches it to the gasoline, the fire blooming. The man’s scream tears through the warehouse, ripped straight out of hell itself as the flames leap up his chest and face, devouring the fabric of his clothes in seconds before he even manages to stumble away, his body thrashing wildly as he crashes in the walls and runs blindly toward the open door behind Andrew, the smell of burning cloth and skin spreading through the air while his screams fade outside into the gravel lot beyond.
(If there had been more time, he would have rolled the man in the pebbles with his melted skin. Not today.)
One of the other men reacts, in pure primal fear, bolting after the fire and sprinting toward the exit with his hands half raised. Andrew lets him go. Because the last man there is close to you, a knife in his hand that glints under the flickering light of the burning man. He grabs you by the shoulder and jerks your head back roughly, the blade lifting toward your throat in a trembling hand.
“Don’t move!” he shouts. Andrew doesn’t slow, striding to him. The man drags the knife closer to your neck, the metal hovering dangerously near the skin just beneath your jaw where your pulses beats. “I said don’t-” He never gets the chance to finish his sentence. Andrew’s hand closes around the man’s wrist before the knife has a chance to cut your skin, the grip precise and brutally controlled as he twists the joint outward with a sharp motion that sends the blade clattering across the floor. The sound of the man’s wrist breaking follows immediately after, like a branch beneath sudden weight. Driving him backward into the ground with his full weight, the two of them hit the floor hard enough to knock the breath out of the man’s lungs while Andrew’s knee pins his chest and his hand traps the broken arm. Andrew calmly picks up the knife that lies inches away from them.
“Please, man. No…” the man sobs.
Andrew tilts his head slightly, studying the face in front of him. “Were you the one who slapped her?”
The man freezes, eyes flicking briefly toward you before going back to Andrew. “Yes.”
Andrew nods once, almost politely. “And the belt?”
The man’s lips tremble. “Yes.” The word barely forms before Andrew strikes, the blade flashing once through the air. The man’s scream is immediate and piercing, but Andrew doesn’t look away while the hand separates from the wrist.
He simply picks it up and places it carefully in the man’s remaining hand who is crying, shaking violently on the floor while the blood spreads rapidly across the concrete beneath him. Andrew leans down close enough that the man can hear him clearly through the ringing in his ears. “Take that back to Pete.” His voice is quiet, almost conversational. “Tell him that the next time he touches my family…I’ll take off his eyelid so he can watch me carve open his chest.” Andrew stands, the man clutching the severed hand to his chest and fleeing the place.
The chair you lie on is to its side now, where the struggle knocked it over earlier, the zip ties rigid around your wrists and ankles, dark marks already rising along your cheek and throat where the men had tried to teach you their version of obedience.
You are not fighting anymore. Your head has fallen forward, body still. Andrew crosses the room rapidly, dropping the knife as he kneels beside you and slides his hand carefully beneath your jaw to lift your face toward the light. Your pulse is there, fast and strong. He cuts the zip ties with the knife in practiced movements before pulling you against his chest, one hand pressing against the back of your head while the other steadies your shoulders. Your eyes flutter open, unfocused. Then they find him, fingers curling against his shirt, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I knew you’d come.”
Andrew exhales slowly through his nose, moving his hand through your hair with careful fingers before pressing a kiss at the top of your head. “Always.”
──────────
You didn’t ask. Just perceived it the moment he walked through the door: the tightness in the way Andrew carried himself, not outwardly visible to anyone who didn’t know him. But you did now, enough to distinguish the difference between his usual quietude and the one that pressed inward, coiled beneath his skin, waiting for a place to go. His shoulders were a little too rigid, the eyes lingering too long on nothing. His jaw held a tension that didn’t belong to the room, to you, to anything here.
So, you didn’t ask. Aware that Andrew didn’t untangle himself through questions. That whatever storm traveled through him had to run its course before he could even begin to name it.
The door shut behind him with a soft click that seemed louder than it should have been, and for a moment he just stood there, like he needed a minute to adapt to the silence, to the absence of whatever had been outside. Your apartment held its usual warmth despite your recent absence in it: the scent of your burnt candle mingling with the apple pie you baked after work, something gentle and lived-in, but he didn’t step into it right away. Not fully. You watched him from the couch, your legs tucked beneath you, fingers playing with the edge of a blanket you had draped over your lap. (he seemed exhausted. not the kind that sleep resolved. even if he was improving at that, this was the other kind. the one that sat deep inside.)
You reached for the remote without saying anything and turned the television on, scrolling briefly before selecting a documentary you had seen before but knew he hadn’t and the ocean filled the screen. Blue. Endless. Lulling. A narrator’s voice began to speak about the migration patterns of the whales and how they communicated across vast distances, voices traveling miles beneath the surface where no one could see them. (reaching each other even in the dark.)
You didn’t peek at him when you did it, it was just about letting the sound fill the room. Gradually, like he was remembering how to exist in a place that didn’t demand anything from him, he crossed the room and lowered himself onto the couch beside you, the cushion dipping under his weight. You kept your eyes on the screen, allowing the silence to stretch in that comfortable way that didn’t feel empty, just…open. A few seconds ensued before you sensed him leaning against you, shoulders brushing. Your legs unfolded from beneath you, body turning as your hand came up to the back of his neck, fingers stroking the curls in an instinctive motion. “Come here,” you murmured.
He dithered. (he constantly did, just for a second. like he was testing if he was permitted to do so.)
Andrew sank until his head rested against your lap, his body stretching along the length of the couch while one of your hands remained at the base of his neck, steadying him there until you adjusted your hand so your fingers could slip into his hair, brushing along his scalp, the pads tracing circles the way you had learned he adored. He went completely still. Like an animal that had decided not to run to find shelter. The documentary played on: whales swimming through the ocean, their massive bodies gliding effortlessly through a world that seemed untouched by everything above it. Your fingers maintained their path, repeating the same gesture over and over, never rushing, never resting.
It didn’t take long. It never did when Andrew was so pliable. His head angled involuntarily into the contact of your nails grazing the skin, stating more than whatever he could have expressed out loud. You kept going. Same pace, same gesture. Over and over. His hand, which had been resting against his chest, went on your thigh to caress it before going still again. You glanced down at him. His eyes were shut and his face, usually so controlled, so carefully composed, felt unguarded. You observed how his lashes rested on his cheek, the faint furrow between his brows smoothing out as the last remnants of tension left his body. He didn’t fight it, didn’t try to stay awake. He let go.
You leaned back against the couch, one hand still buried in his curls, the other resting on his shoulder, refusing to budge. Not when your arm began to ache from the position, not when the documentary ended and rolled quietly into the next, not even when the night superseded the day. You stayed, because a part in you understood, without requiring languages for it but the one his body spoke, that this was how he rested. Not alone. Not guarded. But here: with his head in your lap, your hand in his hair, the world quiet enough that, for a little while, nothing could reach him.
And you would remain like this for as long as he needed.
──────────
You are cold.
Not the kind of cold that comes from the wind or the night air, not the kind that disappears when someone wraps a blanket around your shoulders, no, the deeper kind that sits inside your bones like something has been emptied out of you and the space it left behind has filled with ice. You look down slowly. Andrew’s hand. You don’t recall when you seized it. You only know that you can’t let go of it.
The truck moves beneath you, tires humming against the asphalt while the sky outside the windshield slowly darkens, but the world feels distant, like you are watching it through glass, body sitting in the passenger seat while your mind floats a few inches above it. Your hand tightens, the gesture making him glance at you from the driver’s seat, one hand still on the wheel while the other remains locked inside your grasp, like he has been waiting for you to wake up. “I’m here, sweetheart,” he murmurs. His voice is steady. Always steady. You try to answer him, to voice simple words like ‘I know’ or ‘I’m okay’ or even just ‘Andrew’, but they get lost, stuck in your throat, forgetting how to exist.
(why can’t you speak? it’s just words. you know them. you can hear them in your head. so why won’t they come out? are you…still in there?) Your throat works, but nothing comes out. You blink slowly to ease the sting of your eyes, trying to focus on anything in front of you, but your vision keeps traveling toward the dark stains on Andrew’s clothes where blood dried in streaks. (not his blood. you’re sure of that. you should tell him you tried. that you listened. that you remembered. that you didn’t just freeze.)
The road stretches long and dark ahead of you, the headlights cutting through the night while the ocean wind creeps through the open crack of the window Andrew lowered earlier when you started shaking so violently that the seatbelt rattled against the side of the door.
You hadn’t understood why you were shaking. You still don’t.
But the cold inside remains. Andrew’s thumb moves leisurely over the back of your hand, the movement repetitive and grounding, like the counting he executes when he assumes you’re not noticing. (one. two. three. four. you identify the rhythm. he’s soothing himself. or maybe you. it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.)
He doesn’t seek to free his hand, you know he never would. He just adjusts his fingers so your palm fits more comfortably against his, letting you hold on as tightly as you need.
The truck slows abruptly, pulling onto the shoulder of the empty road while Andrew shifts the gear into park, turning toward you completely, his face softer now that he’s no longer watching the road. It takes a few seconds to realize that he did this because your breathing has altered again. Your chest moves too fast, pulling air in short shallow bursts that don’t seem to reach you. Andrew leans slowly, careful. “Hey,” he murmurs. Your breath keeps stuttering, lungs not quite opening all the way. “Hey,” he repeats, closer this time.
His hand lifts from your joined grip, but only for a second, lingering near your face and asking silent permission, waiting to see if you will pull away, if your body will flinch once more like it did earlier when the ordeal was still too loud and too close and too much. You don’t shift. You don’t believe you can.
“Look at me, sweetheart.” Your eyes drag themselves up to his face, heavily, like everything else inside you, and when they finally meet his, he is already observing you with an unwavering focus, a steadiness. The only thing solid in a world that has suddenly lost all its edges. “Breathe with me,” he says quietly, inhaling slowly so you can follow. The air shakes on the way in, but you force it further despite the ache in your chest with the effort. “That’s it,” he whispers, “you’re doing real good.” (you don’t think you are. but he says it like you are. and right now he’s the only one you trust. in. out. in. out.)
“One…two…three…four…” he counts under his breath. And that’s the easiest thing to do: listening to his quiet cadence, creating a sense of order in your body. The air ultimately reaches your lungs, shoulders dropping and the sharp edge of panic dulling just enough to let something else settle in its place. Not calm. Not really. Just…space. Enough for another sentiment to rise. Your eyes remain on his, too absorbed and aware, like if you look away you might lose him. (he’s here. he’s real. i’m here. i’m… i’m real.)
Before you can think about it, before you can understand it, before you can even form the intention into coherence…you move.
Your other hand comes up, fingers catching the fabric of his shirt, pulling him toward you with a sudden, desperate force that surprises even you, your mouth finding his in a kiss that is too hard, too urgent, too unsteady to be anything but need. After all…if you can feel him enough, you might be able to regain your way back into yourself. Your eyes stay open. His do too. For a few seconds, Andrew stills and you can witness it, the moment where he comprehends. (that you crave something. that it’s him. it has to be him.)
His hand comes up to your face, steadying you, thumb resting just beneath your cheekbone, grounding your relentlessness without interrupting it. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t deepen it either. He just…meets you there. Solid. Present. Real. Breath catching against his mouth, uneven and trembling, you kiss him again, and again, chasing what you can’t name, what persists in slipping just out of reach. (feel. please. prove you’re still here. prove you’re still inside your own body.)
“Please,” you murmur against his lips, the word barely there, fragile and breaking as it leaves you. “Please…”
He exhales softly against your mouth. “I’m here,” he replies. “Easy… I’ve got you.” But you don’t want easy. You kiss him again, harder this time, your grip tensing in his shirt, tugging him closer, frightened he might vanish if you don’t hold him there. Nothing matters except his warmth and the fact that he is alive and here and touching you. Hand shifting, he cups your jaw more fully now, guiding the pace just enough so you don’t evade yourself utterly in it, his thumb stroking faintly along your skin in slow motions.
“Hey…” he whispers softly between your breaths. “Stay with me.” (you’re trying. it’s just… arduous when all keeps luring you under.)
You don’t notice it instantly, the moment of fracture. You keep kissing him, your movements losing their urgency, grip slackening as something else begins to take over…blurriness in your vision. It takes you a second to grasp that there are tears on your face. They slide down your cheeks, unnoticed at first until one of them reaches the corner of your mouth and mixes with the taste of him. And when he perceives the stumble of your breath, this time it’s different: it’s not panic, no, not quite. Just…too much. Your forehead presses weakly against his, lips barely brushing his as the tears keep coming, silent at first, then heavier, your chest squeezing in a way that has nothing to do with air anymore. (why are you crying?)
Body folding on itself, the tension snaps all at once, your hand falling from his shirt as a broken sound escapes you, small and raw and completely unlike the silence you had been trapped in before. Andrew moves instantly. His hand leaves your face to tug you toward him, awkward in the confined space of the truck, your body half climbing over the console without either of you thinking about it, your shoulder knocking against the gear shift as he wraps his arms around you as best as he can from the driver’s seat.
“I’ve got you,” he breathes, one hand cradling the back of your head, pressing you gently into his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
You shake your head weakly against him, fingers coming up to clutch at his shirt once again but without the earlier urgency, without the desperation, just…holding. Craving. “I-” your voice breaks, incapable of forming the word. “I-” The sentence dissolves before it can exist but Andrew doesn’t ask you to finish it. He just embraces you.
His hand moves slowly through your hair, over and over, the same motion, the same rhythm, his other arm tight around your back to keep you steady as your body trembles in release. The sobs come quietly at first, then stronger, your breath catching between them, your face buried against his neck where his skin is warm and real and alive. “I know,” he mutters, even though you haven’t uttered anything. “I know, sweetheart.” (you don’t know what he gets. you don’t understand what’s occurring inside you. you can just tell it hurts.)
Time stretches. Or maybe it doesn’t. It’s difficult to keep track of it.
The world narrows to the space between his arms, to the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, to the quiet sound of his voice when he speaks again and again in low, anchoring murmurs that you don’t fully hear but perceive on a greater level. Your body slowly calms and the crying fades. Not because it’s done, no. You just don’t have the strength to continue, eyelids growing heavier with every passing second.
Andrew doesn’t budge: not when your weight settles more fully against him, not even when your head slips on his shoulder. He just accommodates his hold, one hand sliding cautiously to support your neck, making sure you’re comfortable even in the awkward angle between the seats. “I’m right here,” he murmurs again. (you know. you’re holding onto that.)
The last thing you register is wetness falling onto your hair where his face is the closest.
-
You don’t sense the moment he shifts. Only the absence. The slow, gentle manner Andrew untangles himself from you without ever truly letting go, one arm remaining around your shoulders while the other guides your body back across the console, repositioning you in the passenger seat. Your cheek brushes the fabric of his shirt one last time before the distance and cold returns. Not all at once. Just enough to perceive. Your head tips weakly against the seat, eyes closed. (don’t open them. if you open them, it all comes back.)
The engine starts again beneath you, the vibration traveling through the frame of the truck and into your bones, comforting, enough to keep you suspended in that fragile space between alert and catatonic. Andrew’s hand finds yours while the world only subsists in fragments: the inaudible hum of the road, the dry evening air slipping through the open window, the rhythm of Andrew’s breathing beside you, the sporadic shift of his thumb against your skin like he is still counting, still making sure you are here. (one. two. three. four. you can overhear him.)
Time passes.
Minutes.
Hours.
You don’t know.
In your drifting at the seam of consciousness, there’s a thought. A thing you were supposed to do, that you had planned. It floats up slowly, rising from deep water, blurred and shapeless. It was after the skatepark. The thought slips the instant you attempt to hold it, gone, too distant to reach. You don’t understand why it matters. Don’t identify why it feels crucial.
The truck decelerates. There’s a change in motion, a transition from smooth asphalt to something rougher, the tires crunching as the vehicle rolls to a stop, engine cutting soon after. For a moment, nothing happens.
“Love, hey… Can you open your eyes for me?” his voice is close, gentle.
Your lashes flutter at the sound of it. (love. when was the last time he called you that? yesterday? last month? ever? time feels too blurred to know the difference.)
The world comes back in pieces yet again, light first, then shape, then meaning, your gaze unfocused a little too long before it finally lands on him, on the familiar lines of his face that appear sharper now, more defined under the dim light. Leaning toward you from the driver’s seat, one of his hands is still hovering close, not touching yet, waiting.
You blink to the structure emerging behind him through the windshield. The house is small and wooden, set back from the road, almost seeking not to be uncovered, the land stretching quiet and dark around it, the trees around moving in the night wind, a silence so complete it almost feels like the world has halted just for this place.
Andrew examines your face cautiously, tracking the way your eyes move, the way your breathing settles, the slight delay in every response of your body, catching up to somewhere your mind hasn’t fully returned from. “We have arrived,” he murmurs. His hand finally comes to rest against your cheek, the touch light, thumb brushing once beneath your eye where the skin is still damp. You don’t flinch. Not this time. “I need to step out for a minute,” he continues quietly. “Get the keys.”
(don’t go. please don’t go. you don’t know how to stay here without him.) It presses against your chest, small but urgent, but when your mouth opens, nothing comes out, the feeling dissolving into that same frustrating emptiness where language should be.
Andrew notices. “I’m coming right back, okay?” he adds with a tentative smile. “You won’t even have time to miss me.”
That almost makes it pull at your mouth. You try. You really try. Your lips part, the words take effort, way more than it should. “You wish,” you manage, barely above a whisper. It’s very little. Fragile. But it’s there.
He stills for just a fraction of a second, exhaling a breath you don’t think he realized he had been holding, the sound almost imperceptible, but you feel it in the way his shoulders slacken, in the way his hand pauses on your face before easing. “There she is,” he replies, like he’s speaking to something that had almost slipped out of reach and has now, somehow, found its way back, “That’s my girl.”
The phrase settles inside you, warm in a place that had been untouched since the cold entered, and for a moment, just a moment, the void amid your body and your mind shortens, stitching themselves back together one thread at a time. You don’t smile yet. You’re not sure you can. But you seek all you have in your features to convey how much right here, right now, yes, his girl is gradually rising back.
His hand lingers a moment longer before he forces himself to pull away, counting under his breath the distance in cycles of four. “I’ll be right back,” he reassuringly says.
The space he leaves behind doesn’t feel as hollow. Your eyes follow him again through the windshield, watching the way he strides across the gravel toward the house. Another man stands near the porch, older, keys glinting in his hand, and the two of them speak in low voices that don’t quite reach you, fragments stumbling through without forming anything whole.
“…papers are all signed…”
“…place is yours now…”
The words drift past you, half-heard, half-understood, your mind too far to hold onto them properly while the man presses the keys into Andrew’s palm.
“…quiet out here… good for that…”
A pause.
“…you and your wife will like it.”
It’s gentler than the rest, but heavier somehow, deeper than the others. It doesn’t jar you. Doesn’t seem wrong. And in your mind, the word keeps running. (wife, wife, wife.)
You don’t feel like a wife. But honestly right now, you don’t consider yourself much of anything. (but the idea…the idea of being his wi-)
That’s a warm term, one that goes beyond the cold within your bones, one that is untouched by all that occurred tonight, that can’t harm you. The night air trails Andrew as your door opens, sealing the distance between you and him, nothing else subsisting elsewhere out of his hazel eyes. “Hey,” he murmurs, crouching so his face is level with yours, gaze searching yours with the same focus that has been holding you together since the world slipped. “We’re gonna go inside, alright?”
You don’t answer right away. Not because you don’t desire to, no, but because everything still feels sluggish. (stay there. don’t lose him. underwater is not a place to remain in.) You nod. Andrew’s expression softens, something easing behind his eyes before he stands and moves carefully, one arm sliding around your back, the other guiding your hand, never pulling, never rushing. “I’ve got you.”
The ground appears uneven when your feet touch it, legs uncertain beneath you but not truly discerning it, not when you have him to hold onto, not when his arm stays around you, anticipating every movement you don’t have the strength to control and keeping you upright without making it feel like you’re falling apart. You don’t examine the house. Just a brief flickering look toward it: the shape, the soft light behind the windows, the outline of a place that might be welcoming. But it doesn’t carry you. Nothing does.
Except him.
The steps to the porch blur beneath your feet and you cross the threshold without really feeling it. Inside. Somewhere. It doesn’t matter. Your hand hasn’t left his, the only thing that you deem real enough. It takes a full minute for your voice to come, quiet and rough from disuse, barely more than a breath. “Where are we…?”
The question feels distant, belonging to someone else. Andrew doesn’t hesitate. “Home,” he answers.
You don’t question it, you don’t look around to confirm it. You don’t need to. The term doesn’t reach the walls, doesn’t reach the house. It stops at him. (you already know you’re home.)
Andrew is here.
──────────
“And this one?”
Your voice arose tenderly, already halfway through the ritual you had created weeks ago, fingertip resting against the ridge of an old scar along his shoulder blade, tracing its uneven edge like it was a delicate relic instead of skin that had once been torn open. Andrew didn’t answer straight away. He lay with his back pressed to your chest, curled so your arm could drape over his waist while the other danced across his skin, mapping him the way no one ever had, with hands that sought to understand rather than assess or judge, touching instead of taking, reverence instead of inventory.
(One. Two. Three. Four. The body of the sinner, and no voice rising to call it that but his own.)
Your nail followed the line once more, lighter this time. “Andrew?” you murmured.
He exhaled. “Knife.”
Your hum vibrated against his back, the sound warm, thoughtful, like you were receiving the word instead of reacting to it, holding it somewhere gentle instead of letting it fall heavy between you. “How old?”
“Sixteen.”
Your finger lingered, tracing it again, slower this time, committing it the way you always did: like nothing about him was allowed to be forgotten once you had uncovered it. Your lips followed in a soft kiss, placed exactly where your fingertip had been, loving and deliberate and…reverent. Andrew’s breath faltered.
(It always did. Because it didn’t feel like affection. No, it was something else entirely. A sentiment he did not have a name for. Close to absolution.)
Your hand moved again, drifting across his back with quiet intention, pausing at another mark, smaller, almost faded. “And this one?”
He swallowed. “A job.”
“Mm.” Your thumb brushed over it, smoothing it as if the years hadn’t already tried and failed, as if your touch could succeed where time had not. “It’s a very small one.” A kiss followed. Then another.
(His angel making something holy out of what had only ever been used.)
“And this one?”
“Prison.” The word left him flat, as always, but your hand didn’t falter, your touch didn’t recoil. You only traced it again.
(Once. Twice. Three. Four. Even number. You knew now. That he needed it like that. He had told you once. Hesitant. Apologetic. How four made things silent inside. And you hadn’t turned it into something to laugh at.)
You leaned down, pressing your lips to it with the same tenderness as the others, no reluctance, no differentiation, no hierarchy in the way you touched the wounds that had shaped him.
(No categories of deserved or undeserved. No measurement of them. You did not question which ones he earned. You kissed them all the same.)
The starving part of him, buried so profoundly it had forgotten its own name and fed on scraps and silence, stirred at being called back in the home of your embrace.
At the scar he got when he was young, your lips lingered longer, as if that one demanded more, as if the child he had been was still attached to his skin and needed to be acknowledged separately from the man he had become. Andrew’s eyes slipped closed, not a single muscle held in readiness, not a single instinct braced for impact.
(He did not do this anywhere else. Because nowhere else did it feel like this. Being unmade. Not brutally. Not forcefully. Piece by piece. Each of his scars a verse. Each of your kisses the response. His angel undoing a life tainted by violence. Rewriting it in mercy.)
And in the quiet that followed, with your arm still wrapped around him and your fingers slipping once more into his hair, Andrew felt the overwhelming need to anchor himself before it could fall away, holding onto the sheet. Because if this: this warmth, this softness, this impossible, undeserved gentleness…if this was what it meant to have every mark acknowledged and not condemned, to be touched without expectation of pain…then maybe this was what people implied when they spoke of being forgiven.
And if this was what being cleansed felt like, he understood why people believed in God.
──────────
He found it the day you asked him to leave for a while.
The request had not been cruel, nor abrupt, nor even unexpected, yet it had still sat inside his chest with a weight he didn’t know how to carry, your voice gentle but firm when you told him you needed some time, even just an hour, to process alone all that had happened without his eyes on you, without his hands reaching to help you when you were screaming in the middle of the night. He had nodded because you had asked it and loving you had already taught him that care didn’t always mean staying, that sometimes it meant stepping away even when every instinct inside him recoiled at the idea of leaving you unguarded.
He had driven without direction at first, counting.
(One. Two. Three. Four. The trees. The houses. Distance from you measured in numbers instead of steps. Time instead of touch.)
The road had stretched ahead, quiet, the hills folding into one another beneath the afternoon light, and his hands had remained tight on the wheel, gaze scanning reflexively for threats that didn’t exist there, for movement that never came. His body still held in that rigid state since the warehouse, every nerve tuned to the possibility of harm.
And then he had spotted it. Small. Set back from the road. A chapel that didn’t announce itself, that didn’t demand attention, its wooden white frame worn by time, the door ajar, probably left open for anyone who might necessitate it and had not yet decided how to ask. He had parked without thinking. And inside, it had been silent. The kind that didn’t feel abandoned, but contained, preserved from the noise of the world outside, the light filtering across the benches and floorboards, dust flying in the air, undisturbed.
Andrew had not known what to do in a place like that. He had stood near the entrance longer than necessary, boots quiet against the floor, his gaze moving across the room, cataloguing details without purpose: the shape of the altar, the faint scent of old wood and candle wax, the way the space seemed to exist outside of time.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
He had not prayed. He didn’t exactly know how, no matter the number of times he had attempted. Him. Pope who couldn’t pray. But still, he had remained there for a while. Long enough for his breathing to slow. Long enough for the thought to settle.
(This is where he will bring you. Where the world cannot touch what it doesn’t deserve.)
-
And two weeks later, he does. The door opens with a soft creak under his hand, the sound echoing inside the small chapel as he steps aside to let you enter first, his gaze moving to you rather than the room, tracking the way you cross the threshold, the slight hesitation in your step, the way your fingers curl loosely around the sleeve of his shirt before letting go.
(One. Two. Three. Four. You’re steady. Still here. Still breathing. Still his to guard.)
You pause just inside and your eyes travel slowly across the space, taking in the light and the absence of anything that demands attention. “It’s…” you begin, your voice smaller than it used to be, not fragile, not broken, but tempered by everything your body has learned in the past weeks, “…nice.”
Andrew nods once, closing the door behind you with care. “It’s quiet,” he replies.
(Quiet is safe. Quiet means no one is coming. A place set apart. Removed. Preserved. His angel does not belong to the world outside. Not to men like them. Not to what raised him. Not to the kind of life that stains everything it touches.)
You move further in, your steps unhurried, hand brushing along the back of one of the wooden benches, fingers tracing the grain absentmindedly, grounding yourself in the texture, in the reality of it while Andrew stays close.
(Not touching. But near enough. A distance small enough to cross in less than a second. Close enough to intervene. Close enough to reach before harm does.)
You sit after a moment, choosing a bench near the center rather than the back, your body turning toward him when he lowers himself beside you, leaving just enough space between you that you can close it if you want. For a while, neither of you speaks. Your hands rest in your lap, fingers intertwined, your thumbs moving against each other in a slow, absent rhythm. “I like it here,” you murmur.
Andrew nods again. “I thought you might.”
You glance at him then, a faint curve at the corner of your mouth, not quite the full smile he knows, but closer than before. “You were right.”
(He wants to keep being right if it keeps you like this. Breathing. Here. Untouched.)
Silence settles again, softer this time. You draw in a slow breath. “I…wanted to say thank you.” The words come carefully, each one placed with intention, your gaze dropping briefly to your hands before lifting again. Andrew’s body stills.
(Thank you. For what? For doing what should have been done before they even reached you? For failing to stop it sooner?)
“You stayed,” you continue, your voice steady despite the tightening in your throat. “These past two weeks. You didn’t…leave me alone with it.”
Andrew’s jaw tightens, just a little. (There was no version where he would have left.) “I wasn’t going to,” he says quietly.
You nod, your fingers tightening together. “I know.” A small exhale. “I just…wanted to say it.” He watches you closely, noting the way your shoulders hold, the way your eyes avoid his for a second before returning. “And I’m sorry,” you add.
That makes him frown. “For what.”
You huff a small, breathless laugh that breaks halfway through. “For being…like this.” You gesture vaguely to yourself, your body, the invisible weight you’ve been carrying. “For being ‘sick’. For not…” You stop.
Andrew doesn’t. “For not what?” he asks, his voice still even but lower now.
Your gaze drops again. “For not being…normal,” you finish quietly. “For not…touching you. For not wanting to have sex righ-”
“No.” The word cuts through the air immediately, firm, leaving no space for you to continue that line of thought. You blink, looking up at him. “That doesn’t matter,” he says.
(You being alive matters. You breathing matters. Nothing else comes close. The rest is irrelevant.)
You swallow, your lips parting slightly. “But it’s been weeks,” you murmur. “And I know that’s not-”
“It doesn’t matter,” he repeats, softer this time but no less certain, his hand finally moving, resting over yours where they sit in your lap.
“You don’t owe me that,” he adds.
(You don’t owe him anything. Not your body. Not your healing. Not your pace. He owes you everything. All that remains of him. That still knows how to be used for something other than destruction.)
Your breath stutters, your eyes searching his face, looking for doubt, for hesitation, for anything that might contradict the certainty in his voice. There is none. “You’re not…annoyed?” you ask, the word small, almost tentative.
Andrew’s expression shifts, not quite a smile, but something warmer. “No.” A beat. “Not once.”
Your lips tremble, a sound escaping you that is halfway between a laugh and a sob, your shoulders lifting slightly before dropping again, the tension breaking in small increments. “That’s insane,” you whisper, shaking your head.
Andrew tilts his head. “Why?”
“Because most people would be!” you reply, a soft, disbelieving breath leaving you. “Most people would have left by now or…” you cut yourself off, pressing your lips together.
“I’m not most people,” he says, voicing the thought simply. “And weren’t you the one who told me that it didn’t matter if I couldn’t be…intimate? That together was all you needed?”
That makes you laugh again, a real one this time, even if it’s threaded with tears, your head tipping forward slightly. “Yeah,” you admit. “That’s…true.” The sound lingers in the chapel, light, fragile, but real and Andrew can’t help but to watch you, committing it to memory.
(This. This is what he protects. Not the absence of fear. The return of this. His light.)
Your hand turns beneath his, your fingers curling around his palm now, holding him rather than being held, your grip gentle but intentional. “I’m getting better,” you say after a moment.
He nods. “I know.”
You glance at him, a hint of curiosity there. “How?”
“You’re laughing.”
A small smile returns to your mouth at that. “Good point.” You inhale slowly, your gaze drifting toward the front of the chapel, toward the altar, the quiet space beyond it, your expression thoughtful. “I know I’m not…all the way there yet.”
“I don’t need you to be,” he replies.
You look back at him. “I know,” you say softly. “But I want to be.” A tear slips down your cheek then, unexpected, and you laugh again through it, wiping it away quickly with the back of your hand. “Fuck, I’m a mess,” you mutter.
Andrew shakes his head. “No.”
You huff. “Oh yes, look at me. Cursing in a church.”
He doesn’t argue further and reaches up, the pad of his thumb brushing beneath your eye, catching the remaining dampness there, his touch careful.
(He has seen blood on this skin. Bruises rising. Hands where they should not have been. This, this he can handle.)
You lean into the contact without thinking, your eyes closing briefly, your breath evening out again under the motion. For a moment, the two of you remain like that. Quiet. Held in a place that doesn’t ask anything of you except to exist. Then you pull back slightly, a small, almost mischievous spark returning to your gaze, faint but present. “Hey,” you say.
Andrew raises an eyebrow. “Yes.”
“Do you think,” you begin slowly, “you could drive me to the grocery store after this?”
He blinks once. “The grocery store.”
You nod, a soft smile forming. “I want to try a new recipe.”
(A recipe. Ingredients. Steps. Future.)
Andrew exhales slowly through his nose.
(One. Two. Three. Four. You are here. You are choosing to stay. To build. To continue. He will buy you the whole store if he needs to.)
“Yes,” he answers.
Your smile widens, just a little. “Good,” you say, squeezing his hand once.
And in the quiet of the chapel, Andrew understands with a clarity that does not require words, does not require prayer, does not require anything beyond the rhythm of your breathing beside him that whatever this place was meant for, whatever it once represented to those who built it, to those who came here seeking answers… he has already found his.
It sits beside him.
──────────
At twenty-one, Andrew did not ask questions.
He learned early that questions did not change outcomes, that answers were rarely given without cost, and that the only thing that mattered in the end was whether he had done what was expected of him, whether he had moved when told, stopped when told, hurt when told, because in that house usefulness had always been the closest thing to love that any of them were allowed to touch.
Smurf was sitting in the living room when she called him, not raising her voice. She never needed to. “Andrew.”
He was already turning before she finished saying his name, stepping into the room with that attentive posture that had been carved into him over years, his eyes finding her immediately, reading the angle of her body, the tilt of her head, the small details that told him what she wanted before she said it. She was smiling. The one she used when she had already determined someone’s fate. “Come here, baby.” He did. Of course he did.
(One. Two. Three. Four. Called. Answered. That was how it worked.)
She was sitting with one leg crossed over the other, bracelets shimming when she shifted, her hand reaching for him the moment he stepped close enough, fingers sliding along his thigh in a slow, absent stroke.
(He wondered if this meant comfort in other houses. Affection in other families.)
“You’re my strong boy,” she smirked, her gaze lingering on his face with a warmth that never lasted long enough to hold onto. “My protector.” Andrew stood still beneath her hand.
(Protector. That’s what he was. That’s what he was for.)
“There’s a man,” she continued, “who forgot how things work around here.” Her fingers pressed against his leg. “Can you remind him?”
Andrew nodded. “Yes, Smurf.”
She smiled wider. “I knew I could count on you.” Her palm lingered a second longer before withdrawing, the absence of it immediate, noticeable, leaving behind that quiet, familiar emptiness that always followed once the task had been given.
(He had to do it well. To come back. To be useful. Be worth it.)
The man was not important though, that Andrew grasped the moment he saw him. He was not a target because of what he had done, Andrew actually didn’t know what it was about, but because Smurf had declared he had forgotten, and forgetting, in their world, was sufficient.
“Please…” the man started as Andrew approached slowly. Not out of uncertainty, out of precision. The man kept talking, words spilling over each other, apologies, explanations, promises, the kind of desperate language people used when they believed there was still a possibility of being heard. Andrew didn’t listen. Listening would imply that the outcome could change. But here, now, it couldn’t. He reached for the man’s jaw first. “Wait, I have a family,” the man choked out, his voice cracking under the pressure. “Please, I have ki-”
The first hit cut the sentence in half. Andrew observed the impact: the way the man’s head snapped to the side, how the sound echoed in the room, the way silence pursued for a moment before the man tried again, his words slurring.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
Andrew adjusted his stance before continuing. Each movement controlled, measured in the similar rhythm he employed for everything else, the same manner he counted steps, breaths, distances, because this too was a task, and tasks required precision. The man’s voice deteriorated rapidly. Words turning into sounds. Sounds turning into broken attempts at forming something coherent.
(One. Two. Three. Four. The mouth was no longer functional. This man was sentenced to months of silence, jaw rendered useless. Children without their father’s voice. Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four. He counted his fist striking.)
He couldn’t halt, not out of rage or cruelty, but out of completion. Because stopping before the job was done meant coming back, which meant therefore failing the first time. The man ceased to speak long before Andrew stopped. And silence, in this case, meant success.
When he returned home, the house was empty, the lights were off. No music. No voices. No Smurf. No brothers. Andrew stood just inside the doorway for a moment, his hand still on the handle, the quiet pressing in around him, unfamiliar after the structured noise of the task, the man’s voice and the impact of bone and skin and breath.
The living room looked exactly the same: the couch, the table… Everything in its place. Except there was no one there to tell him he had done well. No hand reaching for him. No voice calling him baby. No warmth. Just the absence of it. Andrew sat on the couch, in the same spot where Smurf had been earlier. His hands rested on his thighs, still, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular, his body waiting without realizing it was waiting, as though the next instruction might come at any moment.
It didn’t.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
(What now?)
There was no need for the question to form fully, because there was no answer. Just the quiet. And him inside it.
-
At twenty-one, you were not supposed to end up alone.
Not with the way people gravitated toward you, the way your laughter filled spaces without effort, the way professors remembered your name and classmates sought you out not because they required something from you but because being near you felt easy, light, uncomplicated.
You studied psychology out of appreciation to understanding people. You enjoyed the way patterns formed, the way behavior made sense when you looked at it closely enough, the way even the most confusing reactions had roots if you were patient enough to find them. Your mother used to say you were good at seeing the best in others and of course, since she was your mother, you used to believe her. At twenty-one, your life had been full: classes, friends, late nights spent talking about nothing and everything at once, a future that stretched out in front of you in clear, manageable steps…
And then it wasn’t.
The hospital room had been too white, quiet, final. But your mother’s absence didn’t arrive all at once, no, it unfolded gradually in the empty chair at the table, in the silence where her voice used to be, in the way the house felt different even though nothing had moved.
You tried to go back to your classes, go back to your routines and the version of yourself that existed before, but everything felt heavier, louder. Too much. The words blurred on the pages, the voices felt distant and time stretched in ways that didn’t make sense. Until one day, sitting across from your father at the kitchen table, you said it. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
He looked at you for a long moment. Not disappointed. Not angry. Just…seeing you. Your sorrow, mirrored in his own eyes. “All I want,” he said quietly, “is for you to be happy.” And it shattered something open inside your chest, because you didn’t know how to tell your father you couldn’t recall how to be that anymore.
So you moved. From Los Angeles to Oceanside. You told yourself it would help: a nice change of air, a reset, a chance to find a life that felt manageable again. The apartment was perhaps modest, but clean. Boxes still half unpacked in the corners, you sat on the floor the first night, back against the wall, phone in hand with no one to call. You drew your knees to your chest, your chin resting on them, your eyes moving slowly across the unfamiliar space, trying to make it feel like yours.
(What now?)
But you knew there was no answer to this question, just the silence. And you inside it.
──────────
The notification is simple, clear. Just one sentence. You haven’t logged your period in 7 weeks. It sits there on your screen longer than it should, and for a minute, you don’t budge, you just look at it, your thumb hovering above the glass without touching it, without dismissing it, without opening anything else, suspended in that small space where nothing has changed yet but still, everything has. (seven weeks. seven. seven.)
The number doesn’t feel real at first, it feels misplaced, as though it belongs to someone else’s life, to a version of you that exists somewhere adjacent but not quite here, not quite now, not in this bed, not with him sleeping beside you.
Andrew breathes deeply against your back, one arm draped over your waist, heavy and warm, his palm resting flat on your stomach where it had settled sometime during the night without either of you noticing. His grip is loose in sleep but present enough that you can sense it, the weight of it securing you to the mattress, to the moment, to him. Your eyes drift down to his hand. (seven weeks.)
The skatepark returns in fragments, not as a full memory but as scattered impressions: sunlight, the sound of wheels, Andrew crouched in front of the little boy, your fingers brushing absentmindedly over your stomach while the idea had slipped into your mind. you think you’ll do it tonight. You never did. Everything after that moment had fractured, rearranged itself into something darker and harder to hold. The plan had dissolved somewhere between the truck, the warehouse, the three weeks that followed where time moved in uneven stretches and your body forgot how to feel like yours.
That’s what bodies do, you remind yourself, they shift without asking permission, break rhythm, lose track of time when stress settles too deeply into them, when fear rewrites the way they function. Your eyes remain fixed on the screen a moment longer. (you could just be late.) The thought arrives quietly, offering itself as something solid to stand on, something rational, something that makes sense in a way the other possibility does not. (you haven’t been sleeping properly. you haven’t been eating right. your body is still catching up. it would make sense.)
Your stomach is flat beneath Andrew’s hand, unchanged, unremarkable, offering no sign, no confirmation, no disruption of what has always been there. (no nausea. no difference. nothing.) But… (seven weeks. what if it is? worse, what if it isn’t? even worse, what if you let yourself believe it and it disappears?)
Your throat constricts around that one, the air catching for just a second before you force it down again, refusing to follow that path any further. Behind you, Andrew shifts at the change in your breathing, his fingers tightening against your stomach in reflex before loosening again, his body settling back into its quiet rhythm as though nothing has happened. Your hand lifts, hesitating only for a moment before resting over his, your fingers brushing against his knuckles. (you can’t tell him.)
The realization does not arrive all at once, it builds slowly, piece by piece, until it settles into something firm and unmovable. (not like this. not with uncertainty. not with a number on a screen and nothing else to hold onto. you won’t put that in his hands unless it’s real.) You know what his face would look like. You know the way he would still, the way everything in him would narrow down to that single piece of information, how carefully he would compartment it, how seriously he would take it, how completely he would believe it. (you won’t take that away from him.) Your eyes close, breath moving in and out with effort. (relax. he told you to count. one. two. three. four.)
The thought of the chapel returns then, threading itself through the moment, a reminder of the plan you both made the night before when he had asked you in that careful way of his, probably unsure whether you were ready to step outside after weeks spent mostly within the walls of the house. “There’s a place I want to show you.” You had said yes. And this, whatever this is, will have to wait a few more hours.
Lying there longer than necessary, you open your eyes now, fixed on nothing in particular while you listen to the rhythm of his breathing behind you, your own falling into it, counting without meaning to, matching the cadence you have learned from him, the one he uses when he thinks you cannot hear.
(one. two. three. four.)
-
(one. two. three. four.)
You don’t stop counting when the automatic doors slide open in front of you, the brightness of the store almost too sharp after the muted quiet of the chapel, the sound of carts rolling and distant voices folding into each other, almost unreal. The rhythm stays with you, something to hold onto while everything else threatens to shift too quickly beneath your feet.
Your only plan had been that. The chapel. Sitting beside him on the wooden bench, your shoulder brushing his, your hands folded in your lap while you spoke more than you had in weeks, words coming back slowly at first and then easier, thanking him, apologizing for things he refused to let you apologize for, laughing through tears until your chest felt lighter. (but you still had felt the need to know)
The thought had stayed quiet, waiting until you stepped outside, until the air changed, until he looked at you with that steady patience and you realized you couldn’t carry it any longer without moving. “Do you think you could drive me to the grocery store after this?” (you need to know. before you say anything. before you look at him and change everything.)
And now you’re here. The cart moves in front of you, your hands resting on the handle, your fingers tightening and relaxing without rhythm except for the one repeating in your head. Andrew walks beside you, close enough that your arm brushes his every few steps, his gaze drifting occasionally past you, past the aisles, scanning the entrances, the exits, the people moving in and out of his field of vision with that quiet vigilance he never quite turns off. You reach for the first thing you see. “Pasta.” It drops into the cart. “Tomatoes.”
He picks them before you do, placing them carefully inside. Olive oil. Garlic. You continue. Bread. Cheese. Something sweet you don’t need. Herbs you won’t use. You keep moving, your hands busy, your mind split between the list you’re building on the spot and the aisle you are deliberately not looking toward yet. (in, out, in, out.) You speak more than usual, not enough to draw attention, just enough to fill the space, to make this feel like an ordinary trip, an ordinary afternoon, something that does not carry the weight pressing quietly beneath your ribs. He answers simply, briefly, following your lead without question.
Your chest feels tight, your breathing just slightly off, enough that you notice it, enough that you slow for a second before forcing your body forward again. Effort quickly interrupted by the aisle you were looking for. Pharmacy. The cart stays still beneath your hands, your fingers pressing into the plastic while you keep your eyes on the shelves ahead, not moving toward them, not quite ready to close the distance.
You swallow. “Can you…” your voice is calm, almost, “…grab me a book?”
He looks at you. “A book.”
“There’s a section near the front,” you add. “I just…want something to read.”
He studies you, not questioning, not suspicious, just observing the small changes, the ones you cannot hide from him even when you try. “Okay.”
You wait until he disappears before you move. Fast. Your hand reaches for the box without hesitation, pulling it from the shelf in one motion before your thoughts can catch up, before doubt can slow you down. Digital. You don’t read the label. You don’t check the price. For a second, it rests in your hand, heavier than it should be, your eyes fixed on it without truly seeing it. (seven weeks. seven. seven.)
Quickly, you drop it into the cart, covering it with whatever is closest, pasta, tomatoes, anything, layering it beneath the groceries until it disappears completely from view, hidden. By the time Andrew returns, you are still, composed, your hands back on the cart. He hands you the book. You take it, your fingers brushing his for a brief second, leaning in just slightly to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thank you,” you murmur, your voice low, warm, real, “I’m sure I’m gonna love it.”
Andrew stills for half a heartbeat before nodding. “You’re welcome.”
You pull back, the book resting against your chest now, your fingers curling around its spine and not looking at the cover. You don’t need to. Together, you move toward the checkout and, thankfully, the line is short, quite the opposite from every grocery you’ve been in Oceanside, the number of people in there often overwhelming Andrew. The cashier begins scanning without much attention, items passing one by one over the machine, the soft beeping steady, repetitive, almost syncing with the rhythm in your head. (in, out, in, out.)
You keep your eyes on the counter, on your hands, on anything that is not…the box. It appears in the pile. Time stretches as the cashier picks it up, your gaze lifting to meet hers, and in that brief moment there is understanding there, immediate, quiet, unspoken. Don’t. The word never leaves your mouth. It sits behind your teeth, behind your throat, in the way your fingers press harder against the edge of the counter, in the way your shoulders hold just a little too still. Don’t say anything. Please. Andrew stands beside you, but not here, not fully, his attention angled outward, his gaze moving past the glass doors, scanning the parking lot, the cars, the people, every exit, every movement, the same way he always does.
The scanner beeps, the sound feeling louder than with any other product. Or maybe everything else has gone quiet. You don’t breathe. Not properly. Just enough to stay upright. The box is placed aside, not with the rest, not immediately swallowed into the routine of scanned items and rustling bags, but held for just a fraction longer than necessary, the cashier’s fingers resting against it as her gaze flicks up to yours once more, quick, knowing, the smallest shift in her expression that doesn’t draw attention and yet carries comprehension all the same.
The cashier doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. Her hand moves instead, deliberate but casual, folding the rest of the items into the bag before her fingers close around the box, separating it from the others, keeping it out of sight from the counter, from the open space between you and Andrew.
Then, as she passes the bag toward you, she slips it in. Not inside the bag. Not with the groceries. Into your hand. The gesture is small, hidden in the natural motion of handing things over, her fingers brushing yours for the briefest second as the box transfers between you, her eyes lifting once more, just long enough for a faint, almost imperceptible wink to follow. It’s quick, gone immediately, as though it never happened. Your hand closes around the box instinctively, your body moving before your mind can catch up, slipping it into your handbag in one smooth motion, the fabric shifting softly as it disappears inside, concealed, secured, yours again. Hidden.
Stepping away from the counter so Andrew can pay, your heartbeat is louder than it should be, your fingers brushing once against your bag as if to confirm it’s still there, still real, still within reach. All that remains is to find out which life you are about to step into.
-
“I’m just gonna…go change in pajamas, okay?” Your voice sounds almost normal when you say it, the words slipping into the space between you without weight, without urgency, like it’s the most natural thing in the world after coming back from the store and setting the bags down.
Andrew looks up from where he stands near the counter, one of the grocery bags already open, his hands moving through it efficiently, placing things aside in groupings before putting them away, his attention shifting to you as soon as you speak. “Okay.” No question. No hesitation.
You nod once, holding onto the strap of your bag before you turn away, your steps carrying you down the short hallway toward the bathroom while the sound of him behind you fades. The door closes, and just like that…the whole world narrows. The light in the bathroom is too bright, too sharp against your eyes, the mirror catching your reflection before you look down, hand already moving to unzip your bag with fingers that do not feel completely like yours.
The box is still there, but it feels different. Real.
Your breath comes shallow as you pull it out, the cardboard cool beneath your pads, the printed words blurring for a second before you blink them back into place. You glance at the instructions, barely. Words pass your eyes without quite settling. (it’s simple. it has to be simple. plenty of people do that every day.)
You follow the steps mechanically, your movements precise without being conscious, muscle memory forming where there was none before, guided only by instinct, by the need to finish, to know, to end this suspended state where everything exists and nothing is confirmed.
The test rests in your hand and for a second, you just look at it before reaching for your phone. Ninety seconds. The timer begins. Suddenly, there’s nothing else. The bathroom fades, the light dulls, the edges of the room slipping away until all that remains is the small device in your hand and the quiet, relentless ticking of time you can’t even hear but feel in your chest. Your body feels distant. Like you are watching yourself from a removed place, aware of your hands, of your posture, of the way you lean back against the sink. (this could be nothing. this could be everything. don’t hope. don’t ho-)
The timer rings. The sound cuts through the room. For a moment, you don’t move. Just stare at the test in your hand, your vision focusing, blurring, then settling again as you bring it closer, as the word comes into view, clear, unmistakable. Pregnant. It sits there and doesn’t change. There is a delay, a quiet gap between seeing and understanding, between reading and knowing. (pregnant.)
Your hand squeezes around the plastic. Your other hand lifts your shirt without thinking, the fabric bunching beneath your fingers as you look down at your stomach, turning on one side, then the other, as though something might have changed in the last few seconds, as though there should be a sign, a mark, anything to match what the test is telling you.
There is nothing and everything all at once. A tear slips down your cheek before you even register it, your hand lowering slowly, your fingers brushing once over your skin. (there is something inside you. a tiny part of him and you.)
It takes one second. Two. Three. Four, before you are moving, the hallway feeling shorter than before, the house coming back into focus as you walk toward the kitchen. Andrew is at the fridge, one hand braced against the door while the other places the food inside, his posture relaxed, unaware, steady in the way he always is when he thinks everything is as it should be. You stop behind him, hand lifting to rest on his arm as you lean in, lips brushing his shoulder blade and your breath catching against his skin. “Andrew…” Your voice is barely there. You press your forehead against him before the words find their way out, quiet, fragile, real as a tear falls. “I’m pregnant.”
The movement of his hand stops mid-motion, the fridge door still open, everything in him going quiet in a way that feels immediate, absolute. He turns slowly towards you, eyes finding yours, searching. Disbelieving, but not in doubt, just when something too important takes a second longer to settle. “Really?” he whispers.
You nod, your lips trembling and voice breaking. “Yes…Andrew…” Another breath. “We’re gonna have a baby.” Your hand lifts, resting over your stomach. “Our baby.”
Something in his face shifts and you have barely the time to register the movement before his knees meet the floor, his palms coming to rest gently at your waist, careful and reverent. For a second, he just looks. At you. At the place beneath your hand.
His fingers brush your skin lightly, almost hesitant, as he leans forward, pressing his lips to your stomach. Your fingers slide into his curls, holding him there, your other hand still resting over where his lips touch you, breath uneven now that your body finally catches up to the weight of this whole moment. A soft, broken sound escapes you. In between a laugh and a sob. And you don’t pull him away, don’t move. You just stay there, your hand in his hair, your body steadying around the place where his mouth rests.
I am finished experiencing shame, I'm obsessed with Zayne/Sylus so here. Heavily inspired by this amazing art by leaderincrows.
word count: 3.7k
Rating: Explicit
Tags: Blowjobs, handjobs, some evol/temp play, lots and lots of cuddling, neither of them really top, they're switchy boys
--
The only light in Zayne’s large living room comes from the moon shining through the large backdoor window, bathing the space in a soft cool tone, and the bright glow from his phone in his hand, held up by his face as he types away at an email for Akso’s administration board regarding his departments budget for the quarter. But even as he swipes between excel sheets and copies and pastes various numbers, his eyes are drooping a bit, and his fingers move slowly as he struggles to recall the way he wants to word things. It’s not something he intends on sending off tonight, but having a rough draft waiting for him when he returns to work will make things easier on him.
Zayne yawns, and blinks as a text message pops through, distracting him enough to have his eyes opening a bit wider.
It’s from Sylus.
”You awake?”
His answer is quick.
”Somewhat.”
”Home?”
”Yes.”
”Good.”
Zayne already knows what to expect when he feels a surge of energy in the air beside him on the couch, a flash of swirling red light crackling before revealing Sylus’s large frame, clad not in a smart suit as usual, but instead a comfortable gray sweater. He takes a deep breath and looks down at Zayne laying on the couch, his phone still enhancing the dark bags under his eyes at the angle its being held up near his face.
“Almost 1 in the morning and you haven’t even undressed?” Sylus tilts his head, brows furrowing slightly at the sight of the doctor looking to be on the verge of passing out while he’s still wearing a button down and slacks. Zayne sighs, shifting slightly.
“You know, a confirmation that I’m at home doesn’t qualify as an invitation to teleport into my living room.” He says instead, though really… He’s a bit relieved to see Sylus, as difficult as it is to admit. Just his presence has some of the tension in Zayne’s shoulders releasing as he spreads his legs slightly, which actually is an invitation, one that Sylus takes immediately.
The larger man settles himself between Zayne’s legs, wedging an arm underneath his waist, and holding tightly, which is accommodated, and then resting his cheek on the man’s warm stomach. Sylus’s eyes drift closed, and he hums contentedly as they settle together. The way they communicate with one another has always been more through body language than through words, and this isn’t the first time Sylus has wanted to come over in the middle of the night just to hold him, or be held. Once or twice it’s even been Zayne asking him if he was free.
“You could have lied and said you were working.” Sylus’s voice is soft, and he nuzzles his nose into the fabric of Zayne’s shirt for a moment, squeezing him a little tighter. In response, Zayne reaches his free hand into the man’s hair, carding his fingers through it. He can feel Sylus melting, sighing and leaning into the soothing touch, his breaths growing slower with relaxation.
“Why would I do that?” Zayne asks, his phone loosely held in his free hand, now hanging off the edge of the couch as his drafted email is forgotten for the night. It’s alright. He can work on it later, when he’s able to focus better.
Sylus looks a bit like a big cat right now, and if he was one, Zayne is certain he’d be purring as he pets his hair, scratching his nails through the soft locks. The hand that isn’t trapped beneath Zayne’s hips begins to wander, across his thigh, up to his ribs, and then down to where the black button down is still tucked into his pants. His breath is hot against Zayne’s abdomen as he chuckles, the sound rich, and it sends a bit of a shiver down Zayne’s spine.
“It’s alright, you can admit that you wanted to see me.” Sylus says, low and quiet, and starts to extract Zayne’s shirt from his trousers, not bothering with unbuttoning it, just pulling it up enough that he can rest his cheek on the taut, warm skin of his stomach. Almost idly, Sylus’s fingers start to scratch through the smattering of hair leading from his belly button down the space between his legs, almost playing with it, and this time Sylus does feel the quiver that goes through the doctor.
Zayne doesn’t respond, just hums in contentment and tilts his head slightly as his eyes drift closed, enjoying the warmth and weight on Sylus on top of him. This is nice… Maybe he needed it more than he thought he had. For a long moment , neither of them say anything, just basking like a couple of big cats. Zayne shivers once or twice at the feeling of Sylus’ breath ghosting over his bare stomach through his nose, twisting a bit in his arms as his fingers squeeze at his waist. It almost tickles.
Then his eyes crack open when he feels the firm press of lips against his skin, his hand stilling in Sylus’ hair and tightening around the back of his neck when the man just smiles and presses another, firmer kiss against him, letting his tongue loll out as he licks a hot stripe from the bone of his hip nearly to his belly button.
Zayne’s abs flex instinctively at the sensation, and he can feel the lazy smile that stretches across Sylus’ lips as he tilts his head and does it again to the other side, pressing his face into the soft dark hair peeking out of his trousers.
“Ah, I should have known you had ulterior motives for wanting to come over.” Zayne huffs, his voice coming out less steady than he’d like it to. Sylus just hums and starts working on sucking a bruise into the v of his hips, hard enough that Zayne lets out a little grunt before he lets the skin go, admiring the sight for a moment and letting a long finger press on it. Then he scratches his nails through the coarse hair before hooking two of them into Zayne’s trousers. Without a thought, he tilts his hips upwards, as if to allow the man better access to him.
“Is that a complaint I hear?” Sylus raises a brow at him, and Zayne tightens his fingers in his hair, tugging enough to pull his head back a bit more, his eyes darker than they were a few moments ago. Sylus just groans in bliss at the feeling and almost arches for more. His fingers curl tighter into Zayne’s pants, barely underneath the band of his underwear.
“If it is, it’s only because you seem so intent on teasing me.” And Sylus chuckles at the way Zayne sounds almost like he’s pouting. It’s cute on him. He lets his fingers loosen in the white hair, and Sylus leans back down, nuzzling his face back into the coarse hair on his stomach, and sliding his hand to flick open the button of his pants. He can’t seem to help pressing another kiss to his abdomen, just to see the way Zayne sucks his stomach in with a breath.
“I can’t help it… You’re adorable when you’re upset, kitten.”
“Really.” Never in his life has Zayne had anyone say such a thing to him, but of course Sylus is the one person who is entirely unthreatened by his wrath. Or maybe he just likes to see how far he can press his buttons before the man truly fights back.
“Mmhmm…” Sylus sighs, and smiles again as he feels Zayne’s breath hitch when he presses another firm kiss onto his stomach, sucking another mark into the skin just above the first one. By now, he can feel the twitch of his cock starting to grow underneath his arm, maybe about half hard now.
“Sylus…” Now his voice is almost pleading, and Sylus meets the doctor’s eyes to see his brows furrowed, and a subtle blush coloring his ears. Deliberately, Sylus presses the heel of his palm onto Zayne’s cock as he leans up a bit. Zayne breathes harshly out his nose, his frown deepening. By now, he’s caught onto the fact that he’s being teased very much on purpose.
“Yes, gorgeous?”
Now Zayne lets out a frustrated breath. One thing he’s always been terrible at is admitting what it is that he wants, and just once… Sylus really wants to hear him say all of the vulgar things that must be running through his head right now. Just once, he wants to see him lose control and let go of all of that herculean restraint he employs every day.
“Are you going to play with your food all night?” Oh. Now that he hadn’t expected, and Sylus can’t hold back his laughter. He uses the hand around Zayne’s waist to pull him up a little higher, and now his back is almost in a perfect arch. He looks incredible like this, flushed and a little irritated.
“Hmm… Well, you know, it is quite the spread… I’m not sure where to start.” Sylus punctuates his point by letting his eyes rake up and down the man beneath him, lingering on the way his shirt has bunched up almost to his ribcage by now.
“Shall I decide for you, then?” Zayne readjusts his grip in Sylus’ hair, running his fingers through it before guiding him down between his legs, bringing Sylus face to face with the bulge in his dark pants, and as if to prove his point, he even rolls up his hips. Sylus groans, feeling heat start to grow between his own legs at the tingling feeling of his hair being tugged.
There’s the sound of a thud on the rug next to them, and then Sylus realizes that Zayne dropped his phone, freeing his hand to get between them and pull down the zipper. Sylus uses the hand hooked into the waistband to pull them down, just enough to free his cock. It flops out, almost hitting him in the face as it comes to lie heavy and hot between his legs.
“Hm…” Sylus noses into the velvety flesh, inhaling the musky scent of him, a bit stronger than usual, given the fact that Zayne last showered in the morning before work. “Unlike you, I don’t usually start with dessert, doctor.” He licks a long stripe from the tip to the base, feeling Zayne’s cock twitch against his tongue, and the fingers in his hair squeeze again.
“Sylus, please,” He says, his voice tight, and Sylus glances up to see that his eyes are closed now, lips parted slightly.
“Please what?” He gives a soft kiss to the base, rubbing at his waist with a thumb. He wants to hear the doctor say it.
Zayne lets out a little whine and his eyes open enough to look down at the sight of Sylus between his legs, looking so smug as he presses the gentlest little kisses to his aching cock. He knows what the man is asking, but it’s humiliating every time.
“Please,” Zayne tries to push him down onto him again, but Sylus just turns his head to the side, looking at him expectantly. He does, however, grant him the relief of wrapping a large hand around the base of his cock, and Zayne’s jaw clicks shut as a harsh breath forces its way out of his nose. “Please,” he tries again, and his eyes close as he speaks, like he’s unable to look at Sylus, “Your mouth…”
“What about it, kitten?” Sylus wraps his lips around the tip and gives a gentle suck. He intends to let go and continue teasing the man some more, but it seems that Zayne is already at his breaking point, because before he can, the doctor simultaneously rolls his hips up, and pushes Sylus’ head down. Sylus makes a small, muffled sound of surprise as he feels the heavy weight of Zayne’s cock push into his mouth, and very nearly into the back of his throat.
He must have been more strung out tonight than either of them realized. Not that Sylus is complaining. His eyes widen with surprise, and then drift closed as he moans around the heat in his mouth.
Zayne’s head falls back, and he can’t seem to stop the small whimper that escapes him from the pure relief he feels at the pleasure. Sylus can feel himself getting harder, his jeans starting to feel almost uncomfortably tight as Zayne starts to rock into his mouth, and he meets him as he starts to try and fuck up into his mouth, bobbing his head down with every thrust.
It isn’t long before the doctor is panting, opening his eyes, blown out with lust as he watches Sylus take his cock, and the way Sylus squeezes his waist, encouraging him to keep moving. Once or twice the man chokes, little bits of spit dribbling from the corners of his mouth, and his eyes tear up a bit, but Sylus never relents, instead watching Zayne intently as he takes his cock.
“Hah–” Zayne bites his lip and groans deep in his throat, pushing down a bit more on Sylus’ head, starting to guide his head faster on his cock, and Sylus accepts it without complaint. In fact, he moans loud enough that Zayne can feel the vibration, feeling like he might be about to go mad from the sensation joining in with the wet warmth of his tongue against the underside. He’s never considered himself an overly sexual, or vulgar person, but the sight of Sylus’ lips stretched wide around him, shining with spit, has him twitching. The next time he ends up with his own fist wrapped around his cock, he knows that this is going to be the image that comes to his mind.
“S-Sylus– hnnn–” Zayne whines as he feels his orgasm start to approach quicker than he’d expected, the rhythm of his hips starting to falter as his cock twitches hard, and his balls start to draw tight up into his body. Sylus doesn’t need to be told what’s about to happen, he can already taste Zayne’s salty precum on his tongue, the way he’s flexing in his mouth, how the hand in his hair is now holding so tightly it burns. Sylus rolls his hips down against the cushion of the couch, enjoying the delicious heat pulsing between his legs.
As an answer to the question Zayne doesn’t seem to have the presence of mind to ask, Sylus buries his nose all the way down into his pubic hair, taking him down to the base and feeling his throat constrict as he struggles not to gag on his cock, and Zayne cries out.
On top of him the way he is, Sylus can feel how his back arches underneath him, how every beautiful muscle in his body goes taut, the way his abs flex and his stomach sucks in while he struggles to breathe for a moment. Zayne’s head flies back and his eyes squeeze tightly shut while his hips rock in shallow movements, like he’s trying to find a way to grind deeper into his throat.
As deep as he is, Sylus really can barely taste the hot cum that starts to fill his throat, swallowing in instinct as Zayne’s cock pulses in his mouth, his tongue flat against the underside. With each twitch of his cock, Sylus hears the small noises from Zayne, and the way his whole body tenses and relaxes until finally, he starts to come down, growing heavier on top of his arm as he tries to catch his breath.
With a pleased hum, Sylus pulls off, watching the way that his cock starts to flop back down, shining and wet with his own spit, and he has to take a moment to catch his own breath, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his sweater.
Zayne falls almost boneless, his chest heaving, and eyes closed for a few long moments before he looks back down at Sylus, looking incredibly smug, his eyes still dark with lust as he starts to crawl atop the doctor to press a soft kiss onto his lips.
He sighs into it, and then grunts as he feels Sylus’ insistent erection pressing against his softening, sensitive length.
“Hm… Maybe you’re right, doctor. Having dessert first can be… Very enjoyable.”
Zayne hums and wraps a hand around Sylus hip, reaching underneath his shirt and trailing his fingers up his ribs, the touch featherlight. Sylus can’t help but shiver at the touch.
“I’m always right, now I think you owe me my dessert, don’t you?” He raises a brow at Sylus, who can’t help but chuckle, until he feels Zayne’s other hand reach between his legs to start kneading at his cock. The amused sound is cut off by a groan, and Sylus drops his head onto Zayne’s shoulder. Shit, he really did get himself worked up just from having his mouth on Zayne, even just that touch through his jeans has him breathing a little heavier into the doctor’s neck.
“Shit,” He mumbles, holding himself up over the other man as he gets his hand far enough up his sweater to tweak a nipple. The other wastes no time, opening his jeans with the efficiency that he’s known for, and tugging at his underwear to get his cock out. Zayne hisses a bit as he feels it fall free and brush against his own for a moment. He’s still so sensitive.
Sylus’ eyes are closed when he feels Zayne’s fingers against his lips, and he opens them slightly to see the almost arrogant look on his face. He rubs the pad of his thumb against Sylus’ nipple, and the man gasps as he suddenly feels a very distinct chill against it, pebbling it in seconds before dissipating, and then two fingers roll it between them, as if to warm it up.
When Sylus gasps a second time, Zayne presses both of his fingers into Sylus’ mouth, wetting them before moving back down to wrap his hand around his length, the glide made a bit easier with his own spit. Sylus moans, pressing down into the hand playing with his chest, and Zayne hums, watching his through lidded eyes.
“You liked that.” Zayne observes, and Sylus jerks again when he feels the same chill against his other nipple, his breath coming out unsteadily, and Zayne can surely feel the way his cock twitches in his hand as he continues to pump it, twisting his wrist and squeezing down when he gets to the head.
“That’s…” Sylus grunts as he feels the chill from Zayne’s fingers intensify, and then leave entirely, his thumb once again starting to rub soothingly into his nipple, “That’s a nice trick… You’ve, hah, been holding out on me.” It’s a little difficult to get the words out, his hips rolling into Zayne’s hand as he strokes him a little faster.
For his part, Zayne just hums, and starts to squeeze his cock a little harder on the upstroke, feeling how Sylus tenses above him, turning into his shock of white hair and breathing into his ear, “I wonder…” He murmurs, and Sylus chokes on an inhale as Zayne twists his nipple harder this time before moving back to the other one, “Do you think I could make you cum just from this?” He asks it in a soft voice, like he might be asking about the weather almost, and Sylus feels his orgasm hit him very suddenly as Zayne once again chills his fingers with his evol while he continues to twist and pull, his hand moving quicker on his cock.
Sylus moans into his shoulder, the sound almost teetering into a whine as his arms tremble on either side of Zayne, and Zayne makes a small sound himself as Sylus comes all over his own spent cock and bare stomach, warm and sticky, and definitely making a mess he’s not excited to clean up later.
His breath comes out in harsh pants as Zayne works him through it, hips rolling into his hand, the cold from his evol now gone as he strokes his nails up and down Sylus’ side, until his tense muscles start to relax, and now it’s his turn to go boneless for a moment as he sags against Zayne’s shoulder, breathing hard through his nose.
He drops Sylus’ cock and crimson eyes peek open just in time to see Zayne bringing the hand that was wrapped around him up to his lips, tongue darting out to lick at the mess on his fingers. Sylus’ eyes open a bit wider at the sight of it. This man always finds new ways to surprise him, but Zayne just looks at him as he licks the last bits off, seemingly unperturbed.
“I told you I wanted my dessert too.” He says, as if it’s obvious, and Sylus can’t help but laugh tiredly as his body drops on top of him, nuzzling into his neck with a little huff.
Zayne’s arm automatically wraps around his back and scratches up and down for a moment, both of them just enjoying the warmth of each other, the heat of where their bare skin touches.
But the doctor can’t help himself, only allowing the peace of the afterglow to linger for a minute or two before he speaks up again. “We should clean up.” He murmurs, his voice already thick with the desire to sleep.
“The only way you’re leaving right now is if you can toss me onto the floor.” Sylus rumbles, holding him a little tighter, and he can almost hear Zayne’s mind whirring as he considers the pros and cons of doing exactly that.
He’s silent for another moment as he decides how to respond.
“We’d be more comfortable in my bed, you know.”
Sylus groans, and to show his displeasure, nips at Zayne’s throat, pulling a gasp from the doctor before he’s rolling off of him and they both begin to make their way to the bathroom to clean themselves. The second they’re done, Sylus has every intention of wrapping Zayne up in his arms and keeping him there until the man has to claw his way free.
Summary: Samira and reader collectively lose their shit when their bf comes in to the PTMC in his SWAT gear. They also lose their shit when they learn that he got hurt.
Summary : Dex loves being a father, but one child-free weekend is all it takes to remind you he’s always going to be your embarrassingly needy husband first.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x reader (she/her) | you and Dex have a son called Leo
Warnings/tags : dad/husband!Dex x mom/wife!reader, fluff-ish! explicit sexual content (no anatomical detail as per usual), service switch!Dex dirty talk, possessive behaviour, tracker mention, praise kink, light power dynamics, hair-pulling/scratching, overstimulation, implied all-day sex. Service switch! Dex. A character called Jonathan is mentioned to be your best friend. (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 4k
Requested by : anon
Notes : Please bear with me, I’ll try to get through all the comments for this series ASAP, feel free to send more ideas in the meantime. Enjoy!
Could be read as a one-shot, but you can read more stories in this universe here!
Dex loved Leo.
He loved his son so much it made him twice as dangerous and three times more paranoid. He checked the windows multiple times at night. He could identify three different kinds of “Daddy!” from across the apartment and tell you whether it meant hungry, sleepy, bored, or trying to climb something he should not be climbing.
He loved Leo.
He also missed you.
Not in the sweet, sentimental way, though there was plenty of that, too. But he was satisfied in that department. After all, he now spent most of his evenings cuddling up to you and Leo, being a father, being a family.
No, he missed you in the way that made his teeth grind when you walked past him in one of his old shirts that had gotten too tight for him. He missed you in the way his hand would find your hip in the kitchen, fingers digging in for half a second before Leo came barrelling in with a toy dinosaur and a very urgent question about whether sharks had friends.
You had a sex life. It was just… hidden, as it should be with a child in the house. It had become a series of quickies instead of what Dex called “proper” sex.
Sometimes, it was a hand over your mouth in the ensuite bathroom when Leo had his one-hour naps. Sometimes, it was Dex on his knees between your thighs during Leo’s nursery hours, one eye still half on the clock because pick-up was at three. Sometimes, you were bent over on the mattress with the TV just to hide the sound, Dex pressed against your back, breathing hot against your ear as you whispered, “we have to be quiet, baby.” After all, it was two AM and Leo was fast asleep.
He hated it.
Well, not the sex. Never the sex.
He hated having to hold back. He hated having you biting your own wrist because you couldn’t make noise. He hated stopping when you were both still coming down from a high because the nursery called to say Leo had eaten half a crayon. He hated pretending he didn’t want to drag you back to bed every single time you smiled at him over your coffee.
So when Jonathan finally moved in with his boyfriend and mentioned, casually, that the second bedroom was finally set up, Dex said, “Leo could sleep over there.”
“Oh, baby,” you said, nearly melted. “You’d let him do that?”
Dex blinked.
You looked at him like this was growth. Like this was him learning to trust the world, one sleepover at a time.
“You trust him,” you said, smiling, folding one of Leo’s tiny shirts, looking at him like he had just taken some huge emotional step forward. Like he was healing. Like this was about trust and healthy boundaries and letting your son spend time with people who loved him.
Dex stared at you for one long second. Then he said, “Yes.”
Which was not technically a lie.
He did trust Jonathan because you trusted Jonathan.
That was how Dex’s world worked. He didn’t really believe in people. He believed in you. If you said Johnathan was safe, then Johnathan was safe enough. With precautions.
After all, already had a tracker in Leo’s shoe.
Just in case.
But you didn’t need to know that right then, because you were smiling at him like he was becoming a better man, and Dex didn’t have the heart to tell you that his intents were significantly less noble.
You bit your lip. “That’s really good, Dex.”
Dex nodded once, solemnly, like his motives were not currently dragging themselves through every filthy thought he had been forcing down for months.
You asked Jonathan if he could take Leo for one night.
Then Dex, with absolutely no shame, asked for two.
Jonathan squinted at him and said yes, as if saying I know what you’re doing but I just can’t prove it yet.
“Two?” you asked later, amused.
Dex adjusted Leo’s overnight bag like the placement of his pajamas was a matter of national security. “He likes Jonathan.”
That was how Leo ended up being picked up by Uncle Jonathan on a Friday night. You kissed Leo goodbye at the door and told him to be good. Dex crouched down, fixed the strap on his bag, and said, very seriously, “Call Mommy if you need anything.”
Leo nodded. “Okay, Daddy.”
“And don’t open the door when Uncle Jonathan’s not there.”
“I know.”
“And if there’s an emergency—”
“Dex,” you said gently.
Dex stopped.
Leo hugged him around the neck. “I’ll be okay, Daddy.”
For one second your heart ached because he really was trying. He really did love him. He really was letting him go.
Then the door shut, and the apartment was quiet.
You turned to Dex with a kind smile. “I’m proud of you.”
Dex lifted his eyes to you, sheepish and loaded all at once, though the former didn’t last very long.
And that was when you realized.
Oh.
Oh.
That was not the look of a man reflecting on his progress as a father. That was the look of a man who had just successfully cleared the house.
“Dex,” you said slowly.
He stepped toward you.
You tilted your head “You did not send our son to my best friend’s place just so you could—”
“Yes.”
Your mouth fell open. “Benjamin.”
“You trust Jonathan,” he said, calm and absolutely shameless, even though you only called him that when you were annoyed. “Leo is safe.”
You folded your arms. “And?”
Dex’s eyes dropped to your mouth. “And I miss my wife.”
That shut you up. Because fuck, when said it like that...
It wasn’t charming or teasing. It wasn’t even fully dirty at first. Just honest and hungry in a way that made your stomach turn over.
“Dex…” you whined a little as his arms wrapped around you.
“I’m sorry,” Dex said, the apology coming out almost muffled against the side of your neck. His hands were gripping, careful at first, like he was trying to prove he could behave even while every part of him clearly had no intention of doing so.
Fuck.
“Mmm. I’m sorry, baby,” he murmured again, mouth brushing the sensitive place beneath your ear. “I just wanted time alone with you.”
You were supposed to stay mad.
Really, you were.
Because he had let you stand there, proud of him, all wide-eyed with affection, while he stood in front of you pretending this was some great parental milestone and not a tactical operation.
“You are unbelievable,” you said, but your voice had already lost too much of its edge.
Dex noticed and used this time to slide under the hem of your shirt, palms warm against your waist, thumbs pressing into skin like he had been thinking about doing it all day. Maybe all week. Maybe for months.
“We have sex,” you managed, even as your head tipped back before you could stop it.
Dex kissed down your throat, devastatingly patient. “Not like this.”
Your breath caught.
He lifted his head just enough to look at you, and the expression on his face was too soft to be smug and too hungry to be innocent. His eyes moved over you like he was remembering every version of you he had ever had.
“Not like before,” he said. “Not like the old apartment.”
Your mouth went dry.
“The old apartment?” you repeated, weakly, because apparently your body had decided to betray every principle you thought had.
Dex’s fingers flexed against your ribs, trailing the line of your bra, pawing and unhooking it at the back.
“Yeah,” he said, and there was a little smile in his voice now, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. “When I could have you wherever I wanted.”
“Dex.”
“The couch,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth. “The kitchen counter, the hallway, that stupid little table you kept saying we were going to break.”
You swallowed. “We did break it.”
Dex’s smile finally fully formed on his mouth. “Yeah.”
You should have pushed him away. You should have told him that this was not the point, that he could not just send Leo away for two nights and then look at you like that and expect you to forget you were annoyed.
But his hands were under your shirt now, and his mouth was on your jawline, and his body was crowding yours back against the door like he had been waiting forever to stop pretending he was a reasonable man.
“You used to make so much noise for me,” he murmured.
Your stomach flipped. “Benjamin.”
“I know,” he said immediately, smaller this time. One hand came up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness that made the heat tummy pool low. “I know. I’m sorry.”
And he was.
He was sorry. He knew he had been selfish. He knew this had been more about him than he had let on. But he also looked at you like he had missed you so badly it had been eating him alive .
“I love being his dad,” Dex said, forehead pressing to yours. “I do. I love him. I love him so much I don’t know what to do with it half the time.”
“I know,” you whispered.
His eyes shut for a second. “But I miss you,” he said. “I miss this. I miss not having to stop. I miss not having to listen for footsteps. I miss having you without half my brain waiting for Leo to wake up.”
Your anger dipped so fast it was almost embarrassing.
Because you knew Dex loved Leo completely. He loved being a father in the only way Dex could love anything, which meant his entire nervous system had become a weapon.
But he loved you first. He had loved you before the nursery bags and bedtime stories and little shoes by the door. He had loved you before this spine was inhuman, before Fisk took you. He loved you in that old apartment, on every surface, in every second for the rest of his life.
And he missed his wife. Not Leo’s mommy. No, he got her every day. And though he loved you now more than anything in the world, he missed bratty, whiny, car-sex-in-the-FBI-garage you.
“You could have just told me that,” you pouted.
Dex opened his eyes. “Would you have said yes to two nights?”
You stared at him and sighed, though your lips twitched before you could stop them. “Unbelievable.”
“I know.”
“You put a tracker on him, didn’t you?”
Dex went very still, and you sighed.
“It’s a very small tracker,” he managed.
“Oh my God.”
You wanted to be mad again. You really did. You wanted to lecture him about boundaries and normal parenting and how other fathers managed sleepovers without turning them into covert security operations.
But then he kissed you again, sweet and apologetic, and your hands slid up his chest anyway.
Why were you mad again?
Something about growth. Something about trust. Something about your husband being a paranoid, tactical, emotionally stunted man who loved your son so much it scared him and wanted you so much he had apparently planned an entire weekend around it.
“You’re still in trouble,” you whispered against his mouth.
Dex nodded. “Okay.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“You don’t get to just fuck your way out of this.”
His hand slid around your waist, pulling you closer.
“No?” he asked, unconvinced.
“Hmm,” you said, already breathless.
Dex kissed the corner of your mouth, then your cheek. Then, he nipped at your lower lips.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Then I’ll make it up to you.”
—
Five minutes later, you were on the kitchen counter, thighs trembling around Dex’s shoulders, one hand braced behind you and the other twisted helplessly in his hair.
He had gone to his knees like worship.
He was not even pretending like he was anything other than starved for you. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to keep you exactly where he wanted you, dragging you closer every time your body tried to squirm away from the intensity.
“Dex,” you mewled, and your voice cracked on his name.
Your hand flew to your mouth out of habit. Out of pure, pathetic muscle memory.
The second you did it, Dex stopped.
Not fully, but just enough to make you feel the loss, enough for his mouth to hover against your core while he made the most wrecked, desperate sound you had ever heard from him.
A whine, you realized, frustrated and almost hurt.
His fingers closed around your wrist, gentle but firm, pulling your hand away from your lips, pinning them to the marble.
“No,” he breathed, voice ruined. “Baby, don’t do that.”
You stared down at him, already dizzy, already too far gone for this conversation.
“The neighbours,” you whispered.
Dex’s eyes lifted to yours, deeply devoted, “they won’t hear.”
You blinked. “What?”
He kissed the inside of your thigh, tender enough to make you shiver.
“They won’t.”
Your brain struggled through the haze of his tongue lapping you, like kitten licks for now. It would be adorable if it wasn’t somewhere so fucking obscene. “Dex. What does that mean?”
“I soundproofed the shared walls.”
For one second, everything stopped. From your breath to your thoughts to your ability to pretend you were still even remotely in control.
“You what?”
“Last week,” he said, as calmly as if he had changed a lightbulb. “When you were at work.”
You stared at him. And the bastard looked up and looked proud.
“Oh my hod,” you whispered. “You had a whole fucking game plan.”
His hands tightened around your thighs. “Hmm.”
“So you could hear me?”
His eyes shifted, almost wicked. That was the wrong question. Or maybe it was exactly the right one.
Dex’s mouth parted slightly, his breath warm against you, and suddenly he looked less like your husband and more like a man who had been surviving on scraps for months and had finally been given permission to feast.
“So I wouldn’t have to stop,” he said.
Your whole body went weak.
Fuck, it worked.
“You’re insane,” you said, but it came out like praise.
Dex smiled against you.“I know.”
“You’re actually insane.”
“I know.”
You opened your mouth to argue. But then he pressed his tongue flat against you and the argument died immediately.
Your fingers tightened in his hair, head tipping back. The first real sound that left you was small, shaky, almost embarrassed.
Dex groaned like it hurt him.
“Mm, there,” he murmured, dragging the word against your skin. “That’s it.”
You tried to look down at him, but the sight nearly undid you.
Dex on his knees in your kitchen, sleeves pushed up, hands spread possessively over your thighs, face flushed with hunger and triumph. He looked focused, like the entire world had narrowed to you, your body, your voice, and the way you fell apart when he refused to let you hide from him.
You made another sound, louder this time.
His eyes shut.
“Fuck,” he breathed, almost reverent. “I missed that.”
The heat in your face burned worse than anything else.
“Dex—”
“No,” he said, and his hand slid up to your waist, holding you steady when you nearly slipped against the counter from all the slick mess you were making. “Don’t get shy now, baby.”
You shuddered.
He kissed you down there again, slower, meaner, sweeter somehow, like he was proving a point.
Fuck, he was right.
You’d forgotten how loud you used to be.
You’d forgotten the old apartment, the nice one Dex used to have before you, the thin curtains, the table, the way Dex used to fuck you in every surface and like he needed to mark the whole place with proof that you loved him. You’d what it felt like to have nowhere to be quiet for.
You broke on a gasp, and this time you didn’t cover your mouth.
Dex looked up at you like you had given him something holy. “That’s my girl.”
And then he kept going.
After that, Dex got worse.
Because once you stopped covering your mouth, once you let him hear you, he lost whatever restraint he had been pretending to have.
After you came on his mouth on the counter, he wasted no time bending you over.
When you yelped, he only smiled.
“That’s it,” he said, voice rough. “Don’t hide from me.”
“Dex—”
“Missed this,” he said, stretching in you as you let out a lewd whine. “Missed you being needy for me.”
There were rules, of course.
Leo’s room was out of bounds, obviously. It was a no brainer. The couch was out too, because Leo played there too much, built pillow forts there, watched cartoons there, fell asleep there with sticky fingers and his dinosaur blanket.
Most everything else was fair game.
The whole weekend became heat and orders and laughter that kept turning into gasps. You were on top of him half the time, because he asked you to. You scratched your nails down his back hard enough that his breath caught and his eyes went unfocused for half a second.
Then he laughed, pleased with himself. Clearly, it didn’t take much for you to get back into form.
“Oh,” he murmured, almost smiling as he tried to edge himself in you yet again. “T-there she is.”
“Shut up.”
“No.” His hands found your hips. “Fuck, I missed you mean.”
He got worse when you pulled his hair. Worse when you told him what to do. Worse when you got impatient and shoved at his shoulder, because Dex, terrifyingly, liked being handled by you. He liked being told where to go. He liked being praised when he listened. Still, he would switch the roles in a heartbeat if that was what you wanted.
“Come on, baby,” he murmured later, voice ruined against your ear, fingers deep in you. “You can give me one more.”
“Dex, I…”
“You used to be so good at this, huh? Going again when I tell you to.” His mouth brushed nipped at your jaw. “I know you still are.”
Your whole body went hot. “You’re disgusting.”
“I know.”
“Filthy.”
“I know.”
And that was the thing. He kept saying it so shamelessly, knowing he had nothing else to hide behind. Fuck, he looked so conceited once he realise he’d pulled this off.
By Saturday night, you were wrecked and giddy and half-feral, wearing his shirt badly and telling him he was the most deranged husband alive.
Dex only kissed your shoulder and said, “But I’m yours.”
As if that explained the way he melted when you praised him, then got worse when you pulled him closer and told him not to be so gentle.
By Sunday morning, the apartment was ruined in invisible ways.
There was no evidence left, because everything had to be spotless before Leo came home. The sheets were changed. The counters were wiped and bleached. The hallway was clear and the bathroom was scrubbed. So really, nothing was out of place except the ache in your thighs, the scratches on his back, and the marks you both left on each other's bodies.
But hey. Mission accomplished, right?
Dex laid beside you, one hand on your waist, looking pleased with himself.
“You’re smug,” you mumbled.
“I’m happy.” He smiled into your shoulder.
You closed your eyes, exhausted, sore, and deeply annoyed by how peaceful you felt.
Then you thought to yourself, traitorously: Leo was gonna have sleepovers once a month.
—
Leo came running in that afternoon, bag bouncing against his little back, dinosaur clutched under one arm.
“Mommy!”
You crouched just enough to catch him, kissing the top of his head as he barreled into you. “Hi, baby. Did you have fun?”
He nodded quickly, already halfway through his report before you had even finished hugging him. “I had pancakes and Mark has a biiiig plant and I slept in the blue room and I wasn’t scared.”
“That sounds amazing,” you said, smoothing his hair back.
Leo pulled away just enough to look at you properly. Not at your clothes or at anything obvious. He just looked at your face, with that strange little focus he got.
His brows pinched together. Maybe it was his superhuman precognition, knowing your legs would hurt when you got up. Maybe you just looked a bit… drained.
“Mommy’s tired.”
You went very still. Behind you, Dex froze, too.
Jonathan, still standing by the door with Leo’s overnight bag in one hand, looked between all three of you and raised an eyebrow.
You smiled too quickly. “A little bit, sweetheart.”
Leo turned to Dex with the full seriousness of a child delivering medical advice. “Daddy, we should let Mommy rest today.”
“Good idea, Leo.” Dex’s mouth curved up, but he recovered quickly, pressing a kiss to Leo’s temple like he was not the entire reason Mommy needed rest in the first place.
Jonathan looked at Dex. Then at you. He raised his hands and stepped back with a sigh like, I knew it.
three's a crowd~! (logan and scott have a.. bet to settle..) logan howlett x reader x scott summers
navigation ♡ "f(uck)'me" masterlist ♡ marvel masterlist ♡ taglist form here
★word count: 1.3 k
★description: one night, over drinks, logan and scott have a dangerous bet. and there's only one way to settle it...
★content: this is smut. don't like, don't read! MDNI! mfm threesome, humiliation kink?, scott summers cuck, logan fucks, eating out
★dt: @thceseus and @theworstwolvie <333
roe speaks: ...ik i dont really write marvel anymore but come on man... anyway this is not proofread, and is very much a quick drabble type smut <3
it starts off simple enough. a bet. a bet between two weird frenemies, who dont quite get along, but can get behind this,
"bet ya cant last"
"bet ya i can"
"what, as a cuck? ya think ya can last that long?"
"fuck it. tomorrow night. the three of us."
you had zoned out of the conversation, only zoning back in at this crucial moment,
"hey guys - what's happening?"
and ten minutes later, the three of you were buzzing with a strange excitement. the type that had you impatient, unable to sit still at all. it was luck, that had given the three of you the day off - letting you use the day to prep (an everything shower, doing your hair and make up just right to be ruined - the usual), and the other two to stew in their impatience.
scott walks into your room first, a determined look on his face. he says nothing, going straight to the chair you had specifically angled opposite your bed.
the two of you dont wait long, fortunately, as logan bursts into the room, a scowl on his face. he's already pissed and irritated as it is - a good sign, of course. the rougher the better, no? he points at you, raising his eyebrows and gesturing to the bed.
he only gets halfway before noticing scott,
"so ya got here already, huh? how long d'ya think he'll last, peaches?"
"one round."
"if that.."
scott frowns, shaking his head and huffing as he crosses his arms,
"you can't be serious, logan. one round? really? you both have no faith in me, huh?"
the shared grin between you and logan says more than enough, as scott leans back in his chair. logan turns you to face him, lips pressing against your neck as he inhales your scent. the growl that rises from the back of his throat is enough to have your hips already bucking in his grasp. he tuts in response, shaking his head,
"patience, peaches. nothing comes that easy - not even scott.."
you whine and pout, and roll your eyes. logan pulls you closer - tearing off the brand new lingerie you had put on especially for tonight as you moan and complain<
"that was new!"
"i'll buy more."
"with what, lo"
"scott's money..?"
scott sighs, hand already reaching over his aching bulge as logan spins you to face him. he thinks about refusing - complaining and arguing - but the sight of you, torn apart with your hair already a mess as logan practically manhandles you already has him flustered.
yeah, scott's screwed.
logan reaches down, fingers touching around desperately to find that sweet spot he so easily teases over as you arch into his touch. and as his fingers gloss over your aching bud, you tense ever so slightly - a light gasp escaping you as logan doubles down. two fingers press down onto your clit, rubbing hard as scott watches.
you try at first not to make direct eye contact with him, but you really have no choice. especially when he's sat with his dick in his hand - hard and throbbing as he strokes himself. you can practically hear logan smirking behind you as he spreads your legs open, tearing off his own boxers to reveal his thick, veiny cock.
and a quick one two pump later, logan has you hovering above him. he pulls your hips down slow (planning to tease scott, of course. the longer you go on, the harder for him. the better for logan, duh). each inch that passes into your folds is agonisingly filling, and he does not stop until he fills you - to the brim.
"f-fuck, lo, m'so full.."
"oh, i know you are peaches. and look at scott. look at him. dick in his hand, watchin' us like that. ya like that, scotty? yeah, i bet ya fuckin' do..."
scott, who does in fact have his dick in his hand, is far too busy trying not to cum at the sight of the two of you to respond to logan's teasing. he's too busy trying to ignore the heat in his body rising with every slow thrust logan takes.
logan has your legs spread wide open - practically pulling you apart with his hands under your knees, tugging your body up and down as you try to keep up. every thrust has your eyes rolling back, seeing stars as logan seems to be the only one of the three of you with any kind of sense at the time.
scott's no better than you, of course. his eyes are trained - fixed - on where you and logan join. watching how he enters and exits you, thrusting and pumping faster and faster. one of logan's hands leaves your leg to rub your clit again as you try to curl up (not that he lets you - the other hand now holds both legs as open as possible).
the sight has scott unable to hold back - unable to control himself as he jerks his hand back and forth, faster and faster. he cant hold back the moans that spill out, hips thrusting up into his own fist as he really, really tries his best.
"fuck me, scott - shoulda done this sooner!"
"sh-shutthefucku-! up, log-! logan- fuck!"
he only chuckles in response.
you're past sense at this point, babbling and begging for him to go faster, faster, please, please, please, logan! because you just need it so, so bad! you're begging him to cum, and to let you cum - words spiral out of your mouth far before you can even think of them.
his hand leaves your clit, returning to hold you open as he addresses scott again,
"scott. look - fuckin' watch me. watch me go in and out, right now. hey - hey! ya lookin'? good, good, fuckin' watch me fill her up like this. fuck, peach, ya feel so good like this. ya like this? havin' scotty watch us fuck?"
"f-fuck! yes, yes, yes!"
"good girl."
ohhhh, he's evil, logan. he knows that'll drive you over the edge, have the tears rolling out as you cum hard and fast - shaking in his arms as he does not stop. he rides you through your orgasm, pushing you further and further as your nails dig into his arms - the only thing keeping you somewhat sane.
scott, who has been holding himself back just enough to keep himself from spraying bucketloads of cum all over, finally fails. the sight of you cumming like that has him unable to hold back as he cums. thick ropes jerk out of him, landing on the two of you as he continues to stroke his cock. his pace slows down to a more languid, lazy one as he relaxes back into his chair, breath slowly evening out.
logan's last to cum, it seems. he follows soon after scott, shooting up into you as he holds onto you - tight. it's hot, spilling all over you, and out onto your thighs. you whine and moan as he lowers his head to your neck, breathing in the sweet scent of sweat and sex that has attached itself to the two of you.
the three of you stay still for a while, gathering yourselves. and when you think it's over, logan pulls out - laying you down on the bed before calling scott over.
"eat her out, scotty. come on, man, ya gotta do somethin'."
and he does just that. scott summers drops to his knees at the edge of the bed, tongue lapping up each and every thick drop of cum that fills your pussy. his tongue reaches around - dipping between your folds, dragging cum up to your clit as he practically slurps at you.
this time, logan's the one to watch, a smile on his face (from the bet, or the sex?).
and when the three of you are done, you all finally lie in bed together. logan's arms wrap around you - kisses pressed to your shoulders and neck as he reassures you with sweet affirmations. scott's arms snake around your waist, head resting in the crook of your neck as he presses his own sweet kisses across your chest.
WARNINGS: age gap. domestic violence (NOT involving George!)
WORD COUNT: 2.8k
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I cannot believe the positive feedback I have received on this! I am so glad people are enjoying this as much as I am enjoying writing it. The people yearn for George Hardy! Anyways I have a lot of ideas for this series and I hope to keep it going. I hope you guys like it!
George wakes before dawn, as he always does. The rain has stopped, no more sharp thuds banging against the tin trailer. His back aches from the cot, the thin mattress never showing mercy to anyone, but he pushes himself up. He disassembles the cot back into a table, being as hushed as possible, not wanting to disturb you.
You are still asleep in his bed, curled up in a fetal position beneath the comforter. George stops a few feet from you, examining your face. The bruise has spread, dark purple pooling beneath the gauze on your cheekbone, reaching towards your eye. It makes his jaw tighten, but his anger won’t help you. Rest will.
He pulls on his boots and slips on his jacket, opening the door as quietly as he can. The world outside is still dripping, glistening from the first pale light of morning. The air is crisp, fresh from the storm, and the grass is heavy with dew. He makes his way to the barn to check on his beloved sheep. He sees Lily first, her wool still damp from her night adventure, but her eyes are bright. She looks at him curiously.
George bends down in front of her. “You did good, girl.” He places his palm on her forehead, feeling her lean into his touch.
He checks on the rest of the flock, ensuring everybody is accounted for. Satisfied, he gathers everyone and brings them out to the field. The sheep come trotting eagerly, bleating for breakfast. He distributes extra feed to the lambs and Cloud, his pregnant ewe. He reckons she’s about 40 days along, based on the blood test he performed after she started to isolate from the flock. It had been an accident, after she wandered off into the adjacent field, and George thought she might be embarrassed. But she has no reason to be. There’s always room in his flock for more.
Once the sheep are content, George walks back to the trailer, taking note of the sun that has fully risen beyond the trees. There aren’t too many sunny days in November around Denbrook.
As he approaches the trailer, he hears movement inside. You must be awake. He opens the door to find you sitting at the table, his comforter wrapped around your shoulders.
You look up when he walks in. Your eyes are puffy, the bruised one appearing sore and tender. You pull the comforter tighter around you.
“Good morning.” You try to smile, but it falters, your gaze dropping to the table. “I…I hope it was okay that I helped myself to a glass of water.”
George closes the door behind him, kicking off his boots onto the rubber mat beside the sink. The sight of you wrapped up in his comforter like an injured bird makes his stomach twist. Your wound looks worse in the daylight – an angry purple spreading across your face like a storm cloud.
“Help yourself to whatever you need.” He moves into the tiny kitchen, filling the kettle and setting it atop the stove plate. “How’d you sleep?” He glances back at you over his shoulder.
“Better than I expected,” you admit, offering him a grateful twitch of your lips. “Your bed is…it was very comfortable. Thank you.”
He grunts in acknowledgement, pulling the same mugs from last night out of the sink. He rinses them out before dropping a tea bag into each and pouring in the boiling water, the steam rising up in lazy curls.
“Breakfast.” He sets a mug down in front of you. “I’ve got eggs and bread. Nothing fancy, but it’ll fill your stomach.”
He gathers the ingredients from the fridge as you give a slight nod. He cracks four eggs into a warm skillet, the sizzle filling the quiet room. He slices thick pieces of bread and lays them in the toaster. It’s more than he usually makes for himself, but you look like you haven’t had a proper meal in days. He wishes he had more to offer you.
He slides into the chair across from you, wrapping his hands around his own mug as he lets the eggs cook. “We’ll go look for your bag after we eat.”
“That sounds good.” Your gaze drifts to the window beside you. “I’m not sure how I’ll manage without my phone, but…” You trail off, shrugging your shoulders. “One thing at a time, I guess.”
George studies your profile, the lines of your face marred by bruising. Your shoulders are hunched, like you’re trying to disappear into the comforter. George wonders how long you have been dealing with this. How many times you have had to pick yourself up and carry on after being knocked down.
“A phone is replaceable,” he says. “People aren’t.” He clears his throat, looking back at the stove. “Eggs are ready.” He moves back to the counter, serving up the eggs on two plates, adding the toasted bread alongside them. It feels strange for George, having another person at his table after all these years. But it isn’t an unwelcome discomfort.
He slides your plate towards you before tossing two forks onto the table. “Eat up. You need it.” He takes his seat, watching you. He can see the caution in your eyes, the way you hesitate before picking up your fork like you’re not sure if you deserve to eat.
You poke at the eggs before finally taking a bite, chewing slowly. Your shoulders relax slightly as you swallow. “This is good,” you say, your voice a little steadier now. “Thank you, George. For everything. I know I keep saying it, but I really don’t know what would have happened last night if you hadn’t…” You trail off, your gaze focused on your plate. “I owe you so much.”
George gives a small, dismissive shake of his head as he focuses on shoveling food onto his fork. It feels wrong of him to accept your thanks just for offering you a plate, shelter, warmth. Basic decency shouldn’t require appreciation.
The meal passes in hushed stillness, the only sounds the soft clink of silverware against ceramic and the occasional bleat from a sheep grazing in the field.
“So, this boyfriend of yours” George says finally, pushing his empty plate away. “What’s his name?”
He doesn’t miss the way your body tenses right back up. “Tyler. Tyler Storm,” you say with a grimace. Like the name is bitter on your tongue. “We’ve been together for five years. Or…we were.”
George nods. Five years. That’s a long time to be beaten down.
“We’ll find your bag,” he says. “And if we see this guy, I’ll make sure he knows he’s not welcome here.” He’s seen too many men like Tyler in his lifetime – practiced smiles with hollow eyes. They don’t start out violent. They build up to it. “You deserve better.”
You look up at him, surprise and something almost like hope flashing in your eyes. But it’s gone as quick as it appeared, replaced by wariness. “You’re kind to say that, but I…I don’t know if I believe it.” You fidget with the hem of your sleeve. “It’s hard to see yourself clearly when someone tells you who you are for so long.”
He reaches across the table without thinking, placing his hand over yours. Your eyes dart back and forth between his face and your hands.
“You’re strong. Stronger than you give yourself credit for.”
A single tear slips down your cheek before you catch it with the back of your hand, but George sees it, that one fragile droplet signifying the weight of his words. “Thank you.” You take a deep breath, squaring your shoulders. “Okay. Let’s go find my bag.”
The truck rumbles along the dirt road, kicking up clouds of dust in its path. The sun is out, but the temperature remains cool. Through the open windows, the crisp air flows in, carrying the earthy scent of farm country. Next to George, you huddle in his coat, your gaze fixed on the passing landscape. Before leaving the trailer, George put a fresh piece of gauze over your wound. The cut seems to be healing, the bruising and tenderness being the worst of it now.
You haven’t spoken since he pulled out of the driveway, but George understands. Trauma does that. Tangles words in your throat like knots you can’t undo.
Suddenly, you sit bolt upright, pointing out the windshield. “There!”
George slams on the brakes, the truck skidding to a halt on the dirt road. He follows your finger, seeing it – a flash of bright red nestled in the ditch amongst broken branches and twigs. Your bag.
“Stay put.” He swings his door open, boots hitting the dirt as he hops out.
The bag sits half-buried under a pile of dead leaves and sprigs. He trudges down the embankment, grabbing the strap of the bag and pulling it out. It’s muddy, but intact. He hauls it up the slope as a thought nags at him. There’s no mud where your bag was, but the fabric is still wet. This can’t be where your bag was originally dumped. He clenches his jaw as he realizes you weren’t the first people to be here. Your boyfriend – a man like that would stick around to watch you suffer, to make sure you learned your lesson.
You climb out of the truck, meeting George halfway. Your hands tremble as you take the bag from him. He doesn’t say anything, hoping he’s wrong.
Setting it between your thigh and the tailgate, you unzip it frantically, rifling through the contents. Clothes, toiletries, a book. You dig deeper, searching through the items with increasing desperation.
“No, no, no,” you mutter, dumping the bag upside down. Everything spills out onto the dirt road. You bend down and sift through the pile, searching.
“What is it?” George asks. “What’s missing?”
Your legs give out. You sink to the ground before George can catch you, the red duffel bag lying gutted beside you. “My wallet. My passport. They’re gone.”
George crouches down beside you. “He came back for them,” he says, the words even hard to speak. Anger burns in his gut, but he keeps his voice level. “Took what he figured you’d need.”
He looks down the road, the long stretch of nothing leading to town. A man who does that wants control. Wants you dependent, desperate, crawling back to him because there’s nowhere else to go. George starts to put the pieces together. The violence, the abandonment, coming back to steal what you need most and leaving the rest. He figures you were going to leave him, and Tyler couldn’t have that.
George stands up, extending his hand to you. “Come on.”
You stare at his outstretched hand for a couple seconds before reaching out and grabbing it. You look at him, your eyes wide. “What am I going to do?”
He keeps holding your hand, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. You feel fragile, like glass in his palm. He wants to wrap you up, shield you from the world that doesn’t know how to treat you.
“We’ll figure it out,” he says. “You’ve got a safe place to stay while we do. With me.” He squeezes your hand once before letting go, moving to gather your scattered belongings. “Let’s get back.”
You watch him pack up your things. “He took my passport. My ID, my bank cards…everything. He wanted to make sure I couldn’t leave. Not without him.”
George tosses your bag over the tailgate, making a mental note to wash everything for you. He leans against the truck. The sun is warm on his neck, but the chill in your voice makes him feel cold.
“He wanted you to feel trapped. Doesn’t mean you are.” He pushes off the truck, walking around you to open the passenger door. “Get in. It’s Sunday, so we’ll have to go into town tomorrow. We’ll talk to the police too. See what can be done.”
You climb into the truck, your movements slow as if every action takes monumental effort. It probably feels that way.
“I feel like,” you say, turning to him as he gets in the truck, “I’m taking so much from you, and I have nothing to give back. I don’t even know where to start with all of this.”
He glances at you and his chest tightens. You are curled in on yourself like a lamb that has been spooked or injured – shoulders tight, spine hunched – as if trying to shrink into nothingness. A posture of self-protection, born from survival. He can see the weight of your gratitude pressing down on you, that awful sense of indebtedness when you have endured enough already.
“You don’t need to thank me. You aren’t taking anything I’m not willing to give. You’ve had a hell of a time, and it’s not over yet. But you’re not alone in this.”
A small smile touches your lips as he starts the engine. “You’re a good man, George Hardy. I hope you know that.” You settle back against the seat, the rhythm of the truck and the warmth from the heater lulling you. Your eyelids flutter. “I think…I think I might take a nap when we get back.”
He chuckles as you let out a big yawn. “As long as you’re up for sunset. The sheep need their bedtime story. I usually read to them myself, but I reckon they might like to hear your voice.”
The truck hits a bump in the road, and he eases off the gas, slowing the pace. You don’t respond, drifting already, your head lolling slightly against the window. He doesn’t blame you. He’d be exhausted too. He reaches over and adjusts the heater vent away from your face, not wanting the dry air to bother you while you sleep.
“Rest now,” he murmurs. “Plenty of time for everything else later.”
The truck rolls gently down the winding countryside, sunlight tracing the curve of your cheek, softening every tired line on your face while you sleep. The radio stays off. Even the engine seems to hush out of respect for you. George keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting near you – not touching, but close enough that if you stir or have a nightmare, he’s there.
Sunset paints the sky in streaks of orange and pink as George leads you outside. The sheep mill about, bleating softly as they catch sight of you. George guides you to sit at the edge of the porch, handing you the book he’s chosen for the night. It’s an old copy of Charlotte’s Web, the pages worn and dog-earred from countless readings. It isn’t their usual murder mystery, but it’s an old classic the sheep enjoy.
George settles beside you, leaning his elbows on his knees as he watches the sheep. They crowd around, curious. Lily nuzzles against your leg, making you laugh. You run your fingers through her wool.
“She is so soft,” you marvel, smiling over at him. “I never realized how soft sheep are.” Your fingers continue to comb through Lily’s wool, and the ewe leans into your touch, closing her eyes contentedly. The other sheep shuffle closer, lining up beside Lily as if they want a turn next. You giggle again, the sound brighter this time, and George finds himself smiling wider than he has in years. It’s like the darkness that has been following you around has been lifted, just a little. The sheep sense it too. They’re drawn to you, to the kindness you have been hiding beneath all that fear.
“Careful,” George says, his voice warm with amusement. He reaches over and scratches the top of Lily’s head, and she lets out a soft bleat, shifting her weight to press against both of you. “If you keep that up, they’ll never let you leave.”
You look down at Lily, who now has her chin resting on your knee. “I think I’d be okay with that.” Before George can respond, you pick up the book, flipping to the first chapter. The sheep all lift their heads, ears perked.
George watches your lips move as you start speaking, your voice steadying the more you read, the sheep listening to your every word. For the first time in thirty years, his trailer doesn’t seem so…empty. It feels like a home again – warm, alive, full of soft sounds and quiet hope. He finds himself leaning in, not just to hear the story, but to be closer to the one telling it. You are still bruised, still broken in places, but here, with the sheep and the sunset, he hopes you are starting to learn what it feels like to be safe.
And George realizes, with a jolt, that he wants to be the one to keep you that way.
Not in for the reason most would immediately think, but because you have a habit of dancing when you enjoy it.
The first time he noticed, the two of you were at a newer restaurant and, under the din of conversation, he could hear a radio playing. He chalked it up to you subconsciously hearing the beat.
The second time was when the two of you stopped for homemade gelato, but again, there was music. A lively little band playing at the bar next door's back patio.
With a shrug, and a grin, you were too cute when it happened, it fell to the back of his mind.
Sylus finally caught on when the next time he saw it, his chef had made you one of your favorite comfort meals. There was no music, nothing that could even be mistaken as any type of beat, and yet you wiggled back and forth on the stool as it was placed in front of you.
Added some arm motions after taking a bite.
He had laughed, the light kind that pulls your attention instantly. You had asked him what was funny, and he just said, "You."
You cocked your head, confused, and he shook his, feeding you a line about getting the fanciest grilled cheese in all of the N109 Zone and Linkon.
It quickly turned into a private game, one he enjoyed greatly for two reasons. The first was that he was able to spend time with you, which made anything palatable. The second was the excuse to dress you up and take you out.
Now, not everything the two of you ate was high end - Micheline star rated. Sometimes he would indulge your whims on to go to some place a co-worker had mentioned off handed that you wanted to try.
What he realized quickly, however, was that whatever version of the dance escaped you was a fairly accurate indicator of the food.
You nearly always had a little shimmy when the plate was set before you, especially if it was visually appealing.
From there, after the first bite, it would range. If it was alright, you bounced your head. If it was good, a shoulder shimmy would make it's way out. The next level was a full body shake that he could only describe as a mini twist, but on a minute scale. As if a puppy was wagging it's tail.
But he knew it was delicious when your hands joined the fray. Sometimes the pumped the air right in front of you. Sometimes it was a little wider, out to the sides, while your whole body bounced back and forth.
If that dance slipped out, he would mark down the restaurant as one to return to later.
You had caught him once, staring, waiting for you to take your first bite. Sylus had been doing that for a while, leaning forward, fork in hand, but nothing moved to his mouth until after you had fully taken yours.
You had teased him - asking if he was using you to test for poison, and he had snorted and shook his head, taking a bite to subtly encourage you to eat what was in front of you.
Sylus wasn't even sure you consciously realized you were doing it or if it was because you were comfortable with him you didn't care that you did.
Either way, it was one of the many small things about you he kept tucked away close to his heart. There were many things about you to love - but your little happy food dance was one of his absolute favorites.
what if the reason Dex saves Matt in DDBA S2 episode 1 is because Daredevil is his son’s favourite superhero😭
Dex’s Son Has a Favourite Superhero. It’s Daredevil.
TW/Tags jealousy, implied violence, you and Dex have a son called Leo, Husband! Dex x Wife! Reader (lmk if you I missed anything)
WC 711
Could be read as a one-shot, but you can read more stories in this universe here!
The reason Dex saves Matt in Cherry’s apartment isn't because he cares about Matt.
It’s because Leo once told him Daredevil was his favourite superhero.
And Leo obviously doesn’t know the history. He doesn’t know what Daredevil means to Dex, and he uneasily doesn’t wanna tell him he once wore the suit either because that’s just way too long and complicated to explain.
Leo is four. Leo just thinks Daredevil is cool. Leo says Daredevil has horns, just like a Carnotaurus.
Unfortunately, that’s enough to completely rewrite Dex’s priorities.
Because now Daredevil can’t die. Not because Dex likes him. But because Leo would be sad.
And then you make it worse because when Dex brings it up, clearly already weird and jealous about it, you just shrug like, “Matt’s got valid points. The work he’s doing is good, even though he doesn’t finish the job.”
Which is true.
Annoying, but true.
Obviously he lacks the conviction to actually kill his enemies, and Dex does point that out. But still. Matt is trying to help people.
And Dex takes this in the worst possible way because he’s Dex.
Because in Dex’s head, it’s not just, Leo likes Daredevil.
It becomes, Leo likes Daredevil because Daredevil is good.
Then it becomes, You think Matt is good.
Then it becomes, You think Matt is better than me.
Because what if Matt’s the kind of good man you wanted, and Dex is just the thing you ended up loving by accident?
Then suddenly Dex is standing there, completely silent, spiralling himself into a void of emotional fucking ruin because his son’s favourite superhero and your (mildly) approving comment have turned into a delusional proof that you secretly wish you’d married someone else.
And the worst part is Dex can’t even be angry about Leo liking him. Leo doesn’t know. Leo’s innocent. Leo just has his tiny little moral compass and his tiny little superhero opinions, and Dex would rather pull his own teeth out than make Leo feel bad for loving something.
So all that jealousy has nowhere to go. It just sits in him. Maybe he kills a couple of task force agents while spiraling like, see? I can beat up bad guys, too. Even better, I can make sure they don’t stand up again, unlike stupid Matt and his stupid suit and his stupid no-kill rule.
When he comes home, he just sits on the bed staring at nothing because we won’t punish Leo for admiring Daredevil, and he won’t punish you for admitting Matt has a point, so he just turns it inward and starts quietly convincing himself that of course this was always going to happen. Of course you’d eventually realise Matt is the better man. Of course Leo would look at Daredevil and see a hero, then look at Dex and see whatever Dex is.
It’s a full jealous husband/dad spiral.
So you have to spend the entire night convincing him that no, baby, of course not, you do not prefer Matt Murdock over him.
It’s one AM and Dex just refuses to sleep because he can’t. You kiss the corner of his mouth.
“I don’t want Matt.”
Another kiss, this time to his cheek.
“I don’t love Matt.”
You press your lips to his temple.
“I didn’t marry Matt.”
Then, a small kiss to his brow.
“I didn’t have a son with Matt.”
That one finally gets to him, because his hands finally come up to your waist like he finally accepts your declaration of love.
“And Leo liking Daredevil doesn’t mean he loves you less,” you say. “It doesn’t mean I love you less, baby.”
Dex looks at you then, and eventually he does understand.
He’s not the biggest fan of it, but he understands.
Leo loves Daredevil. You don’t want Leo hurt. Dex doesn’t want Leo hurt. Therefore Daredevil stays alive.
That is literally the whole equation. His priorities are:
You.
Leo.
Things that make you or Leo happy.
Things that keep you or Leo from being sad.
Everyone else can die or fuck off into nothingness and he literally wouldn’t care.
And fortunately (or unfortunately) for Matt, he’s been promoted to category three by a four-year-old with a Carnotaurus lunchbox.
(I think it would be funny if Dex asks Leo to help by giving crayons and letting him very carefully colour parts of the knife for Matt. Obviously, he can’t see it but will feel the waxy crayon. So he’ll show the knife to Karen who’s just like what the fuck.)
Worst Logan x Reader - I don't like you like that (I do) part 6
A little bit more of this Worst Logan x Reader.
Logan and you babysit. Logan and Wade go fishing.
thanks to @ultimatewolverine and @rosenclaws for a few bits of inspo ❤
warnings: none, just fluff, bit of discussion of pregnancy, the lads go fishing and all that entails. implied masturbation.
****
Wade was a little bemused at the sounds of chaos emanating from your apartment. If anyone maintained a sanctuary of calm, it was you so the screaming, crashing and sounds of running confused him. He knocked again, wondering if anyone would actually hear it. When the door eventually opened, he was further bemused not to see you or Logan. In fact, he had to lower his gaze several feet. Standing before him was a small boy, maybe about 4. He was staring at Wade in that way only kids can, assessing, deciding, wondering if this is a good person or not and if not, how much they can get away with terrorising him.
‘Hi,’ Wade said.
The kid simply continued to stare. He had in one hand a toy car, Wade noted, and in the other an action figure. Of whom Wade couldn’t quite tell.
‘Is your...’ your what? He didn’t know this child or what he was to you. A nephew, maybe? Before Wade had a chance to speak again, an older child, a girl, appeared behind the boy. She looked about 8. For all Wade knew.
‘Hi,’ he said again.
‘UNCLE LOGAN!!’ she yelled.
Uncle Logan? Oh there was much that Peanut had not been telling him!
Wade almost died on the spot when Logan appeared with yet another child in his arms.
‘You two go to the kitchen,’ Logan said, ‘your auntie has lunch ready.’
Both older children turned and walked off. Logan watched them go and turned back to Wade.
‘What do you want?’ he said.
Wade just stared at him.
‘Cat got your tongue? C’mon, I’m busy.’
‘Evidently,’ Wade said, ‘and who might these young people be?’
Logan was about to answer when the child he was holding, who had been staring at Wade, grinned and reached out both arms to him, making fussy noises. Wade stared.
‘You don’t want to go to him, bub,’ Logan soothed, trying to pull him back into his arms.
The child had other idea and started to full on wail.
‘Oookay, so maybe you do,’ Logan said quickly, thrusting the child into Wade’s arms.
Wade, not adept at handling children, suddenly felt like he as holding an unexploded bomb.
Thankfully for all involved, you appeared.
‘Oh hi Wade,’ you said cheerfully, ‘come in.’
He did so, still holding the child as if it would go off at any moment. You tutted and took the baby, perching him – for it was a him – on your hip and closing the door. The baby immediately started to fuss again. Apparently only Wade would do. You sighed.
‘Sit down,’ you ordered.
Wade did so and you plopped the baby in his lap, moving his hands so that he was holding the child in a more correct manner.
‘There,’ you smiled, ‘happy now?’
‘Not really...’
‘I was talking to Sammy,’ you said.
‘Sammy, eh?’ Wade said looking down at the tot who seemed to be entirely enamoured with him, ‘kinda cute, isn’t he?’
‘He is,’ you smiled, ‘but I am biased.’
Wade looked around your apartment. It did appear as if a toy bomb had gone off.
‘My brother and sister-in-law got given a spa day as an anniversary gift,’ you said, ‘so me and Logan are babysitting. The kids wanted to come here for the day.’
‘So I see. Which generous person gave them that?’
You sighed again.
‘I did.’
‘Ah.’
‘Yeah....kinda regretting it now.’
Logan had been in the kitchen all this while and popped his head around the door.
‘Babe, do we have anymore ketchup?’
‘Should be some in the cupboard.’
He disappeared and you heard the sound of cupboards opening. Then Logan telling a child not to use too much. You knew that the plate of said child would now consist mainly of ketchup.
‘You okay for a second while I supervise feeding time at the zoo?’
‘Er, yeah sure...’ Wade said.
The baby was still staring at him, utterly content. As you walked away, Wade felt two tiny hands grab hold of his shirt and the child pulled himself up to standing. He grinned a gummy smile and started to pat Wade’s face.
‘Fearless little bug, aren’t you?’ he smiled.
By the time you and Logan returned, a full-on game of peekaboo was in progress and the baby was in fits of giggles.
‘I think you have a fan,’ you smiled.
‘I guess...’ Wade stopped talking and just stared at Logan.
‘What?’ Logan said after this had gone on way longer than was comfortable.
Wade said nothing but just gestured to his forehead. Logan frowned then reached up a hand and plucked off a small plastic letter. The type you spell things out on fridge doors with. It was a lower-case b.
‘Oh, yeah. The kids like to test if Logan’s magnetic or not,’ you said.
The grin on Wade’s face just grew larger. Logan glared at him.
‘Don’t...’ he warned.
‘I’m just mad I didn’t think of doing it myself,’ Wade chuckled.
The two older children appeared, fed now. You turned to them.
‘Why don’t you go into my room and watch a movie for a little while?’
The girl folded her arms.
‘Why?’
‘Well, because me and Uncle Logan want to talk to our friend and sometimes things aren’t for small ears.’
‘Like what?’
You looked at Logan for help.
‘Politics. And taxes,’ he said.
The girl rolled her eyes.
‘Boring. Do you have Netflix here?’ She asked.
‘Yes we do,’ you smiled, ‘come on.’
As you started to walk away Wade gestured at you.
‘Um,’ he said, holding the baby.
‘Oh right.’
You went to take the baby from Wade but he started crying again the moment you did.
‘Oh good this isn’t going to be a problem when his parents return,’ Wade said.
‘He’s never been like that with anyone before,’ Logan said.
Hmm. Wade studied him. So Logan had spent enough time around the children to know their habits and for them to know about his mutation and not be fazed by it. There was tea here and he needed it to be spilled.
‘I’m too exhausted to fight him,’ you said, ‘come on you two, let’s find something to watch.’
After a short while, Wade could hear the theme music from some show or other playing from the bedroom. You walked back in and sat next to Logan on the couch. The baby was now laying back in Wade’s arms, nearly asleep.
‘You have the magic touch,’ you said, smiling.
‘Good for me?’ he said, ‘so how long has this all been going on, Uncle Logan?’
Logan snarled a little. You poked Wade’s leg.
‘Don’t be mean!’ you scolded, ‘Logan’s...he’s part of my family and everyone loves him.’ You looked at Logan and smiled. He smiled shyly back.
Wade’s eyebrows rose. He knew that you two were serious but he didn’t know things were this serious.
‘Is that why you weren’t around last weekend?’ he asked, narrowing his eyes at Logan.
Logan shrugged.
‘Went on a fishing trip,’ he said.
‘With who?’
‘My brother-in-law,’ you said.
‘You... have other friends?’ Wade gasped in mock offense.
‘Yeah, and they’re not annoying assholes who talk all the time. It’s great.’
In fact, Logan and your brother-in-law barely said a word to each other all weekend, just sitting next to the river, waiting for the next bite. They sat in near silence all day, cooked up some beans on the camping stove, retreated to their individual tents, got up and did the same thing the next day. They both said it was the best time they’d had in ages. You had seen the change in Logan when he came home. He wasn’t holding so much tension in his shoulders, he didn’t seem so overstimulated. The peace and quiet had done him wonders. The next trip had already been organised.
‘Why didn’t you tell me? I like fishing.’
‘Really?’ Logan asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘Well...no.’
You looked at Wade. For all his bravado you could tell that this was bothering him. It wasn’t that he lacked for friends, it wasn’t that he didn’t want Logan to have other friends – but there was something about them being able to give Logan something he couldn’t that just got to him. He loved Logan, you knew, in his own unique way, and he didn’t like that he could possibly be responsible for causing him more pain. You nudged Logan then stood up and picked up the now sleeping baby from Wade’s arms.
‘Just going to put him somewhere more comfortable,’ you said, giving Logan a look as you headed to the spare room. He watched you go and then sat forward.
‘So...um...if you really wanted to go I could talk to Mike,’ Logan said.
‘Mike.’
‘Yeah. He’s a good guy.’
Wade shrugged.
‘I doubt he’d want a third wheel coming along on your fish slaughtering dates.’
Logan pulled a face.
‘We throw them back. Nothing gets slaughtered, for Christ’s sake,’ he said, ‘it’s just...nice. Peaceful.’
‘Peaceful.’ Wade repeated.
‘Yeah. It’s a thing people try and be sometimes.’
Wade thought for a moment.
‘Not sure I’ve ever been peaceful in my life,’ he smiled.
Logan raised his eyebrows a little.
‘Not since I’ve known you,’ he said, with a small smile.
‘I think I’d like to try it,’ Wade said.
Logan nodded and wondered how the hell he was going to explain to Mike that their peaceful day at the riverbank was going to be accompanied by someone who literally never shuts up.
***
Later, after the children had been collected and the apartment had been put back together, you and Logan were getting ready for bed. You watching him moving about the room, throwing his clothes in the laundry basket – after giving his shirt a sniff to see if he could get another day out of it, then seeing you glaring at him and throwing it in. He smiled at you and climbed into bed. As you pottered, he settled back with his book. This was the routine now, and it made Logan smile to see you busying yourself.
‘Like a little bee,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Just buzzing around like that,’ he smiled.
You looked at him.
‘Logan...’
‘Yeah?’ he said when you didn’t continue talking.
‘Did you enjoy today?’
‘Sure. Kids were great. Tiring though.’
‘Yeah,’ you smiled, then chewed on your lip.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing...just thinking.’
Logan looked at you then went back to his book.
You climbed into bed, all done with your buzzing around. You watched Logan finish the chapter he was on, tuck the postcard he used as a bookmark in the page and put the book on his bedside table. He looked at you, then wriggled down into the bed until you were face to face.
‘Talk to me,’ he said.
‘About what?’
He smiled softly and brushed your hair back off your face.
‘About what’s bothering you.’
You chewed your lip again.
‘It’s not bothering me I was just wondering,’ you began. You stopped and looked at Logan, his sad but kind eyes, his face that had seen decades of pain and hurt, his gentle smile that only you really saw, ‘have you thought about having kids?’
Logan thought for a moment, intertwining his fingers with yours.
‘With you? Sometimes.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’ He smiled, ‘I get a picture in my head of you all big with my baby and I kinda like it,’ his smile dropped a little, ‘but it scares me too. I know I’m 200 years old but I still don’t know if I’m ready for it.’
‘You’ve got Laura.’ You said, ‘and you told me about Rogue and Jubilee and Kitty. You’ve been a father.’
‘Father figure. And they were all grown. An actual baby is a different matter.’
‘I guess.’
‘Today got you a little broody, huh?’
You shrugged.
‘A little. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, y’know, after my mom…’
Logan moved forward and kissed you softly.
‘You know that’s not a good reason,’ he said gently.
‘I know,’ you said in a tiny voice.
Logan moved and pulled you to him, engulfing you in his big arms and holding you against him.
‘Whatever you decide,’ he said, ‘I’m with you.’
‘It’s your decision too,’ you said.
You felt his arms around you tightened.
‘I know but...’
‘No, no but. It is. We decide together. Deal?’
You held out your hand and put up your pinkie finger.
You felt the rumble of a laugh in Logan’s chest.
‘Seriously?’
‘Very.’
Logan chuckled again but pinkie swore with you.
‘There. That’s basically legally binding now.’
Logan kissed your forehead.
‘Go to sleep, princess.’
***
A few weeks later, Logan was stood at the kitchen table sorting through his fishing tackle box. You wandered in and walked up behind him.
‘Got everything you need?’ you asked, slipping your arms around his waist.
‘Yep. Even bought some ear plugs.’
‘Logan,’ you chastised him.
He turned and looked at you, a small smile on his lips.
‘I’m joking. Kinda.’
You sat down at the table.
‘I bet Wade will bring himself home after a few hours. He won’t be able to sit still for that long.’
Logan shrugged.
‘We’ll see.’
Wade had become annoyingly keen on accompanying Logan on a fishing trip. Logan had decided to not subject Mike to Wade’s endless babble just yet and besides, if no one else came with them then there would be fewer witnesses when Logan was forced to drown him.
Downstairs, you watched Logan loading all the gear into his truck. Wade was bouncing on the balls of his feet.
‘This is going to be so cool!’ he said.
‘You smiled at him.
‘I hope you have a great time. Just try not to kill each other.’
Wade made some odd sign with his fingers.
‘Scout’s honour.’
‘I think that was actually a gang sign, Wade,’
‘Oh...’
Logan finished loading the truck and walked over to you.
‘See you soon, sweetheart,’ he said, kissing you gently.
‘I’ll miss you,’ you said.
‘I’ll miss you too.’
You both ignored Wade making retching noises.
Logan got in the truck and sighed as you were enveloped in a hug from Wade.
‘Don’t annoy him too much please,’ you muttered to him.
Wade laughed and kissed you on the cheek.
As Logan drove off you watched the truck disappear. If either of them came back in one piece you’d be amazed.
***
‘What are you doing?’
Logan glanced over at Wade, currently half in his seat, half leaning into the back seat, rummaging around.
‘Looking.’
‘Looking….’
‘Saw something.’
Logan raised an eyebrow and took another glance back. Wade sat back with a plastic box in his hands. A small smile played on Logan’s lips as he watched Wade opening it.
‘WHAT THE FUCK!’ He explained.
Logan laughed then poked him.
‘Put the damn lid back on, you’ll get them all over the truck.’
Wade did so then held the box up. The creatures were squirming inside.
‘What are they?’
‘It’s bait,’ Logan said, then with a small smile, ‘they’re called nightcrawlers.’
‘And that amuses you?’
Logan let out a small laugh.
‘The name. There was a guy…a friend. Kurt.’
Wade looked at him.
‘Nightcrawler?’
Logan nodded.
‘Oh.’
Wade put the box back and sat in his seat properly. They drove in silence for a long time.
***
It took a couple of hours for Logan to reach the fishing spot. Wade stood by as he collected all the equipment and started to set it up.
‘You’ll sit there,’ Logan said, pointing at a small stool.
Wade looked down at it and nudged it with his toe.
‘Have you ever gone fishing before?’
‘Never.’
‘Okay so you need to learn how to bait your hook.’
Logan handed him a rod and took the box of nightcrawlers. Plucking one out, he swiftly speared it on the end of his own hook. He held the box out to Wade.
‘C’mon, haven’t got all day.’
‘Not a very pleasant way to memorialise a lost friend,’ Wade said.
‘Shut up and put the damn thing on the hook.’
It took Wade a few tries to pick one up, Logan noting how unusually squeamish he was. Considering the things he had done, the ways he had executed people, this was almost quaint. Eventually he picked one up and held it, the hook in his other hand.
‘Sorry little guy,’ he said and poked the nightcrawler.
‘Right, now you need to cast.’
Wade stood and watched as Logan cast his line, swiftly, efficiently.
‘Go on,’ he said.
Wade whipped the rod back and forth a few times. Logan sighed.
‘Will you stop being an idiot?’
‘Never. Oh hey you could stand behind me and hold my hands and show me how to…’
‘Just cast it, asshole.’
‘No sense of romance…’ Wade muttered. He finally cast his line and Logan nodded. A small nod of approval.
‘Now what?’
‘Now,’ Logan said sitting down on his own stool,’ we wait.’
And wait they did. For hours. Logan had a few bobs of his line but nothing appeared to be biting. Wade looked sideways at him. He looked peaceful, content. The only noises were the birds, a few other anglers further up the bank, and that was it. Wade felt antsy. He’s not been this still and quiet for a long time. He liked it and hated it at the same time. But it was the change in Logan that he kept going back to. This was the life he truly wanted. Quiet, spending the day outside, then going back home to his girl, who had also been enjoying a quiet day. No one was bothering him, he was just allowed to be.
‘So what do we do with the fish we catch?’ Wade asked eventually.
Logan sipped on his beer.
‘Unhook ‘em, throw ‘em back.’
Wade pulled a face.
‘What’s the point?’
‘Of what?’
‘All this,’ Wade said, waving his arms around.
‘Does there have to be one?’
‘Er...yes?’
Logan sighed.
‘It’s just...sport. I don’t know. The skill of it. The way that you might catch everything or you might catch nothing. It doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes but...’
‘If you keep talking I’ll put a hook through your lip and throw you in,’ Logan snarled.
Wade slumped on his stool. Logan breathed and took another sip of beer.
‘If you want something to do, you can pitch the tents,’ he said.
Wade saluted and ran off to the truck.
***
As the light began to fade, Logan pulled out the camping stove and cooked up some simple beans and sausage. Dinner done, he swilled the dishes out in the river and packed everything away.
‘I’m turning in,’ he said and headed to his tent. Wade watched him go and sighed. He was bored. Miles from anywhere and bored. He pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket. He had some data coverage at least. He headed into his tent, looking forward to a long night crushing Candy Crush.
It was a few hours later when Wade noticed that the small light Logan had in his tent was still on. He sat up and peered through his own tent flap at where Logan’s tent was. He cocked his head and...yes...he could hear talking. Talking and...Wade’s eyes went wide. He wasn’t? Was he? Carefully he edged towards the opening and crawled on his stomach over the grass to where Logan’s tent was pitched. He could definitely hear talking and he could also definitely hear moaning, both from the tinny sound of the phone and also from Logan himself. Was he having phone sex with you? A strangled moan, a gasp and Wade put his hand over his mouth to stop himself from laughing. He was and it sounded like things had finished. So to speak.
Wade sat up and shuffled further towards Logan’s tent.
‘Hey, you okay in there?’ he said, louder than he needed.
He nearly laughed out loud at the muffled ‘fucking hell!’ Logan let out.
‘Yeah, I’m good,’ came the reply, then, ‘don’t, er, don’t come in.’
Wade did laugh then when he heard the rustle of clothing and the clinking of Logan re-buckling his belt.
‘Okay, good night then!’ Wade said cheerfully.
‘Yeah,’ Logan replied and Wade watched the light go out.
Wade crawled back into his tent. Aw, he thought. It was sweet, in an odd way, that Logan had someone he could just call up and jerk off to. Quiet fishing trips, a calm home, phone sex whenever he wanted it. What more could a man ask for?
***
The next morning, it took some time before Logan could look Wade in the eye and when he did Wade could swear he was blushing. He simply smiled and picked up the bait box. The day proved a little more successful than the previous and Wade caught a fish. He watched as his line bobbed and Logan talked him through reeling his catch in. The fish was barely bigger than his hand but it was his and he held out said hand to grab hold of it.
‘Oh fucking shit!’
‘What now?’
‘It’s all slimy and gross and ugh!’ Wade shuddered.
Logan just stared at him and shook his head. He reached out and unhooked the fish and made Wade dip his hands in the river before handing the fish to him.
‘Just be gentle with it. It’s supposed to be slimy.’
‘Wow,’ Wade said looking at the creature in his hands. Logan pulled out his phone and took a picture.
‘Your first catch,’ he smiled, ‘now, come over here, kneel down and let it swim out of your hands.’
Wade did as he was told and he watched as the fish flitted away back to safety.
‘Pretty great, huh?’
‘Strangely, yes.’
Logan sent him the photo and Wade stood looking at it.
‘You alright?’
‘Yeah,’ Wade said, pocketing his phone.
The absurdity of the whole thing, spending days sat on a riverbank, barely talking, finally catching something just to let it go again. But he felt, much like Logan clearly did, content. He couldn’t do this regularly, but every now and again, it felt like a nice reset from the world.
Later that afternoon, Logan stood up and stretched.
‘You ready to go home?’ he asked.
Wade was sitting on his stool, staring out across the water. For the last hour or so they hadn’t bothered casting lines, just sat talking. Something they never did. Logan talked about you. A lot. Wade was happy for him.
The drive home was quiet, but a good quiet. Logan couldn’t wait to see you. He was thankful to Wade for not mentioning what he’d caught him doing. It had been a risk, but you’d called and well...one thing led to another. He missed you. He always missed you. And that terrified him sometimes. The force of it. The force with which he loved you. The quiet of the past few days had given him time to think. You’d not mentioned having a kid again but it had been buzzing around his mind since you’d said it. He had lost everything and everyone he cared for, been dragged here, found a new family, found you. He didn’t want to lose all of that and every new thing or person he allowed into his orbit made the risk of losing all the higher and all the more devastating. But he couldn’t be afraid of it for the rest of his life. Give him an opponent to battle and he’d run headlong into it – metaphorically and physically. This wasn’t a battle and it scared him. Because he had so much more to lose.
***
When Logan returned home, the apartment was quiet. The tv was off, the lounge empty. He poked his head into the kitchen. The only noise was that of something bubbling away in a crock pot on the countertop. Logan smiled. He wandered back through the lounge and went to the bedroom. He stood in the doorway watching you. You were sitting cross legged in the middle of the bed, headphones on, knitting needles in hand. You would stop every now and then to consult the pattern sitting on the bed in front of you, then knit a few more rows, forming the intricate pattern, slowly but surely. Logan leaned against the frame and smiled. This made it all worth it.
You looked up and gave a little jump, then smiled and took off your headphones.
‘Hi!’ you said brightly, then quickly shoving the knitting into a bag, ‘you never saw this.’
Logan came over and sat next to you on the bed, kissing you.
‘Didn’t I though?’
‘No,’ you smiled, ‘you didn’t.’
‘And what didn’t I see?’
‘A sweater. For you.’
‘It’s the middle of summer.’
You laughed and Logan smiled. God, he loved it when you laughed.
‘I know! It’s for Christmas but I’m not quick so I’ve been trying to get it done before.’
Logan put a finger under your chin and lifted your face to his, brushing his lips softly over yours.
‘I promise to be surprised when I open it.’
‘Good,’ you smiled, ‘how was the trip? How many times did you drown Wade?’
Logan lay back on the bed and was pleased when you snuggled against him.
‘None. Although I was tempted the first night.’
‘Why?’
He blushed. Something which rarely happened and you teased him about when it did. Which made him blush all the more.
‘He...er...caught me...you know...’
‘Oooh.’
‘Yeah.’
‘What did he say about that?
Logan let out a small laugh.
‘Actually nothing. Embarrassing though.’
Logan grunted as you sat up, swung your leg over him and straddled his hips.
‘Nothing embarrassing about it,’ you said, ‘I like it when you’re away and you call me all horny.’
‘Yeah?’ Logan grinned.
‘Yeah.’
You sat looking down at Logan, his hands resting gently on your thighs.
‘Did some thinking while I was gone,’ he said eventually.
‘About what?’
‘About us,’ he said, ‘the future and what that might look like.’
You shifted a little.
‘And what might it look like?’
Logan ran a hand along your leg.
‘Us,’ he said, looking thoughtful, ‘a kid.’
He looked you in the eye then.
‘A kid.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Wow.’
‘Yeah.’
You slipped off him and snuggled against him again.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah. Are you?’
‘Yeah.’
You felt Logan’s lips brushing your temples.
‘Can I finish your sweater first?’ you asked and you felt Logan’s rumbling laugh, ‘I can only concentrate on one project at a time.’
‘Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart,’ he said, ‘I’ll be here.’
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