Oh gosh, im kicking my feet with the idea of Andrew not initiating any sort of physical touch with reader (cuz he thinks he doesn't deserve any affection) unless reader asks him (then he goes all in with it), AND the asks started in full sentences progressing to just the word itself, so when he heard the word (not having any context) he just goes in no questions nor thoughts behind it. Gosh im giggling.
'Do you want some kisses?', 'want kisses?', 'kiss?'
andrew cody had never been good at asking for affection. he could take care of people, protect, show up when it mattered. but when it came to simply asking to be held? that was different. somewhere along the way, heh ad decided that affection was something he could accept only when it was offered to him, not something that he was entitled to ask for. so he was never one to initiate it. if you reached for his hand, his fingers would immediately close around yours. if you hugged onto him, he would hold you so tightly and not let go until you did. if you curled up beside him on the couch, he would shift closer without a word. but he would never reach first.
the first time you noticed it, the two of you were sat together on the couch. he was staring at the television, one of his documentaries playing, but you were convinced he wasn't actually watching it. you studied the side of his face for a moment as you leaned against him, eyes trained on the way he was so still. "andy?" you spoke quietly, his head immediately turning to wards you. he raised an eyebrow slightly, eyes scanning your face to try to figure out what you needed. "do you want some kisses?" you spoke quietly, a small smile on your lips. he blinked slowly, eyebrows furrowing for only a second. you could tell you had caught him off guard.
his head nodding slowly. "yeah," he spoke quietly, but he didn't move, remained sitting straight up and still. you could only let out a small laugh, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his cheek. you could feel the tension melt off of him, hand hesitating before it was moving to rest on your waist and pull you closer. you moved to press your lips to his other cheek, his eyes staying on you as you moved to kiss around his face. he leaned forward to gently rest his forehead against yours when you had stopped, his eyes shutting. he looked peaceful.
after that, you started making the question shorter. you had walked passed the kitchen, stopping and turning around when you spotted him standing out the counter staring out the window. he looked like a statue, completely frozen in place as he stared out. "want kisses?" you spoke softly from behind him, pope slowly turning around to face you. you could see the tension in his body, shoulders tight and a small frown on his face. he nodded, opening his arms up a little before you were giggling and walking into them. "that's all it takes?" you chuckled as you looked up at him, his shoulders shrugging a little. "you asked," he mumbled, tucking his face into your shoulder with a happy sigh.
eventually, it got down to one word. just kiss. the both of you were laid on the couch one night, some movie playing that you weren't paying attention to. it was a sad one, but the look on his face never faltered from the usual stone cold look he wore. "kiss?" you spoke, looking down at him. your feet were laid in his lap, his hands resting gently around your legs. he was moving immediately. his hands were quick to release you, opening his arms up for you to crawl into. you couldn't help but laugh as you crawled into his lap for him to hold you, a small frown on his lips. "you didn't even ask what i meant," you giggled, hands coming up to cup his cheeks. "you said kiss. you wanted a kiss," he spoke, looking at you like the answer was obvious and you were the crazy one.
a small sigh left your lips as your thumbs rubbed his cheeks, staring into his eyes. "you know.. you could ask me sometimes," you suggested quietly, a small smile at the corner of your lips. his expression changed just slightly. that familiar guardedness he wore came back ever so slightly. "i know," he spoke lowly, your hands moving to rest on his chest. "you don't have to wait for me," you reminded him, rubbing gently at his chest to try and ease his tension. he looked away for just a moment, his head nodding a little. you leaned forward to gently press a kiss to his cheek, then his forehead, then the very corner of his mouth. you could tell he was expecting you to plant one right to his lips, his mouth almost chasing yours as you pulled back. "you can ask," you whispered, a small smile on your lips as you stared at him. he was quiet for almost a minute as the two of you sat staring at each other, your hands still rubbing his chest. "kiss?" he whispered, so quietly that you could barely hear it. your heart melted at the word, your head nodding quickly as you smiled wider. he was the first to lean in, his lips pressing to yours softly. this time, it wasn't because you had asked him first.
it was because he had decided he was allowed to ask you back.
summary: you’ve been able to see ghosts since you were a child, but years of bad experiences have taught you one thing: keep it secret. people don’t take kindly to the things they can’t explain. then you meet jack—a highly observant doctor with a ghost of his own, and what begins as an unlikely friendship slowly becomes something more. but trusting him means risking the one thing you’ve spent your entire life protecting: yourself.
tags: hurt/comfort, angst, romance, fluff, flirting, explorations of grief, supernatural elements, mentions of an ex, reader doesn't take good care of herself
word count: 18.3k
a/n: my baby is finally finished! i've been working on this for months now and tbh i could probably keep doing it. there's just something so interesting about this theme and how two people are affected differently by death. this fic was inspired by the show ghost whisperer and i see reader's abilities as somewhat similar to melinda's. as always, feedback is greatly appreciated! i really hope you guys like it! <333
The Pitt | Masterlist
Main | Masterlist
You hate hospitals with a deep passion.
They're too loud, too bright, and too crowded. Waiting rooms that make you feel like tinned fish, packed together beneath harsh fluorescent lights and the constant hum of voices. It's not even a busy night, and you're still counting down the minutes until you can leave.
There's a man with a clenched look on his face that suggests why he's choosing to stand despite the unusually empty seats. A woman nearby desperately hums to her wailing child, rocking her back and forth against her chest with a feverish gleam on her face. A man coughs wetly into his mask while a group of drunk girls giggle away in the corner.
It's a relatively empty waiting room considering it's the E.R—if you don't take the other people into account. There's a woman in a white gown wandering through the room before disappearing into a wall. A man with a gash on his head sits in one of the chairs, patiently waiting for his turn that will never come. Only the occasional flicker of his form reveals his true state.
It's only been half an hour, but from where you're sitting, you've already spotted five ghosts. And the longer you wait, the more they'll feel the pull of you—previous experience unfortunately lets you know that. So, if you can help it, you stay away.
But midnight ideas involving a ladder, a light bulb, and an unexpected vision hadn't proven to be a good combination. You'd been on the third rung, reaching overhead, when the familiar sensation hit. Your body had locked, your vision hazing as your mind left your apartment, and by the time the vision released you, your foot had slipped, and you'd fallen hard onto the ground. You'd blinked back to a shattered bulb beneath your palm and a sharp flare of pain where your head had clipped the coffee table. This was, unfortunately, an injury too severe for you to fix yourself.
Now it's three a.m., and you're holding a soaked dish towel to your bleeding hand as you try to avoid eye contact with the spectres drifting past. It takes another twenty minutes of staring insistently at the ground before your name is called and you're led into a room.
You sit on the crinkly paper, tapping your fingers against your pants as the door shuts again. Another five minutes pass before the door opens again, but you don't mind. At least, it's quiet in here—no ghosts following you.
"Hi. Sorry for the wait." A man in black scrubs steps inside, smiling at you kindly. "I'm Dr. Henderson." He's got one foot on the rolling chair, about to sit down when the door opens again.
"Crus." An older man interrupts, one hand on the door as he holds it open. He nods out towards the hallway, greying curls falling slightly forward at the motion. "Head to Trauma 1. You can assist with a lumbar puncture." He turns to you with a charming smile. "I'll take over here."
Heat rushes to your cheeks when his intense gaze lands on you, and you quickly avert your eyes. Instead, you watch as Dr. Henderson's face lights up. He sends you an apologetic smile, clapping the other man's shoulder on his way out.
"Sorry about that." The door shuts behind him as he finally steps fully inside and draws the curtain. "I'm Dr. Abbot." He picks up the tablet left behind and scans your chart quickly. Snapping on a pair of gloves, he drops down onto the chair.
"So," he says, eyeing the towel around your hand and the dried blood on your temple. "How bad did the other guy look?"
You blink. "What?"
Dr. Abbot gently tips your head toward the light to inspect the cut. His gloved fingers are surprisingly warm against your skin. "Whoever hit you got a decent shot in. Still, it's nothing we can't patch up."
"I didn't fight anyone."
"No?" A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he turns his attention to your hand, carefully peeling the towel away. His gaze flicks down to your heart-patterned pyjama pants. "I don't know. You look like you could be hiding a professional boxing career."
Heat creeps into your cheeks as you realise he's teasing you. "Oh. Ha."
His grin widens, and you find yourself watching the way his eyes crinkle. "So, what happened?"
"...I fell off a ladder."
His eyes flick up to yours. "Strange hour to be climbing ladders." He shifts your hand back and forth, testing your grip.
You shrug. "Couldn't sleep."
"Ah," he says. "That, I get." He rolls the chair back to gather supplies once he determines it isn't a severe cut. "There's a bit of glass stuck inside, so I'm gonna give you a shot for the pain, pick out the pieces, stitch you up and then send you on your merry way. Sound good?"
You nod, glancing down at your hand, expecting your stomach to roll, but feeling strangely detached from it. You guess you've seen worse in visions before. A surprising positive, you suppose.
He pulls off his gloves, throwing them into the trash behind him. As he leans forward to grab a new sterile pair, the chair suddenly rolls forward beneath him. The wheels squeak as it turns to face you, and Dr. Abbot's hands shoot out instinctively, landing briefly against the plush of your thighs to steady himself.
You both freeze. His eyes flick down to your thighs, then back up.
"Sorry," he says, pulling away immediately.
"No, that's—" You swallow. "That's okay."
Dr. Abbot rubs the back of his neck before turning back to the task at hand. The room suddenly feels too warm. Something metallic flashes beneath the fluorescent lights, drawing your attention to his wedding ring. He's married. Of course. A man like that doesn't go through life without attracting someone. You look away before you can wonder why that thought bothers you.
You focus on the ceiling tile above him instead. A faint crackling sound brushes against your ears before disappearing. Your attention snaps to the corner, but no one is there. The sound comes back, like an old radio searching for a station. Your skin prickles, and the hairs at the back of your neck rise in warning.
You're not alone, but no one appears. No one speaks. It's just that crackling sound, continuing for another minute before it disappears again.
Dr. Abbot reaches for your hand again, oblivious to it. He administers the shot as you try to look around the room without him noticing.
"So, what were you doing on the ladder?" he says, breaking the awkward silence. He moves to clean your forehead as he waits for the lidocaine to set in.
You huff a laugh. "Putting in a new light bulb. I've been putting it off for weeks. Maybe this was a sign that I shouldn't have waited that long." Your chin lifts, a sense of pride filling you when his lips twitch. You get the feeling that he isn't that easy to get a reaction out of.
"Not handy, I gather?" he says as he finishes placing the butterfly stitch on your forehead.
You glance down at your hand. "What gave it away?"
He huffs a laugh.
The saline feels odd, but not unpleasant, and you barely notice as he plucks out the glass pieces. The silence that settles over the room is comfortable, and for a moment you believe the ghost has left you alone. Maybe it has finally decided you're not worth bothering. But as Dr. Abbot dresses your wound and turns to write follow-up instructions on a notepad, the crackling starts again. Then, his pen flies off the desk.
"Oops," he says, not sounding particularly surprised. He ignores it and turns back to you. "The stitches are self-dissolving, but come back if there's any swelling or irritation." He hands you the note, his mouth curving into another teasing smile. "And no more fights, at least until you're healed."
"No promises." You grin. "Thank you."
He gives you a small nod. "You're welcome."
You slip off the bed, clutching the note in your good hand. At the door, you glance back without really meaning to. He's still looking at you. For a second, neither of you says anything, then you leave. There's a slight pull, almost as if something is trying to keep you in the room, but you push forward without placing much thought on it. Whatever ghost is trying to communicate can find you tomorrow.
The bookstore Cordelia's is located next to the park and has been yours for almost three years. It's small, but you've managed to make the most of the space. Tall shelves line almost every wall, some of them old enough that you constantly worry they'll fall apart at the slightest touch. There's a little reading nook tucked beneath the front window, two mismatched armchairs beside a low table, and a counter near the register that has been scratched and dented by years of use. The bell above the door has a slightly different ring depending on how hard someone pushes it, and the floorboards creak in places you've long learned to avoid.
It's comfortable. Warm. The kind of place where people come in intending to browse for ten minutes and somehow end up staying an hour.
Ethan is similar in that way. He never dreamed of working in a bookstore, and somehow, he's gone from a part-time worker to being here more than you are. He's always liked books—even has a minor in English literature—but he'd always imagined himself doing something more. Maybe teaching or being a famous author—something that involved people knowing his name. Definitely not standing behind a counter for eight hours a day arguing with customers about whether a particular first edition was worth what the internet claimed it was. And yet, he loves it.
He hadn't at first, but that was before his roommate started haunting him.
Ethan had been drawn to the store, and you'd found him overwhelmed in the back row, head in his hands. Somehow, without even meaning to, he had divulged it all to you, and you hadn't been even a little bit unnerved by the strange things he'd told you. You hadn't laughed. You hadn't suggested he was imagining things. Instead, you'd asked him what his roommate's name was, and then you'd revealed your abilities.
You were able to see and speak to ghosts.
Ethan had laughed at first—right up until his bathroom mirror had smashed in his face and the pieces spelt out his name on the ground. After that, he was a true believer. And with his roommate crossed over, Ethan put his plans on hold to follow you. He'd offered to work in your store, which was closed more often than not with you out dealing with your ghostly companions. He'd expected it to be temporary. It wasn't.
The bookstore came with its own companions. Lydia and Delia, the couple who had owned the store before you, who had apparently decided that death was no reason to leave. It had taken Ethan a while to get used to them. It had taken them even longer to get used to him. Now he can't imagine the place without them. Even if he does wish they'd stop throwing the books they dislike at him.
Still, it's nice to have some company, even if he can't see them. Especially since he never knows exactly when you'll be in or for how long. He knows it's one of those days where you disappear for hours when you enter the shop with two coffee cups and an already apologetic smile.
His attention immediately catches on the stitches on your forehead and the white dressing covering your hand. "What happened to you?"
You shrug casually. "Ladder. Light bulb. Ghost. It was an accident."
Ethan's brows pinch together. He reaches out, fingers catching lightly beneath your jaw in an attempt to get a better look at the cut, but you duck away before he can inspect it properly and push one of the coffees into his hand instead.
"I think I figured out who it is. Is it okay if I—?" You tilt your head towards the door.
Ethan worries his lower lip for a second. It's not the first time he's seen you hurt by a ghost, but he still doesn't like it. He knows better than most how casually you treat your injuries. If it weren't for him reminding you, you'd forget to eat during cases. "Be careful. This ghost doesn't seem too happy with you."
"This was just bad timing." You brush it off.
He stares at you. You stare back. Eventually, you sigh. "...Fine. I'll be careful."
"Good." He nods. "Call me if there's anything."
You hum, already halfway across the store again. "Sure. Thanks!" The door slams shut behind you.
Ethan sighs and takes a sip of his coffee. He knows you can take care of yourself. It's just that the two of you have very different ideas of what that means.
He steps behind the counter again and slumps down onto the chair. A few boxes are waiting to be unpacked and placed on shelves, but they can wait until he's finished with this cup. He's got at least another hour until the first customers filter in, so he leans back and grabs his notepad. His novel won't write itself. He stares at the blank page, then writes two words. Deletes them. Takes a sip. Writes another sentence. Deletes that too. He sighs. Maybe he should've stuck with teaching.
The bell rings again, barely a minute later.
"Forget something?" he calls out, still staring at his paper while chewing on the end of his pen.
"I don't think so."
The male voice makes him look up.
Ethan shoots to his feet, notepad clattering to the ground. "I'm so sorry. I thought you were someone else." He bends to pick it up, cheeks burning with embarrassment, before his flustered gaze meets the eyes of an older man.
Scrubs. Tired-looking. Handsome.
The man looks around the store, almost confused, as though he's not entirely sure why he's here. Seeing that, Ethan's customer-service persona finally clicks into place. "Looking for anything special?"
The man hesitates, frowns, then shakes his head.
"Okay. Well, we've got a bit of everything." Ethan gestures to the aisles. "Give me a shout if you need anything." He logs onto the computer to give the man some space to explore, but keeps an eye on him out of the corner of his eye.
The man wanders slowly between the shelves, fingertips occasionally brushing over the spines. He doesn't seem to be looking for anything in particular. Eventually, he stops at one of the displays and picks up a book. "How long have you had this store? Don't think I've seen it before."
"Oh, I'm not the owner; she's out at the moment—" The light flickers above him, and he looks at it with a frown. It's not like Lydia or Delia to interrupt when there's a customer. "It's been here for about three years now."
The man nods, puts the book down, then takes a step toward one of the aisles. A book flies off the shelf next to him.
Ethan freezes. The man doesn't. His shoulders rise, tensing, but not in a way that suggests surprise. It's more like resignation. Another book flies from the shelf on the opposite side. Then another. It lands directly in front of him.
Ethan's certain now. There's a ghost attached to this man. But it's the man's reaction that unsettles him most. He barely reacts. No startled jump. No nervous laugh. No frantic glance around the room. He simply looks down at the books, bends down, picks them up and puts them back.
Ethan watches him carefully. He's seen people react to ghosts before. He knows the usual responses. Fear. Confusion. Denial. This man looks like someone who's seen this before. Before Ethan can say anything, the stranger nods at him and hurries out of the store.
Ethan stares after him, waiting for something else to happen, but the store is quiet again. "If you're still here, I can't see you, but my friend can," he calls softly. He looks toward the aisle. "She'll be back later."
He waits for an answer, but nothing happens. No books fly out. No lights flicker. His shoulders drop a fraction. Even after years of seeing you interact with ghosts, he can't help his instinctual fear when he's alone. At least when you're around, he has an idea of what the ghost wants. On his own, he's completely clueless about their intentions.
He looks toward the door again. Who was that guy?
Ethan wanders over, fishing out the books that had been pushed half-hazardously back between the others. His fingers brush the spines, reading the titles, then he crouches to retrieve the last one. The theme is clear, but the one that landed closest to the man says it best.
The Art of Dating.
Ethan stares at it. "Well," he mutters, putting it back on the shelf. "That's subtle."
It's close to midday when you enter the store again, but instead of this morning's excitement, there's a dull headache throbbing behind your eyes. It sits stubbornly at your temples, refusing to ease no matter how much you rub them. You're not sure if it's the lack of sleep that's finally catching up with you, the hit your head took last night, or the disappointment of your visit, but either way, you feel drained.
"Hey, how'd it go?" Ethan calls from somewhere between the shelves. He emerges a moment later, a book tucked beneath one arm, and takes one look at your face. "Bad, huh?"
You don't bother pretending otherwise. "Yeah..." You sink onto the plush chair behind the counter, letting your head fall back against it with a sigh. "I'm gonna try again tonight. Maybe I'll get a read of something."
Ethan hums, leaning his elbows against the counter. He studies you for a moment, his expression telling you he's considering arguing before apparently deciding against it. "I'll come with you."
You close your eyes and shake your head. "You don't have to."
He shrugs, completely unconcerned with your refusal. "It's good research for my book."
Your eyes open again. "Oh! How's that going? When can I read something?"
"I'm nowhere close to that," he groans, his head dropping dramatically. "I've been stuck on the same paragraph for hours now."
You blow a raspberry at him. The sound earns you a look, but you can see the corner of his mouth twitch. "Lunch then?" you suggest, sitting up slightly. "We could try that new place down the street?"
He pushes himself off the counter, already reaching for his jacket. "Yes, I'll go get it. Some fresh air might get rid of my writer's block."
You lean back again, closing your eyes once more as he heads toward the door. You hear him rummaging around for his wallet, then the soft jingle of the bell as he pulls the door open. "Oh," he calls out, the door halfway open. "Some man came in earlier with a ghost attached to him. I told it you'd be back later."
"Did you get a name?"
"No, he ran out before I could ask. He was in scrubs, though, so maybe a doctor or nurse?" He shrugs, then shuts the door behind him, leaving the store quiet again.
Scrubs?
You frown. For a second, your mind supplies the image of Dr. Abbot before you can stop it. The kind man from last night. His warm fingers against your skin as he'd examined your forehead. The crooked smile when he'd teased you about fighting someone. The flash of his wedding ring beneath the fluorescent lights.
You shake the thought away. The hospital is across the park, and you've never seen him here before. The chance of him coming into the bookstore afterwards is low. It was probably just an odd coincidence.
You let your head fall back against the chair again.
"He was real handsome, too," a warm voice croons from your right.
You don't even open your eyes. "You say that every time a man walks in here."
"I do not," Lydia protests. You crack an eye open, finding her beside one of the shelves, arms folded across her chest, looking deeply offended by the accusation. She turns her head to Delia. "Do I?"
"...You do," Delia says, wincing when Lydia turns to glare at her. "But"—she points a finger at you—"this time she is right."
You roll your eyes before closing them again. "Mm," you hum. "I'm not looking for anything." You settle deeper into the chair. "You know that."
There's a pause before Delia clears her throat gently. "Honey, maybe it's time to—"
"No," you cut her off, opening your eyes just enough to look at her. "But thanks."
You close your eyes again before she can start arguing, effectively ending the conversation. The two ghosts sigh in unison. You can hear the soft rustle of fabric as Lydia moves, followed by Delia's faint scent of roses. Then a rush of cool air brushes across your skin, signifying that they're gone.
You let out a slow breath as the bookstore settles around you again. You know they're trying to help. You know they have the best intentions. But Lydia and Delia have been together for decades, including the years after death. They've managed to find the kind of love that survived everything—life, death, and apparently even the refusal to cross over.
You're happy for them. You really are. But sometimes, when they talk about love like it's something inevitable, something that simply arrives and stays, you can't help wondering if you're the exception.
Because you've already been given this gift. Maybe that's it for you. Maybe you're simply meant to spend your life helping other people find their way to the other side while you stay back. The thought shouldn't still bother you. You've told yourself that often enough that it shouldn't, and yet, when you do think about it a little too seriously, it aches and pulsates somewhere deep down.
So, you try not to. And with the embers of your last relationship still burning after its fiery end, it's becoming easier to believe. Your ex, John, had made it clear how he thought you were crazy for believing in things nobody else could see. You'd loved him. That had been the worst part. You'd finally trusted him enough to open up, and that was his response. For a long time afterwards, you'd wondered whether he had been right about everything. Maybe you were too strange. Too difficult. Too much.
You stare at the ceiling through half-lowered lashes. You don't doubt it anymore. It's easier that way. Easier to believe you're not meant for love than to risk it all again.
You don't think you can handle it.
Considering that you've been involved in ghost activities since you were a little girl, you should know by now that nothing is ever a coincidence when ghosts are involved. You'd seen it, following your mother around, fingers clutching her skirt as she got roped into ghostly schemes, openly parading her abilities—right up until your father had her committed when her visions took over.
You learned then and there that what she had considered a gift was best left hidden. That it wasn't everybody who understood. That, at times, it was more a burden than a gift.
Despite having all that experience, you don't think much of it the first time you see Dr. Abbot again. You see him in the supermarket, his hand reaching for a bunch of bananas as you turn into the fruit aisle. Your eyes meet across a display of apples, and for half a second, both of you stare at each other, until recognition flickers across his face. You send him a brief, polite smile before ducking into the nearest aisle and pretending to become intensely interested in a selection of tinned tomatoes. You stay there until you're reasonably certain he's gone.
The second time could be coincidence. The third is harder to explain. By the time you see him in the park, you've stopped counting.
It's late evening, the last rays of the sunset shining across the park and through the store windows. You'd sent Ethan home earlier, telling him you'd deal with the odd technological error that had somehow deleted all your online orders and the ones you'd placed for new books. Once that is sorted, you close the shop, a little later than usual, and head home.
But rather than taking the fast way, you turn right at the park entrance, choosing the scenic—and considerably longer—route. An unexplainable feeling guides you, but you're too tired to examine it.
You walk past friends sprawling across picnic blankets with half-finished drinks between them, couples walking hand in hand along the paths, and children chasing one another through the grass while their parents call after them. Then you hear laughter. Your attention drifts toward a group of scrub-clad people gathered beneath one of the trees, several cans of beer scattered between them. You take another step, let your gaze fall forward, and then the sight of a familiar face registers.
Your eyes snap back.
Dr. Abbot's already looking at you. His lips twitch when he sees your surprised expression, and he lifts his beer in greeting. Your mouth lifts in an unwitting smile before you can stop it, and you give him a small nod in return. A few of the people around him follow his gaze, curious eyes turning toward you. You immediately look away and hurry down the path before any of them can catch your gaze properly. You try to ignore the heat that's flaming under your skin.
It's a coincidence, you repeat to yourself. Just a coincidence.
That assumption promptly gets thrown out when he shows up at the store. Now you're certain that something is going on.
It's just you this time, with Ethan having been given the day off after you'd closed your last case. The death had been accidental—a slip and fall down a flight of stairs—but things had remained dramatic until the very end. Things had been thrown before your ghost was ready to listen, and the family was ready to talk. You'd been caught in the crossfire, leaving bruises scattered across your arms and a particularly ugly one blooming near your elbow.
Still, books needed to be placed on shelves and with Ethan out, you were forced to make your aching arms comply. You bend to pick up another box, already mentally calculating how many more trips you'll need to make before you can finally sit down. Maybe you should order a take-out for lunch to celebrate?
"Do you need help?" A gruff, familiar voice says from behind you.
You huff, half amused, half annoyed. You're used to ghosts appearing without warning and asking for help at the worst possible moments, so you don't bother turning around immediately. "And how would you do that?"
Warm fingers brush against yours as he takes the box from you. "I may be older than you, but I'm not decrepit."
You gasp, your eyes snapping up to meet Dr. Abbot's warm, teasing hazel gaze. For a second, you're too surprised to say anything. "I'm so sorry, I thought you—" You shake your head and gesture toward the cart. "Never mind. You can just put that there. Thank you."
Your gaze follows the box as he sets it down, lingering despite yourself on the way his arms barely strain beneath the weight of the heavy books you'd struggled to lift just moments earlier. Without a word, he picks up the remaining boxes and sets them down beside the first.
You stare at him. He glances at you. "What?"
You smile awkwardly. "Nothing."
When he turns back, his eyes fall down the length of your arms. They narrow slightly.
You snatch the cardigan you'd abandoned on the counter when you'd gotten hot earlier and tug it on, trying to make the gesture look casual. "So, what can I help you with?"
He frowns, but decides to leave it alone as his gaze turns to the aisles. "One of our med students just landed a residency, and I offered to get the gift for her."
"And you have no idea what to get her?" you ask.
"Yeah." He grins sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.
You step out from behind the counter, your arm brushing against his. The contact is brief, barely anything; still, heat sparks through the fabric. You ignore it. "Do you know what she likes?"
"Uh... She's big on social media and very into astrology."
"Ah." You nod, moving with certainty to the cart. You grab a box cutter, slice through the tape, and fish out a book from the box. "Get her this. It's been sold out for months, and I just got it back in stock."
You hold out a book with astrological signs circling the cover. He takes it, turning it over once in his hands. "You're lucky you came in now. I was gonna update our socials after I'd finished shelving the books. They'd probably be gone in a few hours."
He hums as he follows you back to the counter, scanning his card without glancing at the price. "Guess my intuition proved me right."
Your fingers pause against the wrapping paper, glancing up at him. "Intuition?"
"Yeah." He rubs the back of his neck again. "I don't really believe in it, but I was here a few weeks ago, and I just had this feeling that I would find what I was looking for here."
Your fingers still for the briefest second before finishing the bow. When you look up at him, he's watching you with an expression you can't quite read.
"I see." You put the book into a bag and hand it over to him, forcing a smile onto your face. "Guess you were right."
He nods. For a moment, neither of you moves. He hesitates, swallowing down whatever he was about to say before settling on a soft, "See you around?"
You nod, smiling. "I'll be here."
He smiles back, lifting a hand in an awkward little wave before turning toward the door. The bell gives its familiar little chime as the door swings shut behind him. The grin on your face falls the second you can no longer see him through the windows.
He's the scrub-clad man Ethan told you about, and after all these encounters, you're forced to admit that his ghost has proved more persistent than you thought. You're just not sure what it wants.
"Handsome, right?" Lydia grins as she appears beside you.
You roll your eyes and move to roll the cart toward the shelves.
"Oh, ignore me all you want, sweetheart. You have a tell."
"I do not." You turn to glare at her.
Her smile widens as she shrugs. "If you say so." She disappears before you can argue.
A second later, Delia appears in her place, softer around the edges. She winks at you before following Lydia's path through the shelves.
Ghosts.
It's early morning when you settle onto your usual bench in the park, thermocup warming your hands as the last rays of the sunrise fade over the horizon. The air still carries the faint chill of the night, drops of dew clinging to the blades of grass.
You take a slow sip and lean back against the bench. It's been a nice couple of days—ghost-free and able to fully focus on the store without somebody dead demanding your attention.
A blur materialises out of the corner of your eye. It was too good to be true, you suppose.
You sigh lightly, then turn to face it. "Hi."
A woman blinks at you. Water drips steadily from her clothes, darkening the fabric around her shoulders. Her hair hangs in wet strands around her face, and she looks incredibly confused. "Where am I?"
"What's your name?" you ask her instead.
"I—I'm—" She spins around, sending droplets of water in every direction. You cover yourself instinctively, even though none of it can actually touch you. "What's going on?"
"Hey, it's okay. I can help you."
She frowns. Her mouth pulls into a tight line, but just as her shoulders begin to loosen, a figure steps straight through her. She disappears immediately.
You bite back a groan. You were just about to reach her.
"Sorry..." A low voice pulls your attention away. "I didn't mean to interrupt, but... are you okay?"
You glance up to find Dr. Abbot standing a few feet away, one hand half-raised like he wasn't sure whether he should approach. Of course.
You look toward the empty space where the woman had been. "Sorry. Just a second." You hold up a finger to him and turn your head slightly, pretending to listen to something only you can hear. "I gotta go. Yeah... Bye."
You turn back to him and pull out your headphones, feigning confusion. "Sorry, what were you saying?"
He studies you for a second longer than feels comfortable. His eyes move briefly to your hand, then back to your face. "Nothing. Sorry."
You smile awkwardly at him, thanking your past self for the foresight.
Dr. Abbot leans slightly to his left, an expression of pain flickering across his face, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you gesture to the space beside you. "Do you wanna sit?"
He hesitates, glancing toward the empty stretch of bench before lowering himself onto it, leaving a polite gap between you. Silence falls for a second before he speaks. "My resident loved the book."
Your face brightens. "Really?"
"Oh yeah," he says, his mouth curling slightly. "I'm apparently her favourite attending now." He nods in your direction. "All thanks to you."
"You're welcome!" You grin. "Next time you need a recommendation, you know where to find me." You take another sip of your coffee. "Is she the reason our page is popping off?"
He hums. "She did say something about posting it on her TikTok..."
You smile at the unsure grimace on his face. Clearly, he's not an avid user of the platform. "Give her my thanks, then. The store's been buzzing the last few days. The coffee corner's been packed since."
"Oh, you have coffee now?"
"Yeah! New addition. Ethan thought it would be good."
"Coffee's any good?"
You shrug. "Depends who's asking."
His mouth curls. "I am."
"Then I'll say yes."
He huffs a laugh.
Silence falls between you again, but this time it's more comfortable. You find yourself noticing that with him, silence doesn't seem to demand anything. You don't have to fill it, and neither does he. He just sits beside you, looking out across the park.
You lift the crinkly paper bag beside you and take out a croissant. You break it in two and hold out one half to him. He looks from the pastry to your face, as though checking whether you're serious.
You nod. "Take it."
The corner of his mouth lifts before he accepts it. His wedding ring catches the morning light as he does. The reminder sends a quiet swoop through your stomach, though you're unsure why.
You take a sip. "Feel free to bring your wife with you," you add. "We get lots of couples coming in."
"Oh..." His expression changes almost imperceptibly as his eyes drop to his hand. His thumb brushes over the edge of his wedding ring. "She passed away a few years ago."
The words are simple. There isn't a dramatic pause afterwards, no visible struggle to say them. Just a quiet fact placed between you. It explains the weird feeling you've gotten each time you've seen his ring—you must've picked up on it subconsciously.
"I'm sorry."
He shakes his head. "Don't be."
You glance at him.
He looks down at the croissant in his hand, turning it slightly between his fingers. "I was lucky to have her."
You smile softly. It's clear from his voice just how much he loved her. "She must've been special."
His own smile appears, small but genuine. It's still wider than any you've seen from him so far. "She was."
You've seen enough death to know there's no right thing to say afterwards. Sometimes people want sympathy. Sometimes they want to talk. Sometimes they just want someone to acknowledge that it happened and then let them breathe. So you don't try to fix it. You just sit beside him.
After a moment, Dr. Abbot takes another bite of his croissant and changes the subject. "So, was it always in your plans to own a bookstore?"
You breathe out. "No, I actually stumbled on it a few years ago."
You don't tell him about Lydia and Delia making life hell for the new owners, or how their refusal to move on had eventually led to the place being sold to you for barely a dime. Instead, you tell him, "I've always loved books. So, it just felt right to share that love with others."
He hums, smiling slightly. "That makes sense."
"What about you? Did you always want to be a doctor?"
"Couldn't afford college, so I joined the army. Lost my leg." He pats his right leg, but doesn't make more of it. So you don't either. "Then after that, I entered emergency medicine. And that was that."
You glance at him. "That was that?"
He shrugs. "Seemed like a reasonable way to spend the rest of my life."
You snort. "Most people would say they wanted to help people."
"Well, I try to keep the inspirational speeches to a minimum."
You laugh. The conversation drifts again. It's strangely easy. You talk some more about the bookstore. He tells you about some of the residents who have passed through the ER, right until a yawn interrupts his words.
You fight back a smile. "I'd better get going," you say, standing and brushing pastry flakes from your jeans. "The store's not going to open itself." Well... it might. But the last time Lydia and Delia tried, it hadn't ended particularly well.
Dr. Abbot's eyes flick briefly to the fading bruises on your forearms before meeting yours again. He opens his mouth, hesitates, then simply says, "Take care of yourself."
You smile. "I usually do."
"Thanks again for the book recommendation."
"Anytime," you say, smiling at him. You give him a small wave before turning towards the path.
The tension in Jack's shoulders eases the second he steps into Cordelia's and is met by the familiar smell of paper, ink and coffee. The bell chimes softly above him as he swipes his wet feet at the mat.
"Oh no, poor you." You emerge from the back, taking in how the rain clings to his hair.
He waves his hand. "It's not that bad. Just a light—" A loud boom of thunder interrupts him, followed by rain pelting hard against the windows, "—drizzle. Huh." He leans slightly to his left, trying to place more weight on his good leg, but even that one is hurting today.
He can feel your gaze on him, so he turns back to you with a charming little smile in place, trying his best to avoid letting you know how bad it is.
"Go sit." You nod towards the armchair, an air of resolution over you as you head for the coffee machine. Somehow, you see right through him every time.
Jack doesn't have the energy to argue. He settles into the armchair, propping his leg on the ottoman that appeared after his second long visit. He's not sure when it became tradition for him to show up after shift. It just did.
You're not even open yet, so most mornings you sit with him. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don't. It's nice. You've become an unlikely friend, someone who he looks forward to seeing after shift. It certainly beats going home to an empty apartment. Somewhere along the way, Cordelia's had become part of his routine.
"Here." You reach over, bringing him his cup. He lets his hands warm against the porcelain before taking a long sip.
"You've done it again," he breathes out. "You really are magic."
You shake your head. "I thought we agreed not to call me that."
"You agreed. I didn't." He shrugs. "You always find the best books and, somehow, make this coffee taste good. Magic."
"Uh-huh." You roll your eyes, heading back towards the counter with your own mug. Jack rests his head against the chair, letting the quiet rustle of the bookstore and the sound of rain wash away the beeps and shouting voices still ringing in his ears.
His eyes follow you as you lift a box up onto the counter. "What'd you got there?"
You grin widely. "One of our customers left us a few boxes of vintage books." You slice cleanly through the tape. "I mean, look at this." You pull out a gorgeous green-covered book, holding it carefully in both hands, your entire face lighting up.
Jack can't help the little smile that tugs at his lips. You're cute when you're excited. He looks away before you can catch him staring, spinning his ring around. He's not sure where that thought came from.
"It's beautiful," you say, running your thumb carefully along the spine. "Look at the binding."
The bell rings again as Ethan drags himself in through the door, shaking his umbrella and leaving it at the entrance. He waves to Jack before immediately slumping down behind the counter with a yawn.
"You look like a wet rat," you tell him.
"Oh, thank you." Jack hears the offended tone in Ethan's voice as he stands up, shaking his wet sleeve at you.
"Hey!"
Jack chuckles quietly to himself as the two of you begin bickering.
"What's all this?" Ethan asks, finally noticing the box. A low whistle escapes him. "This might be worth a pretty penny."
Jack watches the two of you fall into your familiar rhythm. You inspect every book before Ethan checks the condition. You argue over whether certain editions should be sold or kept. Ethan reads out the occasional title with a laugh. You keep nudging books toward him for him to look at.
Jack mostly stays quiet. He doesn't mind. That's one of the things he likes about the store. He doesn't have to perform here. He can sit with his coffee and listen to the two of you bicker about books while the morning slowly settles around him.
His gaze drifts back toward you. Your hands are scratched. Again. He notices immediately. Fresh little cuts cross your fingers and knuckles, some still pink around the edges.
At first, he worried someone was hurting you. Ethan had been the obvious possibility, if only because he was the person Jack saw you with most often. But a little careful observation—and a few questions asked in the casual way only a doctor can manage—put that suspicion to rest.
You trust Ethan. Completely. There is nothing between you that suggests otherwise.
So now he's left with another question. What's happening to you? He doesn't like the thought. You've always been a little accident-prone. He knows that much. There was the initial fall from the ladder. The bruises. The scrapes. And now this. He could ask. He should probably ask. But he doesn't. Not yet. You aren't his patient. You aren't even—
He doesn't finish the thought.
Instead, he takes another drink of coffee and watches you laugh at something Ethan says. You're both leaning over the same box, shoulders nearly touching. For some reason, he finds himself smiling again.
Then you pick up another book. It's blue, covered in tiny butterflies. "Oh, this is so pre—"
You stop. Completely. The change is so sudden that Jack sits up. Your fingers remain frozen against the open page. Your eyes stare somewhere beyond the book.
"Magic?" He says it lightly at first, his eyes roaming over your frozen figure. You don't respond.
Ethan notices at exactly the same moment, but unlike Jack, he doesn't move toward you. Ethan moves toward him, stepping directly into his line of sight, and blocking you from view. "You want another cup?"
Jack frowns. "I—" He leans sideways.
Ethan shifts with him. He tries the other way. Ethan follows.
"What are you doing?"
Ethan's face is neutral, but the tightening around his eyes reveals his true position. He doesn't want Jack to see you for some reason. "Offering you coffee."
Jack looks down at his still half-full cup, his frown deepening. He shifts forward, planting his good foot firmly on the floor. Ethan still doesn't move. Jack pushes himself upright, his prosthetic taking an extra second to cooperate. By the time he's standing, Ethan has finally stepped aside.
And it's like nothing happened. You're fine. You're flicking through another book with the same casualness as before. Jack stares. "Hey, you okay?"
A smile immediately settles over your face. "Yeah." It arrives too quickly, too smoothly.
He doesn't believe you. You know he doesn't. For a second, something passes between you. A silent acknowledgement that whatever just happened, you both know it did.
Ethan clears his throat. "So, coffee?"
Jack looks at him, then back at you. "I—no. I should head home."
You frown. "So soon?"
He pauses.
Your expression changes the second you realise what you've said. "Sorry, go on. You're tired," you add quickly. "You should sleep."
He smiles faintly. "Yeah." He looks at you for another second. "See you tomorrow, Magic."
You roll your eyes, waving him off.
The bell jingles softly behind him. Outside, out of sight from the store windows, he pauses on the pavement. He barely takes notice of the rain, his mind busy running through everything he's seen. Bruises. Scratches. Lethargy. Disassociation. The way you froze just now. His thoughts begin sorting possibilities automatically.
Anemia. Thrombocytopenia. Something autoimmune.
He discards some almost immediately. Others linger. His stomach twists. He knows better than to diagnose someone from a handful of observations. He knows better than to let his mind run ahead of the evidence. But his brain doesn't care. It keeps circling back.
Cancer.
He closes his eyes for a moment. Not again.
You've only seen Jack once this week, a significant enough break in your routine that you find yourself thinking about him all the time. You catch yourself wondering whether he heads straight to bed instead of coming to the store, whether he's been working more shifts, whether he's okay.
You'd made Ethan leave him a note after you'd missed two mornings in a row. Somehow, the two of you have never exchanged numbers, so you don't even know he's seen it. Maybe he hasn't even come by, and you've been worrying for nothing. He's a busy man, after all.
You hope he doesn't think you're avoiding him. The last time he came by, you could see the questions swimming in his eyes. Questions you had elegantly sidestepped, but the doubt was still in his posture when he left.
You're just not sure what to tell him. Oh, that? That was just a vision. I get those sometimes—ghosts like to talk to me through them. What? Yeah, I talk to ghosts. It's no big deal.
He'd think you were crazy.
And you're genuinely busy. The vision from the blue book has led you through one dead end after another, the child ghost attached to it proving considerably harder to cross over than usual. Every time you think you're getting close, something changes. A new location. A new clue. Another fragment of a memory that sends you in the wrong direction.
So the bookstore has been running mostly without you. Ethan has taken care of most of the day-to-day things, with you dropping in whenever you can. Long enough to check the register. Long enough to unpack a few boxes. Long enough to make sure Lydia and Delia haven't started another argument over which section needs reorganising. Then you're gone again.
You push through the bookstore door late in the afternoon, the bell giving its familiar little chime above your head.
Ethan looks up from behind the counter, his eyes trailing over you. "You look awful."
You drop your bag onto the counter. "Gee, thanks."
"You know what I mean." He closes the book in front of him and crosses his arms. "You look exhausted. Have you been sleeping?"
You shrug, already heading toward the boxes stacked in the back. "I'll sleep after."
"After what?"
You crouch beside one of the boxes and start digging through it. "After."
"There's no after with you." His brows pinch together. "You can't help anyone if you're not taking care of yourself."
You ignore him, pushing aside a stack of paperbacks. "You sound like my dad."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't."
"Still taking it."
You finally find what you're looking for. The blue book. You pull it free and hold it against your chest. You stand again and turn toward the door. "I'll see you later, okay? Close the store early if you want."
"You sure?"
"Yeah." Your hand closes around the door handle. "I'm sorry for leaving it all to you. I'll make it up to you."
He waves you off. "You know, I don't mind... Jack's been asking for you."
So he has been by. Not directly after shift, because Ethan doesn't open that early. He's taken time out of his day to actually come by, disturbing the little sleep he gets. You stop, the bell above you giving a tiny jingle as the door shifts beneath your hand. "What did you say?"
"That you were busy." He leans back on the counter. "He's worried about you."
You swallow. "Well, tell him I'm fine."
Ethan's eyebrows lift. "That's it?"
"What else am I supposed to say?"
"Maybe ask why he's been asking about you."
You give him a flat look. A faint thump comes from somewhere behind the shelves. Ethan's eyes flick toward the sound, but you keep yours straight ahead.
"Tell him I'm fine."
"You could tell him yourself, you know."
You pause. For one brief, stupid second, you're tempted. The temptation is sharper than it should be. You could stop by the store one morning, let this ghost wait a little longer, but the wide-eyed, fearful gaze of your ghost reminds you that this is a little more important.
Jack can wait. Besides, it's not like the two of you really are anything to each other. He knows what you like to eat at breakfast, the books you prefer to read, and how your mother died when you were young. You know how he likes his coffee, the way he walks when he's trying to hide how his leg is hurting, and the passing of his wife. He'd even told you how his mother passed just a few years later and how he hadn't coped well with it.
Normal things. Things friends know about each other. Nothing that meant anything.
You push it down. "I'll see you later, okay?"
Ethan watches the door swing shut and sighs. Delia and Lydia join him from their hiding spot behind the shelves.
It's yet another early morning when Jack heads toward Cordelia's. He's stopped telling himself he's only going for the coffee by now. At first, it had been an easy excuse. He liked the place, the coffee, the books, and the quiet.
And, admittedly, he liked seeing you. He liked the way you made the silence feel comfortable. He liked that you noticed when his leg hurt even when he tried to hide it. He liked that you never made a big deal out of it.
That last part had been easier to ignore when you were actually there.
Now it's been over a week since he last saw you. Still, every morning after a shift, he finds himself turning down the same street, parking in the same spot, and walking toward the same little bookstore with the faint hope that this will finally be the morning he catches you. His hope grows when he sees the lights are on, which normally doesn't happen this early unless you're in.
Ethan looks up when the bell rings. His smile is polite, almost apologetic. "Morning."
Jack steps farther inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. He tries not to let the disappointment show on his face. Ethan is fiddling with something in the middle of the store, adjusting one of the little displays.
Jack leans against the counter, watching him for a moment. He doesn't bother pretending he's here for a book. He stopped doing that after the first two times. "...You talk to her?"
Ethan glances over. "Yeah, she came in yesterday."
Jack's shoulders ease slightly. "And how was she?"
"Fine." The answer comes too quickly. Ethan turns back toward the display.
Jack watches him. "Fine?"
"Yeah."
Jack nods slowly. Something about it doesn't sit right. He's seen you. Not properly, but he's caught glimpses. Once through the hospital window when you'd been crossing the street. Another time when he'd been driving past the bookstore and spotted you leaving through the side entrance.
You'd looked different. Paler. Thinner. Tired. He'd wanted to ask if you were okay, but each time he'd tried to get your attention, you'd climbed into your car and driven away before he could reach you. He'd told himself you were busy. Then he'd told himself you were avoiding him. That thought had bothered him more than it should have. Then he'd wracked his mind for a reason but ultimately landed on none.
"Is she sick?"
"What?" Ethan's head turns sharply.
"Is she sick?" Jack repeats. The words sound worse spoken aloud. "I've been seeing her around. She doesn't look well."
Ethan's expression shifts.
Jack's stomach drops. "She is sick."
"...No."
Jack catches the hesitation immediately. "Then what?"
Ethan looks away.
Jack's pulse starts beating harder. "She's been exhausted. She's lost weight."
"She's busy."
"She looks pale."
"She's been busy."
"She keeps leaving before I can talk to her."
Ethan sighs. "Jack—"
Jack watches his face. He's a doctor. He knows what people look like when they're trying not to tell you something. He knows what hesitation means. His mind starts filling in the blanks before he can stop it. Bloodwork. Imaging. Specialists. Treatment. His stomach twists. He pushes away from the counter. "Please."
Ethan finally looks at him.
"I'm a doctor. I can help."
"You can't."
"Please."
Ethan's expression softens.
Jack swallows. "If it's money, I'll take care of it." The words come out before he can think better of them.
Ethan blinks. "Jack—"
"I mean it." His voice is quieter now. "I'll pay for whatever she needs. Tests. Treatment. Whatever."
He doesn't explain why. The memory is already there in his mind. A hospital room. A diagnosis he'd wanted to believe wasn't serious. A woman he loved telling him she was fine when she wasn't. All the little things he'd missed. The things he should have noticed. The things he should have done differently. He'd promised himself he'd never make that mistake again. Not with someone he cared about.
Ethan stares at him, then shakes his head. "...She's not sick."
"Then what?"
Ethan bites his lip. For a moment, Jack thinks he's going to tell him. Instead, Ethan looks down at the display. "That's not for me to say."
Jack's jaw tightens. "Ethan."
"I'm sorry."
"Please."
"I can't."
Jack stares at him. There is something desperate in his own voice now, but he doesn't really care. "You know something."
Ethan doesn't answer.
"You know what's wrong with her."
"I know she's dealing with something."
"Then tell me."
"I can't."
Jack exhales sharply. His hand curls against the edge of the counter. "She doesn't have to know I'm asking."
"Jack."
"She doesn't even have to know I can help."
Ethan shakes his head. "It's not my secret."
Jack looks away. For a moment, the anger drains out of him, leaving only exhaustion. Right. Of course. He can't demand this. You aren't his patient. You're not his responsibility. You're—
He doesn't know what you are to him. He grabs his keys from his pocket. "Okay."
"I'm sorry."
Jack nods once. "Yeah." He turns toward the door.
"Jack?"
He pauses.
Ethan's voice is gentler now. "She's okay."
Jack looks back.
Ethan gives him a small, reassuring smile. "She'll be okay."
Jack searches his face. He wants to believe him. He wants to believe him more than anything. "Right." He steps outside, the door closing behind him.
He stands on the pavement for a moment, staring at the bookstore window. His chest feels tight. He should go home. Sleep. Forget about it until tomorrow.
He thinks about the first time you'd met. The stupid heart-covered pyjama pants. The cut on your forehead. The way you'd laughed at his terrible jokes. The coffee you'd started making exactly the way he liked it. The bench in the park. The croissant you'd split with him. The way you'd listened when he'd talked about Rachel without making him feel like he was saying too much. The fact that he'd noticed your absence almost immediately when you stopped coming around.
He'd told himself it was because he'd grown used to seeing you. That was all. Just routine. Except now he has to admit how much he misses you.
Jack exhales slowly. Because whatever you're dealing with, you're dealing with it alone. And for reasons he's not ready to examine, Jack really, really doesn't like that.
You feel like you're losing your mind.
Your ghost won't leave you alone. She's there when you wake, when you eat, when you try to work. Barely a second passes without seeing her somewhere in the corner of your eye, hovering close enough that you can hear the quiet hitch of her breathing. When you try to sleep, she cries because she's scared. When you're at the bookstore, she cries because she's scared of Lydia and Delia. When you tell her to stay away from the shelves, she cries. When you tell her you'll help her, she cries harder.
For your own sake, you need to cross her over. Soon.
But it's not proving easy. She doesn't remember anything. Not where she lived. Not how she died. Not even where her mother is. You know exactly one thing about her. Her name is Poppy. That's it.
You've tracked down the customer who left the blue book behind, hoping there might be some clue in where they'd bought it or who had owned it before them. Nothing. You've searched. You've asked questions. You've followed every lead Poppy has given you. Every single one has ended nowhere. You're completely lost.
One lead keeps bringing you back to the same place, though. An old house on the edge of town, where you've felt the presence of more spirits than you can count. Not the lost, confused ghosts you're used to. These are different. Angry. Territorial. The kind that makes the air feel heavy before you even cross the property line.
The first time you went near the house, something had whispered your name from inside before you'd even reached the door. You hadn't gone back alone since. You're not sure what Poppy's connection is to these spirits, but she always seems more frightened after you've been near the house. You haven't been able to figure out what they want from her.
So, trying to change your surroundings in the hopes that it might clear something up, you head to the park. You sit on your usual bench, which you haven't done in a long time, with a thermocup warming your hands. For once, there's no one around. No customers. No Ethan. No Lydia or Delia. No Jack. Just you.
And Poppy sitting cross-legged in the grass a few feet away.
"I miss my mommy," she whispers.
Your eyes close. "I know."
"She'll find me, right?"
You swallow. You don't know. "Try to see if you can remember something."
Poppy looks at you. "I'm trying." Her voice is louder this time.
"I know." You keep your voice gentle, trying to soothe her. "But—"
"You're just trying to get rid of me," she accuses.
"What?"
She stands. "You don't want me here."
"Poppy—"
"You don't want me!"
You lift a hand. "I want to help you."
"You want me gone. Just like they said."
The words catch somewhere in your mind. They? But Poppy is crying again before you can ask.
"You need to cross over," you say, more firmly now. "This isn't where you're supposed to be."
Her face crumples. "You don't want me," she cries louder. "I want my mommy."
"I am trying to find your mommy."
"I want her!" Her voice rises.
You wince. "Poppy—"
"I want my mommy!"
The sound tears through you. You press your fingers against your temples. "Stop."
She freezes.
You breathe hard. "Just stop. I can't take it anymore."
Poppy's lower lip trembles. "You don't want me."
The anger drains out of you immediately. You rub a hand over your face. "Wait. Poppy, I didn't mean it like that."
She's already disappearing.
"Fuck." You stare at the empty patch of grass, your chest rising quickly. You don't notice the footsteps approaching until a familiar voice speaks beside you.
"Hey."
You look up. Jack. He's standing a few feet away, concern written plainly across his face. Of course. Of course he's here now.
You wipe quickly beneath your eyes. "It isn't what it looks like."
Jack's eyebrows lift. "No?" He gestures toward the empty grass. "Then what is it?"
You stare at him. Your heart starts pounding. You can't do this. Not with him. Not after everything. You remember Ethan's words. He's not like John. You swallow. "I—"
This is much harder than when you meet the family members or friends of ghosts. You can show them proof—hand them something that assures them you aren't crazy. You can't do that with Jack. He might have a ghost attached, but his mother hasn't tried to reach out to you in weeks. You haven't seen or spoken to her. You have nothing that will convince him.
Jack doesn't interrupt. He simply sits down beside you, leaving enough space between you that you don't feel trapped.
You fiddle with your fingers. He waits patiently. Maybe Ethan was right. Maybe Jack isn't like John. "This is gonna sound crazy."
"Okay."
You glance at him. His expression doesn't change, but he reaches over, placing his hand on top of yours.
With another deep breath, you finally say, "I can see ghosts." The words sound ridiculous the second they're out. You stare at your intertwined hands and wait for him to pull away. He doesn't.
When Jack doesn't say anything, you look over at him. He's watching you. His eyes are kind and curious. Not horrified or pitying like you suspected.
"I've always been able to," you continue quietly. "I help them cross over. Go into the light. Like my mom." You swallow. "Do you believe me?"
Jack nods. "I do."
The relief that moves through you is almost painful. You let out a breath you didn't realise you'd been holding. He doesn't ask for proof. Doesn't ask you to demonstrate. Doesn't ask whether you're sure. His thumb brushes over your palm, then he looks at you again.
"Would you be willing to come to the hospital with me?"
The relief stutters in your chest. "Why?"
The warmth in his voice remains, but concern slips into it. "You're thinner than when I met you. You show up with random bruises and scratches."
Your stomach sinks.
"You're tired. You freeze up sometimes, and just now you were talking to the air."
Your other hand curls around the thermocup, holding it tightly. You stare at him, tears welling up.
He squeezes your hand. "I want you to get checked out."
It's like it all processes at once, the air in your chest rushing out of you. "You think I'm crazy."
"No." He shakes his head immediately. "I think you're sick, sweetheart."
The words hit harder than they should. For a second, you're back somewhere else. Not the park. Not Pittsburgh. Years ago. John sitting across from you. A much different expression but that same certainty. You're imagining things. You're crazy. You're just like your mom.
And now Jack—
Jack, who you'd thought was different. Jack, who had listened. Jack, who had made you feel normal. Jack, who has a ghost attached to him and has seen strange things happening around him. Who acts like it isn't unusual—
He doesn't believe you. He thinks you're sick.
You shake your head. "I'm not."
"Honey—"
"I'm not." You stand so quickly your coffee nearly spills.
Jack rises with you.
"I'm not sick."
His brow furrows. "I'm worried about you."
"No." You shake your head. "You're worried because you think there's something wrong with me."
"There could be." His voice is gentle, which somehow makes it all worse.
"I don't understand. You should know better than anyone that I'm not crazy. You've experienced things you can't explain—I know it."
Jack goes still.
Your eyes burn. "I know what I'm seeing."
He takes a small step forward. "I believe that you believe you're seeing—"
You flinch and move backwards. "Don't."
Jack's face changes. He realises too late what the words sound like. "That's not what I meant."
"I'm not sick." A tear slips down your cheek. You wipe it away angrily.
Jack's expression twists. "Magic—"
"Don't call me that." You look at him through teary lashes. "I thought you were different."
His face falls.
For a moment, neither of you speaks, then you turn away. "I need to go."
"Please." His voice is suddenly unsteady.
You shake your head. "I can't do this. Don't come to the store again."
His expression breaks, and his lips form your name, but nothing comes out. You turn around. You don't wait for him to say anything else. You walk away, and for once, you don't look back.
You hole up in your apartment after that day. Steer clear of anything that could lead to a ghost finding you. You don't go to the park anymore. Jack doesn't come to the store. Ethan checks in every day, but you keep your replies short and insist you're fine. He eventually decided to stop asking, but you feel his eyes following you in the store constantly.
Poppy also doesn't show herself again. Part of you is relieved, another part of you worries that you've made things worse. You don't have the energy to figure out which feeling is winning.
You're sprawled across the couch sometime after midnight when the crackling starts. The sound grows louder. Your hands fly to your ears. It doesn't help. The static crawls through your skull, sharp and distorted. Your vision blurs at the edges. You squeeze your eyes shut. The crackling rises. Louder. Louder. Then—
It quiets.
You slowly open your eyes. A woman is standing in front of you. She's watching you carefully. You stare back.
"Can you see me?"
You let your hands fall into your lap. "...Yes."
Her eyes widen as her face lights up. "Finally!"
That's not the usual reaction you get from ghosts.
She grins. "You have no idea how long I've been trying."
You blink as the pieces connect. "You're Jack's ghost, aren't you?"
Her smile wavers a bit. "Yes."
His mother looks younger than you expected, with kind eyes and an expression that's almost painfully patient. Frail. It's the lack of hair that surprises you most—her head is entirely bald.
"Is he okay?" The question comes out before you can stop it, even as your stomach twists.
Her smile returns, softer this time. "All things considered, yes."
You look away. "Good."
"He's worried about you."
You stand immediately, turning toward the kitchen. "I mean no disrespect—I know, he's your son—but I don't really care."
A burst of laughter follows you. You turn around slowly.
The woman is laughing so hard she's doubled over. She wipes beneath one eye. "Oh, no, I'm not his mother."
You frown. "Then who are you?"
She straightens. "I'm his wife." Rachel.
The words move through you strangely, hollow and sharp at the same time. "Oh." You make it three steps. "Wait." You look over your shoulder. "It's been you this entire time?"
Rachel appears next to you in the kitchen. "Yes."
You exhale slowly. "You've been here for a long time, then."
She hears the question behind it. "I can't leave yet." Her expression softens. "Not until he lets his guilt go."
You turn to her fully. "Guilt?"
She sighs. "He blames himself for my death."
You lean against the kitchen counter. "Why?"
"By the time we found the cancer, it was too late. Jack thought he should have seen it as a doctor, but—" She looks down at her hands.
No one could have known. Sometimes life is cruel like that. You know that better than most. Sometimes people die. Sometimes there is nothing you can do. Sometimes the world simply decides that someone isn't getting another day.
You fill the kettle. "So you want me to help him?"
"Yes..." She hesitates.
You narrow your eyes at her. "What else?"
Rachel gives you an innocent smile. "Well... We thought maybe you could help each other."
You stop filling the kettle. "We?"
"Us ghosts."
You stare at her.
"We talk."
"You talk."
"Yes."
"About me?"
"Sometimes."
Your eyes close. "Wonderful."
"I followed Jack into the park one morning and met Lydia and Delia. They told me about you. We thought you might understand each other."
You stare at her, then the realisation hits you. Your mouth falls open. "What?"
She has the decency to look embarrassed. "I—well..."
"I can't believe this. This is insane."
"We didn't mean to hurt you."
"You're his wife! Why are you involved in this?"
"His dead wife!" she counters, voice rising slightly. "He deserves more than this. He deserves to be loved. I want that for him. I want him to be with someone who understands him—and you do. You get it. You know what death does to a person. You understand what it means to carry someone with you even after they're gone. And he'll understand you if you just let him. If you give him another chance—"
Your voice is hoarse as you cut her off. "Please, get out."
Rachel looks panicked. "Please, we didn't mean—"
"Get. Out." You tell her, pointing toward the door. "I won't ask again."
She looks at you for a long moment, then she nods. "I'm sorry."
She disappears without another sound. For several seconds, you don't move, not until the kettle pings. You blink back tears, cursing out Delia and Lydia in your mind.
Maybe they'll be able to hear you. You hope so.
Weeks later, the bookstore has been quiet. Not just quiet in the ordinary sense. Quiet in the supernatural sense. No books flying from shelves. No lights flickering. No crackling static in the middle of the day. No Lydia appearing beside you with unsolicited advice. No Delia whispering things you absolutely didn't ask to hear. After your last conversation with Rachel, you'd made your feelings very clear to everyone involved. Apparently, they'd listened. For once.
Ethan is behind the counter when you emerge from the back room. He looks up, then does a double-take. "You look pretty."
You glance down at yourself. You've traded your usual jeans and cardigan for a dress, slipped into a pair of heels, and touched up your makeup. You put in one earring. "Thanks."
Ethan continues staring. "Got a hot date or something?"
"Yeah."
He straightens, the teasing tone disappearing from his voice. "What?"
You laugh. "Yeah."
"Really?"
"Is it that unbelievable?"
"No," he hurries to say. "I just thought..."
You pause. "What?"
"Nothing."
"No, tell me."
He sighs. "I thought you were in love with Jack."
Your fingers still around the clasp of your earring. For half a second, you don't say anything, then you scoff. "I was never in love with Jack."
Ethan raises an eyebrow.
"We were friends." You grab your purse from the counter. "And now we aren't." You check that you've got your phone, wallet, and keys. "End of story."
There is also some stubborn part of you that wants to prove to Rachel, Lydia and Delia, and every other ghost who'd decided they knew better, wrong. You and Jack don't fit together. Whatever they thought they'd seen between you was wrong.
"Right, sure." His tone is carefully neutral. "So, where are you going?"
"Uh… that restaurant that serves that pasta dish you like—Angelo's!"
"Damn, I'm jealous." He shakes his head. "Where you'd meet this guy?"
"Hinge."
Ethan makes a face as he fiddles with a piece of paper. "I thought you were over dating."
"Boyfriends," you correct.
"There's a difference?"
"Obviously." You check yourself in the reflection of the darkened window. "A boyfriend gets to know everything."
"Everything?"
You shrug. "About me."
Ethan watches you.
You adjust one of your earrings. "A date doesn't. We can just have fun and let it be that."
"If you say so," he replies.
"You're the one always telling me to get laid."
"I didn't mean this."
You give him a warning look.
He raises both hands. "Fine. Have fun. I'm a phone call away if anything happens."
You send him a small smile and sling your purse over your shoulder. "Got it. You have my location. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yeah, tomorrow."
Your dating attempts all go down the drain. Every single one. Even if it starts promisingly enough.
The first guy is named Daniel. He's handsome in an unassuming sort of way, with dark curls, a charming smile, and the kind of manners that make you able to imagine going home with him. He holds the restaurant door open for you. He compliments your dress without making it sound like he's expecting anything in return. He even listens when you talk.
You make it through appetisers without incident, then the wine glass beside his hand tips over. It spreads over his shirt, soaking into the fabric. You don't suspect that it was anything but clumsiness until the dessert, and his plate shoots sideways, landing straight in the lap of the woman sitting at the next table.
You don't see anyone, but you know exactly who did it.
You haven't forgotten what happened by the second date, but after forty spectacle-free minutes, you've relaxed. It's pleasant. There's no sparks flying, but you don't need that. You don't want that, actually. The pleasantness comes to an end when his salad bowl jerks sideways, launching dressing straight into his eyes. And that was that.
The third, fourth and fifth go exactly the same. One man receives a drink he didn't order and has it thrown directly into his face. Another finds his phone repeatedly dialling the same number despite the fact that he hasn't touched it. One poor bloke gets locked in the restaurant bathroom for twenty minutes while you stand outside listening to him insist that the door "just won't fucking open."
No one shows themselves, but you feel their presence, that tell-tale feeling of ghosts being near. Delia's perfume drifts past your nose one time. Lydia's laugh echoes another time. You even hear Rachel's voice in between other ones that you don't recognise. It seems like your matchmaking ghosts have made all their friends part of their schemes. You can't even blame your dates for leaving. You'd leave too.
And the worst part is that, even before the ghosts got involved, none of them had felt right. Daniel was charming. The second was funny. The third had made you laugh so hard you'd snorted wine through your nose. They were all perfectly nice. Perfectly suitable.
None of them is Jack.
You hate that your mind keeps making the comparison. Jack's dry humour. His crooked smiles. The easy silences between you. The way he's never made you feel like you had to perform or explain yourself. With everyone else, you find yourself waiting for something to click. Some spark. Some feeling that tells you this is worth pursuing. It never comes.
By the time you finally stomp into Cordelia's, you're furious. You slam your purse onto the counter. "Show yourselves." You fold your arms. "I'm not in the mood for this." You glare toward the shelves. "I know you're here."
Slowly, three figures appear across the room. Rachel at least looks apologetic. Lydia doesn't. Delia looks like she's trying very hard not to smile.
You stare at all three of them. "You need to stop."
Lydia opens her mouth. "But dear—"
"No." You hold up a hand. "Nothing else. This stops now."
She looks offended. "We're only trying to—"
"I don't care." Your voice cracks through the room. "You've ruined every date I've been on."
Delia winces as Lydia folds her arms. "They weren't right for you."
"You don't know that!"
"They were boring."
"That doesn't mean you get to throw food at them!"
"We didn't throw food at them," she argues.
You stare at her.
"We threw the plates." Lydia gives you a tiny shrug. "Technicality."
You breathe deeply, eyes flaring. "Are you serious?"
Delia loops Lydia's arm in between hers, holding her back.
"If you do this again, I'm selling this place."
All three look at you. Delia hesitates. "Dear—"
"I mean it."
Rachel takes a hesitant step forward. "We only wanted you to be happy."
"You don't get to choose for me." You look between them. "Are we clear?"
Rachel nods first. Slowly, reluctantly, the other two follow.
"Good." You grab your purse.
You're over dating. Completely. It's not worth it anymore. Unfortunately, that leaves you with a lot of extra time to think. To think about Jack's face when you told him to stay away.
So, you start seeking ghosts out deliberately. Cemeteries. Old houses. Anywhere you hear rumours of someone who hasn't crossed over. It's easier when you're busy. If you're talking to a ghost, you don't have to think about Jack. You don't have to wonder whether he's angry with you. Whether he hates you. Whether he still thinks you're sick. It also means you're spending more time around hospitals than you used to, but you've been careful around PTMC. You tell yourself that's enough distance.
Until the ghost in the park finds you. He's flickering badly, his form disappearing every few seconds before snapping back into place. He begs you to tell his family he's fine—that they don't have to worry about him. You promise you will.
You reason with yourself that there's no reason that you'd meet Jack. It's daytime. Jack works nights. Even if he's here, he's an attending in the E.R. You're not heading there. Ergo, you're not going to see him.
You really should have known better.
The elevator doors open, and as you step in, you find Jack already inside. His expression changes the second he sees you. Surprise first, then something softer, something that looks painfully close to relief.
"Hi."
Your breath catches at the sight of him. He looks tired. More tired than you remember. You manage a small nod. "Hi."
You stand beside him, folding your arms and fixing your eyes on the numbers above the door. He glances at you. You can feel it without looking. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you.
The ghost stands in the corner beside you, watching the two of you with open curiosity. "Is that Jack?"
Your head nearly snaps to the side. How does this random ghost know Jack? Does the entire ghost community gossip about you? You stare straight ahead.
The ride takes thirty seconds. Thirty seconds of Jack standing close enough that you can feel his warmth beside you. Thirty seconds of remembering what it felt like when that same closeness had once been comforting. The doors open. You step out immediately.
Jack's brows rise when he registers the floor. Oncology. His expression changes.
"Wait—"
You keep walking. You don't turn around.
That was just the first awkward meeting. The next time, you're sitting in the waiting room for bloodwork with your phone in your hand, pretending to scroll while a ghost whispers in your ear.
You're tired. You're always tired lately. You haven't slept properly in days, and your body feels like it's made of something heavier than bone. You rub at your temple, trying to ease the dull ache behind your eyes as you listen. A familiar pull makes you look up, and your eyes meet with Jack's.
He's standing across the waiting room. His eyes travel over you. Your face. Your hands. The dark circles beneath your eyes. His expression tightens, concern flashing across his face. As he takes a step toward you, you finally regain control of your limbs. You stand immediately and leave before he can get any closer.
Somehow, he's everywhere you go.
Hallways he has no business being in. Elevator rides that you were certain would be clear. Waiting rooms you thought would be empty. Once, you even catch sight of him through a glass door just as you're leaving.
And every time, his expression gets worse. More worried. More confused. He tries to talk to you more than once, but you don't want to listen.
The more you see him, the harder it becomes to keep your walls up. Every time he looks at you like that, some small part of you wants to stop running. Wants to tell him everything. Wants to let him explain. Wants to believe that maybe you were wrong. Maybe he really would understand if you gave him the chance.
And that's exactly why you start avoiding the hospital again. Because if you keep seeing Jack, eventually you're going to stop running. And you're not sure if you can survive another rejection.
It's another lonely afternoon again. You're sprawled across the couch in an old sweatshirt, a carton of takeout balanced precariously against your stomach. Some terrible rerun plays on the television, the kind you've seen often enough that you don't really have to pay attention. You take another bite. For once, you're not thinking about ghosts. Or Jack. You're just tired.
The lights flicker.
You sigh. The television crackles. You slowly lower your fork as the lights flicker again. A cold gust sweeps through the room, lifting the edge of the blanket pooled around your legs.
The air shifts, and Poppy appears in front of the television. Her eyes are wide. "Help me!"
"Poppy?" You stand, moving toward her. You haven't seen her in weeks. Her hair is tangled around her face, her little body flickering so badly that pieces of her seem to disappear before snapping back into place.
She takes a step toward you. "Please."
"What's going on?"
"They're gonna get me." Her voice breaks.
"Who's going to get you?"
Poppy looks toward the front door, seeing something you can't. Pure terror crosses her face. "Hurry. They're so angry."
"Poppy, wait."
For a second, she's gone. Then she appears beside the front door.
"Who is going to get you?"
She doesn't answer. She just looks back at you. "Please." She disappears through the door.
You stare after her. "Goddammit." You grab your jacket from the back of the chair, shove your feet into the nearest pair of shoes, and snatch your keys from the counter. You barely remember to lock the door behind you.
You hurry down the steps, shivering slightly in the cold autumn weather. Your jacket is too thin, but you don't care; you just need to find her.
You don't know what has changed, but it's enough that she was terrified enough to return to you.
Jack can't shake the feeling that something is wrong.
It starts small. A nagging sensation in his gut that he can't quite explain. He's spent weeks trying to convince himself that you're fine. Ethan said you were fine. You told him you were fine. He should leave it alone. Instead, by the time he's getting ready for work, the feeling has grown too large to ignore. So he calls Robby and asks him to cover his shift.
He doesn't even know what he's going to do when he gets to the bookstore. He just knows he needs to see you. There's something restless in the back of his mind. Not a thought exactly. More like a pressure, an insistence he can't quite place. It eases as he nears the store.
When he pulls up outside, Ethan is locking the door with frantic, fumbling motions, panic written across his face.
"Hey," Jack calls as he steps out of the car.
"I don't have time to talk right now." Ethan hurries past him to his car.
"What's going on?"
"Nothing I can explain right now."
"Ethan."
Ethan keeps moving. "I'm serious. I don't have time for this right now."
"Why? What's going on?"
Ethan slams the car door, but Jack opens the passenger door before he can pull away. "Ethan."
Ethan sighs, clearly conflicted. "Just—get in or close the door."
Jack hesitates.
Ethan turns toward him, anger flashing on his face. "Get in the car or stay here. I don't care. I need to go."
A gust of wind rushes past Jack, and he stumbles into the car, more pushed than moving under his own power. For a second, he could swear someone shoved him.
Ethan hits the accelerator so hard that Jack is thrown back against the seat. "Jesus, Ethan."
"Put your seatbelt on."
Jack buckles himself in. "You could've mentioned that before you launched me."
Ethan doesn't respond.
"What happened?"
Ethan glances at him out of the corner of his eye before returning to the road. "I don't know."
"Ethan."
His hands tighten on the wheel. "I'm not sure you want to know."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Ethan swallows. "I got a message from Lydia and Delia."
Jack frowns. "Lydia and Delia?" He's heard the name before in the store when you and Ethan have been whispering back and forth, but he's never put a face to them.
"The ghosts in the store."
Jack stares at him.
Ethan keeps his eyes on the road. "They said she's gone somewhere she shouldn't be. They're scared."
"How did they tell you?" Jack forces himself not to dismiss Ethan outright, even as his mind starts searching for a rational explanation.
"They wrote me a message." Ethan sighs. "I told you she wasn't sick."
Jack breathes out. "Ethan."
"No." Ethan cuts him off. "I told you. She told you. I thought you were different." His jaw tightens. "I was wrong, apparently."
Jack's brow furrows.
"She's not sick. I need you to trust me—or her, or whatever you have to trust—when I tell you she was telling the truth."
"I—" Jack starts carefully.
"No." Ethan's grip tightens on the wheel. "I need you to have an open mind, or you need to get out of this car. She's in trouble, and I can't help her if I have to worry about you."
"...Okay." Jack is silent for a moment. His worry for you wins. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere bad."
The sun has set by the time Ethan and Jack pull up to the house. The place looks abandoned from the outside. No lights. No cars. Nothing to suggest anyone is inside. Then a light flickers behind one of the windows.
Ethan's hand is already reaching for the door.
Jack gets out after him. "Ethan, wait—"
But Ethan is already heading for the front door. Jack follows, every instinct he'd learned in the army and SWAT kicking in as he crosses the threshold. He scans the room automatically, checking corners, doorways, anything that could be a threat. Then he sees you, and everything else disappears.
You're standing in the middle of the room with candles surrounding you. Dozens of them. They're arranged in a perfect circle, their flames flickering wildly despite the fact that there isn't a breeze. Your head hangs forward. Your arms are loose at your sides. You don't move.
He breathes your name out quietly.
Ethan takes a step toward you, calling out for you in a louder voice. You don't react.
Jack's pulse hammers against his throat. "What's wrong with her?"
Ethan doesn't answer. He looks just as horrified. Then the air changes, a sudden rush of cold tears through the room. Every candle flame bends toward you. Your body jerks harshly.
Jack takes a step forward, calling out for you again.
Another shudder runs through you. Your head snaps back. Your feet leave the floor. Jack freezes. For one impossible second, he simply stares.
You're floating.
Not stumbling. Not being lifted by anything he can see. Just—floating. Your hair shifts around your face as though you're underwater. Your eyes open, two black pools staring back at him.
Jack's heart stops. "What the fuck—"
Ethan lunges forward. Jack follows before he can think. He steps straight through the circle. The instant his foot crosses the line, something slams into him. He staggers. It feels like walking into a wall. "What—"
He pushes forward anyway. The pressure bears down against his chest, trying to force him backwards. He grits his teeth, taking another step. His entire body strains against whatever is holding him there. Finally, he reaches you. His hands close around your waist. You're cold. Far too cold. "I got you."
He pulls. For a moment, nothing happens, then the resistance changes. The pressure eases. Jack feels something tugging at you from the opposite direction, but it's no longer trying to keep you there. It's almost as though something else is helping him. "Come on."
He pulls again, and your body suddenly tears free. Jack stumbles backwards, dragging you with him. The candles go out. All at once. He doesn't stop to wonder; he keeps moving and gets you through the doorway and onto the grass.
He drops to his knees, keeping one hand beneath your head so it doesn't hit the ground. He calls your name, fingers pressing against your pulse point. It's weak.
"Call 911," he orders Ethan, without looking away from you. Ethan is already reaching for his phone, but Jack barely hears him. His entire world has narrowed down to you.
"Come on." Jack brushes your hair away from your face, his hands shaking. He checks your eyes for any reaction, but there's still nothing behind your eyelids but that unnatural darkness. He's never seen anything like it before.
"Don't do this. Come back." He bows his head over you. He thinks about the last time he'd seen you. The way you'd looked at him. The hurt in your eyes. He'd been so sure. So fucking sure. His eyes burn.
"I'm sorry." His voice cracks. "I should've believed you. I should've believed you." A tear drops onto your cheek, followed closely by another. "I knew something was wrong. I knew it." His hand cups the side of your face. "And I still—" He can't finish, his chest heaving. "I'm sorry." He repeats it again, and again. Until the words barely sound like words anymore.
Ethan kneels beside him. "Come on," he murmurs, taking your hand. "Stay with us."
Neither man notices the figures gathering around them. A woman with kind and patient eyes. Two ghosts who have spent years watching over you. A little girl who had been frightened into trusting the wrong people. Ghosts from the hospital. Ghosts you have helped, even if they didn't want to cross over.
They gather in silence. One by one, their hands link, until they form a circle around you. Together, they turn toward you. The darkness inside you pulsates, but the ghosts hold their ground. The air grows colder as the darkness recoils. It fights. The candles inside the house flare back to life one by one.
You arch violently in Jack's arms, and your mouth opens. A strangled gasp tears from your throat as black smoke pours from your mouth. Thick and unnatural, it twists through the air before disappearing into the darkness of the house.
Your body goes limp again.
Jack catches you against his chest. For one terrifying second, there is nothing. You're completely still. Then your chest rises with a shaky, shallow breath.
Jack presses his forehead against yours. "That's it. Come on, baby." His voice is barely audible.
Your eyelids flutter, opening slowly. They're normal again. Your gaze struggles to focus, then finds him. "Jack?"
He nods. "Yeah. I'm here."
Your mouth parts again, but before you can say anything else, your eyes roll back, and your body slackens again.
Jack immediately checks your pulse. He pulls you carefully against his chest when he's certain it's there. "I've got you." He holds you tighter. "I've got you," he whispers again.
Ethan can't remember much of the past day.
The ambulance ride is a blur of flashing lights and clipped voices. The E.R. is worse. People moving around him, asking questions he can't seem to process. Someone taking you away from him. Jack refusing to move until someone physically makes him. Then the ICU. Monitors. Machines. A bed that makes you look impossibly small. It all blends together into one long stretch of panic and fear.
There had been a moment in the ambulance when Ethan was certain they were too late. You'd been so still. So pale. He'd watched the paramedic work on you and thought, you're going to die.
He'd thought he'd failed you. That he'd found you too late. That the last thing you'd ever hear would be him telling you to hold on. He'd never been that scared in his life.
Now he's sitting in the ICU waiting room with a cup of coffee he hasn't touched, staring at the wall. You're still unconscious, but you're alive. That's all that matters. Ethan looks toward your room. Jack is there. Of course he is. The man hasn't left your side once. Not when the doctors explained what they knew. Not when they explained what they didn't know. Not when Ethan finally went downstairs to get something to eat and came back to find Jack sitting exactly where he'd been before.
He's barely spoken. Ethan can see how he's trying to wrap his mind around it—trying to find a medical explanation for what happened. Ethan knows there isn't one. He doesn't know what happened inside that house. He doesn't know what took hold of you. He doesn't know what drove it out of you, but he knows you were dying. And he knows Jack brought you back. Or at least helped.
Ethan and Jack haven't talked about the ghosts. Not really. There hasn't been time. But Ethan isn't angry with him anymore. He'd seen Jack's face when he found you. He'd watched him walk straight into something impossible without hesitation because you were on the other side.
Whatever Jack had believed before, Ethan knows he believes you now. That's enough for him.
Ethan stands and looks into the room. Jack is sitting beside your bed, one hand resting over yours. His head is bowed. He looks exhausted, dried tear tracks still visible on his face.
Ethan knows that look. Maybe Jack doesn't. But Ethan does. Because he's watched the two of you for months. The way Jack always showed up at the bookstore. The way his face changed whenever you walked into a room. The way he'd ask Ethan how you were doing and pretend he was only making conversation. The way he'd worry. The way he'd look at you when he thought no one was watching.
Ethan glances through the glass again, watching as Jack lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss against your knuckles.
The room is quiet when you wake. Not silent; there are always noises in a hospital—the steady beep of the monitor beside you, the faint hiss of oxygen, footsteps passing somewhere beyond the door—but quiet enough that you can hear Jack breathing.
He's asleep in the chair beside your bed, his hand wrapped around yours, even in sleep. You stare at him for a moment, taking in the exhaustion etched across his face. He looks terrible. His hair is a mess, his shirt is wrinkled, and there's a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
You squeeze his fingers weakly. He doesn't wake.
Your eyes drift shut again. The lights flicker, sending different shapes across the back of your eyelids. When you open your eyes, Poppy stands at the foot of your bed.
She's crying. Not the frightened, angry crying you've grown accustomed to, but a silent, guilty outpour. Her shoulders shake as tears stream down her face. "I'm sorry."
Your heart aches. "Poppy."
She takes a hesitant step toward you. "I'm really sorry," she repeats. "I didn't mean to."
"I know."
"They said if I brought you there, they'd help me find my mom."
You swallow. "They were lying to you."
She nods, tears dripping from her chin. "I'm sorry"
"It's okay."
"Are you mad?"
You shake your head. "No."
"But I hurt you."
"You didn't mean to, sweetie." You reach a hand toward her, even though you know you can't actually touch her. "You were scared. They used that."
"I'm really sorry."
"I know."
Her crying finally quiets, and you give her a tired smile.
She takes another step closer. "I found my mommy."
Your breath catches. "You did?"
Poppy nods. "The others helped me." A smile slowly appears through her tears. "She's waiting right there." Poppy points toward the corner. "Can you see her?"
You smile back, only able to see the light warming Poppy's face. "I can't."
"Oh. Maybe you will later?" Poppy looks toward the corner of the room, then back at you. "Can I go now?"
You nod, blinking back tears.
She smiles. And for the first time since you've known her, she doesn't look frightened. She turns toward the light and steps through.
You breathe deeply, fingers tightening around Jack's. You take a moment before turning your head toward him. "You can stop pretending to be asleep now."
Jack's eyes open slowly.
"Hi," you murmur.
"Hi."
"I'm guessing you heard that?"
He nods.
You bite your lip. "Still think I'm sick?"
His face falls slightly. "I'm sorry. I should've—"
"It's okay," you interrupt. "I know it's a lot."
"It isn't," he hurries to say. "I just... I saw you getting thinner. I saw the bruises. You were exhausted all the time, and then I found you talking to someone who wasn't there."
He swallows hard. "And all I could think about was Rachel. I watched her get sick, watched her get weaker and weaker, and kept thinking I should have noticed sooner. I'm a doctor. I should have known something was wrong. So when I saw you doing the same things…" He blinks wetly. "I thought I was watching it happen again. I thought I was losing you."
"I was scared," he says. "But that's not an excuse. I hurt you. I made you feel like I was just another person who thought you were crazy." His voice breaks slightly. "I'm sorry."
You have faint memories of what happened that night. Jack coming to get you. His voice breaking as he apologised. Tears on his face. But memories aren't enough. You need to hear it from him. "Do you believe me now?"
"Yes." There's no hesitation in his voice. "Completely."
You study his face for a long moment, searching for the doubt you'd spent your whole life learning to recognise. You don't find it.
Jack shifts closer, careful not to disturb any of the wires attached to you. "I don't expect you to forgive me yet." His fingers tighten around yours. "I just want the chance to earn your trust back."
You stare at him for a long moment. "I missed you." The confession slips out before you can stop it.
Jack's face softens. "I missed you, too."
You look down at your joined hands. You aren't ready to say everything is okay. Maybe you won't be for a while. But you don't pull your hand away.
Three days later, after you've been discharged, Jack joins you in the store. You sit on the edge of the armchair opposite him, your hands wrapped tightly around a mug you haven't touched.
For several minutes, neither of you speaks.
You'd thought about this conversation constantly since waking up. You'd imagined telling him everything in a dozen different ways. Some versions were angry, some were tearful, some were calm enough to make you wonder if they were even real. None of them prepared you for actually sitting across from him.
"I don't know where to start."
He shifts in his seat. "You don't have to start anywhere in particular."
You look at him. He's not rushing you, not filling the silence, just waiting. There's a familiar shift in the air as space refits itself around two new forms. Lydia and Delia stand near the shelves, their expressions softer than you've ever seen before. There's an apology in their faces. No excuses, no teasing, no insistence that they know what's best for you.
Just sorry.
You let out a slow breath, then you nod. Delia's eyes fill with tears; Lydia gives you the smallest smile. You watch them disappear again, then turn back to Jack. Somehow, it feels a little easier to speak after that.
So you tell him everything. About your mother and the visions. About your father deciding that what she called a gift was an illness. About the hospital, and how young you were when you learned that some truths were safer kept to yourself. You tell him about the ghosts you've helped, about Lydia and Delia, about Ethan. And eventually, you tell him about John.
That part is harder.
Your voice gets quieter as you explain how you'd trusted him enough to tell him the truth and how he'd used it against you. How he'd looked at you like you were broken. How, for a while afterwards, you started wondering if he was right.
Jack doesn't interrupt. Not once.
When you finally run out of words, the store is so quiet you can hear the faint hum of the coffee machine behind you. "That's everything," you whisper.
Jack looks at you for a long moment. "Thank you for telling me."
Your throat tightens. "I was scared you wouldn't believe me."
"I know."
You swallow. "I don't want to hide it anymore."
His expression softens. "You shouldn't have had to in the first place."
Your eyes burn, and you look away before he can see.
Lastly, you tell him about Rachel. His face settles into a quiet understanding as every strange thing that has happened to him finally falls into place.
The air beside the window changes. You know the feeling before you even turn. Rachel is standing there. She smiles at you.
You glance at Jack. "She's here."
His expression changes immediately. "Rachel?"
You nod.
He sits straighter. "Can she—"
"She can hear you."
Rachel moves closer. For a moment, she simply looks at him. There's so much love in her expression.
"What does she say?"
You look at her, then back at Jack. "She says you've spent enough time blaming yourself."
His jaw tightens.
You translate as Rachel speaks. "She says none of it was your fault."
Jack looks down. "Tell her..." He stops. "I should have known."
Rachel shakes her head.
"You couldn't have known. You did everything you could."
A tear rolls down Jack's cheek.
Rachel steps closer. "You loved her." You repeat the words softly. "And that was enough."
Jack closes his eyes. His shoulders shake quietly.
You keep your voice gentle. "She doesn't want you to spend the rest of your life punishing yourself for surviving her."
You look at Rachel. She smiles sadly at him before looking at you.
"You're good for him," she says.
You sigh.
"I'm not telling you what to do. I'm telling you what I see. And life's too short for this. Be brave."
You bite your lip. "Rachel."
"Let yourself have something good."
Jack looks at you, his eyes wide. "What'd she say?"
You keep this to yourself, breathing out before repeating her next words.
"To tell you that she knows and that it's okay." You don't know exactly what Rachel means, but whatever she said reaches something in him that nothing else has. "She wants you to keep living."
His face crumbles. "Rachel."
She moves closer to him, sitting on the corner of the armchair. "It's okay, Jack." Her hand brushes against his cheek gently.
Jack's eyes close, his head tilting toward a touch he can't really feel. A long breath leaves him, and for the first time, something in his face seems to loosen. Years of grief don't disappear in an instant, but the fight against it does. "Okay."
Rachel's smile widens, then the light begins to gather around her.
Jack sees the change in your expression. "She's leaving?"
You nod. "She's ready."
He looks toward her. "I'll be okay."
You squeeze his hand. "She knows."
The light grows brighter. Rachel takes one final look at Jack, then at you. She mouths two words, thank you, and disappears.
Jack stares at the empty space for a long moment, then he turns toward you. He looks down at your joined hands. For years, he's carried the weight of losing Rachel like a punishment. Now, for the first time, he lets himself put it down.
He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a kiss against your knuckles. "Thank you."
You squeeze his hand.
After that, things are slow.
Jack starts coming back to Cordelia's. At first, he asks if you're sure he can stay. You tell him he can. Then he starts bringing coffee, and you start saving him the chair he likes. Some mornings you talk. Some mornings you don't.
You don't call it anything. You don't need to. Little by little, the distance between you disappears.
Weeks later, the bookstore is thriving. Not just surviving but thriving. The shelves are stocked, the front window is decorated for Halloween, and there's a steady stream of customers throughout the day. The little bell above the door seems to ring constantly now.
Ethan is unbearably smug about it. Not just because of the bookstore and his coffee corner idea, but mostly because Jack is once again the store's most frequent customer.
"Morning," Ethan calls from behind the counter as he spots him.
You look up from the books you're sorting through. Jack stands in the doorway, two coffees in one hand and a paper bag in the other. By now, the sight barely surprises you.
"Morning." His eyes find you immediately.
You smile. "You know, I'm gonna get spoiled enough to expect this every morning."
Jack grins. "Wouldn't hurt anyone."
Ethan makes a noise of disgust. You ignore it and grab your coat. From somewhere behind you, Lydia makes an exaggeratedly pleased noise. You shush her.
Jack pauses, then glances toward the empty space beside the shelves. "Someone disapprove?"
Delia appears between the shelves, giving you an enormously delighted smile.
You roll your eyes. "The opposite, actually."
Jack lets out a pleased hum, grinning as he opens the door for you. The morning air is cool, carrying the smell of rain from somewhere nearby. You walk beside him toward the park and finally reach the bench. Jack sits first, stretching his leg out slightly as he settles. You sit beside him, your thigh pressing against his. He hands you the bag, and you break the croissant in half and hand him a piece. Silence falls as you watch the people passing through the park. Your shoulder brushes Jack's lightly as you eat.
His hand rests on the bench between you, right next to yours. Your fingers touch. You glance down. Jack does, too. His pinky hooks around yours gently. A second later, his hand shifts, palm turning upward, and you slide yours into it. Neither of you comments on it.
You lean your head against his shoulder after a moment. His cheek rests lightly against your hair. For once, nothing is demanding your attention. No ghost asking for help. No mystery to solve. No fear. Just Jack. His thumb moves slowly over the back of your hand.
You turn your head when his cheek lifts. He's already looking at you. "What?"
He shakes his head. "Nothing." His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back to your eyes. He hesitates. "Can I kiss you?"
You smile. "You don't have to ask."
Jack huffs, his expression softening. He leans in slowly, giving you every opportunity to change your mind.
You don't.
His lips meet yours in a gentle kiss. His hand lifts to your cheek as your eyes close. When you pull back, neither of you goes very far. He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek. Then, after a moment, your lips again.
For once, you don't wonder whether this is a mistake. You don't wonder what the ghosts think. You don't wonder what comes next.
Summary: After spending an entire night sexting Jack through his shift, you finally get to enjoy the payoff when he comes over in the morning. Unfortunately for Jack, the post-sex glow comes with a devastating revelation: while he was at work imagining you in bed, half naked and desperate for him, you were actually on the couch in an old sleep shirt, fuzzy socks, under-eye patches, watching Vanderpump Rules and eating popcorn. Even worse? Apparently, this is just what women do.
Warnings: 18+ only, established relationship, sexting, suggestive photos, sexual humor, implied sex, post-sex cuddling, nudity, mentions of masturbation, mentions of erections, Jack’s ego taking catastrophic damage, grocery store sexting, lots of teasing, fluff, humor
Author’s Note: This fic tied in the poll with the accidental lingerie picture fic, so naturally you lovelies are getting both. That one is posted as well as this one! Thank you for once again enabling me to put Jack Abbot through increasingly ridiculous situations. I hope you enjoy his discovery that apparently women have been casually sexting men while doing the most mundane shit imaginable this entire time.
Xoxo, Del
Jack should have been asleep.
Technically, he should have gone home after his shift, showered, climbed into bed, and slept until sometime that afternoon.
Instead, he had driven straight to your apartment.
Which, considering the messages you had been sending him for the better part of eight hours, had been inevitable.
Now morning light barely slipped through the curtains, the bedroom dim and warm around you. Your sheets were twisted around both of your legs, your clothes abandoned somewhere between the front door and the bed, and Jack was stretched out beneath you, looking far too satisfied with himself for a man who had been awake all night.
You were sprawled half across his chest, naked and pleasantly boneless, while his fingertips drifted lazily up and down your back.
For the first time since his phone had buzzed sometime around ten the night before, neither of you seemed particularly interested in tormenting the other.
Jack exhaled slowly, his hand settling at the base of your spine. “You’re a fucking menace.”
You smiled against his chest. “Good morning to you too.”
Jack gave your hip a lazy squeeze beneath the sheet. “That started eight hours ago. You’ve been making my life difficult since before midnight.”
You lifted your head enough to look at him. “You kept answering.”
Jack’s eyebrow rose. “That’s your defense?”
You traced one fingertip through the hair on his chest. “You could’ve ignored me.”
His expression made it very clear what he thought of that suggestion.
You grinned. “Exactly.”
Jack shook his head, but his mouth twitched.
His palm moved slowly along your back again.
Jack looked down at you. “You have any idea what you did to me all night?”
The pleased little curl in your stomach returned immediately.
You rested your chin on his chest. “I have a general idea.”
Jack’s fingers tightened slightly around your hip. “No, I don’t think you do.”
You smiled up at him. “Tell me.”
Jack studied you for a second, eyes still heavy from lack of sleep and everything that had happened since he walked through your door.
He dragged his thumb slowly over your side. “Every time my phone went off, I knew it was going to be something I had no business looking at while I was working.”
You tipped your head. “You still looked.”
Jack huffed out a quiet laugh. “Every goddamn time.”
You laughed softly.
His gaze drifted over your face before settling on you again. “That picture you sent around one nearly killed me.”
You knew exactly which one.
You gave him an innocent look. “The good one?”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “They were all good.”
You smiled brightly. “That’s very sweet.”
Jack narrowed his eyes. “I’m not complimenting you. I’m explaining the problem.”
You pressed a kiss to his chest. “Sorry.”
The complete lack of sincerity in your voice earned you another look.
Jack glanced toward the ceiling for a moment before his eyes dropped back to you.
His fingers traced slowly along your waist. “I spent half the night imagining you at home.”
Your smile softened.
Jack’s palm flattened against your side. “In bed.”
You went still for half a second.
He didn’t notice.
Jack’s eyes grew a little darker as he continued. “Wearing something little. Probably that black set I like.”
You bit your lip.
His thumb brushed over your skin. “Or nothing by the time you sent that last picture.”
A laugh threatened somewhere in your chest.
Jack watched your face. “Touching yourself between texts. Getting more worked up every time I answered.”
You pressed your lips together.
His brow furrowed. “What?”
You tucked your chin against his chest. “Nothing.”
Jack narrowed his eyes at you, but the suspicion passed quickly enough.
His hand drifted lazily along your waist again. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you lying in bed waiting for me. All worked up. Desperate for me to get off shift.”
You made the mistake of correcting him before you could think better of it.
You traced a small circle over his chest. “I wasn’t in bed.”
Jack’s hand stopped. Completely.
You stared very intently at his chest.
There was a beat.
Then another.
Jack looked down at you. “You weren’t in bed?”
His voice was still relaxed.
Mostly.
You could already feel yourself starting to smile.
You shook your head. “No.”
Jack watched you carefully. “Where were you?”
You lifted one shoulder. “The couch.”
His brow furrowed.
Jack repeated it slowly. “The couch.”
You nodded against his chest. “Mhm.”
His hand started moving over your back again, but there was something different about it now.
A couch was apparently still compatible with whatever fantasy he had built.
Then his eyes narrowed.
Jack tipped his head. “What were you wearing?”
You hesitated. His hand stopped again. Jack’s eyebrow slowly lifted. You immediately knew you had made another mistake.
He studied your face. “What were you wearing?”
You tucked your chin closer to his chest. “My sleep shirt.”
Jack stared at you. “The gray one?”
You avoided his eyes. “Maybe.”
His expression shifted. “The giant gray one with the hole in the hem?”
You frowned up at him. “It’s comfortable.”
Jack went quiet.
You could almost see the black lace disappearing from his imagination. He shifted higher against the pillows, one arm still around you.
Then Jack looked at you more carefully. “Were you touching yourself?”
You stared at him. He stared back.
You tried to buy yourself time. “I was thinking about you.”
Jack’s expression flattened. “That wasn’t my question.”
You bit the inside of your cheek. His eyes narrowed.
Jack gave your hip a small squeeze. “Were you?”
You looked away. “…No.”
Jack blinked. His expression changed just slightly.
He lifted his head from the pillow. “No?”
You shook your head. Jack stared at you for another second.
Then his voice went suspiciously calm. “What were you doing?”
And that was where you knew you were in trouble.
Jack stared at you for another second. Then his eyes narrowed.
Jack asked again, slower this time, “What were you doing?”
You shifted against his chest. “Watching TV.”
Jack’s expression stayed carefully neutral as he asked, “What were you watching?”
You hesitated. That was enough.
His eyebrow lifted. “What were you watching?”
You tucked your chin against him. “Vanderpump Rules.”
Jack blinked.
He repeated it slowly. “You were watching Vanderpump Rules.”
You nodded against his chest. “Yeah.”
Jack kept his eyes on your face. “While we were sexting.”
You gave him a small shrug. “I can multitask.”
Jack’s mouth flattened.
You could feel the suspicion building now.
He tipped his head. “What else?”
You frowned up at him. “What do you mean?”
Jack’s hand settled firmly at your waist. “What else were you doing?”
You tried for innocence. “Nothing.”
Jack gave you a look.
You lasted maybe two seconds before admitting, “I was eating popcorn.”
His face changed.
Not much.
Just enough.
You pressed your lips together.
Jack stared at you. “Popcorn.”
You nodded.
He looked away for a moment, gaze landing somewhere near the foot of the bed.
Then he looked back.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “And?”
You blinked at him. “And what?”
His hand tightened slightly at your waist. “There’s an and.”
You started smiling.
Jack pointed at you. “There is absolutely an and.”
You buried your face against his chest.
His arm tightened around you before you could escape.
Jack’s voice dropped into warning. “Baby.”
You laughed into his skin. “I had wine.”
Jack went completely still.
You lifted your head.
He was staring at you like something fundamental had just shifted beneath his feet.
Jack repeated it carefully. “You had wine.”
You nodded. “A glass.”
His brows drew together. “That doesn’t make it better.”
You smiled. “I wasn’t trying to make it better.”
Jack dragged one hand slowly down his face.
You bit back another laugh.
He looked at you again. “You mean to tell me I had to step into the bathroom, lock myself in a stall for ten fucking minutes, and wait for my boner to go away—”
Your eyes widened.
Jack pointed directly at you as he continued, “—while you were sitting on the couch watching Vanderpump Rules, eating popcorn, and drinking wine?”
The laugh escaped before you could stop it.
His jaw dropped.
Jack stared at you. “Don’t laugh.”
You immediately covered your mouth with one hand. “I’m sorry.”
Jack shook his head. “You’re not sorry.”
Your shoulders started shaking.
You shook your head through your laughter. “No, I’m really not.”
Jack dropped his head back against the pillow. “Jesus Christ.”
You curled closer against him, laughing softly. “I was still thinking about you.”
His head turned toward you immediately. “You were eating popcorn.”
You lifted one shoulder. “I can do both.”
Jack stared at you. “And drinking wine.”
You frowned. “That doesn’t make me less horny.”
Jack opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
You smiled.
He stared at you for a long moment before his expression shifted again.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “The picture.”
Your smile faltered.
He caught it immediately.
Jack pushed himself a little higher against the pillows. “You took the shirt off for the picture.”
You hesitated. “Yeah.”
His suspicion deepened. “And then what?”
You looked down and started smoothing a wrinkle from the sheet over his stomach.
Jack watched your hand.
His voice dropped. “Baby.”
You kept your attention on the sheet. “What?”
His fingers closed around your wrist, gently stilling your hand. “What did you do after you sent the picture?”
You bit your lip.
Jack’s eyes narrowed.
You finally looked at him. “I put my shirt back on.”
Silence.
His face went blank.
Jack repeated it. “You put it back on.”
You nodded. “I was cold.”
He stared at you.
You could actually watch him processing it.
Jack spoke slowly. “I was in a hospital bathroom trying to think about kidney function.”
You started laughing again.
His eyes widened. “I’m serious.”
You pressed your lips together, desperately trying to stop.
Jack gestured between the two of you. “I was standing in a stall trying to get myself under control because you sent me a picture of your tits.”
You nodded, already losing the battle.
His expression turned increasingly betrayed. “And you took your shirt off for thirty seconds, sent me the picture, and put it back on because you were cold.”
That did it.
You dissolved against him.
Jack watched you laugh with an expression of pure offense.
He shook his head. “This is devastating information.”
You buried your face against his shoulder. “Oh my God.”
Jack tightened his arm around you when you tried to hide. “No. Look at me.”
You shook your head against him.
His hand slid into your hair, gently pulling you back just enough that he could see your face.
Jack stared at you. “I had a whole image in my head.”
You were still laughing when you answered, “I know.”
Jack frowned. “No, clearly you don’t. You were supposed to be at home losing your mind.”
You wiped beneath one eye. “I was turned on.”
Jack pointed toward you. “You were watching Bravo.”
You gave him a look. “Those things are not mutually exclusive.”
Jack looked deeply unconvinced.
You smiled at him.
His eyes narrowed again.
Then something seemed to occur to him.
Jack asked carefully, “What else were you wearing?”
You froze.
He saw it.
Immediately.
Jack’s face changed. “Oh, no.”
You looked away.
His hand tightened around your waist. “What else were you wearing?”
You tried to dismiss it. “Nothing important.”
Jack stared at you. “That is not an answer.”
You tried to tuck yourself back against his chest.
He stopped you.
Jack gave you a pointed look. “Sweetheart.”
You sighed. “Socks.”
Jack blinked. “Socks.”
You nodded.
His suspicion only deepened. “What kind of socks?”
You said nothing.
Jack just looked at you.
Then he asked again, more slowly, “What kind of socks?”
You mumbled the answer.
Jack frowned. “What?”
You looked at him reluctantly. “Fuzzy socks.”
He closed his eyes.
You started laughing again.
Jack kept his eyes shut. “Of course.”
You nudged his side. “They’re warm.”
He opened his eyes. “You were wearing fuzzy socks.”
You nodded. “Yes.”
Jack gestured vaguely toward your chest. “While you sent me that picture.”
You bit back a smile. “Yes.”
Jack stared at the ceiling.
You tried very hard not to laugh.
Then you made the mistake.
You shrugged. “At least you couldn’t see the eye patches.”
Jack’s head snapped toward you.
You stopped breathing.
His eyes locked onto yours.
Jack’s voice went flat. “The what?”
You immediately looked away. “Nothing.”
Jack pushed himself fully onto one elbow. “What did you just say?”
You tucked the sheet higher around yourself. “Nothing.”
His eyebrows lifted. “You said eye patches.”
You tried to look confused. “Did I?”
Jack stared at you in disbelief. “Were you wearing fucking eye patches?”
You bit your lip.
His mouth fell open.
Jack looked horrified. “The little gold ones?”
Your silence answered for you.
He dropped his head back slightly. “Oh my God.”
You started laughing again.
Jack pointed at you. “No. This isn’t funny.”
You grinned. “It’s a little funny.”
He shook his head. “It is not.”
You tried to defend yourself. “You couldn’t even see them.”
Jack stared at you. “That is not the point.”
You raised your eyebrows. “What is the point?”
His expression suggested he couldn’t believe you needed to ask.
Jack gestured sharply. “The point is that while I was at work imagining you in some little lace thing, touching yourself, waiting for me to get home—”
You pressed your lips together.
He continued, looking more offended by the second, “—you were sitting on the couch in a giant sleep shirt, fuzzy socks, and fucking eye patches, watching Vanderpump Rules and eating popcorn.”
You lifted one finger. “And drinking wine.”
Jack closed his eyes.
You immediately started laughing.
He dropped back against the pillow. “Stop adding details.”
You curled into his side, still grinning. “I’m just making sure the record is accurate.”
His head turned slowly toward you.
Jack repeated, “The record.”
You nodded solemnly. “Very important.”
Jack stared at you for a long moment.
Then his gaze narrowed.
He asked, “You know what that is?”
You smiled. “What?”
Jack pointed at you. “False advertising.”
Your mouth dropped open.
He gestured toward you. “That picture was false advertising.”
You started laughing again. “It was literally a picture of my actual tits.”
Jack’s expression remained grave. “Presented without material context.”
You stared at him. “Material context?”
He nodded once. “Yes.”
You lifted your hands. “You wanted a picture of my tits.”
Jack nodded. “I did.”
You pointed toward yourself. “I sent you a picture of my tits.”
Jack countered immediately, “You concealed the fuzzy socks.”
You laughed so hard you had to press your face into his shoulder.
He continued over your laughter. “And the eye patches.”
You pulled back enough to look at him. “You wouldn’t have wanted those in the picture.”
Jack stared at you. “That is not for you to decide.”
You blinked at him. “Jack.”
His expression stayed completely serious. “I should have been given all relevant information.”
You were openly crying with laughter now.
Jack watched you for a second, still offended.
Then his eyes narrowed again.
You noticed.
Your laughter slowly faded.
You frowned. “What?”
He studied your face.
Jack’s voice went suspiciously quiet. “This wasn’t the first time.”
You went very still.
His expression changed immediately.
Jack pushed himself up again. “Oh, fuck me.”
You looked away.
He stared at you. “How often do you do this?”
You pulled the sheet around yourself. “Do what?”
Jack immediately shook his head. “Don’t do that.”
You blinked innocently. “Do what?”
He pointed at you. “How often are you sitting around doing God knows what while you’re sexting me?”
You hesitated.
His eyes widened.
Jack stared at you. “No.”
You bit your lip.
He shook his head slowly. “No, no. Don’t make that face.”
You frowned. “I’m not making a face.”
Jack pointed at your expression. “You are absolutely making a face.”
You tried to suppress a smile.
He looked increasingly alarmed. “How often?”
You glanced toward the ceiling.
Jack’s voice dropped. “Baby.”
You looked back at him.
His eyebrows were raised now, waiting.
You gave him the smallest shrug. “Most of the time?”
Jack went completely silent.
You watched his face.
He blinked once.
Then twice.
Jack repeated slowly, “Most of the time.”
You winced.
He stared at you like you had just confessed to living a second life.
And somehow, despite everything the two of you had done in this bed less than half an hour ago, you had never seen him look more personally betrayed.
You tried not to smile.
You failed almost immediately.
Jack stared at you. “Don’t.”
You pressed your lips together. “I didn’t say anything.”
His eyes narrowed. “Your face did.”
You shifted closer beneath the sheet and rested one hand against his chest. “Jack, this is normal.”
His expression turned incredulous. “Normal.”
You nodded. “Yes.”
Jack looked at you for a long moment. “You’re telling me this is normal.”
You gave his chest a small pat. “Very.”
His brow furrowed. “For who?”
You blinked. “Women.”
Jack went still.
You watched the information land.
He repeated carefully, “Women.”
You nodded again. “Yeah.”
Jack looked toward the ceiling.
You bit back another smile. “Why do you look like that?”
He kept his eyes fixed above him. “I’m processing.”
You tucked yourself closer against his side. “Processing what?”
Jack turned his head slowly toward you. “Apparently an entire gender has been lying to men.”
A laugh burst out of you.
His eyebrows shot up. “You think this is funny?”
You covered your mouth. “You said an entire gender.”
Jack pushed himself higher against the pillows. “You just told me this is something women do.”
You shrugged beneath the sheet. “It is.”
His expression darkened with disbelief. “How?”
You frowned. “What do you mean, how?”
Jack gestured vaguely toward you. “How are you simultaneously sexting somebody and watching television?”
You gave him a look. “Multitasking.”
His mouth flattened. “Multitasking.”
You nodded. “We’re very talented.”
Jack stared at you.
You smiled.
He rubbed one hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”
You caught his wrist and pulled his hand away. “It doesn’t mean I’m not turned on.”
Jack gave you a skeptical look.
You squeezed his hand. “I mean everything I send you.”
His expression softened a fraction.
You continued, “If I tell you I want you, I want you.”
Jack watched you.
You brushed your thumb over his knuckles. “If I send you a picture, it’s because I want you to see it.”
His face eased another fraction.
You added, “I just might also be folding laundry.”
Jack’s expression immediately hardened again.
You laughed.
He pointed at you. “That.”
You grinned. “What?”
Jack looked genuinely pained. “That is exactly what I’m talking about.”
You tilted your head. “I don’t understand the problem.”
His eyebrows climbed. “You don’t understand the problem.”
You shook your head. “No.”
Jack stared at you like he was trying to decide where to begin. “You cannot tell a man you want his mouth between your legs and then immediately go fold towels.”
You shrugged. “Why not?”
His jaw tightened.
You waited.
Jack finally said, “There should be some kind of transition.”
You blinked. “A transition.”
He nodded firmly. “Yes.”
You felt another laugh threatening. “Between being horny and doing laundry.”
Jack pointed at you. “Exactly.”
That was enough to send you laughing again.
He watched you with deep offense. “I’m serious.”
You wiped beneath one eye. “I know. That’s why it’s funny.”
Jack shook his head. “This is unbelievable.”
You settled back against him. “You’re making it into a much bigger thing than it is.”
His arm came around your waist almost automatically, even while he glared at you. “I spent all night thinking you were lying here barely holding it together.”
You smiled. “I was horny.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “You were eating popcorn.”
You lifted one shoulder. “Horny people need snacks.”
His mouth opened. Then closed.
You grinned.
Jack looked away again.
You studied him for a moment before saying, “I promise you, this is not just me.”
He looked back at you. “You keep saying that like it makes me feel better.”
You smiled. “It should.”
Jack shook his head. “It does not.”
You reached toward the nightstand.
His eyes tracked the movement immediately.
Jack frowned. “What are you doing?”
You grabbed your phone. “Proving it.”
His expression changed. “No.”
You unlocked the screen. “Yes.”
Jack reached for the phone. “Absolutely not.”
You pulled it out of his reach, laughing. “Why?”
His eyes narrowed. “Because I don’t like the look on your face.”
You opened your messages. “I’m texting McKay.”
Jack stopped reaching. His whole expression fell.
“No,” he said.
You looked at him. “Why not?”
Jack pointed at the phone. “Do not involve McKay in this.”
You smiled. “She’ll tell you I’m right.”
His face twisted. “That is exactly what I’m afraid of.”
You started typing.
Jack leaned closer, trying to read over your shoulder. “What are you asking her?”
You angled the phone away. “None of your business.”
He stared at you. “It is literally my business.”
You laughed under your breath and finished the message.
You: Quick question. When you sext a guy are you usually actually doing something sexy or are you also doing completely unrelated shit?
You hit send.
Jack watched the screen like it contained test results.
You glanced at him. “Nervous?”
His eyes stayed on your phone. “No.”
You smiled. “You look nervous.”
Jack gave you a flat look. “I look tired.”
Your phone buzzed. You looked down.
McKay had answered.
Cassie: lmao unrelated shit.
Your entire face lit up.
Jack saw it. His expression dropped.
You turned the phone toward him triumphantly. “See?”
He read the message. Then he stared at it again.
Jack frowned. “That proves nothing.”
You laughed. “She literally just agreed with me.”
His finger pointed toward the screen. “That could mean anything.”
You raised an eyebrow. “What exactly do you think unrelated shit means?”
Jack looked at you. “Ask her for an example.”
You blinked. “Seriously?”
His expression was completely earnest. “Yes.”
You started laughing again. “You’re conducting a survey now?”
Jack folded one arm behind his head. “You said this was normal. I want data.”
You shook your head as you started typing. “You are insane.”
Jack watched your fingers move. “Ask her.”
You sent another message.
You: Jack wants an example.
The reply came quickly.
Cassie: Last time I was sexting someone I was at Trader Joe’s.
You made a small victorious noise.
Jack’s face went blank.
You held the phone toward him. “Trader Joe’s.”
His eyes moved over the message.
Then he looked at you.
Jack asked slowly, “She was grocery shopping.”
You nodded, delighted. “Apparently.”
He stared at the phone again. “While sexting.”
You grinned. “That is what she said.”
Jack’s jaw tightened.
Then he pointed toward your phone. “Ask her what she was doing.”
You stared at him. “Jack.”
His eyes narrowed. “Ask.”
You laughed. “She was grocery shopping.”
Jack shook his head. “Specifically.”
You looked at him for another second.
Then you started typing.
You: He wants to know what you were doing specifically.
Jack watched the screen.
McKay answered almost immediately.
Cassie: Buying groceries???
You broke.
A laugh tore out of you so hard you had to curl forward.
Jack stared at the three question marks like they had personally insulted him.
You could barely breathe. “Oh my God.”
His expression tightened. “She doesn’t need to be an asshole about it.”
You looked at him through watering eyes. “She’s not.”
Jack pointed at the phone. “There are three question marks.”
You laughed harder.
Another message appeared.
Cassie: I think I was picking out yogurt when he sent me a dick pic.
You went completely silent.
Jack read over your shoulder. His entire face changed.
You looked at him. He looked at you.
Then Jack slowly leaned back against the headboard.
He stared straight ahead. “Yogurt.”
You pressed your lips together.
His eyes remained fixed on nothing. “She was picking out yogurt.”
You nodded solemnly. “That’s what she said.”
Jack exhaled through his nose.
You watched him try to recover.
Then your phone buzzed again.
Cassie: Why are you asking me this?
You smiled.
Jack immediately looked suspicious. “Don’t.”
You glanced at him. “I have to answer.”
His hand closed around your wrist. “You absolutely do not.”
You laughed and pulled free. “She asked.”
Jack watched in mounting horror as you typed.
You: Jack just found out I was watching Vanderpump eating popcorn and drinking wine while we were sexting last night and apparently he thought I was lying in bed touching myself the whole time.
You hit send.
Jack stared at you.
You looked up innocently. “What?”
His eyes widened. “You did not need to include all of that.”
Cassie: Wait… did he think you were actually touching yourself the entire time 😭
You slowly looked over at him.
Jack opened his eyes.
You stared.
His expression became defensive immediately.
You lifted your eyebrows.
Jack pointed at you. “Don’t.”
Your mouth fell open in delighted realization. “Oh my God.”
His face tightened. “No.”
You pushed yourself up onto one elbow. “You did.”
Jack shook his head. “We already discussed this.”
You stared at him. “You actually thought I was touching myself between every message.”
His eyes narrowed. “Not every message.”
You grinned. “Most of them?”
Jack looked away.
You gasped dramatically.
His gaze snapped back to you. “Do not make this worse.”
You laughed. “Baby.”
Jack pointed at the phone. “Tell McKay to mind her business.”
You looked down and started typing.
His eyes widened. “I didn’t mean actually text her.”
You laughed as you sent the message.
You: He says mind your business.
McKay’s answer came almost instantly.
Cassie: Tell him welcome to women.
You made a strangled sound.
Jack snatched the phone out of your hand.
You collapsed against the pillows, laughing.
He read the message himself.
His jaw tightened.
Then he locked the screen and dropped your phone onto the mattress.
Jack stared toward the foot of the bed. “I was happier yesterday.”
You rolled toward him, still laughing. “You were ignorant yesterday.”
His head turned slowly toward you. “I was at peace.”
You tucked yourself closer against him. “You’ll recover.”
Jack’s arm tightened around your waist. “I don’t think I will.”
You smiled against his chest. “It’s really not that serious.”
Jack looked down at you. “I was hiding a boner in a hospital bathroom while you were eating popcorn.”
Jack stayed quiet for a few seconds after McKay’s last text.
Too quiet.
You knew that look.
It was the same one he got when he was trying to work through something complicated and had already decided he was not going to let it go until he understood every piece of it.
You shifted carefully against him. “What?”
Jack turned his head toward you. “How often has this happened?”
You frowned. “How often has what happened?”
His eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”
You bit back a smile. “I’m asking for clarification.”
Jack gave you a flat look. “How often have you been sexting me while doing something completely unrelated?”
You looked away.
His expression changed immediately.
Jack pushed himself higher against the pillows. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”
You laughed softly. “It’s not that bad.”
His eyebrows lifted. “You looked away.”
You frowned. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
Jack pointed at you. “It means there are examples.”
You pulled the sheet a little higher over your chest. “Maybe.”
His jaw tightened. “How many?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Jack stared at you. “You know.”
You smiled sheepishly. “I don’t keep a log.”
His expression went blank. “Apparently I should.”
You laughed.
Jack shifted onto his side to face you fully. “Give me one.”
You blinked. “One what?”
“One example,” Jack said, his hand settling at your waist.
You thought for a second.
That alone seemed to upset him.
His eyes widened slightly. “You have to choose?”
You laughed. “There have been a few.”
Jack closed his eyes.
You rubbed your hand over his chest. “Okay, okay.”
He opened them again.
You tried to remember. “One time I was at Target.”
Jack went still.
His hand stopped against your waist.
“You were at Target,” Jack repeated.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
His brow furrowed. “While we were sexting.”
You gave him a small shrug. “Apparently.”
Jack stared at you. “What were you doing at Target?”
You looked confused. “Shopping.”
His mouth flattened. “I understand the general purpose of Target.”
You laughed.
Jack pointed at you. “What were you shopping for?”
You thought about it. “I think shampoo.”
His face fell.
You grinned. “Maybe conditioner.”
Jack looked toward the ceiling.
You tried to help. “Could’ve been toothpaste.”
He turned his head back toward you. “Stop.”
You started laughing again.
Jack rubbed one hand over his face. “Which conversation was that?”
You froze.
His hand dropped.
Jack caught the expression immediately. “Oh, no.”
You bit your lip.
He stared at you. “Which one?”
You tried to wave him off. “I don’t remember.”
His eyes narrowed. “Bullshit.”
You laughed nervously. “There have been a lot of conversations, Jack.”
He shook his head. “That is not helping your case.”
You thought for another second. Then recognition hit. Your face must have given it away.
Jack pointed at you. “You remember.”
You winced. “Maybe.”
His voice dropped. “Tell me.”
You looked at him. “It might have been the wall one.”
Jack went completely still.
You immediately started laughing.
His expression turned almost wounded. “The wall one.”
You covered your mouth.
Jack stared at you. “You told me you wanted me to pin you against the wall.”
You nodded through your laughter.
His eyebrows rose. “From Target.”
You tried to defend yourself. “I meant it.”
Jack’s mouth opened. “You were buying shampoo.”
You shrugged. “And thinking about you.”
He stared at you for a long moment.
Then Jack shook his head. “Unbelievable.”
You smiled. “You asked.”
His eyes narrowed again. “Another one.”
Your smile faltered. “What?”
Jack shifted closer. “You said there were a few.”
You groaned. “Jack.”
His hand tightened around your waist. “Another one.”
You sighed dramatically and thought.
Then you remembered.
Your mouth twitched.
Jack immediately noticed. “What?”
You tried not to laugh. “I was painting my toenails once.”
His expression went blank.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
Jack stared at you. “Painting your toenails.”
You lifted one shoulder. “They needed it.”
His jaw tightened. “Which conversation?”
You looked away again.
Jack groaned. “For fuck’s sake.”
You laughed.
His fingers squeezed your side. “Tell me.”
You thought about it. “I think that was the night you were on shift and I told you I wanted you to—”
You stopped.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Wanted me to what?”
You smiled. “You know.”
His face shifted. Then recognition hit him.
Jack stared at you. “No.”
You started laughing.
His eyes widened. “That one?”
You nodded.
Jack pushed himself upright. “You were painting your fucking toenails?”
You laughed harder. “Yes.”
His hand went to his chest. “I had to stop charting.”
You wiped beneath one eye. “I remember.”
His expression turned offended. “You remember?”
You nodded. “You told me.”
Jack stared at you. “And you were applying nail polish.”
You tried to explain. “I was waiting between coats.”
His mouth dropped open.
You immediately knew that had made it worse.
Jack pointed at you. “Between coats?”
You covered your face.
He shook his head in disbelief. “So I was losing my mind over you, and you were letting your toes dry.”
You laughed into your hands. “Basically.”
Jack leaned back against the headboard. “Jesus Christ.”
You peeked at him through your fingers.
He looked deeply, sincerely wounded.
You lowered your hands. “Do you want me to stop?”
Jack’s eyes snapped to yours. “No.”
You smiled.
His mouth tightened. “I want to know how bad this gets.”
That made you laugh again.
You settled against his shoulder. “You really don’t.”
Jack looked down at you. “I really do.”
You hesitated.
His suspicion returned instantly.
Jack’s brow furrowed. “There’s a worse one.”
You said nothing.
He stared at you.
Your mouth twitched.
Jack’s eyes widened. “There is.”
You tried to hide against his shoulder.
His arm tightened around you. “Tell me.”
You shook your head. “No.”
Jack pulled back just enough to see your face. “Now you have to.”
You started laughing. “You’re going to hate it.”
His expression went grim. “I already hate all of this.”
You took a breath.
Then you admitted, “One time I was getting my oil changed.”
Silence. Complete silence.
Jack stared at you. You stared back. His face did not move.
You started smiling.
Jack finally blinked. “You were what?”
You bit your lip. “Getting my oil changed.”
He looked genuinely stunned. “In your car?”
You laughed. “No, Jack. I was sitting in the waiting room.”
His expression darkened. “That is somehow worse.”
You tucked the sheet around yourself, already shaking with laughter.
Jack stared at you. “Which conversation?”
You immediately looked away.
His eyes closed.
He shook his head slowly. “Of course.”
You laughed. “I don’t know if you want to know.”
Jack opened his eyes. “I absolutely need to know.”
You thought for a second. Then your face warmed. His expression sharpened.
Jack pointed at you. “Oh, that’s bad.”
You tried to hide your smile. “It was pretty explicit.”
His jaw tightened. “Tell me.”
You glanced at him. “I think that was the kitchen counter one.”
Jack froze. You bit your lip. His mouth fell open.
Jack stared at you. “The kitchen counter.”
You nodded.
He looked almost personally injured. “You told me you wanted me to bend you over the kitchen counter.”
You gave him a small smile. “I did.”
Jack gestured helplessly. “While you were getting your oil changed.”
You started laughing again.
He stared at you in disbelief. “There were mechanics around.”
You shrugged. “They were in the garage.”
Jack’s eyes widened. “That is not the point.”
You laughed harder.
He leaned toward you. “You were sitting in one of those terrible little waiting rooms with the bad coffee and the daytime television.”
You nodded. “Pretty much.”
Jack’s expression turned horrified. “And sending me that.”
You shrugged. “I was bored.”
His mouth fell open.
You immediately covered your face because you knew what you had done.
Jack stared at you. “Bored.”
You laughed into your hands.
His voice rose slightly. “I thought you were so horny you couldn’t think straight.”
You lowered your hands. “I was horny.”
Jack pointed at you. “You were waiting for an oil change.”
You laughed. “Those things can coexist.”
His eyes narrowed. “They should not.”
You curled into his side, still grinning.
Jack shook his head slowly. “Unbelievable.”
You pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “You asked for examples.”
His arm wrapped around you automatically.
Jack stared toward the foot of the bed. “I wish I hadn’t.”
You smiled against his skin.
A few seconds passed.
Then Jack looked down at you again.
His expression was suspicious.
You lifted your head. “What now?”
He studied you. “How often are you actually touching yourself when we sext?”
You froze.
Jack saw it. His eyes widened.
You started to laugh.
He pointed at you. “No.”
You bit your lip.
Jack shook his head. “No, no, no.”
You tucked your face against his chest.
His hand slid up your back. “Sweetheart.”
You mumbled against his skin, “Sometimes.”
Jack went completely still.
You felt his chest rise beneath your cheek.
Then his voice came out dangerously calm. “Sometimes.”
You lifted your head carefully. “Yes.”
His expression was devastated.
You tried to reassure him. “That doesn’t mean I’m not turned on.”
Jack stared at you. “I know.”
You blinked.
His mouth flattened. “That is no longer the issue.”
You started laughing again.
Jack pointed toward you. “The issue is that I have apparently been constructing elaborate scenarios in my head while you’re wandering through Target.”
You grinned. “Not always Target.”
His eyes narrowed.
You immediately regretted that.
Jack shook his head. “I don’t want any more examples.”
You smiled sweetly. “Good.”
He looked at you for another long moment.
Then his expression shifted into something almost solemn.
Jack said, “From now on, I’m asking.”
You frowned. “Asking what?”
His hand settled firmly on your hip. “What you’re doing.”
You started laughing.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Every time.”
You shook your head. “You cannot interrogate me every time I send you something dirty.”
His expression stayed completely serious. “Watch me.”
You grinned. “That’s ridiculous.”
Jack gave your hip a small squeeze. “I need context now.”
You laughed. “You ruined sexting for yourself.”
He stared at you. “You ruined sexting for me.”
You leaned up and kissed him. “You’ll survive.”
Jack kissed you back before pulling away just enough to look at you.
His mouth twitched despite himself. “Next time I get a picture, I want to know what’s outside the frame.”
You smiled. “That sounds dangerous.”
Jack’s eyebrow lifted. “So is Target, apparently.”
A week later, Jack was standing in the grocery store with one hand on the cart and the other holding his phone when your name lit up across the screen.
He looked down at it. Then immediately narrowed his eyes.
Your first message was innocent enough.
You: Miss you…
Jack’s mouth twitched. He typed back with one thumb.
Jack: Miss you too.
Your reply came almost instantly.
You: How much…?
Jack stopped beside a display of pasta sauce. He stared at the screen.
Then he looked around the aisle like the answer might somehow be hidden between marinara and vodka sauce.
His phone buzzed again.
You: Because I can think of a few ways you could prove it…
Jack’s eyebrows lifted.
There it was.
He looked at the message for another second before typing.
Jack: Nice try.
The little typing bubble appeared.
You: Excuse me?
Jack pushed the cart forward again.
Jack: I don’t trust this anymore.
Your reply came back immediately.
You: You don’t trust me???
Jack snorted under his breath.
Jack: I don’t trust the circumstances.
There was a pause.
Then your next message appeared.
You: Oh my god.
Jack smiled to himself as he turned into the next aisle.
Jack: What are you doing right now?
The typing bubble appeared again. Stopped. Started. Then your answer came through.
You: Seriously?
Jack reached for a box of crackers.
Jack: Very.
Another pause. Then:
You: You’re never letting this go, are you??
Jack dropped the crackers into the cart.
Jack: You sent me a picture of your tits in fuzzy socks and eye patches while watching Vanderpump Rules.
Your response came back almost immediately.
You: You couldn’t SEE the fuzzy socks!!!
Jack shook his head.
Jack: Material context.
A few seconds passed. Then his phone buzzed again.
This time, it was a picture.
Jack stopped walking. Completely.
The cart rolled another few inches before he caught it.
There you were.
In bed.
Actually in bed.
Sheets rumpled around you.
Hair loose over the pillow.
And wearing the little black set.
The one he had spent that entire night imagining.
Jack stared at the screen.
Then stared a little longer.
Your next message appeared beneath it.
You: There. Full context.
Jack swallowed. Another message followed.
You: In bed. black set. No fuzzy socks. No popcorn. No Vanderpump.
Then:
You: Happy?
Jack looked down at the cart.
Then back at the picture.
His jaw tightened.
He typed carefully.
Jack: Very.
Your reply came through.
You: Good.
Jack started moving again, though considerably slower now.
He made it approximately ten feet before your next message arrived.
You: Want another one?
Jack stopped beside the frozen vegetables.
He closed his eyes.
Then opened them again.
Jack: You know I’m in public.
Your answer came instantly.
You: You asked for context…
Jack stared at the message.
Then another picture appeared.
You had slipped the bra off this time, one arm positioned just carefully enough across yourself while your other hand rested low against the black lace at your hips, fingertips hooked teasingly along the waistband.
He inhaled sharply and immediately angled his phone toward his chest.
A woman pushing a cart past him gave him a vaguely curious look.
Jack cleared his throat and pretended to be deeply interested in frozen peas.
You apparently sensed weakness.
You: Still shopping?
Jack typed back.
Jack: Unfortunately.
Your reply appeared.
You: What are you buying?
Jack looked down at the bag currently in his hand.
He sighed.
Jack: Peas.
There was a pause. Then:
You: Oh my god
Jack’s eyes narrowed.
Jack: Don’t.
Your next message came through.
You: Jack Abbot is sexting me while holding frozen peas…
Jack put the bag into the cart with more force than necessary.
Jack: I am not sexting you.
The typing bubble appeared.
You: You’re standing in the frozen aisle staring at a topless picture of me…
Jack stared at the screen.
Your next message came through.
You: That feels pretty involved.
Jack pushed the cart toward the dairy section.
Jack: I’m leaving soon.
You replied:
You: Look at you multitasking!
Jack stopped.
He stared at that message for several seconds.
Then slowly looked around the grocery store.
Cart. Shopping list. Phone. A picture of you in black lace still open on the screen.
His face fell.
“Oh, fuck,” Jack muttered under his breath.
A man reaching for cottage cheese glanced over.
Jack ignored him.
Jack typed back with considerably more irritation than the situation warranted.
Jack: Now I’m the one sexting while grocery shopping.
The typing bubble appeared immediately. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.
Jack could practically hear you laughing.
Your reply finally came through.
You: WELCOME TO WOMEN
Jack closed his eyes.
He could picture your face perfectly.
That smug little smile.
The laugh you were almost certainly trying to contain.
He typed back.
Jack: I hate you.
Your response appeared.
You: No you don’t.
Jack reached for a gallon of milk.
Jack: No. I really don’t.
Another message followed.
You: Awww
Jack put the milk in the cart.
Jack: Don’t make this sentimental.
Your reply came instantly.
You: Sorry baby.
Then:
You: Still want me?
Jack stared at the question. Then at the picture above it. He typed back.
Jack: You know I do.
Your next message appeared.
You: Then hurry home.
Jack immediately turned the cart toward the registers.
He made it three steps before his phone buzzed again.
You: Wait!
Jack stopped. His eyes narrowed suspiciously before he opened the message.
You: Don’t forget milk!
Jack looked down at the gallon sitting in his cart.
Then he typed back.
Jack: Already got it.
Your reply came through.
You: Wow.
Then:
You: Sexting AND grocery shopping.
And finally:
You: I’m so proud of you!
Jack stared at the screen.
His jaw worked. Then he typed:
Jack: I liked you better before I knew any of this.
Your answer came back almost immediately.
You: No you didn’t.
Jack looked at the picture again.
No.
He absolutely did not.
He pushed the cart toward the checkout and typed one final message.
Jack: Black set stays on.
Your reply came through before he even reached the register.
You: Yes doctor…
Jack stopped walking.
His eyes closed. For fuck’s sake.
A week ago, he had considered sexting while grocery shopping an unforgivable offense.
Now he was standing in the dairy aisle with a hard-on and a gallon of milk.
It’s slightly uncouth to say this right after her death was announced but Hayden Panettiere had a really tough life. To pass away so young feels all the more devastating because of her history. She was very open about her struggles and I hoped she’d have a lifetime of happiness ahead of her
spiderman brand new day and the importance of care. mj not loving peter due to not knowing him, but still caring about him enough to invite him up, to draw him, to send frank to watch him, to give him advice and be concerned. ned not remembering what spiderman means to him, but trying to find him anyway to thank him. frank worrying about this kid who is determined to save everybody he possibly could. peter caring about jean grey, taking a bullet for her despite almost all his interactions with her being antagonistic, because she exists, and she deserves so much better. jean crying over peter getting shot, because he was kind and promised to be there for her and made good on that promise immediately, even though she ended up there because of him. new york and their care for spidey.
peter parker and his care for everybody- his family, his friends, people he has never met, people who have continually tried to hurt him.
spiderman: brand new day and the importance of care of any kind.
pairing: asshole! pornstar! peter parker x pornstar! reader
w/c: 7.3k+
summary: you'd been warned about peter. everyone was warned about him. he was an asshole. a diva. he thought he was gods gift to the porn industry. and he specifically asked to work with you. god damnit.
warnings/tags: the dove has been found dead. reader is a contortionist, peter can be a lil bitch, smut (unprotected sex, bdsm themes, rough sex, suspension, overstimulation, bondage of all kinds, mean dirty talk, multiple orgasms, squirting, ball licking, slapping)
a/n: thank you to my wife @sunnydaze3 for coining the term 'parkour pornstar peter parker'. say that 5 times fast.
masterlist // join the taglist
Your dressing room was a warm welcome after the last hour you'd had. Your own private oasis after baring it all.
You’d been folded nearly in half for the final shot—ankles locked behind your head while the camera tracked the slow, deliberate way the toy disappeared—and your thighs were still trembling with that particular, satisfying ache that only came from holding a pose no one else on the roster could manage.
You were peeling the last of the adhesive pasties off when the door opened without a knock.
Marcus didn’t bother with hello. He never did when he had news he considered important. He just shut the door, leaned against it, and looked at you the way he always did when he was about to sell something.
“Parker wants you.”
You froze with one pastie still half-stuck to your skin.
“…Peter Parker?”
“The same.” Marcus’s voice was already sliding into that low, persuasive register he used when the numbers were big. “His people reached out this morning. Not a request. A demand. He wants you on his next shoot. Specifically you. Contortionist specialty. He’s refusing to shoot with anyone else until he gets a yes.”
You let the pastie drop into the trash and reached for the soft black robe hanging on the back of the chair. The fabric was cool against overheated skin.
“He’s an asshole, Marcus.”
“He’s an asshole with the highest-grossing rough content on three platforms and a waitlist of performers who would crawl over broken glass for a single scene with him.” Marcus pushed off the door and crossed the small room, dropping a folder onto the makeup counter in front of you. “And he asked for you.”
You didn’t open the folder. You already knew what would be inside—his rates, the proposed concept notes, the non-negotiable clauses that always came with Parker’s name. Rough. Bondage. Mean. The kind of scenes that left marks that lasted days and reputations that either skyrocketed or burned out.
“I’m not that kind of performer,” you said quietly. “You know that. Flexibility, endurance, the pretty pretzel shit. Not… him.”
Marcus’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture softened just enough to feel calculated.
“You’re still climbing. You’re good—better than good—but the algorithm doesn’t care how flexible you are if the views stay mid-tier. One scene with Parker and every producer who’s been ‘thinking about it’ will suddenly have a contract ready. You’ll have options. Real ones. The kind that let you pick your partners instead of hoping they pick you.”
You stared at your own reflection in the mirror. The faint red lines from the restraints still marked your wrists. Your body had always been the product—how far it could bend, how long it could hold, how pretty it looked while doing something that should have been impossible. Parker didn’t care about pretty. He cared about how far someone would let him push before they broke.
“He’s rough,” you said again, quieter.
“And you’re durable.” Marcus tapped the folder once. “I’ve seen the cuts from today’s shoot. You held that position for eleven minutes without shaking. He’ll eat that up. And the money—” He named a number that made your stomach tighten. “That’s the base. Bonuses for every take they use. Exclusive window. Cross-promotion on his entire channel.”
You exhaled slowly through your nose.
The silence stretched. Marcus didn’t fill it. He just waited, because he knew the exact moment the math started winning.
You looked at the closed folder, then at your own reflection again.
“…If I say yes,” you said carefully, “I want it in writing that I can stop a scene if it goes somewhere I don’t like. No ‘toughen up’ bullshit. No ‘this is what you signed up for.’”
Marcus’s mouth curved, just slightly.
“Already in the contract . His people sent it over with the demand. Apparently he’s very clear about consent paperwork these days. Surprising, I know.” He paused. “So?”
You reached out and opened the folder.
The first page had Peter Parker’s name in bold at the top, followed by a short, almost arrogant note in what looked like his own handwriting:
I want the flexible one. She's cute. Tell her to clear her schedule.
Your pulse kicked once, hard, against the side of your throat.
Marcus watched your face and knew he had you.
“I’ll set the meeting,” he said, already pulling out his phone. “Tomorrow. His studio. Wear something that makes it obvious what you can do with that body of yours. He likes to see the product before he decides how hard he’s going to use it.”
You closed the folder again, slower this time.
Peter Parker wanted you.
And against every better instinct you had, you were going to let him.
The studio was industrial on purpose—concrete floors, exposed pipes, the kind of space that didn’t pretend to be glamorous. You’d been here once before for a different shoot years ago, back when you were still figuring out how far your body could bend before the camera stopped caring about your face. Today felt a lot more far away than that day though.
You’d ignored every single word of Marcus’s advice.
No pink. No lace. No soft little crop tops designed to make your flexibility look like a party trick. Instead you’d pulled on black jeans that sat low on your hips, a fitted black tank that left your shoulders bare, and a worn leather jacket that had never once appeared on camera. Combat boots. Minimal makeup. Hair pulled back like you meant business. You wanted him to see the person who held positions until their muscles screamed, not the pastel contortionist the algorithm preferred.
The door to the private lounge opened without warning.
Peter Parker walked in like he owned the building, which, according to the industry gossip, he basically did. Tall, lean in that wiry way that suggested he spent more time throwing people around than posing for stills. Dark curls slightly messy, like he’d run his hands through them in irritation. Black jeans, black shirt, the same uniform of calculated disinterest he wore in every interview you’d ever forced yourself to watch. His eyes dragged over you once—slow, deliberate, and completely unimpressed.
“You’re the flexible one.”
Not a question. A statement delivered with the kind of boredom that was meant to cut.
You didn’t smile. “You’re the asshole.”
Something flickered in his expression. Not quite a smile. More like interest sharpening under the surface.
“Marcus said you’d show up looking like a cupcake.” He circled once, hands in his pockets, gaze cataloguing the black-on-black like he was already deciding how it would look shredded. “Guess he doesn’t know you as well as he thinks.”
“Marcus sells product. I live in the body.”
Peter stopped in front of you. Close enough that you could smell the faint trace of whatever cologne he wore—clean, expensive. His eyes dropped to your wrists, then your shoulders, then the way you stood with your weight evenly balanced like someone who knew exactly how to take a hit and stay upright.
“You’re smaller than I expected.”
“And you’re exactly as charming everyone says.”
That earned a short, rough sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t been so dry. He tilted his head, studying you the way he probably studied a new piece of equipment—testing for weak points.
“I don’t do soft scenes,” he said flatly. “I don’t do ‘pretty and flexible for the camera.’ I do the kind of shit that leaves people walking funny for a week. You still want in?”
You met his stare without blinking. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“People say that. Then they get on set and start crying about the cuffs being too tight.” His voice dropped, casual and mean. “You cry easy?”
“Not for people who haven’t earned it.”
Silence stretched. Peter’s mouth twitched at the corner—the first real crack in the bored asshole mask. He liked that. You could see it. The way his posture shifted, the subtle lean forward, the interest that had nothing to do with politeness and everything to do with challenge.
“Good.” He jerked his chin toward the low couch against the wall. “Sit. We’re talking terms. You’re not walking into my shoot without knowing exactly what you’re signing up for.”
You sat. He didn’t. He stayed standing, looking down at you like the height difference was deliberate.
“I want the contortionist shit,” he said. “The real kind. Not the soft bends they put in montage clips. I want you folded in ways that look impossible while I use you. Bondage that takes advantage of how far you can go. Rough handling. If you say stop, we stop—but you better mean it, because I don’t do performative safewords for the camera. Clear?”
“Crystal.”
“And I talk dirty. Filthy. I don’t do sweet. You got a problem with that?”
You arched an eyebrow. “Would I be here if I did?"
Peter’s gaze flicked down your black outfit again, slower this time. The corner of his mouth lifted into something that almost resembled approval.
“Alright.” He pulled his phone out, thumbed something, then looked back at you. “Shoot’s in three days. My usual space. You’ll get the full concept notes and the hard limits list by tonight. Read every word. I don’t like surprises once the cameras are rolling.”
He paused, eyes narrowing slightly like he was still deciding something.
“One more thing.” His voice dropped into that same low, testing register. “You show up in pink and I’ll make the first take twice as hard just for the principle of it. Wear whatever the fuck you want. Just make sure you can move in it—or that you don’t mind me cutting it off.”
You stood, meeting him at eye level as much as the height difference allowed.
“I’ll be there.”
Peter watched you for another long second, then gave a single, sharp nod.
“Yeah,” he said, almost to himself. “You will.”
He turned and walked out without another word, the door swinging shut behind him with a solid click.
You stood alone in the quiet, pulse steady, the faint residual ache in your muscles from yesterday’s shoot suddenly feeling like a promise instead of a leftover.
Three days.
And Peter Parker had just decided you were worth the trouble.
The studio was colder than you expected.
Not the temperature—though the air conditioning was cranked high enough that you had goosebumps the second you stepped out of the hallway—but the atmosphere. Clinical. Focused.
You’d worn black again, a soft black tank that clung and a pair of black shorts that barely covered anything. No lace. No pink. Nothing that could be mistaken for softness. Your hair was pulled back tight. Your pulse was a frantic, hammering thing in your throat, but your face stayed still. Nerves shot to hell was one thing. Letting him see it was another.
Peter was already there.
He stood near the massive bed that dominated the center of the room, arms crossed, watching the crew make final adjustments to the suspension rig bolted into the ceiling. Thick ropes. Multiple attachment points. Restraints laid out on a side table like surgical instruments—leather cuffs, spreader bars, a coil of red rope that looked deceptively gentle. Cameras ringed the space. High, low, close, wide. Every angle covered. No place to hide.
He turned when he heard your footsteps.
Those dark eyes dragged over you once, slow and assessing, and the corner of his mouth curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
“You actually showed.”
“I said I would.”
“People say a lot of things.” He walked toward you, unhurried, boots quiet on the concrete. When he stopped he was close enough that you had to tip your chin up to hold his stare. “You look nervous.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.” His voice was low, almost conversational. “Your pulse is jumping in your throat. You’re breathing too careful.” He leaned in just enough that his breath brushed your ear. “Good. I like it when they start scared. Makes it more fun when they stop pretending they can take it.”
You didn’t flinch. “I can take it.”
Peter pulled back just far enough to look at you properly. Something sharp and pleased flickered behind the boredom.
“We’ll see.”
He turned away without another word and jerked his chin toward the bed.
“Clothes off. All of it. I want to see what I’m working with before we start tying you up.”
You stripped without ceremony. Tank first, then the shorts, then the plain black underwear underneath. The air was cool against bare skin. You felt every camera lens turn in your direction— just waiting for that red light to come on to tell you they're watching your every move. Peter didn’t look away. He watched the entire time, expression unreadable, until you stood naked in the middle of the set with your arms at your sides and your chin up.
He circled you once. Slow. One hand lifted, not touching yet, just tracing the air near your shoulder, your spine, the line of your hip.
“Flexible,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then louder, for the cameras and for you: “Get on the bed. On your back. Legs open. I want to see how far those hips go before I even put a rope on you.”
You climbed onto the wide mattress. The sheets were black, cool, slightly rough under your bare thighs. You lay back, knees bent, and let them fall open. The stretch was familiar. Easy. You could go further—much further—but you waited.
Peter’s eyes darkened.
“Further.”
You pulled your knees higher, then wider, until the insides of your thighs burned in that good, deep way and you were open in a way that left nothing to imagination. Peter stepped between your spread legs like he had every right to be there. One hand settled on your left knee and pushed. Hard. The stretch edged toward the sharp side of intense.
“There it is,” he said quietly. “That’s the shit I wanted.” His free hand came down and cupped you without warning—rough, possessive, fingers spreading you open so the nearest camera got a clear shot. “Already wet. Look at that. Came in here talking tough and your cunt’s already dripping for it.”
You sucked in a breath. He didn’t give you time to answer.
“Hands above your head. Wrists together.”
Leather cuffs went on first—thick, lined, buckling tight enough that you felt the restriction immediately. He clipped them to a short chain bolted to the headboard, then moved down. Ankle cuffs next. He didn’t spread you with a bar yet. Instead he took the soft rope and started working with the kind of efficiency that said he’d done this a hundred times. One ankle pulled up and out, rope looped around your thigh, then higher, forcing your knee toward your shoulder in a deep fold that made your hip flex hard. He mirrored it on the other side until both legs were bent and bound, open, knees nearly touching your shoulders, cunt completely exposed and tilted up toward the ceiling cameras.
The position was extreme. Perfect for what your body could do. And completely inescapable.
Peter stepped back to look at his work. The ropes creaked softly when you tested them. There was almost no give.
“Pretty,” he said, voice flat. “And completely fucking helpless. You feel that? How open you are? How little you can move?” He reached down and dragged two fingers through the wetness between your legs, slow and deliberate, then held them up so you could see the shine. “And still dripping. Shameless.”
He wiped his fingers on your inner thigh— leaving a streak.
“Here’s how this works.” He leaned over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other wrapping loosely around your throat—just resting there like a promise. “I’m going to use every inch of this flexible little body. I’m going to fold you, stretch you, and fuck you until you can’t remember what it felt like to close your legs. You’re going to take it. And if you need to stop, you say the word we agreed on. Anything else—whining, begging, crying—I ignore. Clear?”
Your voice came out steadier than you expected. “Clear.”
Peter’s mouth curved into that sharp, mean little almost-smile again.
“Good girl.”
He straightened, reached for the waistband of his jeans, and started undoing them with one hand while the other stayed resting on the inside of your bound thigh, thumb stroking absently over the rope marks already forming.
“Let’s see how tough you really are.”
The second the cameras rolled, Peter stopped pretending to be anything but what he was.
He shoved his jeans down just far enough, freed his thick cock, and didn’t bother with gentleness. One rough hand gripped the rope binding your right thigh and yanked you wider, then he was pushing in—heavy, hard, no warning—forcing your stretched cunt to swallow every inch in one relentless drive until his hips slammed flush against yours and his balls pressed tight to your ass.
The stretch burned deep and immediate. Your bound legs trembled against the ropes as he bottomed out and stayed there for half a second, just long enough to let you feel how completely that fat cock filled your pussy, the head of it pressing hard against your cervix.
Then he started fucking you.
There was nothing careful about it. He pounded into your open cunt like he was trying to bruise it from the inside—long, punishing strokes that drove the air out of your lungs every time his hips cracked against yours. The ropes creaked. The bedframe rattled. Every camera caught the wet, filthy slap of his cock slamming into your dripping hole over and over, the way your pussy lips stretched tight around his thick shaft each time he pulled back and forced his way back in.
“Fuck, look at that pretty little cunt stretch around my cock,” he gritted out, voice low and mean for the mics. “Taking every thick inch like the greedy slut you are. So fucking tight. Your pussy’s gripping me like it never wants me to pull out. Look how it’s stretched around the base. Fuckin' filthy.”
He shifted his grip, both hands locking around the ropes at your thighs, and used them like handles—hauling your folded body onto every thrust so he could drive even deeper. The angle was brutal. Devastatingly perfect. Every stroke dragged the head of his cock hard against that swollen spot inside you that made your vision flicker white at the edges. Your cunt made wet, lewd sounds around him, slick and loud.
“Listen to that sloppy little fuckhole. Squelching around my dick every time I bury it. You’re dripping down my balls already. Creaming all over me like a whore in heat.” Another hard slam that made your bound body jolt. “You love being tied up and used like this, don’t you? Legs forced open, cunt completely exposed, just a wet hole for me to ruin on camera.”
Your body was already winding tight. The overstimulation was familiar, but Peter didn’t care. He chased your orgasm like it belonged to him, hips snapping with mean, precise force that kept his cock dragging over that sensitive spot inside your pussy again and again.
“Don’t you dare hold it back,” he snarled, leaning down so his mouth was close to your ear while his cock kept punishing your cunt. “I can feel this slutty cunt clamping down on me. You’re right there. Come on my cock. Make a mess you whore. Soak my dick. Do it. Now.”
The order, the roughness, the relentless pace—it dragged the orgasm out of you hard and sudden. Your bound body jerked against the ropes as you came, cunt pulsing and fluttering around his thick shaft in tight, helpless waves, a broken sound tearing out of your throat. Hot wetness spilled between you, coating his cock and dripping down onto the sheets. The cameras caught every second of your pussy clenching and leaking around him.
Peter didn’t slow down.
If anything, he fucked you through it harder, grinding deep while your cunt fluttered and clenched, forcing the overstimulation higher until your thighs shook and your breath came in short, punched-out gasps. His cock kept sliding through your soaked, sensitive walls without mercy.
“That’s it?” he scoffed, voice dripping contempt even as he kept pounding into your oversensitive hole. “One little orgasm and you’re already shaking and dripping like a cheap whore? Pathetic. I thought this flexible body could take more than that.”
He pulled almost all the way out until just the head of his cock stretched your cunt open, then slammed back in so hard the headboard rattled and his balls slapped loudly against you.
“Too easy. That was way too fucking easy.” His hand left the rope and cracked lightly across the inside of your thigh—sharp enough to sting and make your pussy clench hard around his dick. “I’m not done with this cunt. Not even close. You’re going to come again. And again. Until this sloppy little cunt is swollen and used and you can’t stop creaming all over my cock even when it starts to hurt.”
He adjusted the ropes with quick, practiced tugs—pulling your knees even closer to your shoulders, folding you tighter, opening your cunt wider until the stretch bordered on overwhelming. The new angle let him drive impossibly deep, the head of his cock battering against your cervix with every mean, precise thrust.
“Look at you. Completely fucking useless like this. Can’t close your legs. Can’t push me away. Just a little fucktoy with a wet, greedy cunt for me to pound.” His voice dropped into something darker, filthier. “I’m going to keep using this dripping pussy until it’s red and swollen and leaking down your ass. And you’re going to take every second of it like the dirty slut you are. Understand?”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
Peter set a new pace—deeper, meaner—his thick cock slamming into your sopping cunt over and over while the cameras kept rolling and the ropes held you exactly where he wanted you.
Your second orgasm ripped through you hard enough that your bound body jerked against the ropes cutting into your skin and a broken, wet cry tore out of your throat. Your cunt clenched and fluttered around his thick cock, spilling fresh slick down his shaft and onto the sheets while the cameras drank in every twitch.
He didn’t ease up until the director’s voice cut through the room.
“Cut! That’s good—really good—but we want more contortion. Get her in the suspension. Full invert. Arms and legs together. Let’s see how flexible that body really is.”
Great. The director might be even more of an asshole than he is.
Peter pulled out with a wet sound, his cock still hard and shiny with your cum. He wiped the head absently against your inner thigh, then stepped back while the crew moved in.
They worked fast. The bed restraints came off. Thick chains were lowered from the ceiling rig. Within minutes you were being lifted and folded into the new position—wrists bound tightly together above you, ankles pulled up and locked right beside them so your legs were bent double and forced up toward your hands. The chains took your full weight. You hung completely inverted, body folded tight, head toward the floor, ass and cunt tilted upward and completely exposed. Gravity pulled at your breasts. The stretch in your hips and shoulders was sharp and constant. You couldn’t straighten, couldn’t close your legs, couldn’t do anything but hang there open and helpless.
You hated to admit that you loved this.
Peter walked a slow circle around you, eyes dragging over the way your body hung folded and upside-down. He reached out and dragged two fingers through your soaked cunt, spreading the mess, then slapped the underside of your ass once—hard enough to make you sway on the chains.
“Look at this,” he said, voice low and filthy for the cameras that had already started rolling again. “Hanging upside-down like a piece of meat. Cunt dripping onto the floor. Completely fucking useless except for getting used.”
He stepped in close, one hand wrapping around the thick central chain above your bound wrists and ankles. Then he did something the crew clearly hadn’t expected—he gripped the chains hard, planted one boot against the concrete wall for leverage, and hauled himself up until his body was suspended with yours. His other boot found the wall. He hung there, weight braced between the chains and the wall, cock lined up with your exposed, upward-tilted cunt.
The first thrust drove the air straight out of your lungs.
Gravity and the inverted fold worked against you. Every time he thrust forward his thick cock sank impossibly deep from this angle, the head of it pressing hard against the front wall of your pussy. Every time he pulled back the chains swayed, making your folded body swing into the next brutal stroke. He used the chains like handles and the wall like a brace, fucking you in the air with short, powerful snaps of his hips that made your whole suspended form rock.
“Fuck—That's better— fuckin' take it,” he gritted out, voice rough with effort and mean satisfaction. “Take that cock while you’re hanging like a slut on display. Your cunt’s so fucking wet it’s dripping off my balls. Listen to it. Filthy little fuckhole just swallowing me.”
He adjusted his grip on the chains and drove harder, the suspension creaking under the combined weight and force. Each thrust punched deep into your inverted cunt, the head of his cock battering that sensitive spot inside you while your bound legs trembled uselessly beside your wrists and your arms strained against the cuffs. The cameras circled, catching every angle—the way your pussy stretched around his thick shaft, the way your folded body swayed with every impact, the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin in mid-air.
“That’s it. Swing on my dick. Show everyone how deep this cunt can take my cock.” His voice dropped into that dark, degrading register. “You’re nothing but a flexible little toy right now. A wet hole hanging in the air for me to pound. And you’re going to come on it again. I can already feel this greedy pussy starting to flutter.”
You hung there inverted and folded, chains biting into your wrists and ankles, and your mind had gone soft and floaty around the edges.
You had no idea how Peter had even managed it—hauling himself up on the chains, boots braced against the wall, body suspended with yours so he could drive that thick cock into you from this impossible angle—but he had. And it was brutal. Every thrust punched impossibly deep, the head of his cock dragging along that perfect spot inside you while gravity and the tight fold kept you completely open for him. Your pussy made wet, filthy sounds. Slick dripped down his shaft and onto the floor below. The stretch in your hips burned. Your breasts hung heavy. You felt fucked stupid—brain empty, body nothing but a swinging, dripping hole for him to use.
And it felt so fucking good.
Peter’s grip on the chains tightened further. His hips snapped harder like he had something to prove.
“Listen to this slutty cunt,” he gritted out, voice rough and mean. “Such a greedy little toy.”
You sucked in a shaky breath, the next thrust punching a soft sound out of you. Your voice came out hoarse, almost teasing, the words deliberate.
“That all you got?”
Peter went still for half a second.
Then a dark, sharp laugh left him.
“Oh, you want to talk back?” His voice dropped into something lower, meaner. “You hanging there with your cunt stuffed full of cock and you still think you can run your mouth?”
He adjusted his grip on the chains, planted both boots more firmly against the wall, and locked in. He was thrusting so hard the entire suspension shuddered. The head of his cock slammed against your cervix. Your bound body jerked. A broken, punched-out moan tore out of your throat.
“There it is,” he snarled, fucking you with new, brutal force—the chains swinging with every impact. “That’s what happens when a flexible little whore decides to push. You feel that? This tight cunts gonna be all marked up. Gonna ruin you with my cock. You asked for it.”
Every thrust forced your inverted pussy to take him to the root. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the studio. Your cunt fluttered and clenched around the thick length of him, overstimulated and greedy, slick running down his balls in thin trails, hitting the floor below your suspended form.
“Keep talking,” he goaded, voice filthy and breathless with effort. “Come on. Say something else. See how much harder I can fuck this tight little hole when you open your mouth. I’ll make you come so hard you forget how to form words.”
He drove into you again—impossibly deep, the angle and the force turning your suspended body into nothing but a swinging, trembling fucktoy—and the cameras caught every second of it.
You still talked back because you couldn’t help it.
The words had slipped out between thrusts, half-moaned and half-challenging, your brain too fucked-stupid to stop them. Peter had taken it exactly the way you knew he would.
The thick length of his cock punched deep on every stroke until your vision went white and your ears were ringing. The suspension swayed hard. Your folded body jerked with every impact. Slick poured out around his shaft, loud and filthy.
“That’s what you get,” he snarled, voice rough and mean. “Talk back with a cock buried in your cunt and I’ll fuck the attitude right out of you. Feel that? Your pussy’s gushing around me like a broken little fucktoy. You're gonna come again on my fucking cock— I can feel it you fuckin' whore.”
The pressure built too fast, too hard. Your overstimulated cunt clenched down on him in tight, helpless waves. Then it broke.
You came with a broken, punched-out cry, and the orgasm turned into a full squirt—hot, forceful, uncontrollable. The inverted angle made it worse. The fluid sprayed around his cock, ran down your stomach in thick rivulets, over your ribs and between your hanging breasts, then dripped steadily from your collarbones and chin to the concrete floor below in clear, wet trails. Your body jerked hard in the chains. Your pussy kept pulsing and squirting around the thick shaft still pounding into you, making an absolute mess.
Peter didn’t stop. He fucked you through every spurt, watching the fluid drip with dark satisfaction.
“Fuck—look at that. Squirting all over yourself like a filthy slut. It’s running down your whole body. Making a goddamn puddle under you while I keep using this cunt. That’s what talking back gets you.”
He kept the brutal pace until the last tremors faded and you hung there shaking, cunt still fluttering weakly around his cock, the floor beneath you wet with what you’d just sprayed.
Only then did the director’s voice cut through again.
“Cut! Damn kid. Didn't know you had that in you.”
Peter slowly lowered himself, boots finding the floor, and pulled out with a wet sound. Your empty pussy clenched around nothing, still leaking. He gave the underside of your ass one last rough squeeze before stepping back.
A production assistant moved in to check the chains. The director stepped closer, clipboard in hand, looking at the way you still hung inverted and trembling.
“You need a minute?” he asked. “We can give you five if you want water or to come down for a bit.”
Your voice came out hoarse but steady.
“No.”
Peter’s mouth curved into that sharp, mean little almost-smile as he watched you from a few feet away, still hard, still watching the mess he’d made drip slowly from your body to the floor.
Peter watched the last of the fluid drip from your inverted body to the floor, then glanced at the director.
“We’re good on that setup.” His eyes came back to you, still hanging in the chains, still trembling. “Get her down.”
The crew lowered you carefully. The second your feet touched the floor your legs threatened to buckle, but you stayed upright. Peter stepped closer, still hard, still shiny with your cum and the mess you’d made.
“What’s the most flexible position you can get into?” he asked, voice casual and mean. “Not the shit for the soft cameras. The real one. Show me.”
You didn’t answer with words. You dropped to the floor on your chest and stomach, then folded yourself with practiced, extreme precision—spine arching deep, legs coming all the way over until your feet stretched past your head, body compact and doubled over. Then you spread your thighs wide, holding the position so your cunt was completely open, face close to the floor between your own legs.
Peter stared for a long second.
“Fuck. Perfect.”
He moved in fast. Soft rope and leather cuffs appeared in his hands. He locked your wrists to your own calves and ankles, binding your arms tight to your legs so you couldn’t unfold or shift. The restraints made the extreme fold permanent. You were locked in place—you couldn't move even if you tried.
Peter stepped over you, boots planted on either side of your upper body. From this angle his thick cock lined up perfectly with your open pussy. He gripped your thighs for leverage and pushed in without warning—one long, hard drive that forced every inch into you until his hips met the backs of your thighs and his balls hung low, brushing the top of your head with every movement.
Then he started drilling into you.
The pace was brutal from the first stroke. His cock slammed deep, the angle making the head of it drag hard along your front wall. Every thrust made his heavy balls swing forward and slap lightly against your head and the side of your face. The wet, filthy sound of him pounding your cunt filled the space between your own spread legs.
“Look at this flexible little toy,” he gritted out, voice low and degrading for the cameras that had started rolling again. “Folded in half, arms locked to your own legs, cunt up in the air for me to use. Can’t even move. Just taking dick like a good slut while my balls slap your face.”
He fucked you harder, hips snapping with mean precision. Each thrust drove his cock to the hilt and made his balls knock against your head again and again. Slick poured out around him, running down your spread thighs.
“Your pussy’s still so fucking wet from earlier. Making a mess all over my cock. I can feel it dripping down my balls—right onto your face. Filthy.”
You adjusted, lifting your head just enough in the tight space between your own thighs. The next time his balls swung forward you dragged your tongue over them—slow, deliberate—tasting the mix of his skin and your own slick and squirt still coating him.
Peter’s rhythm faltered for half a second. A rough, surprised sound left him.
Then he laughed, dark and mean, and drove into you even harder.
“Oh, you dirty fucking slut. Licking my balls while I pound your cunt. Tasting yourself on them. Keep going. Get them nice and wet while I use this hole.”
He kept fucking you.
The extreme fold compressed your chest against the floor and made every breath shallow and hard-won, but you held the position without breaking.
You kept licking his balls.
The taste of your own slick and earlier squirt mixed with the salt of his skin. Every time he bottomed out you dragged your tongue over the tight sac, sucking lightly, refusing to stop even as the restricted air made your head swim.
“Fuck—you little vixen,” Peter gritted out, voice rough and filthy. “Can’t even breathe properly and you’re still licking my balls like a desperate whore. Your cunt’s gripping me so tight. Taking every inch while you’re folded in half and choking on your own position.”
The pressure inside you snapped.
You came hard, a broken, muffled sound forced out of your throat as your pussy clenched and pulsed around his cock in tight, helpless waves. Fresh wetness spilled out around his shaft. Your tongue never left his balls—you kept licking and sucking at them through the entire orgasm, even as your body shook in the restraints and your vision flickered at the edges from the lack of full breath.
The extra stimulation was what did it.
Peter’s rhythm stuttered. A low, shocked curse left him. His hands tightened hard on your bound thighs and he drove in one final, deep thrust—burying himself to the hilt as he came.
Hot, thick ropes of cum pumped into your cunt without warning. You felt every pulse of it, the way his cock jerked inside you while his balls drew up tight against your tongue. He kept grinding deep through it, forcing every drop as far in as it would go, still muttering filthy praise under his breath.
“Shit—taking it. Taking every fucking drop. Greedy— greedy little whore. Your cunt’s milking me so good. Filling this hole up.”
He stayed buried there for several long seconds, cock twitching as the last spurts emptied into you, your tongue still slow and deliberate against his spent balls. Only when he finally pulled back did the thick mix of his cum and your slick start to leak out of your used pussy and run down toward your face in the inverted fold.
Peter looked down at the mess he’d left in you, breathing hard, and gave a short, mean laugh.
“Didn’t plan on finishing yet,” he said, voice still rough. “But you just had to keep sucking on my balls like that. Greedy fucking slut.”
The director’s voice cut through the studio a second later.
“Cut! That’s—yeah, that’s a wrap on this position.”
One of the producers called over, already checking the monitor.
“You want a minute, Peter? We can reset and keep going if you’re good.”
Peter didn’t answer right away. He just looked down at you—still bound, still folded in half, his cum dripping out of your pussy—and the irritation on his face was obvious.
“No.” His voice was flat and sharp. “We’re done for now.”
He didn’t wait for anyone to respond. He turned and walked off the set like a complete diva, shoulders tense, heading straight for his private dressing room without another word. The door shut harder than necessary behind him.
You stayed exactly where he’d left you.
Chest down on the floor. Arms locked to your own legs. The extreme position had started to make your shoulders and hips ache in earnest now that the endorphins were fading. A few of the crew exchanged glances. No one moved at first.
Finally a young PA—clearly the one who’d drawn the short straw—hurried over with a pair of safety shears and a bottle of water. His ears were red.
“Sorry,” he muttered, carefully cutting the ropes that locked your wrists to your calves. “Just… give me a second.”
The second the last restraint gave way your body unfolded in a slow, shaky stretch. Pins and needles flooded your arms and legs. Cum and slick had run down your stomach and the side of your face; you could feel it cooling on your skin. The PA offered the water and a towel without meeting your eyes, then practically fled once you were free.
You pushed yourself up, collected the soft black robe someone had left nearby, and walked off set toward your own dressing room.
The door shut behind you with a quiet click. The space was small, quiet, and blessedly empty. You dropped into the chair in front of the mirror, robe loosely tied, and finally let yourself breathe. Your reflection showed the evidence—red marks from the restraints around your wrists and ankles, a faint flush still high on your cheeks, the shiny trail of dried mess along your collarbone.
Peter Parker had just stormed off like a spoiled star because you’d made him come before he was ready.
You leaned back in the chair, exhaled slowly, and reached for the water the PA had given you.
Cool down first.
Then you’d decide how much you were going to enjoy the fact that you’d gotten under his skin.
You’d barely finished the bottle of water when the door to your dressing room opened without a knock.
Peter stepped inside and shut it hard behind him. He’d pulled his jeans back on but hadn’t bothered with a shirt. His hair was still messy from the shoot. The irritation on his face hadn’t faded in the slightest.
“You did that on purpose.”
You stayed in the chair, robe loosely tied, and raised an eyebrow.
“Did what?”
“Made me come.” His voice was sharp, low, and clearly pissed. “I don’t finish that fast. Ever. I last hours. I decide when it ends. You started licking my fucking balls like a greedy little slut and ruined it.”
You let a slow, amused smile pull at your mouth.
“Aw. Did the big bad rough-sex star lose control because someone actually touched him back?”
Peter’s eyes narrowed. He took a step closer.
“I’m serious. That wasn’t supposed to happen. You don’t get to decide when I come.”
“And yet…” You tipped your head, still smiling. “You did. All over the inside of me. While I was folded in half and licking the mess off your balls. Kind of hard to argue with the evidence, Parker.”
His jaw flexed. The irritation was real—pride bruised, control cracked—and it only made you more entertained.
“You’re enjoying this,” he accused.
“A little.”
"Fuck you."
"Hmm— you already kinda did."
He moved another step closer, close enough that you had to tip your chin up to hold his stare. The same mean energy from the set was still rolling off him, just mixed with genuine annoyance now.
“I don’t like being surprised on my own shoot.”
“Then maybe don’t leave your balls hanging in front of someone’s mouth next time.”
That did it.
Peter opened his mouth—probably to say something sharper—and you moved first.
Your hand cracked across his cheek in a clean, solid slap. Not hard enough to truly hurt, but sharp enough to sting and turn his head slightly.
Silence dropped hard between you.
Peter slowly turned his face back to yours. The red mark was already blooming on his skin. His eyes were dark, no longer just pissed.
Then he grabbed your jaw, hauled you up out of the chair, and kissed you.
It wasn’t soft. It was rough and claiming and angry—mouth hard against yours, teeth catching your bottom lip, one hand still locked on your jaw while the other fisted in the front of your robe. You tasted the heat of his frustration. He kissed you like he was still trying to win something.
When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing harder.
Peter stared at you for a long second, thumb still pressed under your jaw, the slap mark bright on his cheek.
“Next time,” he said, voice rough, “I’m tying your mouth shut.”
You smiled against the residual sting of the kiss.
in sum. after a lab trial gone wrong, peter's human and arachnid sides somehow separate into two bodies. unsurprisingly, they don't agree on much. well—aside from wanting you.
tags. 18+ EXPLICIT NSFW / MDNI, threesome (?), rough sex, top! peter (human) & subby/brat! peter (arachnid), kinda switch! reader, fingering from the back, unprotected doggy, pussyjob, slight praise kink, dacryphilia, mention of pheromones, multiple orgasms, creampie, 95% goon & 5% questionable scientific practices
— i've misheard the lyrics for years and im making it everyone's problem now
When your boyfriend offered himself to be your thesis subject, you couldn't say no.
After all, what kind of researcher (well, Dr. Banner's doctoral RA, to be exact) wouldn't jump at the prospect of studying an enhanced human?
Except...
"You are so fucking done, Daniel," you grit into the phone, trying not to wake the two Peters that are fighting for the space to twine their arms around you. One (very naked) is resting his head against your stomach, the other is nuzzling into your neck. "Of all the undergrads...what a disappointment."
"I'm sorry!" he cries. "I must've given Spider-Man the cloning vial on accident! I didn't check. Please, please, please don't tell Dr. Banner, I need this lab."
"Well, Spider-Man's panicking at eight a.m. on a Sunday, so you better find a way to get me a contact release for Banner, or you can kiss that letter of rec goodbye," you hiss, too irate to bother with his pleading before hanging up.
And alright, you might've been a little mean, but some RAs would smite his ass on the spot the moment he owned up to it. In the grand nuthouse of academia, giving him a second chance to fix Peter is equivalent to a blanket pardon.
Plus, anyone with common sense would know he wouldn't fire that kid anyway—he'd just read the extra report you're going to write and hum about the mishap being good for science.
The Peter burying his head into your stomach groans, rubbing his face against your shirt for good measure before flicking his eyes up. Tar black. You should've known. "Mm, I like it when you're mean."
"Wha' the fu..." The head on your shoulder lifts up. Relief blooms in your chest at the earnest, brown eyes with visible sclera blearily blinking down at you. A languid smile plays on his lips. "Morning, angel."
Then Human-Peter's gaze slides over to his naked, identical, arachnid self wrapping his entire body around your legs. "Okay, what the fuck—"
//
"Does he have to be...here?"
Peter frowns at the ceiling, where the Arachnid is crouching and peering down at you both, black eyes fixed on what you think is Peter's cereal.
At least Arachnid-Peter has some clothes on, even if he's still shirtless and only opted for a pair of Juicy Couture track pants that you're too tired to ask the origin of.
"He's harmless," you say, turning your attention back to your computer. Dr. Banner's digital research reports run across the screen: cloning trial 112, selective mutual suppression of expressed traits, effects lasted 10 hours before cell fusion, little side effects observed.
What the fuck was he trying to study?
"You heard her, I'm harmless," Arachnid-Peter goads. A smirk threatens upon his lips. "And why am I up here? I think I'm the real Peter, y'know. The one deep inside me."
The man across from you throws his hands up, brow furrowed with indignance. "The hell you aren't—"
"—The hell I am—"
"—Both of you are Peter, alright?" You huff and slam your laptop closed with a little more force than necessary. The two of them clamp their mouths shut, which is the first reprieve you've had all morning. "You're just expressing different traits unique to each body, so if Arachnid can shoot webs, Human-Peter can't."
The Arachnid tips his head to the side, black eyes all glassy and unblinking. You'd be lying if you said it wasn't just a little endearing to see that some behaviors still prevail.
A thin smile gradually spreads over his face. "That just proves I'm the real Spider-Man."
You pinch the bridge of your nose. Human-Peter's chair scrapes and stutters against the hardwood floor as he pushes up, jaw ticking.
"If you hit each other, you'll end up with double the bruises when you merge back," you say, not even bothering to gaze upon your headache of a boyfriend.
...Boyfriends? Whatever, they're two halves of the same body, and they will be joined as one sooner or later.
Peter—the human one, because you can differentiate his boyish, earnest tone from the arachnid's more charming, confident one—mumbles curiously, "Wait, would that be like body horror?"
"Don't even go there," you sigh, dragging your hands down your face.
"That's too bad," Arachnid drawls with an audible smirk, "It would've been sick, dude."
And the weekend progresses somewhat normally, if having a pair of clones helping you with chores in your studio while you type up a lab report on the couch can ever be considered normal.
Then again, you live in New York City—aka the number one hotspot for alien invasions and enhanced individuals who can read minds and walk up walls. Nobody is fucking normal here.
"I know he's your Peter," the Arachnid confesses when his human side steps out to grab your things from the laundry room. Carefully, like he doesn't want to scare off some prey cowering in a bush, he moves your laptop away and gently lays his head on your thighs.
Fingers card through his hair, identical to the soft curls you're so familiar with. It's like his spine unlocks at the touch, shoulders visibly dropping as he settles.
Voice muffled by your thigh, he continues: "I was just teasing him. He still lets me out, but I don't get to see you a lot."
The space between your lungs aches. It's one thing when Peter gets vulnerable with you, but it's another when he's raw and honest and out of his body like this. There's a little line you can draw between his human and spider facets, dividing intent from instinct, restraint from reason.
You cup his cheek and tilt his face up. He's glum, dark eyes at half-mast, lower lip jutting out a little in that pout you know so well. Who knew that his sulky side is enhanced by the spider DNA?
"You're my Peter, too." Leaning down, you press your lips to his forehead, scratch your nails behind his ear. He only makes the softest, vibrating sounds from deep in his throat. Against his warm skin, you murmur, "I love you both."
Things get a little hazy from then on. Peter is stealing hungry breaths between open-mouthed kisses, pushing you to lay lengthwise on the cushions, powerful legs caging your hips. Hands wander from shoulders to waist, then back up to your face.
Like he's trying to memorize you for himself. Like he knows he'll be locked away inside the other Peter, and he needs this to tide him through the long stretches of dormancy.
The possessiveness loosens some snarling thing in your chest. Heat crawls up your body, spreading through muscles and arteries, then circling back to coil low in your stomach.
You think he might be purring when he starts blazing a line of kisses down your neck. Chests pressed flush to each other, broad hands keeping you steady so he can suck a mark over your collarbone.
He alternates between licking, pecking, and nipping. As he inhales the scent of your skin, he reaches beneath your shirt, slides his fingers up your back, presses the divots between each vertebrae as if he wants to live there, curled around and around your spine.
"Man, c'mon," he whines, but it's not the one clinging to you like a koala. Human-Peter sets down the basket of clean clothes by the door, pads over, and pulls the Arachnid's head up by his hair. "You couldn't wait until tonight?"
"Don't act like you haven't been thinking about it," Arachnid-Peter grumbles, face twisting in apprehension. Incisors flash, a touch sharper than you remember them being. "Maybe we should say I couldn't wait until tonight?"
They both click their tongues at the same time.
The mutual touché is soon forgotten. Softness yields to confidence, confidence yields to softness. Human-Peter helps you make quick work of your shorts and underwear, while his Arachnid self pads over to the bed and stretches supine across the sheets, all soft and low-lidded.
You climb on top of him, splaying your hands over the smooth skin and rigid muscle of his chest, then trailing down to dip beneath his waistband. Head dipping back, the taut line of his throat vibrates in a low hum.
"Lift your hips, Peter."
Pools of black blink at you. The corners of his eyes soften, and his sharp smile melts into something more pliant, sullen. He obeys, letting you drag the velvety fabric down—over his v-line, the thickness of his thighs.
Knees dip into the mattress. Sit your bare cunt on the bulge growing in his briefs, lay your chest on his. He looses the quietest of moans, twisting his fingers in the hem of your shirt, "Fuck."
"Working hard?" Human-Peter drags his fingertips across your lower back. The touch surprises you, makes your mouth go dry, makes you grind your hips down hard onto cotton. "Or hardly working?"
Your boyfriend scrapes his lips down your nape, across your shoulder. You think he's making some very pointed eye contact with himself (probably communicating something along the lines of behave) before he slips his fingers into the gusset of your panties and strokes through your wetness.
You can't help but to hump your clit against the Peter beneath you, seeking any stimulation, seeking the stretch of his long fingers filling your slick pussy.
"I think she's hardly working," remarks the Arachnid. Miffed, you scoot up and rub yourself over the head of him. Lick a messy stripe up his jugular. He chokes out a moan, cutting off his cocky smile. "Shit, you're mean."
"Wanna work a little harder?"
You falter at the first breach of Peter's fingers. Two of them, more skilled than your own, sliding in with tangible restraint and curling just so.
The loud whine that escapes you would be borderline embarrassing if it weren't for how desperate you are. You know Peter's got some weird mating-pheromonal thing going on with his biology, but you didn't expect it to hit so hard now that you're seeing double.
Burying your face in Arachnid-Peter's neck, you arch your back for a better angle. Slick sounds sync with each rock of his fingers, stretching out your pussy, teasing that sweet spot to make sparks fly up your spine.
He draws out one reaction after another. Trapped between two bodies, time goes viscous and honey-slow. You don't know how long you've been clamping down on his fingers, or riding the stiff tent in his briefs and leaving a pool of shine on the soft cotton.
The Peter beneath you is panting, pawing at the hem of your shirt, rucking it up your back and over your tits so your skin can be flush to his. He holds you close; the softest whimpers grace your temple, and his throat works furiously the more you grind onto him.
"Fuck, fuck," he sighs, fingers digging into your hips, "so wet—'s too much, I can't, baby—"
He's throbbing, warmth blooming beneath your soaked folds. Hips jerking up, head turning to muffle a strangled, wet moan into the pillow. Peter babbles, hiccups around your name like some bastardized prayer as his other self plunges his fingers into you.
You cum like that, but it's gentle and leaves you with a tepid kind of afterglow. It's not the overstimulated burn you still crave. Not the prize to satiate the need gnawing at you.
"Please, please, wanna feel," you moan.
Bunching the collar of your shirt, guiding your tense arms out of the short sleeves, wrestling it over your head. He pulls you back down, the jackrabbit rhythm of his heartbeat naked to you as he grabs two handfuls of your ass and grinds you into the cum soaking his briefs.
"Mm, can smell how wet you are."
And as above, so below. Human-Peter leans close and licks a pearl of sweat dripping down the line of your back. His free hand wanders, finds a path between his other body and yours to roll his callused fingers over a nipple.
You push your hips back with another soft moan. It's not enough. Your stomach is in knots but you just keep getting worked up with no end in sight. You don't think this will be enough, not when he's still hard beneath you, not when you haven't been filled in the way you need.
"Use your words, angel." You can't tell which Peter is saying it. You only know hot breath on your cheek, thick fingers in your cunt, the dampness between your legs.
"Need you," is the whiny hiccup. You're weak for it. "Fuck, Peter—want you, need it so bad."
"What is it?" For a boyfriend who pouts when you're too busy working on a report to scratch his head, he surely has the patience of a saint in bed.
Frustration bubbles beneath your skin as your concentration breaks, orgasm flitting away. "Please," you sob, nails making indents into Arachnid-Peter's biceps, "please, just want you inside, wanna feel you for days—"
Your world, narrowed down to the breathless space between two unyielding bodies, jolts. Arachnid-Peter is shucking his soaked briefs off, blushing down to his fucking chest and muttering, need to feel you, so wet, so soft.
He reaches down and spreads your pussy, so your clit can glide up and down the thick vein running along the underside of his cock. He grips you at the nape, holding your wet, open maw over his to share breaths.
Human-Peter groans at the sight, and the mattress shifts as he prepares himself. Pretty girl, sweet girl is what you make from the dazed mutters pouring out of his lips, just as the hot, slick tip of him runs through your fluttering seam.
You can't help the raw, needy whine you make. Awareness is smudgy except for the feel of sweat and skin and throbbing and the pleasant burn of him stretching you open.
He bottoms out with the softest of grunts in his chest. Still, it echoes and fills your studio. Bounces around your chest for that visceral, snarling thing in you to bat at. You want to keep it. You want to keep him.
Peter must know that you're at the end of your line. "Behave."
You don't wait for him to move. Your baser instincts take over.
Mindlessly, you rut against the length of Arachnid-Peter, twitching clit tracing the pulsing vein and causing your slick walls to drag over Human-Peter's cock.
There's a pitched gasp caught halfway in his throat before his hands fly to your hips and slams into you so hard that you skid up the bed. A whine burns through you at how rough he is, at how it scratches this possessive, feral part of your system.
He fucks you like this: ass arched into the air, skin raw from the harshness of his thrusts, clit jumping with every ragged pulse running through his Arachnid self's cock.
The head of it drags in the tight space between your naked stomachs, where skin is sticky with the remnants of his orgasm. The Arachnid's arms wrap tight around you, unwilling to compromise, unwilling to breathe unless his ribs can feel yours. He's done with restraint, letting out streams of helpless little sounds with each jerk of your hips.
Finally, your gut draws tight. There's a low, helpless keen building between your lungs as you're bullied toward the precipice.
You think you might be saying things, like please, and so close, and god, fuck Peter, don't stop baby (to both, or neither in particular)—
You have one last burst of alertness, and you use it trying to find Arachnid-Peter's mouth and drown your sounds in him. Instead, you find his dark eyes fluttering, brow pinched in that fucked-out expression you know so well.
And then you note the rhythm of his heaving sternum: short inhale, then a long exhale tinged with whiny, sensitive sounds. The tide swells in your nerves, and Human-Peter curses behind you.
It isn't even the pleasure that does you in, or the closeness, or the raw, humiliatingly lewd squelch of your boyfriend driving into you from behind.
It's the sight of tears gathering on Peter's eyelashes. One has escaped already, dribbling down his cheek with a slight glimmer.
You don't think. You just act, and you cum again as the salt of his tears and skin and sweat blooms on your tongue.
The overstimulation scorches so good. You jolt as four hands grasp at you—two gripping your shoulders, another pair at your hips. Tiding you through it, until you gain some sense of lucidity. Enough to feel the way he's twitching, both in you and at your clit.
They finish, almost in sync.
From behind, Peter stumbles through what sounds like an apology mingled with praises (and angels and sweet girls). Floods you with hot ropes, lazily rocks into your spent cunt.
From below, he pulses between your bodies, leaving your skin slippery with fluid. Tears glitter in his waterline, making the black globes of his eyes even more fascinating. His cries have softened to low hums, and he noses your forehead fondly.
"Pretty," comes a quiet mumble from over your shoulder. Peter kisses your back, the gentleness almost giving you whiplash. "Did so good."
Hoarsely, the Arachnid agrees with himself. "Yeah. My angel."
The tension of the situation leaves you in a sigh. You go boneless, dropping your head onto his chest as Human-Peter pulls out and makes for the sink.
"He always does that," Arachnid whispers, smoothing a palm over the sore muscles in your thighs. Faking scorn, "So responsible."
You muffle your words into his skin, "Least I can still cuddle another you right now."
There's the sound of water rushing into the basin in your kitchenette, then a cascade of droplets from a washcloth being wrung out.
"Babe," Human-Peter calls, padding back toward the bed. You peek out to see him in his boxers, holding your laptop in one hand and a damp cloth in another. "Watch a movie, take the day off?"
Arachnid-Peter groans, carelessly throwing an arm over his eyes. He points his finger at his counterpart. "Totally stole that idea from me. He's gonna suggest Empire Strikes Back for the sixth time."
Indignantly, "I wasn't!"
"Okay, then what were you thinking of?"
Caught, his mouth sits ajar. A beat of silence follows the probe before his shoulders bunch up and he says, "Return of the Jedi..."
"Dude, that's not any better."
"Dude, you're me."
Your phone rings, nearly scaring you out of your skin. Arachnid-Peter flings his arm off his face and shoots a web at your coffee table, slinging the device back to bed.
"It's Daniel," he says, and even though he lacks the whites of his eyes, you know he's rolling them.
Your head perks up. "Wait, wait—"
He picks up, and both of them say, "She's busy," before cutting off the line.
//
"Thanks, Doctor, for signing the release. You've read my preliminary report?"
Beside you, Peter—just one now—snoozes in the mess of sheets, brown waves all mussed from the crazy ten hours he just experienced. You didn't see the fusion happen (you turned away because you didn't want to know if his body horror hypothesis was true), but he claimed that it only made him sleepy.
You suppose it has to do with him spending twice the amount of energy.
"Yes," Banner muses over the line. You hear pages flipping. "It's fascinating. Do you think you could work on a solution that lasts longer?"
You frown, fingers drifting down to brush a stray curl away from your boyfriend's forehead. "Doctor, my dissertation is on genome patterns in Mutates, not human cloning."
"Did the arachnid side of him seem more suppressed after fusion?"
"Are you asking me this because you're experimenting on the Hulk again?"
Silence.
"Doctor—"
"Ooh, sorry, talk to you later. Heard they're restocking yogurt for nutrition."
The dial tone blares through your speakers. You huff, tossing the phone onto your pillow and sliding down the mattress, taking your place in the cusp of Peter's body.
He hums when you press close, slings an arm around you. Cracks an eye open, and even though it's low-lidded, you can see that just half of his eye is blooming with that familiar sleek black.
"I dunno," he teases, lips threatening to grin, "maybe you should tell him it's not a great idea."
—
junie's thoughts: lowkey next time they have sex, arachnid takes over and peter's in the mental cuck chair nodding like wait....exactlyyyy....
🕸 thank u for reading!! reblogs and feedback are always appreciated <33 🕸
SUMMARY: a party, a few wandering eyes, and pope pretending he isn’t jealous. when a group of men decide they could treat you better than your boyfriend, you and pope turn their arrogance into a game. 19k
POPE HATED PARTIES, and you knew he was regretting agreeing to this one before the two of you had even made it all the way up the front steps.
The place belonged to one of Deran’s friends, some guy named Mason who’d recently bought a house a few streets back from the beach and had apparently decided that reopening his surf shop after months of renovations required half of Oceanside crammed into his living room.
Music was already pounding through the walls hard enough to make the porch railing vibrate beneath your palm, bodies spilling out through the open front door with bottles and plastic cups in their hands while cigarette smoke curled lazily beneath the yellow porch light.
Pope slowed beside you when you reached the top step, his fingers still loosely linked with yours but his entire body noticeably stiffer than it had been in the car. You barely had to glance at him before recognising the look on his face.
His eyes were moving over the crowd instead of toward the doorway, mouth pressed into that flat line that usually meant he’d already started inventing reasons to leave. Tightening your hand around his before he could act on any of them, you looked up at him. “Don’t.” His attention finally dropped to you, his brows pulling together slightly.
“Didn’t say anything.” You gave him an unimpressed look because the innocent act worked particularly badly when his entire face looked like somebody had sentenced him to community service. “You didn’t have to. I can literally see you thinking about getting back in the car.”
Pope glanced past you toward the street like the car might actually rescue him before looking toward the doorway again, shoulders shifting beneath his shirt as another burst of laughter came from inside. “Too many people.” You couldn’t help smiling as you stepped closer and bumped your shoulder against his upper arm.
“That’s generally how parties work, babe.” His gaze dropped to you again, completely serious. “We could leave.” A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “We’ve been here twelve seconds.” Pope looked back at the crowd.
“Long twelve seconds.” You laughed harder then and gave his hand another pull as you started toward the door. “One drink. You promised me one drink before you started planning our escape.” Pope finally let you drag him forward. “Never said I wouldn’t plan it during the drink.”
The only reason either of you were there in the first place was because Deran had been bothering you about it for almost a week, bringing the party up every time he saw you until refusing had started requiring more effort than simply agreeing.
Technically it was Mason’s birthday celebration mixed with a reopening party for the surf shop, but Deran had described it much more accurately when he’d told you, with a shrug, that it was basically an excuse for everybody he knew to get drunk somewhere that wasn’t his bar.
You’d wanted to come because you’d spent most of the week practically attached to Pope’s side, which you normally loved, but after several nights of eating takeout on the couch while he silently cleaned tools, fixed things that hadn’t actually been broken and occasionally stared at the television without seeming aware of what was playing, you’d started craving conversation with somebody who used more than four words at a time.
Pope had refused the first few times you asked him to come with you, usually without even bothering to look up from whatever his hands were occupied with. The first time, he’d been twisting a screwdriver into the back of something mechanical while you stood behind the couch.
“No.” You’d folded your arms and stared at the back of his head. “No, you’re busy, or no, you’re going to sit here and pretend you’re busy because you hate parties?” Pope had paused just long enough to look over his shoulder at you. “You already know the answer.” You’d narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re such a pain in the ass.” He’d turned back to whatever he was fixing. “Still not going.”
You’d eventually stopped asking, which was why you’d been surprised earlier that evening when he’d appeared in the bedroom doorway while you were standing in front of the mirror trying to decide between two tops. His eyes had moved from one top to the other before settling on you.
“You still going tonight?” You’d looked at him through the mirror. “Yeah. Deran said people are getting there around eight.” Turning around, you’d held both shirts against yourself. “Which one?”
Pope had stared at them like you’d just asked him to solve a complicated equation before pointing at the darker one. You’d smiled. “You always pick that one.” He’d only shrugged before disappearing down the hallway without explaining why he’d asked about the party at all.
Five minutes later, Pope had returned wearing clean jeans and a dark shirt, keys already in his hand. You’d blinked at him in surprise before leaning back against the dresser. “Wait, are you actually coming with me?”
His expression had immediately tightened as though he regretted revealing his intentions. “You said you wanted me there.” Your smile had grown because you knew him well enough to recognise everything he wasn’t saying. “I did, but you’ve spent a week acting like I invited you to your own execution.”
Pope had glanced toward the hallway. “You ready or not?” You’d laughed and grabbed your bag. “Yeah, I’m ready.” He never admitted it aloud, but you’d known perfectly well part of the decision came from him not liking the idea of you walking into a house full of drunk strangers by yourself.
The moment the two of you stepped through the front door, somebody somewhere near the kitchen shouted your name loudly enough to make you turn your head. Pope’s hand slipped naturally from yours to the small of your back.
He didn’t grab you or pull you against him, but his palm remained there as he guided you through the crowd, fingers occasionally pressing against your waist whenever someone squeezed too closely past. His eyes were everywhere while yours were mostly occupied with finding familiar faces, and after watching him glance toward the hallway, back door and staircase within the space of ten seconds, you leaned closer. “You know nobody’s planning to rob the place, right?”
Pope looked down at you briefly before his attention returned to a group of unfamiliar men near the kitchen. “You don’t know that.” You stared at him for a second, fighting a smile. “Pope, normal people don’t walk into a birthday party and immediately check all the exits.” His eyes flicked toward the back door again, completely unapologetic.
“Normal people get robbed.” That made you snort, and you stepped in front of him briefly so you could straighten the collar of his shirt even though there was absolutely nothing wrong with it. “You’re impossible.”
Pope caught your wrist before you could lower your hand. His thumb rubbed once over the inside of it while he looked at you, expression calmer now that you were directly in front of him. “You wanted me here.” You smiled and leaned slightly into him. “I did want you here.” His mouth twitched at one corner. “Then quit complaining.”
You opened your mouth in mock offence. “That wasn’t complaining. That was me lovingly pointing out that you’re weird.” Pope gave you one of those flat stares that only made you smile wider. You leaned up and kissed the corner of his mouth anyway. “See? Loving.”
Somebody shoved carelessly past your shoulder a second later, and Pope’s arm immediately wrapped around your waist and pulled you closer. He watched the guy disappear into the crowd before looking down at you. “You okay?” You rolled your eyes affectionately and rested your hand against his chest.
“I survived being bumped into, yes.” Pope only nodded once like he’d needed the confirmation. “Okay.” You smiled up at him. “You know you don’t have to protect me from every person who gets within three feet of me.”
His gaze drifted briefly toward the guy who’d bumped you. “Wasn’t protecting you.” You raised your eyebrows. “Right.” Pope looked back at you. “He should watch where he’s going.” You laughed softly. “Of course.”
Deran eventually appeared from somewhere behind you, already looking far too entertained by the simple fact that Pope had actually shown up. He shoved a beer into his brother’s hand before Pope had the chance to refuse it.
“Holy shit, you actually came.” Deran leaned back slightly to look Pope over as if checking he wasn’t some particularly convincing impersonator. Pope stared at him without responding, which only made Deran grin wider.
You immediately stepped in. “I deserve some kind of award. Getting him through the front door took emotional warfare.” Deran laughed while Pope slowly turned his head toward you. “No, it didn’t.” You raised your eyebrows. “You suggested leaving before we’d technically entered the building.”
Deran took a drink and laughed harder. “That sounds about right.” Pope’s expression shifted into mild irritation as he looked between the two of you. “You invited us.” Deran nodded toward you. “I invited her. I assumed she’d have to drag you here unconscious.”
You pressed your lips together to hide another laugh. “I considered it.” Pope looked at you. “No, you didn’t.” His hand settled against your hip again, and Deran’s eyes immediately dropped toward it before flicking back to Pope’s face.
His grin widened in a way that immediately made Pope suspicious. “What?” Pope asked. Deran lifted both hands as though surrendering. “Nothing. Nice to see you socialising.” He dragged the last word out just enough to make it obvious he was being an asshole.
Pope gave him another long stare before taking his first drink of the beer. You gently nudged his ribs with your elbow. “Be nice.” He looked down at you with genuine confusion. “Why?” You laughed into your cup while Deran shook his head. “Have fun, lovebirds.”
He started backing toward the kitchen before Pope could answer and disappeared into the crowd. Pope watched him go. “He’s annoying.” You curled an arm around his waist. “You love him.” Pope glanced at you. “Still annoying.” You smiled because you decided that was probably the closest you were getting to an admission.
For the first hour or so, things were actually easier than you’d expected. You floated between conversations with people you knew from Deran’s bar and the beach, occasionally introducing Pope whenever someone unfamiliar wandered over. Although he never exactly became chatty, he stayed beside you without looking like he was actively counting the seconds until escape.
Whenever somebody asked him something directly, he answered, usually briefly, and when you started telling a story to a small group near the kitchen, you noticed him listening despite pretending he wasn’t particularly interested.
At one point you caught him watching you over the rim of his beer and smiled at him mid-sentence, which immediately made his gaze shift away. When the conversation ended, you moved closer. “Were you staring at me?” Pope frowned slightly. “No.” You tilted your head, smiling because the denial was terrible.
“You absolutely were.” His palm found your waist as somebody squeezed past behind him. “Was looking at you.” You laughed softly and reached up to brush your fingers through the short hair near his temple. “That’s literally what staring is.”
Pope seemed to think about that for a second. “Whatever.” He took another drink while you leaned against him more comfortably. “Having fun yet?” Pope looked around the noisy room before returning his attention to you. “No.” Your mouth dropped open theatrically. “Not even a little?”
He stared down at you for a moment, then his hand rubbed slowly across your back. “You are.” The answer softened something in you, and you smiled. “Yeah, I am.” Pope nodded once, almost as though that settled it. “Then it’s fine.” You had to resist the urge to kiss him stupid in the middle of the kitchen.
It changed gradually enough that you didn’t notice it straight away. More people started arriving as the night went on, bringing friends who brought more friends until there were faces neither you nor Pope recognised scattered everywhere through the house.
The kitchen became crowded enough that Pope eventually moved behind you instead of beside you, one hand resting lightly at your hip while you spoke to a woman you knew from Deran’s bar.
You were halfway through answering something she’d asked when you noticed Pope wasn’t listening anymore. His body had gone still behind you, and when you followed the direction of his gaze, you found a man across the room looking directly at you.
You glanced away almost immediately because you didn’t think much of it. A few minutes later, though, you caught the same man doing it again, this time smiling when your eyes met. Pope saw that too. You knew because the hand at your hip tightened by the smallest amount.
Turning slightly within his arm, you looked up at him. “You okay?” His eyes remained on the other side of the room for another second before dropping toward you, his expression deliberately neutral. “Yeah.” You studied him, already suspicious.
“You sure?” Pope took a slow drink from his bottle. “Why wouldn’t I be?” You looked past his shoulder toward the stranger again, then back at Pope, and the faint tension around his mouth told you everything his voice hadn’t.
You rested your fingers around his wrist. “Because you’re doing the thing.” His eyebrows pulled together. “What thing?” You lowered your voice. “The staring thing where you look like you’re deciding whether somebody’s going to be a problem.”
Pope’s gaze drifted across the room again despite himself. “Not staring.” You almost laughed because apparently tonight involved a lot of arguments about the definition of staring. “You are staring.”
Your thumb gently rubbed across his skin, and Pope finally looked back down at you. “He keeps looking at you.” There it was. You blinked once, then felt the beginning of a smile threatening your mouth. “Are you jealous?” Pope’s expression immediately hardened. “No.” You raised your eyebrows. “That was very fast.” He looked away from you again, jaw working slightly. “I’m not jealous.”
You moved closer until your body was nearly against his. “Okay. So you’re just aggressively monitoring some random guy because you’re passionate about public safety?” Pope finally looked at you again, and although his expression remained serious, you caught the smallest flicker in his eyes. “He’s looking at you.” You slid your hand higher along his arm. “Let him look.” Pope’s mouth tightened. “Don’t like it.”
Your teasing expression softened when you realised how genuinely he meant it, and you squeezed his arm. “I’m standing right here with you.” His eyes moved over your face as if he were checking something there. After a few seconds, his shoulders loosened by the smallest amount. “I know.” You smiled and leaned closer to his ear. “Good. Remember that.” You kissed his cheek before settling against him again.
Pope’s hand stayed firmly against your waist afterward, and when you looked across the kitchen one more time, the man was still watching. This time, Pope caught him doing it at exactly the same moment you did. His fingers flexed against your side, his expression flattening into something quieter and colder while his eyes remained fixed across the room.
The night had only just started getting interesting.
You lasted another twenty minutes inside before the heat of the house started getting to you. There were too many bodies packed into too little space now, the music somehow louder than it had been when you arrived, and every time somebody opened the back door a thin stream of cooler night air slipped inside before disappearing almost immediately beneath perfume, sweat, smoke and whatever somebody had spilled across the kitchen floor.
Pope had stayed close without hovering directly over you, although you could still feel his attention finding you whenever you shifted farther than arm’s reach. The bottle Deran had shoved at him earlier remained almost completely untouched on the counter beside him, condensation running down the glass while Pope ignored it in favour of watching the room.
You’d been talking to someone near the kitchen island when you leaned toward him and touched two fingers against his forearm to get his attention. “I’m going to the bathroom.” Pope looked down at you straight away, his eyes briefly flicking toward the hallway before returning to your face. “Okay.”
You smiled because even something that mundane somehow got processed through that constant vigilance of his. “You don’t need to escort me.” The faintest crease appeared between his brows as though the thought genuinely had occurred to him, and you rubbed your thumb once over his wrist before stepping away.
“I’ll be back.” Pope watched you disappear into the crowd, his expression unreadable, but you could feel his eyes following you until the hallway swallowed you completely.
The bathroom gave you a few minutes of blessed silence, or at least something close to it. The bass still travelled through the walls, dull and repetitive beneath the buzz of the extractor fan, but shutting the door meant nobody was brushing against you or shouting directly beside your ear.
You checked yourself in the mirror, smoothed your hair back into place and splashed a little cool water across your wrists before staring at your reflection for a second longer than necessary. You were still thinking about Pope’s face when he’d caught that stranger watching you in the kitchen, the way his jaw had locked while he insisted with absolutely no credibility that he wasn’t jealous.
It should’ve irritated you more than it did. Instead there was something almost painfully endearing about the fact that Pope never seemed angry with you for being noticed. His irritation always went outward. At the people looking. At the people standing too close. At anyone he thought might misunderstand your friendliness for availability.
You dried your hands, checked your phone and decided you weren’t quite ready to push through the kitchen again, especially when you remembered the cigarettes tucked into your bag.
A smoke outside sounded better than another ten minutes being shouted at over music, so instead of retracing your steps toward Pope, you slipped through the hallway and followed the cooler air toward the back of the house.
The backyard was considerably quieter, although quiet at a party like this was relative. A few people were gathered around a battered patio table near the pool while another couple had disappeared toward the fence, their silhouettes pressed suspiciously close together beneath the trees.
Most of the real crowd had stayed inside, leaving the far end of the yard almost empty except for a few abandoned lawn chairs and the muffled wash of music through the open sliding doors.
You wandered toward the side of the house where the porch light didn’t reach quite as harshly, dug the pack from your bag and pulled out a cigarette, grateful for the cooler breeze against your flushed skin.
The cigarette settled between your lips while you searched around for your lighter, eventually finding it buried underneath your keys. You flicked the wheel once. Nothing. Again. Still nothing. You frowned down at it and tried another three times, cupping your hand around the top even though there was barely enough wind to matter. “Seriously?” you muttered under your breath, giving it one final useless click before a voice from much closer than you expected made you glance up.
“Need a hand?” It was one of the men from inside.
You recognised him immediately, not the one who had been openly staring from across the kitchen but one of the men standing beside him earlier, broad shoulders beneath a loose shirt, an easy grin that suggested he’d already had considerably more to drink than either you or Pope.
He’d been looking too. You remembered that now. Every time you’d turned toward their side of the room, at least one of them had been watching, and apparently this one had interpreted your brief eye contact as something far more encouraging than it had actually been.
Before you could answer, he stepped closer and produced a lighter from his pocket, flicking a flame to life between you. You hesitated for half a second before leaning forward just enough to catch the end of your cigarette, one hand automatically cupping around the flame while you inhaled.
The tiny orange glow illuminated his face from underneath, and when he shifted closer instead of simply holding his arm out, you noticed immediately. His shoulder nearly brushed yours. His eyes dropped from your face toward your mouth as you drew on the cigarette, lingering there for long enough that discomfort prickled faintly along the back of your neck.
You straightened as soon as the cigarette caught and deliberately stepped backward, putting a comfortable amount of space between you while exhaling smoke toward the side. “Thanks.” Your tone was polite but final, and you lifted your dead lighter slightly before tucking it back into your bag. “Mine’s apparently decided tonight was its last night on earth.”
The man didn’t take the hint.
Instead of returning toward the patio, he stayed exactly where he was, rolling the lighter between his fingers while his smile widened. His gaze moved openly over you now, not subtle enough to pretend it was anything except what it was, lingering on your legs before travelling slowly upward again. “Saw you inside earlier.”
You took another drag and glanced toward the house, already planning how quickly you could finish the cigarette without making the whole thing awkward. “Yeah. Hard not to see anyone in there. Place is packed.”
The joke was deliberately bland, something you hoped would push the conversation back toward harmless territory, but his eyes remained fixed on you with the loose confidence of somebody who’d mistaken basic politeness for flirting.
He shifted closer again, forcing you to take another small step backward. “Nah, trust me. I noticed you specifically.” His mouth curled at one corner while his gaze dropped again, blatant enough that your expression began flattening. “Would’ve noticed you anywhere dressed like that.”
You removed the cigarette from your lips and crossed one arm loosely beneath your chest, creating another small barrier between you. “Right.” The dryness in your voice should’ve been enough. Apparently it wasn’t. He laughed softly and leaned one shoulder against the wall beside you as if the two of you had somehow decided to share the space.
“Guy you came with your boyfriend?” You looked directly at him this time, already recognising exactly where the conversation was headed. “Yeah. He is.” You expected that to settle it.
It only made him grin.
“Shame.”
Your eyebrows lifted slightly, more disbelief than amusement, while the cigarette burned slowly between your fingers. “Not really.” He chuckled and tipped his head toward the house, apparently encouraged by his own stupidity. “He doesn’t look like much fun.”
You stared at him for a second, wondering whether alcohol had completely eliminated whatever sense of self-preservation he might ordinarily possess. “He’s plenty of fun.”
Something about your answer seemed to amuse him further. He stepped closer again, dropping his voice even though there was nobody near enough to overhear. “Bet I could show you more.” Your mouth tightened. You’d been willing to let the first few comments slide as drunken arrogance, but that one moved firmly into territory you had no intention of entertaining.
You shifted your weight away from him and took the cigarette from your lips. “You really can’t.” He gave you a lazy once-over and scoffed. “Come on. Don’t act like you weren’t looking back inside.” You almost laughed from sheer disbelief.
“I looked because you were staring at me.” Apparently that distinction meant nothing to him. He took another half step forward, close enough now that you could smell beer on his breath. “Yeah, because you’re fucking hot. What am I supposed to do, not look?” Your expression cooled completely. “You could try.”
Inside, Pope had lasted perhaps three minutes before noticing you hadn’t returned.
At first he simply looked toward the hallway, expecting you to reappear between the bodies moving past the kitchen. Then another minute passed. His eyes shifted toward the bathroom door whenever he caught sight of it through the crowd, but eventually somebody emerged who very obviously wasn’t you.
Pope glanced toward the front room, then toward the back of the house, and the change in his posture was immediate. He left the untouched bottle where it had been sitting and started moving through the room without announcing anything to anyone, slipping between people with that rigid, purposeful stride that made strangers instinctively get out of his way.
He checked the hallway first. Nothing. Then the living room. Still nothing. The open sliding door finally caught his attention, along with the faint orange point of a cigarette glowing near the side of the house. He saw you almost immediately. He also saw the man standing far too close.
Pope stopped just outside the doorway for a second, not because he was uncertain, but because he was watching. You had already taken a step backward. The man followed. You shifted again. The man followed again. Pope’s face changed so subtly most people wouldn’t have noticed it, but the softness he’d carried around you all evening disappeared completely.
You were already about to end the conversation yourself. The cigarette was forgotten between your fingers now, irritation overtaking any desire you’d had to finish it while the man continued smiling like nothing about your body language had registered.
“Look, I’m going to save us both some time.” You straightened and looked him directly in the eye, your tone losing the politeness you’d been maintaining. “I’m not interested.” His smile faltered for the first time, although only briefly. “Didn’t say you were.” You gave him a flat look. “You didn’t exactly need to.”
He laughed beneath his breath, then glanced toward the house. “Your boyfriend always keep you on that short a leash?” That did make you laugh, although there was nothing amused about it. “You really picked the wrong fucking angle if you thought insulting him was going to help you.”
He shrugged and looked you over again. “Just saying. Girl like you probably gets bored with a guy who looks like he’d rather fuck a wall than talk to anybody.” Your jaw tightened. You took one step forward this time, not because you were interested in being closer but because you were finished being pushed backward. “Okay. We’re done.”
“You sure?”
The question came with another grin, and his eyes dropped toward your chest before returning lazily to your face. “Because if you ever want someone who actually knows what to do with a woman like you, I’m not hard to find.”
You opened your mouth, already fully prepared to tell him exactly where he could stick that offer, when another voice came from behind him.
“She said she’s not interested.”
The man’s expression changed before he even turned around.
Pope stood a few feet away, shoulders squared beneath his dark shirt, hands hanging loosely at his sides in a way that somehow looked more threatening than if he’d clenched them into fists. He wasn’t visibly angry. That was the problem. Pope rarely needed to raise his voice to make the atmosphere around him change. His eyes moved from the man’s face toward the distance between the two of you, then briefly toward you.
“You okay?” The question was directed entirely at you, and the second his gaze settled on your face some of the coldness left it. You nodded and lifted the cigarette between your fingers. “Yeah. My lighter died.” Pope’s eyes dropped toward the cigarette, then toward the lighter still sitting in the other man’s hand, piecing the situation together without needing anything else explained. You could practically watch the conclusions clicking into place behind his eyes.
The guy gave a short laugh, clearly trying to recover whatever confidence Pope’s arrival had knocked out of him. “Relax, man. We were just talking.” Pope looked at him again. His expression didn’t change. “Sounded like she was done talking.”
The man glanced at you as though expecting you to contradict him, but you only brought the cigarette back to your lips and took another slow drag, stepping naturally toward Pope when he moved closer. His hand settled low against your back the instant you reached him, palm warm through the fabric of your clothes, and the contact was familiar enough that some of the tension left your shoulders.
The other man noticed. Of course he noticed. His eyes flicked toward Pope’s hand before returning to your face, and the fact that he still looked amused made Pope’s fingers spread more firmly against your waist.
“You always let him answer for you?”
That finally wiped away whatever remained of your patience. You turned your head toward him, smoke escaping slowly through your nose as you stared. “He didn’t answer for me. I told you no before he even got here.” You flicked ash toward the ground and shook your head. “You just decided you liked your version better.”
Pope stayed completely silent beside you, but you felt the subtle movement of his thumb against your side. The man scoffed and looked between you both, embarrassment beginning to sharpen the edges of his expression. “Jesus. Fine. Didn’t realise you were that serious about him.” You gave him a humourless smile. “You didn’t ask.” His eyes dropped over you one final time before he muttered something under his breath about Pope being lucky.
Pope heard it. You knew he did because his entire body went still beside you.
The man took one step as though he intended to leave, and Pope’s voice stopped him. “What’d you say?” There was nothing loud about it. No performance. Pope barely moved except for the slight tilt of his head, but the other man hesitated anyway. “I said you’re lucky.” Pope stared at him for a long moment. His hand remained against your back, the pressure steady and controlled. “Yeah.” He glanced down at you then, and something almost tender briefly interrupted the hard set of his face. “I am.”
That should’ve ended it.
Instead the guy laughed, apparently too drunk or too stupid to understand that he had already been handed several opportunities to leave. His gaze travelled over you again before he looked at Pope. “Wouldn’t leave her alone too long, though. Half the guys in there have been talking about what they’d do if she gave them a chance.”
The air around Pope seemed to disappear.
Your stomach dropped, not because you were frightened of Pope, but because you knew instantly that the man had finally found the exact sentence he shouldn’t have said. Pope’s eyes sharpened with something cold and ugly while his hand slowly left your back. You reached for his wrist before he could move any farther, fingers closing around it firmly.
“Pope.” His attention shifted down to you immediately. You gave his wrist another squeeze and held his gaze. “He’s not worth it.” Pope looked at you for several seconds, breathing slowly through his nose while whatever impulse had flashed through him fought against the pressure of your hand.
Eventually his fingers turned beneath yours until he could lace them through your own. Then he looked back at the man. “Go inside.” The guy hesitated. Pope’s expression didn’t change. “You should go inside.” This time, he listened.
You watched the man disappear back through the sliding door before finally letting out the breath you’d been holding, your shoulders loosening now that there was some actual distance between him and the two of you. Pope was still staring after him, though, his attention fixed through the glass like he could somehow keep track of exactly where the guy went even with half the party moving around inside.
You crouched beside the wall and ground the end of your cigarette against the concrete, twisting it beneath your shoe until the tiny orange ember disappeared completely, then straightened and stepped back toward Pope. His jaw was still set, shoulders rigid beneath his shirt, and you could tell he was replaying every shitty thing the guy had said even though the situation was technically finished.
You slipped both arms around Pope’s neck, letting your fingers settle into the short hairs at his nape and gently scratching there until his eyes finally dropped to yours. “You know you’re really fucking hot when you’re jealous.” Pope’s expression immediately flattened, exactly as you’d expected.
“Wasn’t jealous.” Your mouth curved despite yourself as you played with the hair between your fingers. “Sure you weren’t.” He gave you that familiar stare, but you only moved closer. “You don’t need to be, either. I meant what I said. I’m with you.” Something quieter shifted behind his eyes, the anger easing just slightly as his hands found your waist. “I know.” You tilted your head. “Good. Because I think I’ve got an idea.”
Movement beyond his shoulder caught your attention before you could explain further. Through the kitchen window you could make out the same man standing with the two friends he’d been with earlier, all three of them hovering close enough to the glass that there was absolutely no pretending they weren’t watching what was happening outside.
From where they stood, though, they didn’t have nearly as clear a view of you as you had of them. Most of the backyard lighting came from the porch closer to the sliding door, leaving the narrow stretch beside the house where you and Pope were standing almost completely swallowed in darkness.
They could see your silhouettes and probably enough of your faces to tell where you were looking, but the finer details were lost beneath shadows. They couldn’t see the grin slowly spreading across your mouth.
They certainly couldn’t see the way your eyes lit up as a particularly petty idea began forming. Pope followed your gaze toward the window and immediately noticed them too, his hand tightening at your waist.
“They’re still watching.” You looked back at him, making absolutely no effort to hide your grin from him. “I know.” His brows pulled together because he knew that expression too well. “What’re you thinking?” You ran your fingers lightly over the back of his neck.
“They already think you’re jealous and controlling.” Pope’s face tightened. “I’m not controlling.” You nodded quickly. “I know you’re not. That’s the point. They don’t know shit about us, but they already decided what they want to believe.”
Pope watched you carefully while you worked through the plan aloud, his expression growing more suspicious with every sentence. You kept your voice low enough that nothing could carry toward the house. “If I just walk back inside and start talking to them after everything that happened out here, they’re going to know something’s off. They just watched me shut that asshole down, and they know you came looking for me.”
Pope’s thumb moved slowly against your side while he listened. You glanced toward the window again and saw the three men still talking amongst themselves, one of them looking outside every few seconds. “But they already think you’re too much. He practically told me that himself. Too jealous. Too intense. Like apparently I’m secretly waiting for some random drunk asshole to rescue me from you.”
Pope’s jaw shifted at that, irritation returning. “Guy’s an idiot.” You smiled. “Exactly. Which makes him really easy to manipulate.” That got a slight tilt of Pope’s head. You leaned closer. “So we give him exactly what he already wants to believe. We fake a fight. Something believable enough that they see me storm back inside alone and think they finally got in my head.”
Pope’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of fight?” You thought for a second, fingers absently brushing along his collar. “Nothing dramatic. If we start screaming at each other, nobody’s going to buy it because we’ve been fine all night.” Pope nodded once, still listening. “We make it about what just happened. You act like you’re pissed that I was outside alone with him. I accuse you of being jealous and hovering over me.”
The moment those words left your mouth, Pope frowned. “Don’t like that.” You gave his neck a reassuring squeeze. “Because it isn’t true.” His gaze stayed fixed on yours. “Still don’t like it.” You softened your voice.
“That’s what’ll make it believable. They already think that’s what’s happening between us. If they see me getting irritated and saying maybe they were right about you being too intense, they’ll eat it up.”
Pope glanced toward the window before returning to you. “Then what?” You leaned against him and lowered your voice even further. “Then I go inside without you. You stay out here for a few minutes so it looks like I actually walked away from you.”
His hand tightened against your hip immediately. “You’re going back to them alone?” You nodded, but before he could object you touched his chest. “I’m not letting them touch me. I’m not doing anything with them. I’m going to make them think I’m pissed at you, maybe tell them I needed a break because you’re being too much tonight. If they think we’ve genuinely argued, they’ll assume I’m suddenly vulnerable enough for them to try again.”
Pope’s expression darkened at the thought. “They will.” You almost smiled at how certain he sounded. “Exactly. And because they’re arrogant as fuck, I won’t even have to work hard. I’ll let them flirt, act like I’m actually listening this time and make it seem like maybe they were right about you.”
Pope’s eyebrows pulled together again. “You’re gonna tell them that?” You stroked your hand down his chest. “I’m going to lie to them, Pope.” His gaze stayed on yours. “I know.” You smiled faintly. “Then trust me.”
He went quiet for several seconds, considering every piece of it the way he seemed to consider anything he thought could potentially put you in a situation he couldn’t immediately control. Eventually he looked toward the house again. “And then?”
You moved closer so your mouth was beside his ear, speaking softly enough that only he could hear. “Then I get them to follow me somewhere quieter. One of the bedrooms, probably. Somewhere with a door.” Pope’s whole body stiffened. You immediately added. “Unlocked door. You’ll know exactly which room. I’m not disappearing somewhere without telling you.”
His shoulders loosened by the smallest amount. “I wait outside?” You nodded. “Long enough that they think they’ve actually gotten lucky. Maybe a minute or two. Then you come in.” Pope’s eyes shifted over your face. “And they think they’re getting you.” Your grin returned.
“Yeah.” You glanced toward the window again, taking far too much satisfaction in the fact that the men were still watching. “They’ll think I finally ditched my jealous boyfriend and brought them somewhere private because they somehow convinced me they could do better.”
Pope stared at you for a moment. “But they don’t touch you.” You shook your head. “Not a fucking chance.” Your fingers curled lightly into his shirt. “That’s the whole point. They think they’re about to get what they’ve been staring at all night, then you walk through the door and they realise they’ve been played.”
Pope’s gaze darkened slightly as he waited for the rest. You leaned toward his ear again. “And instead of any of them getting lucky, I go straight to you.” Your voice dropped even lower. “I get on my knees in front of them. I take your cock out. I make every single one of them watch me suck you off after they spent the whole night acting like they could fuck me better.”
Pope went completely still beneath your hands. You could feel the change in his breathing even though his face hardly moved. “They don’t get to touch me. They don’t get anything from me except a front-row seat to exactly who I fucking want.” You pulled back enough to meet his eyes. “They want proof I’m not secretly wishing I was with one of them? Fine. I’ll give them proof.”
Pope continued staring at you, his jaw working slowly while the idea settled properly into his head. “You really wanna do that?” There wasn’t accusation in his voice. He was checking, making sure this was something you genuinely wanted and not something you’d invented because you thought his jealousy needed soothing.
You nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. And not because I think I owe you some big performance.” You rubbed your thumb over his chest. “I know I don’t need to prove anything to you. I want to prove it to them because they’re pissing me off.” Something faint shifted at the corner of his mouth. You smiled.
“They’ve spent half the night staring at me, then that asshole comes out here and basically tells me you’re not enough for me. I want to see his fucking face when he realises I could have every guy in that room offering himself to me and I’d still choose you.”
Pope looked back toward the window, then returned his attention to you. “Door stays unlocked.” You nodded. “Yep.” His fingers flexed against your waist. “You tell me where you are.” Another nod. “Obviously.” Pope held your gaze for another few seconds before finally saying. “Okay.”
Your grin widened instantly, and Pope immediately looked suspicious again. “Okay?” He gave you a flat stare. “Don’t make me say it twice.” You laughed quietly, but the darkness around you swallowed most of the expression anyway, which only made the plan easier. From inside, the men could see your bodies close together but not enough detail to realise the argument you were about to have had already been rehearsed.
You glanced toward them once more before lowering your voice. “We need to sell it now.” Pope looked toward the window too. “How?” You stepped backward, letting your hands fall away from him so there was suddenly a noticeable amount of space between your bodies.
“You’re pissed I went outside alone and talked to him. I’m pissed because you’re being jealous.” His expression hardened. “You want me to actually argue with you?” You nodded. “Enough that they see it. Don’t yell like a lunatic. Just be you when you’re pissed.”
Pope looked genuinely offended by that. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from laughing. “That face. Exactly that face. Keep doing that.”
You took another step backward, closer to where the light from the house could catch the outline of your body, deliberately letting your posture stiffen as though something between the two of you had suddenly gone wrong.
Pope understood immediately. His shoulders squared and his expression shut down. Even knowing it was fake, the change in him was convincing enough that you almost admired it. “Why’d you come looking for me?” you asked louder now, projecting just enough that anyone near the open door might catch pieces of it. Pope’s brows drew together.
“You were gone.” You crossed your arms. “I went to the bathroom and had a cigarette. I don’t need a fucking search party every time I leave the room.” Pope’s jaw clenched, and for a second you wondered whether he was annoyed by the words even knowing they weren’t real.
“Guy was all over you.” You scoffed deliberately and shifted your weight away from him. “He lit my cigarette, Pope. That’s it.” His eyes narrowed. “Wasn’t just that.” You shook your head and let irritation colour your voice. “Jesus Christ. You’ve been doing this all night.”
Pope folded his arms, the movement making him look even more closed off. “Doing what?” You threw one hand outward as though the answer should’ve been obvious. “Watching every guy who looks at me like you’re waiting for an excuse to start something.”
Pope looked toward the house before returning his eyes to you. “They keep staring at you.” You laughed sharply. “So fucking what? Let them stare.” His mouth tightened. “Don’t like it.” You let out an exaggerated breath and looked away from him, making sure your face was angled toward the house long enough for anyone watching to catch the frustration in your posture.
“Maybe they’re right, then.” Pope’s eyes sharpened even though you’d warned him that part was coming. “About what?” You hesitated just long enough to make it believable. “Maybe you are being too much tonight.”
For a moment, Pope didn’t answer, and the silence actually made the argument look more real than anything either of you could’ve planned. His jaw shifted slowly, his expression colder when he finally spoke. “Too much.” You rubbed your forehead and sighed.
“That’s not what I meant.” Pope stepped back from you. “Sounded like it.” You looked toward him again, forcing yourself not to smile because the annoyed expression on his face was almost too convincing. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. Everything turns into some fucking thing with you.”
Pope stared at you. “You’re the one making it a thing.” You let your hands drop helplessly at your sides. “Fine. Whatever. I’m not doing this out here.” Pope’s face remained blank, but there was a tiny knowing flicker in his eyes that only you would’ve noticed in the darkness.
You turned toward the house before pausing like you’d thought of something else. “I’m going back inside.” Pope’s voice followed immediately. “Go ahead.” You looked over your shoulder, letting your expression harden. “Maybe I will.” His arms stayed crossed. “Okay.”
You rolled your eyes and started toward the sliding door, then stopped just long enough to add the final piece of the performance. “And don’t follow me around for five fucking minutes, Pope. I mean it.” His stare remained fixed on you. “Wasn’t planning to.”
That nearly got you.
A laugh threatened to escape because both of you knew perfectly well that following you was exactly what he’d be doing in a few minutes, but the darkness saved you. You turned away quickly enough that the men inside couldn’t see the grin you finally allowed yourself, your mouth stretching wide as soon as your back was facing the window.
By the time you reached the edge of the porch light, you’d wiped it away completely. Your shoulders were tense again. Your jaw looked set. You slid open the door with considerably more force than necessary and stepped back into the crowded house looking every bit like a woman who’d just stormed away from an argument with her boyfriend.
Behind you, Pope stayed exactly where you’d left him. And across the kitchen, all three men had seen the entire thing.
The second you stepped back inside, the heat of the house hit you again, thick and immediate after the cooler air outside. Music swallowed most of the noise from the backyard as the sliding door closed behind you, and you made yourself pause for half a second as though you were genuinely trying to collect yourself after an argument.
You ran one hand through your hair, breathed out sharply through your nose and deliberately avoided looking back through the glass because you knew Pope was still standing exactly where you’d left him. Looking would ruin it. Instead, you crossed toward the kitchen with your jaw tight and your arms folded loosely across yourself, letting every movement suggest irritation.
You didn’t have to search for the three men. They were exactly where you’d seen them through the window, clustered around the far side of the kitchen island, and all three had gone suspiciously quiet the moment you came inside alone. The man who’d followed you outside earlier raised his eyebrows when he saw you, the corners of his mouth already threatening a smug little smile.
You ignored him at first. That was important. Walking straight over would’ve made the whole thing obvious, so you stopped near the counter instead and poured yourself some water, taking a long drink while pretending not to notice their attention crawling over you.
It took less than a minute. “Told you.”
His voice came from your left, just close enough that you didn’t need to turn immediately. You lowered your cup slowly before looking toward him with an expression you carefully kept somewhere between irritated and exhausted. He’d approached alone at first, although his two friends were hanging back close enough to listen.
“Told me what?” He smiled as though he’d been waiting all night for the opportunity. “That guy’s too fucking much.” You looked away and took another drink, using the rim of the cup to hide the tiny smile threatening your mouth. “Don’t.” The warning came out tired rather than defensive, exactly the way you wanted it to.
The man lifted his hands innocently. “Hey, I’m not trying to start shit.” You gave him a look that made it very clear he had, in fact, spent the last twenty minutes trying to start shit. He laughed and leaned one hip against the counter beside you.
“I’m just saying, you looked pretty pissed off out there.” Your gaze briefly flicked toward the dark window, but Pope had moved farther into the shadows now, leaving nothing except your own reflection staring back at you. Good.
You sighed and dragged your fingers through your hair again. “He gets jealous.” The admission tasted ridiculous because you knew perfectly well Pope had reasons for being irritated tonight, but the effect on the man was immediate. His smile grew. “Yeah. No shit.”
You rolled your eyes as though even hearing Pope’s name was exhausting you now. “It’s just intense sometimes.” The man nodded eagerly, delighted that you were apparently proving every assumption he’d already made. His friends wandered closer, abandoning any pretence that they weren’t involved.
One of them glanced toward the window before looking back at you. “Dude looks like he wants to kill somebody every time you talk to another guy.” You tightened your mouth to stop yourself from laughing at how unintentionally accurate that could sound. “He’s not going to kill anybody.”
The first man gave a low chuckle. “You sure?” You shot him a warning look, but instead of defending Pope the way you naturally wanted to, you let your shoulders fall with a frustrated breath.
“I don’t know. I just wanted one night where everything didn’t turn into a fucking thing.” His gaze travelled down your body before returning to your face. “You shouldn’t have to deal with that shit.”
The false sympathy would’ve been almost funny if he hadn’t been looking at your chest while saying it. You shifted slightly, enough to acknowledge the attention without rewarding it. “Maybe.” He leaned closer. “Definitely.”
His friends were becoming braver now too. One of them rested his forearms against the island and looked you over without embarrassment. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t have some psycho breathing down your neck all night.” Your jaw almost tightened at the insult, but you forced yourself to let it pass.
“He’s not a psycho.” The guy beside you smiled. “There you go defending him again.” You looked down at your cup, pretending the comment had landed somewhere uncomfortable. “Habit.” The man’s voice softened into something deliberately intimate. “Could break it.”
You glanced up. “Could I?” He grinned. “Sure.” His eyes moved over your mouth. “Would probably be good for you.” You shifted your weight against the counter and let your expression soften just enough to encourage him.
“And I suppose you’ve got some brilliant idea how?” His laugh was quiet and filthy. “Got a few.” You raised your eyebrows. “Of course you do.” He leaned closer, dropping his voice. “First one involves getting you away from your boyfriend for longer than five fucking minutes.”
You let silence sit between you for a moment while pretending to consider it. Outwardly, you looked conflicted. Inwardly, you were almost impressed by how easy this was. Pope had been right. These men really were arrogant enough to believe exactly what they wanted to believe. You traced one finger absently around the rim of your cup before glancing toward the hallway.
“He’s outside.” The man followed your eyes. “Then fuck him.” You looked back sharply, and he lifted one shoulder with a careless shrug. “You’re pissed at him anyway.” His friend laughed under his breath. “Could always give him something to actually be jealous about.”
That line made something colder settle through you, but you kept your expression carefully neutral. “You guys really don’t know when to shut up, do you?” The first man grinned. “You’re still talking to us.”
You let your gaze linger on him for a second. “Maybe I’m deciding whether you’re worth listening to.” His eyes darkened immediately, confidence surging because he thought he’d finally gotten exactly what he wanted. “I can make it worth it.”
You tipped your head toward the crowded room. “Not in here.” The response came casually enough that all three men froze for half a second before exchanging looks. You could practically see their assumptions multiplying. The man beside you straightened from the counter. “Yeah?”
You pushed away from the island and picked up your bag, making sure your movements stayed relaxed rather than eager. “I said I wanted some space from him.” You glanced toward the hallway again. “There’s got to be somewhere quieter.” His grin turned openly predatory. “Upstairs.”
You immediately shook your head. “Too obvious.” His friend jerked his chin toward the back hallway. “Mason’s got a spare room down there. Nobody’s using it.” Perfect. You pretended to hesitate, eyes moving between them before settling on the man who’d approached you outside.
“Fine.” His eyebrows rose. You added quickly. “But if any of you start acting like idiots, I’m leaving.” He laughed as if that warning were adorable. “Relax.” You gave him a cool look. “I am relaxed.” Then you started toward the hallway before any of them could realise that you were the one directing exactly where this went.
They followed.
You could hear them behind you as you moved away from the kitchen, their conversation dropping into low murmurs and stupid little laughs they probably thought you couldn’t hear over the music. One of them said something about Pope being outside sulking while another muttered that you’d finally gotten bored of him.
Your fingers tightened briefly around the strap of your bag, but you kept walking. The hallway was darker than the main room, the bass muffled here and the air noticeably cooler. You passed one bathroom, then another closed door before reaching the small spare bedroom at the end.
You opened it yourself. That mattered too. Nobody was leading you anywhere. Nobody was touching you. You stepped inside first and immediately checked the layout, one window facing the side yard, a dresser against one wall, an unmade bed shoved beneath the opposite one.
Most importantly, the lock on the door was the simple kind you could leave untouched. You set your bag on the dresser and stayed standing near it rather than moving anywhere close to the bed.
The men filed inside after you, all three suddenly looking far too pleased with themselves. The one from outside pushed the door mostly shut but didn’t lock it. Exactly as agreed. You watched the latch settle loosely into place and knew Pope could open it with one push.
The man turned back toward you. “Better?” You leaned against the dresser and crossed your arms. “Quieter.” He stepped toward you. You stayed where you were until he came close enough that you could see his eyes dropping over your body again, then you subtly straightened.
He noticed. “You nervous?” You almost laughed. “Not really.” His smile widened. “Good.” He moved another fraction closer. “Because after watching you all night, I’ve got a pretty good idea what I wanna do with you.”
You lifted an eyebrow. “Do you?”
“Yeah.” His gaze settled shamelessly on your legs before crawling upward. “First thing I’d do is get that fucking attitude out of you.” Your expression cooled despite the performance.
One of his friends laughed from behind him. “Good luck.” The first man glanced back at them before turning toward you again. “Nah. She’d behave.”
You had to fight the urge to tell him exactly how badly he was misreading the situation. Instead you tipped your head. “That confident?” His mouth curved. “You wouldn’t have brought us in here if you didn’t want something.”
You let your eyes move toward the door for half a second. Pope should be close by now. You had given him enough time. The man noticed where you looked and misunderstood completely. “Forget him.” He stepped closer again. “Guy had his chance.”
That one almost made you grin. “You really think so?”
The man nodded, his attention fixed entirely on you now. “Yeah.” His voice dropped lower. “I think you’re sick of him acting like he owns you.” You unfolded your arms slowly. “Interesting.” He took that as encouragement and started reaching toward your waist.
You stepped back before his fingers made contact. His hand stopped in the air. You gave him a small look. “I said don’t start acting like an idiot.” He chuckled awkwardly and lowered his hand. “Right.”
You leaned back against the dresser again. “Besides, I said I wanted space from Pope. I didn’t say you could touch me.” The confidence in the room flickered.
One of his friends shifted near the wall. “Then what’re we doing here?” You looked toward him. “You wanted my attention all night.” Your eyes moved deliberately between all three of them. “Now you’ve got it.”
The first man laughed, though there was uncertainty underneath it now. “That’s it?” You smiled faintly. “Maybe.” Then the bedroom door opened. All three men turned. Pope stood in the doorway.
He didn’t storm in. He didn’t slam the door against the wall or start shouting. He simply stepped inside with that unnervingly controlled stillness he carried whenever he was at his most dangerous, closed the door behind himself and looked around the room.
His eyes moved over each man once before landing on you. You watched the first flicker of concern cross his face as he checked where you were standing, how much distance there was between you and everyone else, whether anybody had touched you.
You gave him the smallest nod. Everything was fine. The man closest to you immediately straightened. “What the fuck?” Pope ignored him. His attention stayed on you. “You good?”
You pushed away from the dresser. “Perfect.” That answer confused all three men. Pope understood immediately.
His shoulders loosened by barely an inch as you started walking toward him, passing straight by the man who’d spent the entire night convinced you were finally choosing him.
You didn’t look at any of them. Didn’t brush against them. Didn’t acknowledge the way their expressions changed when you reached Pope and placed one hand flat against his chest.
The first man stared. “What the fuck is this?” You finally glanced back over your shoulder. The smirk you’d been hiding outside returned in full. “Oh.” You looked between all three of them. “You really thought I brought you in here because I wanted you?”
The room went very still after you said it. For a second, none of the three men seemed to understand what they were looking at, which only made the slow curl of your smile deepen as you stayed beside Pope with one palm spread over the centre of his chest.
The man who’d followed you outside stared between the two of you, his expression shifting from confusion to embarrassment so quickly it was almost satisfying to watch, while one of his friends let out a short, disbelieving laugh that sounded far less confident than anything he’d said earlier.
Pope barely looked at them. His eyes stayed on you instead, checking your face, the position of your body, the distance you’d kept between yourself and everyone else, all those tiny details he’d been thinking about from the second you’d walked back into the house without him.
Once he was satisfied that nobody had touched you and that your expression still held that same wicked certainty you’d had outside, he turned toward the door behind him and pushed it closed properly. His hand settled over the lock, but before he turned it, his gaze shifted toward the three men. “You can leave now.”
Nobody moved. The guy from outside scoffed like the suggestion itself offended him, folding his arms and muttering, “I wanna see what the fuck this is supposed to prove.” Pope stared at him for a beat, then turned the lock with a quiet click, sealing the party noise farther outside the room and making the space suddenly feel much smaller. Your stomach tightened at the sound.
Pope looked back at you, calm enough to make the heat already gathering between your thighs pulse harder. The guy frowned. “What the fuck is this?”
You curled your fingers into Pope’s shirt and looked directly at him. “You really thought I brought you in here because I wanted you?” You asked again and his mouth opened, then closed again. Your smile widened. “That’s cute.”
Pope’s hand settled against the back of your neck, warm and steady, his thumb brushing just beneath your ear while his gaze searched yours. From his side of it, the whole room had narrowed down to you almost immediately. The men were still there, still staring, still muttering under their breath, but Pope hardly registered them once he realised what the situation was doing to you.
You weren’t embarrassed. You weren’t shrinking beneath their attention or regretting the plan now that it was actually happening. You looked more turned on than you had all night, pupils wide and lips parted slightly while your fingers rested against his chest. He could see the pulse beating quickly beneath the skin of your throat.
He noticed the way you kept shifting your thighs together beneath your skirt as if you were unconsciously chasing friction already, and the knowledge landed heavily in his stomach. Earlier, he’d hated them looking at you. Hated every glance that lingered too long, every arrogant smile, every assumption that they could somehow take you from him if they pushed hard enough.
Now they were watching you stand against him willingly, and somehow that changed everything. “Still wanna do this?” he asked quietly, the question meant entirely for you. You nodded without hesitation. “Yeah.” Pope watched you another second, making sure, then his eyes moved toward the bed.
He crossed the short distance and sat slowly on the edge of the mattress, his legs parting naturally as his forearms rested against his thighs. He didn’t tell you what to do. He just looked at you and waited, leaving the next movement completely yours.
You stepped between his knees and lowered yourself onto the carpet, the position making another rush of arousal move through you almost embarrassingly quickly.
Pope sat above you with his broad shoulders filling out his dark shirt, jaw still carrying some of the tension from outside while his eyes remained fixed almost exclusively on you. Behind you, three men were watching every movement.
You could feel it like physical pressure against your back, could practically imagine their eyes dropping toward your hands as you reached for Pope’s belt, and instead of making you want to cover yourself, it made your pussy throb. They had spent the entire night thinking Pope’s jealousy meant there was some crack they could squeeze themselves into.
They’d looked at you like you were something waiting to be convinced. Now you wanted them to understand exactly how wrong they were. Your fingers curled around the buckle and pulled it loose, the small metallic clink somehow cutting through the silence of the room.
You slid the leather free, then opened the button of his jeans. Pope’s stomach tightened beneath his shirt when your knuckles brushed against him. His breathing stayed measured, but you knew him far too well not to hear the faint change in it.
“They watching?” you asked softly, looking up at him as you pulled his zipper down. Pope glanced past you only once. “Yeah.” The answer sent a slow shiver straight through you. “Good.”
Your fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers and found him already fully hard. The first touch made Pope’s thighs tense on either side of you, and you felt your own breathing hitch as you wrapped your hand around him. He was thick, hot and heavy against your palm, solid enough that your fingers didn’t quite meet when you curled them around the shaft.
You pulled him free slowly, his cock settling into your hand with a weight that immediately made your mouth water. He was flushed deeper toward the top, the broad head darkened with arousal and already glossy where a bead of precum had gathered at the slit.
A prominent vein ran along the underside of his shaft, raised beneath the skin and disappearing toward the base where darker hair showed above the open waistband of his jeans.
You stroked him once, deliberately slow, starting near the root and dragging your fist upward until your thumb brushed across the swollen head. Pope’s cock twitched sharply in your grip. His jaw tightened. The sight of him sitting there while you held him, with those men standing behind you forced to confront exactly who you’d chosen, made heat spread through your stomach and settle heavily between your legs.
You could feel yourself getting wetter beneath your panties, the fabric beginning to cling uncomfortably while you pressed your thighs together without even realising you were doing it. Pope noticed. His eyes dropped briefly toward your legs before returning to your face.
“You’re turned on.” It wasn’t a question. Heat crept into your cheeks, but you didn’t look away. “Yeah.” His gaze darkened. “Because they’re watching?” Your thumb slowly circled the head of his cock, spreading the precum there. “Because they’re watching me choose you.”
That answer hit Pope much harder than he’d expected. His fingers curled against his thigh as he stared down at you, something possessive and almost stunned moving briefly across his expression before he managed to bury it beneath that familiar restraint. From where he sat, there was something surreal about the entire image.
You were between his legs willingly, touching him while the same men who’d spent the night staring at you now stood silent behind you. He’d spent hours telling himself he wasn’t jealous, even while he tracked every set of eyes that lingered on you and every stranger who moved too close.
Now there was nowhere for that uncertainty to live. You were touching his cock. Looking at him. Getting visibly wet because they were watching you pick him over every one of them. Pope’s hand rose and threaded gently through your hair, gathering it away from your face without pulling. His voice came low when he said, “Show them.”
The words went straight through you. Your pussy clenched beneath your panties as you leaned forward and dragged your tongue slowly along the underside of his cock, tracing the raised vein from near the base toward the swollen head. Pope’s jaw clenched sharply. You circled the tip with your tongue, tasting the salty smear of precum there before wrapping your lips around the broad head.
The first slow suck pulled a rough breath from Pope’s throat. You let your lips stretch around his thickness and took another inch, then another, your tongue flattening beneath his shaft while your hand stayed wrapped around whatever you couldn’t comfortably fit. Saliva gathered quickly, making his cock slick beneath your palm as you began moving your mouth over him in slow, deliberate strokes.
Every time you pulled back, your lips tightened around the head before sliding down again. Pope watched the movement with open concentration, one hand still threaded through your hair while his other palm braced against the mattress beside his hip. You could feel his cock pulse against your tongue, and your own pussy seemed to answer every twitch.
The wetness between your legs had become impossible to ignore now, warmth spreading across the fabric of your panties while every tiny sound from behind you made the sensation worse. A shoe scraped against the carpet. Somebody shifted. One of them breathed out a curse under his breath.
You knew they were staring at the way your mouth stretched around Pope’s cock, at the saliva shining over his shaft, at the way your eyes kept lifting toward him instead of toward any of them. The attention didn’t humiliate you. It made you feel powerful.
They had spent all night assuming you were some prize Pope was desperately trying to keep from them, and now they were discovering that Pope never needed to keep you anywhere. You had chosen exactly where you wanted to be.
One of the men finally muttered, “Jesus fucking Christ,” and Pope’s eyes lifted over your head toward him. His face stayed almost blank, but satisfaction sat beneath it now, colder and quieter than any smug grin could’ve been. You felt his attention shift and deliberately took him deeper, relaxing your jaw as the head of his cock slid farther across your tongue and pressed toward the back of your throat.
The soft gag that escaped you immediately snapped Pope’s gaze back down. His hand loosened in your hair at once. “You okay?” You nodded around him, fingers squeezing his thigh before you slowly pulled back enough to breathe. His cock slipped from your lips slick with saliva, and you swallowed before looking up at him.
“I’m fine.” Pope’s thumb brushed gently across the corner of your mouth, wiping away some of the wetness there. “Don’t push it for them.” That tenderness in the middle of something this filthy sent another sharp pulse of arousal through you.
You wrapped your hand around his wet shaft again and stroked slowly. “I’m not doing any of this for them.” Pope held your gaze. “Who’re you doing it for?” Your fingers tightened just slightly around him. “You.”
Behind you, the man from outside scoffed. “You seriously brought us in here just to suck him off?” You turned your head slightly while keeping your hand wrapped firmly around Pope, looking back over your shoulder at him.
His face had reddened now, embarrassment sharpening into irritation because the situation had turned out to be the exact opposite of what he’d imagined when he followed you down the hallway.
Your smile returned. “Pretty much.” His gaze dropped involuntarily toward your hand sliding over Pope’s cock before snapping back toward your face. “That’s fucked up.” You gave a small shrug. “You wanted to know if I thought you could do better than him.”
You turned back toward Pope, your tongue dragging slowly over the slit at the head before you spoke again. “Now you know.” Pope’s mouth twitched at that, the closest thing to a smirk you’d seen from him all night. His palm cupped the side of your face, thumb resting beneath your cheekbone. “Keep going.”
You opened your mouth and took him again, deeper this time, lips sliding down the wet length of his cock while your hand stroked the base in rhythm with your mouth. Pope leaned back slightly on one arm and spread his legs farther, giving you more room to settle comfortably between his thighs.
The shift made the position feel even more intimate despite the audience surrounding it. Pope was sitting on the edge of the bed, jeans open and cock disappearing between your lips again and again while you knelt between his legs.
Every slow stroke of your mouth made the heat between your own legs worse. You adjusted your knees and pressed your thighs together, rubbing them subtly for the smallest amount of relief.
Pope caught the movement immediately. His eyes dropped toward your lap. “That wet?” You moaned around his cock rather than answering, the vibration making him twitch heavily against your tongue. You pulled back with a breathless little laugh, still stroking him.
“You have no fucking idea.” His gaze moved over your shoulder toward the men, then returned to you with something darker in it. “Could show me.” Your smile widened. “Later.” His eyebrow lifted slightly. You leaned forward and pressed a slow kiss against the head of his cock. “This is about you.”
That broke through more of Pope’s control than anything else had. He shifted toward the edge of the mattress, his knees brushing your shoulders without trapping you while you took him back into your mouth. You sucked harder now, cheeks hollowing around the thick shaft as you worked him with less restraint.
The room had become almost completely silent except for Pope’s breathing and the wet sounds your mouth made around his cock. You were conscious of every pair of eyes behind you, and instead of hiding from them, you leaned into their attention completely. You let them see how eagerly you took Pope.
Let them watch your lips slide down his length and your fingers curl possessively around his thigh. Let them hear the little noises you couldn’t suppress when his cock pressed deeper across your tongue. Every second repeated the same thing without you having to say it.
This wasn’t humiliation for you. This was choice. Your panties were soaked because you wanted Pope. You were kneeling because you wanted Pope. And the fact that the men who’d spent the night trying to convince you they could replace him had chosen to stay and watch only made the arousal burn hotter.
Pope felt it too, not the physical ache between your thighs but the way you kept looking at him as though the rest of the room barely existed. That was what got under his skin more than anything. He’d spent the evening pretending the jealousy meant nothing while watching every laugh you gave someone else and every man who looked at your body.
Now you were kneeling between his legs, cheeks flushed and lips swollen from sucking his cock, while the men he’d been jealous of stood behind you and watched you give him something none of them were getting. Pope couldn’t stop thinking about what you’d whispered outside.
That none of them could fuck you as well as he could. That none of them could have you because you didn’t want them. His fingers tightened slightly in your hair when you swallowed around the tip, and a low, broken groan escaped him before he could stop it. The sound sent a fresh rush of wetness through you, enough that you shifted again against your own thighs.
You pulled back until the head of his cock rested against your lower lip and looked up at him. “Still jealous?” Pope stared down at you, breathing heavier now, his composure visibly fraying around the edges. His thumb dragged slowly across your slick bottom lip. “Not anymore.”
Your smile turned wicked. “Good.”
You glanced over your shoulder one final time, your hand still moving lazily over Pope’s thick, saliva-slick cock while you took in the expressions on the three men’s faces. The one who’d approached you outside looked furious and embarrassed in equal measure, his earlier confidence nowhere to be found.
One of his friends had gone strangely quiet, unable to stop staring despite clearly knowing he should. The third looked like he was finally beginning to understand that every second of the night had been built on an assumption that had never once been true.
You turned back toward Pope. “Think they get it now?”
Pope’s gaze lifted past you toward them before settling back onto your face. “Yeah.” You opened your mouth again, tongue brushing slowly across the head of his cock. Your eyes stayed locked on his. “Make sure.”
You pulled back slowly, letting Pope’s cock slip from between your lips with a wet sound, and for a second a thin strand of saliva stretched between the swollen head and your mouth before breaking against your lower lip. Pope stared down at you from the edge of the bed, chest rising harder beneath his shirt now, his composure already much thinner than it had been when you first dropped between his knees.
You caught the slickness with the tip of your tongue almost absentmindedly, licking it from your lip and swallowing before running your tongue once across the head of his cock to clean away what remained there.
The sight made Pope’s fingers tighten where they were threaded loosely through your hair. His cock twitched heavily in front of you, flushed and wet from your mouth, and the reaction sent another aching pulse straight through your pussy. Your panties had stopped feeling merely damp several minutes ago.
They were soaked now, the fabric sticking against you whenever you shifted your knees, and every little movement dragged that wet material across your swollen clit enough to make your thighs tense involuntarily. Pope noticed because Pope noticed everything about you.
His gaze dropped toward your lap before climbing slowly back to your face, and there was something darker in his eyes when he murmured, “Come here.” You didn’t need asking twice.
You rose from your knees and stepped between his spread thighs, and Pope immediately caught you around the hips and pulled you close enough that your stomach brushed his chest. You barely had time to breathe before his hand slid around the back of your neck and brought your mouth down to his.
The kiss was nothing like the restrained ones you’d exchanged earlier in the night. Pope kissed you hard, mouth opening beneath yours as though all the jealousy and frustration he’d spent hours swallowing had finally found somewhere safe to go.
His tongue slid against yours, tasting himself there, and the knowledge of what you’d just been doing made the kiss feel filthy in a way that went straight through you. You climbed closer without thinking, one knee pressing into the mattress beside his hip while your hands framed his face, fingers curling behind his ears as you kissed him back just as greedily.
Pope’s palm moved from the back of your neck into your hair, gripping more firmly now, not enough to hurt but enough that you felt the change in him immediately. He wasn’t tentative anymore. His other hand spread across your ass and dragged you forward until you were practically straddling one of his thighs, the pressure of his leg against your soaked panties making you gasp straight into his mouth.
Pope swallowed the sound with another deep kiss, then did it again on purpose, flexing his thigh beneath you so the hard muscle pressed exactly where you needed it. Your hips jerked before you could stop them. His mouth pulled away just enough for him to breathe against your lips.
“That wet already?” The embarrassment that might’ve accompanied the question under any other circumstances was completely drowned out by arousal. You nodded, lips brushing his when you answered. “Fucking soaked.”
Pope’s eyes sharpened, and his hand on your ass tightened immediately. “Because of me?” You breathed out a shaky laugh because apparently he still needed to hear it. “Who the fuck else?” That answer earned you a kiss rough enough to make your head spin.
Pope’s hands stopped wandering carefully after that. He grabbed at you with a hunger that made your pulse jump, palms sliding over your waist, your hips, the curve of your ass before returning to your back and hauling you closer again whenever there was even an inch of space between you.
You pushed his shirt upward, fingers dragging over the hard planes of his stomach as you bunched the material beneath his chest. Pope broke the kiss long enough to yank it over his head and throw it somewhere beside the bed, then immediately reached for you again.
Your palms moved over his bare chest, tracing the muscle beneath warm skin while he caught the hem of your top and looked at you, that tiny pause still there even now. You nodded before he had to ask. Pope pulled it upward, and you raised your arms to let him strip it over your head.
The cooler air hit your bare skin and made your nipples tighten immediately beneath your bra, already hard from everything that had been happening long before your clothes started coming off. Pope’s gaze dropped to your chest and stayed there. You felt another wave of heat climb through you beneath the intensity of his stare.
“What?” you asked breathlessly, pretending you didn’t know. Pope’s fingers traced the edge of your bra before his thumb brushed directly across one stiff nipple through the thin material. Your breath caught. “Nothing,” he muttered, which was absurd considering the way he was looking at you.
You reached behind yourself and unclasped your bra, letting the straps slide slowly down your arms before tossing it aside with the rest of your clothes. Pope went completely still for half a second. Your breasts were bare in front of him now, nipples visibly hard, the skin already prickling beneath the cool air and his attention. His hands came up almost immediately, broad palms cupping you from underneath while his thumbs rubbed slowly over both nipples.
The first stroke made you arch toward him. The second dragged a quiet moan from your throat. Pope watched the reaction with that focused expression of his, then leaned forward and closed his mouth around one nipple, sucking firmly enough that your fingers plunged into his hair. “Fuck, Pope.”
He made a low sound against your skin before pulling away just enough to drag his tongue over the hardened peak, then switched to the other side while his hand continued kneading your breast. Your pussy clenched painfully around nothing. You shifted against his thigh again, desperate for friction, and Pope’s free hand immediately caught your hip and forced you down harder against him.
The pressure made your wet panties slide over your clit, and you moaned louder than you meant to. Pope lifted his head and looked at you, lips damp from your skin. “You’re soaking through them.” His voice sounded rougher now. You could feel it too, the humiliatingly wet fabric pressed between your thighs. “I told you.” His thumb stroked your nipple again. “Wanna see.”
Your stomach tightened. Pope’s hands moved to your waist before you could answer, fingers catching the fastening of your bottoms and working it open with considerably less patience than you’d shown with his belt.
You helped him, pushing the fabric over your hips until it dropped around your thighs and then down to the floor. That left you standing between his knees wearing only your panties while Pope sat shirtless in front of you with his jeans still open and his cock hard against his stomach. His eyes dropped immediately.
The front of your panties was visibly darkened, the thin fabric clinging to the shape of you and leaving absolutely no question about how wet you were. Pope stared for several seconds, then ran two fingers over the damp material from your clit downward, slow enough that your knees nearly buckled. “Jesus.”
The quiet disbelief in his voice made your face burn. You caught his wrist, not to stop him but to press his hand more firmly against you. “Don’t act surprised.” Pope looked up at you. “Wasn’t.” His fingers moved again, dragging over the soaked fabric until your hips chased the touch. “Just like seeing it.” You swallowed hard, then reached down and hooked your fingers into his waistband. “Your turn.”
Pope stood, forcing you to step backward slightly as he rose from the bed, and the difference in height made the whole moment feel suddenly more intense.
His jeans were already unbuttoned, belt hanging loose, and you pushed them down over his hips along with his boxers. His cock sprang free again, thick and fully hard, the shaft still slick from your mouth and flushed darker toward the broad head.
You let your fingers wrap around him instinctively, giving him one slow stroke while Pope stepped out of the clothes pooled around his ankles. His head tipped forward briefly when your thumb circled the sensitive tip. “Thought this was my turn,” he muttered, voice strained. You smiled. “It is.” You stroked him again anyway.
Pope caught your wrist the third time, not roughly but decisively, and pulled your hand away from his cock before bringing it to his mouth and kissing the inside of your palm. The gentleness lasted all of two seconds. Then his hand found your waist and turned you, backing you against the edge of the bed before his mouth returned to yours.
You kissed him with everything you had, hands sliding over his bare shoulders while Pope crowded closer until his naked cock pressed hot against your lower stomach. The contact made you gasp because you could feel exactly how hard he was, could feel the slick head drag slightly against your skin every time his hips shifted.
His hands ran down your sides and hooked beneath the waistband of your panties. Instead of pulling them off immediately, Pope paused to run his fingers across the soaked front again, his knuckles brushing your swollen clit through the fabric and making your thighs shake.
“Popem baby.” His eyes stayed on your face. “What?” You knew from the tiny shift at the corner of his mouth that he knew exactly what you wanted. “Take them off.”
His fingers hooked into the sides. “Say please.” You stared at him in disbelief, breathing hard enough that your chest rose against his. “You’re an asshole.” Pope’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
“Still waiting.” You caught the back of his neck and pulled him close enough that your lips brushed his. “Please take my fucking panties off.” Pope’s expression darkened with satisfaction. “Better.”
He dragged them down slowly, and the soaked fabric peeled away from you with enough friction to make you shiver. When they reached your thighs, Pope crouched just enough to pull them the rest of the way down, his gaze following the movement before settling between your legs.
The cool air against your wet pussy made you acutely aware of exactly how aroused you were, slick coating your folds and glistening against your inner thighs where you’d been pressing them together all night. Pope stared openly now, no attempt at hiding how much the sight affected him.
When he straightened, his hand slid between your legs and two fingers dragged through your wetness, gathering it before rubbing slowly over your clit. Your head tipped back immediately. “Fuck.” Pope’s chest pressed against yours as he leaned close, his mouth brushing your cheek while his fingers moved again.
“This all from sucking my cock?” You swallowed, hips rolling against his hand. “Not just that.” His fingers paused for half a beat. “No?” You turned your face toward him. “From them watching me choose you.” Pope went still again, the same sentence landing even harder now that he could feel the physical proof of it coating his fingers.
His expression changed after that. The last of the careful restraint cracked. Pope kissed you hard, one wet hand gripping your hip while the other caught the back of your neck, and he pushed you down onto the mattress with enough force to make you bounce once against it.
You laughed breathlessly at the sudden roughness, but Pope followed you immediately, climbing over you and settling between your thighs while his cock dragged against your slick folds. You wrapped your legs around his hips instinctively, pulling him closer until the head of his cock slid over your clit.
Both of you groaned. Pope buried his face against your neck and bit lightly beneath your ear before soothing the mark with his tongue. His hand moved over your breast, fingers closing around it before pinching your nipple just hard enough to make your back arch.
“You wanted them to see this?” he murmured against your skin. Your hands slid down his back and dug into the muscle there. “I wanted them to see who I wanted.”
Pope lifted his head and looked down at you. His eyes were dark, his breathing rough, and his cock was still pressed against your soaking pussy. “Me.” You cupped his face between your hands and pulled him down until your foreheads touched. “Always fucking you.”
Pope didn’t give you time to settle beneath him before his hands were on you again, rougher now, all that restraint he’d been holding onto finally burned away by the sight of you spread beneath him while the same three men who’d spent half the night staring stood several feet away and watched. None of them had left.
Pride was keeping them there, curiosity was keeping them there, maybe some stupid need to see how far you and Pope were actually willing to take this. Pope glanced toward them only once before his attention snapped back to you, his palm dragging possessively over your bare thigh while his cock slid through the slick mess between your legs.
You were wet enough that every movement came with a filthy little sound, the swollen head catching against your clit before slipping lower, and the sensation made your hips lift impatiently beneath him. Pope noticed immediately. Of course he did. His hand closed around your hip and pushed you back down against the mattress. “Thought you wanted them to see.”
His voice had gone low and rough, his chest rising harder as he looked down at you. You swallowed, already aching around nothing. “I do.” Pope’s fingers dug into your skin. “Then let them see.” He shifted backward just enough to catch your thighs and move you, turning your body until your shoulders were angled toward the foot of the bed and your face was directed straight toward the men.
Your stomach clenched the second you realised what he was doing. Now you couldn’t hide from their expressions even if you wanted to. You could see every stare, every flushed face, every twitch of embarrassment while Pope positioned himself behind you, one hand spreading firmly between your shoulder blades as he bent you forward over the mattress.
The position made you feel obscenely exposed. Your breasts pressed against the sheets for only a second before Pope caught your upper body and pulled you upright enough that they hung visibly beneath you, nipples already hard from the cool air and everything he’d done to them.
You felt his cock drag between your folds from behind, thick and wet and painfully hard, and your eyes fluttered before you forced them open again. The man who’d flirted with you outside was staring directly at you.
His expression had lost every trace of that earlier smugness. Pope saw where you were looking and understood immediately. His hand slid around your waist while the other guided his cock against your entrance. “Look at him.” Your breath caught. Pope’s mouth brushed the shell of your ear as he repeated it, quieter this time. “Keep looking.” Then he pushed inside you.
The stretch ripped a broken moan from your throat as his cock worked into your soaked pussy inch by inch, thick enough that even with how wet you were, your body still had to open around him. Pope went slowly for only the first few seconds, jaw tight behind you as he felt your walls squeeze around him, before your hips pushed backward and took the rest. His groan vibrated against the side of your neck.
“Fuck.” You could barely breathe. He was buried deep, your pussy stretched tightly around his shaft, and the sight of those men watching you take Pope made the humiliation they’d expected for him twist into something deliciously reversed. They weren’t watching Pope lose you. They were watching him fill you.
Pope pulled almost completely out before driving back in hard enough to make your body jerk forward. Your mouth fell open on a gasp, and his hand immediately caught your hip and dragged you back against him so the next thrust landed even deeper.
He fucked you with none of the patience he’d shown while you were sucking him, each stroke hard and deliberate, his cock dragging against every sensitive place inside you before slamming home again.
The bed shifted beneath the force of it. Your breasts bounced with every thrust, and Pope seemed to notice at the same moment one of the men did. His hand came around the front of your body and caught one breast roughly in his palm, fingers kneading the soft flesh before his thumb and forefinger closed around your nipple.
You cried out when he pinched it, sharp enough to send pleasure sparking straight between your legs. “Pope, fuck.” His hips never slowed. “Too much?” The question was rough but immediate, his mouth against your ear. You shook your head quickly. “No. More.”
That was all the permission he needed. Pope pinched your nipple harder before letting it go, then his palm came down against the side of your breast with a sharp slap that made your whole body jolt. Heat spread beneath your skin. Your pussy clenched violently around him. Pope felt it and swore against your neck. “You like that.” You couldn’t even pretend otherwise. “Yes.”
His hand caught your other breast next, squeezing it before another slap landed across the soft flesh. Your nipple hardened even further, and Pope rolled it roughly between his fingers while his cock kept pounding into you from behind. Every thrust drove you closer to the edge of the mattress.
Every time you started slipping forward, his arm locked around your waist and hauled you back onto him. You could see the men the entire time. That was the worst part and the best part. You watched their eyes follow Pope’s hands across your body, watched them see the red marks beginning to bloom where his fingers had gripped your hips and thighs, watched them realise that you weren’t merely tolerating the roughness.
You were pushing back into it. Begging for it. Pope’s mouth found your shoulder, teeth sinking into the skin hard enough to leave another mark before his tongue soothed over it. He kissed the place once, then bit farther down your neck, deliberately leaving evidence behind. You moaned and tilted your head to give him better access.
Pope’s breathing became harsher behind you. From his perspective, that small movement nearly destroyed whatever control he had left. You were offering your throat to him while looking directly at the men he’d been jealous of, letting them see his mouth on you, his fingerprints on you, his cock buried inside you. Earlier, he’d hated the idea of them imagining what they could do to you. Now he wanted them to understand exactly what they were never getting.
Pope caught your jaw and turned your face slightly toward the men when your eyes started closing. “No.” Your eyelids fluttered open. His grip wasn’t painful, but it was firm enough to keep your attention forward. “You wanted them watching.” Another hard thrust knocked a cry out of you. “So look at them.”
Your face burned hotter as you obeyed, staring directly at the man who’d told you Pope couldn’t handle you. Pope’s cock slammed deep again, and your expression shattered right in front of him. The man’s jaw tightened. Pope noticed. A dark satisfaction moved through him, and his hand slid from your jaw to your throat, resting there without squeezing while his hips snapped against you.
“Tell them.” You barely managed to form the words. “Tell them what?” Pope’s mouth brushed your ear. “Tell them who makes you feel this fucking good.” Your pussy clenched around him so hard that his next breath came out broken.
You kept staring at the men, cheeks burning, every nerve in your body alive with the way Pope was fucking you. Then another hard thrust knocked the answer straight out of you. “Daddy does.”
Pope went still for barely half a heartbeat.
You felt it. The sudden hitch in his breathing. The way his hand tightened at your waist. The way his cock twitched inside you the second the word left your mouth. Then he drove into you harder than before, making you cry out as your body jerked beneath him. “Again.” His voice was deeper now, control fraying around the edges.
You swallowed and stared straight at the man from outside. “Daddy makes me feel this good.” Pope’s hand slapped across your breast again, the sting making your nipples tighten painfully. “Louder.” Your breath broke into a moan as his fingers pinched one nipple and his hips slammed forward. “Daddy fucking does.”
Pope groaned against your neck, something raw and possessive in the sound. His hand closed around your breast while he fucked you deeper. “Better than them?” You nodded frantically. Pope’s fingers tightened. “Words.” You could barely get enough air into your lungs. “Yes, Daddy.” Another thrust. “So much fucking better.”
That sentence snapped something inside Pope. His hand dropped from your breast to your hip, and suddenly he was fucking you harder than before, driving into your soaked pussy with rough, punishing strokes that made the mattress creak beneath you. You cried out and braced your palms against the bed, your arms shaking while he held you exactly where he wanted you.
His cock filled you relentlessly, dragging against your walls before slamming back inside until you couldn’t separate one thrust from the next. Your arousal coated him, slick enough that every movement sounded obscene in the quiet room. Pope could feel it running between your thighs, could feel the way your pussy fluttered and tightened around him every time the men stared.
His jealousy had become something else entirely now. Pride, maybe. Possession without doubt. You weren’t his because he’d scared everyone else away. You were his because you kept choosing him while they stood right there offering themselves instead. That difference mattered more than he knew how to say.
So he showed it physically instead, hands gripping your body, mouth leaving darkening marks across your shoulders and neck, his hips fucking you hard enough that you’d feel him tomorrow.
Your breasts bounced violently with each thrust, nipples swollen and flushed from his hands, and Pope reached around you again to catch one. His palm slapped against it once, then twice, enough to make your back arch and your pussy clench around his cock so tightly that his hips stuttered. He groaned into your shoulder.
“Fuck, do that again.” You were too far gone to tease him. You deliberately squeezed around him, drawing another broken sound from his throat. The men heard it. You knew they did. Something about that thrilled you just as much as them hearing you.
Pope wasn’t some emotionless wall who barely wanted you. You could wreck him too. Your hand reached backward blindly and found his thigh, nails digging into the muscle while he continued pounding into you.
“Feels so fucking good, Daddy.” Pope’s teeth grazed your shoulder, and the word made his grip turn rougher again. “Tell them.” You whimpered. “Daddy.” His hand caught your breast again, thumb flicking over your abused nipple. “Tell them how good Daddy fucks you.”
You looked toward the men, breathing so hard you could barely get the sentence out. “Daddy feels fucking incredible.” Pope drove deeper, and you cried out, forcing your eyes to stay open. “His cock fills me so fucking good.”
The man from outside looked furious now, humiliation colouring his face, but he still didn’t leave. You almost laughed until Pope’s next thrust punched the breath completely out of you. His hand tightened at your hip while he murmured into your ear.
“Keep going.” Your cheeks burned, but your arousal burned hotter. “Daddy knows exactly how I like it.” Pope pinched your nipple again and you moaned loudly. “He knows how rough I want it.”
Another thrust. “He knows where to fucking touch me.” Pope’s palm came down against your breast again, and your legs shook. “And none of you could ever make me feel as good as Daddy does.”
The silence from the men was almost deafening.
Pope slowed only enough to make each thrust deeper, dragging his cock nearly all the way out before pushing back inside until his hips pressed flush against you. Your pussy was swollen and aching around him now, every nerve overwhelmed, your clit throbbing desperately between your legs.
Pope slipped one hand down your stomach, fingers finding your clit with humiliating accuracy. The first rough circle made you jerk violently against him. “Oh, fuck, Daddy.” He kept moving his fingers while his cock filled you from behind, coordinating the pressure until your legs started trembling beneath you.
“Look at them.” His voice had gone hoarse. You forced your head up. “Show them what Daddy does to you.” His fingertips circled your clit faster. Your whole body tightened. You could feel your orgasm approaching brutally fast, pleasure winding tighter in your stomach while Pope fucked you directly toward it.
You stared at the man who’d spent the night insisting Pope wasn’t enough. Then Pope pinched your clit lightly between two fingers and slammed his cock deep inside you. Your orgasm tore through you. “Daddy!”
You screamed it loudly enough that there was absolutely no possibility of anyone in that room misunderstanding who had made you fall apart. Your pussy clenched violently around Pope, pulsing over his cock while your legs shook and your arms nearly gave out beneath you.
Pope caught your body against his before you could collapse completely, one arm locked around your waist while he kept fucking you through every wave. His movements became rougher and less controlled as your orgasm squeezed around him, his face buried against the bruised skin of your shoulder while his own breathing fractured.
You barely registered the men anymore. Your vision blurred. Your entire body felt oversensitive and hot, Pope’s marks burning pleasantly across your breasts, hips and throat while his cock continued sliding through your soaked pussy.
Pope lifted his head eventually, looking past your shoulder at the men while you sagged against him, still trembling. His hand spread possessively across your stomach as his chest moved heavily against your back. “Still think she wanted one of you?”
Nobody answered.
Pope looked down at you instead, taking in your half-lidded eyes, swollen mouth, flushed nipples and every mark he’d left across your skin. You smiled weakly, still trying to catch your breath. “Think they get it now, Daddy.”
Pope’s mouth brushed the side of your neck, and you felt the faintest hint of satisfaction in the kiss. “Yeah.” You turned your head enough to kiss his jaw. “Good.”
You turned your head and looked back at Pope properly, still breathless, still trembling from the orgasm he’d just dragged out of you while the room around you had practically disappeared. For a few seconds, all you could focus on was him. His chest was rising hard, skin flushed from exertion, dark hair slightly damp at the temples, and there was something almost wrecked in his expression despite how composed he was trying to look.
You reached up and caught his face in both hands before kissing him, slow at first, then deeper when Pope immediately leaned into it. His mouth opened against yours and you tasted sweat and heat and the faint salt of your own skin where he’d been biting and kissing you.
His hand spread over your back, rubbing once between your shoulder blades as though he were grounding you, and you whimpered softly into his mouth before pulling away just enough to breathe. Your pussy was still fluttering around him, oversensitive and swollen, but the ache hadn’t gone away.
If anything, feeling his cock still hard inside you made it worse. You looked into his eyes and whispered, “Need you to cum in me.” Pope’s breathing hitched.
You dragged your nails slowly down his chest, leaving faint red trails over his skin, then pushed against him until he let himself fall backward onto the mattress. “Need it, Daddy,” you whined, climbing over him while his hands immediately settled around your hips. “Need you inside me when you do.”
Pope stared up at you like that sentence had gone straight through him. His hands tightened around your waist while you positioned yourself above him, knees braced on either side of his hips, and the sight of you hovering there with your body marked by his hands and mouth seemed to steal the last of his restraint.
“Come here, princess,” he murmured, voice low and rough. You lowered yourself carefully, guiding his cock back between your folds before sinking down over him inch by inch. Even after everything, the stretch made you gasp.
Pope’s cock filled you so completely from this angle that your thighs shook before you’d even taken all of him, the thick shaft dragging against your oversensitive walls while the broad head pressed deep enough to make your stomach tighten. Pope’s fingers flexed hard against your hips when you finally settled flush against him.
His head tipped back into the mattress and a rough groan escaped him. “Fuck, baby.” You braced your palms against his chest, nails pressing into the warm skin there. “So full,” you breathed. Pope’s eyes opened again, dark and heavy as he looked up at you. “Yeah?” You rolled your hips experimentally, and both of you moaned at the same time. “So fucking full, Daddy.”
You started slowly because you were still sensitive, lifting yourself only a few inches before sinking back down. Each movement made his cock drag against your walls differently than it had when he was behind you, the angle letting you control how deep he went and how much pressure landed exactly where you needed it. Pope’s hands stayed on your hips at first, helping steady you without controlling the pace.
You rocked forward, then back, finding a rhythm that made your clit grind against him every time you sank down. The friction made your breath catch. You were already so wet that he moved inside you almost obscenely easily, your slick coating his cock and making every downward roll of your hips feel smoother and hotter.
Pope watched your face the entire time. His eyes followed every little twitch of your mouth, every time your brows pulled together, every time your tits bounced with the motion. “That’s it, princess,” he groaned, thumbs digging into your hips.
“Ride me how you want.” The praise made your pussy clench hard around him. Pope felt it and cursed, his hips jerking upward beneath you. “Fuck. Do that again.” You deliberately tightened around him and watched his jaw flex. “Like that, Daddy?” Pope let out a broken groan. “Exactly like that, baby.”
Your pace picked up. You started bouncing over him instead of only rolling, thighs burning as you lifted yourself higher and dropped back down, taking him deep enough each time that the head of his cock pressed against the most sensitive place inside you. Pope’s hands moved from your hips to your ass, gripping hard enough that you knew there would be marks later.
He started helping you, pulling you down onto him every time you sank so his cock drove deeper. The room filled with the wet sound of your pussy taking him and the rough noises neither of you bothered hiding anymore. Pope grunted every time your body slammed against his, the sound growing harsher whenever you clenched around him.
“Good fucking girl,” he breathed, one hand sliding up your spine while the other stayed locked around your hip. “Look at you.” You whimpered and dragged your nails down his chest again, leaving brighter streaks this time. “Feels so good.”
Pope’s eyes dropped to where your bodies met before returning to your face. “Yeah, princess?” You nodded frantically. “So fucking good, Daddy.” His mouth curled faintly, almost a smile but dirtier. “My pretty girl taking me so well.”
The pet names made you lose whatever control you still had. You leaned forward, palms spreading over Pope’s chest as you rode him harder, your breasts hanging over him, nipples still swollen and sensitive from everything he’d done to them. Pope immediately reached up and caught one in his hand, squeezing before rubbing his thumb across the nipple.
You cried out and your hips faltered. “Daddy.” Pope pinched it lightly and watched your whole body react. “Keep moving, princess.” You bit your lip and forced yourself back into rhythm, but the second his fingers found your nipple again your pussy clenched violently around him. “Fuck,” Pope groaned.
His other hand slid between your bodies and found your clit, thumb pressing against it while you bounced over his cock. The combined sensation nearly made you collapse onto him. “No, no, fuck.” Your voice came out breathless and high. Pope circled your clit slowly at first, then faster when your thighs started trembling.
“You’re gonna cum again.” You shook your head weakly even while your body contradicted you. “Too sensitive.” Pope’s hand slowed slightly. “Want me to stop?” You immediately grabbed his wrist and pressed his hand harder against you. “No.” Pope’s eyes darkened. “That’s what I thought.”
Your orgasm started building again almost violently. There was no slow climb this time. Your body was already primed, already oversensitive, already aching from the way Pope had fucked you before, and every stroke of his cock against your walls combined with the pressure on your clit until your stomach began tightening uncontrollably. You rode him harder, thighs shaking, movement becoming messy and desperate while Pope’s breathing grew rougher beneath you.
His cock felt impossibly hard inside you now, twitching every few thrusts, and you knew he was getting close too. “Daddy,” you whined, leaning down until your forehead nearly touched his. “Please.” Pope’s hand caught the back of your neck and pulled you into a hard kiss before breaking away with a grunt.
“Please what, princess?” You could barely think. “Cum in me.” His eyes shut for half a second. You dragged your nails across his chest again and repeated it, more desperate this time. “Please cum in me, Daddy. Need it.”
Pope made a sound you’d never heard from him before, something low and wrecked that vibrated through his chest. His hips started thrusting upward beneath you now, meeting every downward movement and driving his cock deeper than you could manage on your own.
“Fuck, baby.” Pope’s voice fractured as his hands grabbed your hips and held you tighter. “You keep saying that, I’m not gonna last.” You smiled weakly, completely drunk on the effect you were having on him. “Good.” You sank down hard and clenched around him. Pope’s whole body tensed. “Fuck.”
His fingers dug into your ass. “Princess.” You did it again. “Daddy.” That was enough. His hips jerked hard beneath you, then again, and you felt his cock swell and pulse inside your pussy. Pope groaned your name as he came, deep and rough, holding you down against him while thick warmth spilled inside you.
The sensation pushed you over the edge almost instantly. Feeling him fill you, feeling every pulse of his cock while his hands gripped your body, snapped the last thread of control you had. Your orgasm ripped through you again, harder and almost painfully intense from how sensitive you already were.
You cried out and collapsed forward over Pope’s chest, your pussy clenching around him in tight, rhythmic spasms that pulled another broken groan from his throat.
He kept you pressed against him while both of you shook through it, his cock twitching inside you as he finished, your body milking every last pulse from him.
For several seconds neither of you moved. You lay sprawled over Pope, chest heaving against his, cheek pressed near his shoulder while his arms wrapped around your back. His cock remained buried inside you, slowly softening while his cum stayed warm and heavy inside your pussy.
You could feel it every time your muscles fluttered involuntarily around him, the sensation making tiny aftershocks of pleasure run through you. Pope’s breathing was still uneven beneath your ear. One hand moved slowly up and down your spine while the other rested possessively on your ass.
“You okay, princess?” His voice was softer now, stripped of the roughness he’d been using moments earlier. You nodded against him and turned your face enough to kiss his chest. “Yeah.” Pope’s fingers traced one of the marks he’d left on your hip. “Too rough?” You lifted your head and gave him a tired little smile.
“Not even close.” Something eased in his expression. You leaned down and kissed him again, slower and softer than before, and Pope cupped your cheek while his thumb stroked beneath your eye. For a few seconds, it almost felt like the two of you were alone.
Then one of the men shifted near the wall. Pope’s eyes moved toward the sound. The softness disappeared instantly.
You glanced over your shoulder and almost laughed because you’d genuinely forgotten they were still there. All three looked deeply uncomfortable now, whatever confidence they’d carried into the room completely gone.
The man from outside couldn’t seem to decide whether to look at you or anywhere else. Pope stared at them for several long seconds while you remained sprawled across his chest, completely unbothered by the fact that they’d just watched you choose him in every possible way. Then Pope’s hand settled firmly against your lower back and his voice went flat again. “You can leave now.”
Nobody moved immediately. Pope lifted his eyebrows. “I said you can leave.” That did it.
One of the men reached for the lock almost too quickly, turning it before pulling the door open. The others followed him without another word, the guy who’d flirted with you pausing for half a second like he wanted to salvage some piece of his pride.
You looked directly at him from where you were still lying over Pope, hair messy, lips swollen, Pope’s marks visible across your skin and his arms still wrapped securely around you. You didn’t need to say anything.
Your smile did it for you. The man looked away first. Then the door shut behind them.
Pope waited until their footsteps disappeared into the party before looking back at you. His hand slid slowly up your spine. “Worth it?” You grinned and kissed his jaw. “Absolutely.”
andrew cody who just doesn’t know how to fuck! his cock is just so big that whenever he gets close to fucking one, either he chickens out or the other person does. so, when andrew starts dating you, and hasn’t fucked you in the first six months, you think it’s just an issue from his past! not an issue, per say, because you’re perfectly contented to have him eat your pussy day and night as he so desires. but you just think maybe it’s trauma from his mom or a byproduct of his stay in prison, and he just wasn’t able to get hard. but then, one night once he’s finished licking and sucking at you for the past three hours and your practically wrung dry, you watch him go to the bathroom. he does this often after he’s finished making you cum, but that’s just because he needs to get ready for bed!
the only difference is that this time you follow him there, after a few moments that is. it’s almost your bedtime and you’d like to brush your teeth before falling asleep. this is not what you’ve expected to see. andrew has his head thrown back and he’s white knuckling the sink. the only hand is stroking up and down his cock, that’s bright red and angry. angry, weeping, and fucking huge. you don’t ever think that you’ve seen a cock that big but andrew doesn’t seem to see you, biting his lip harshly and eyes closed tight.
he does seem to notice when you whine out a soft holyyy shit. his eyes snap open and he whimpers at the lust in your eyes. he comes into the toilet, tips of his ears and cock the same bright red, and you whine petulantly at the fact that he’s not coming somewhere on you. yeah, you need to talk to him and reevaluate your sex life.
so what if you did a little porn here and there to help pay through med school? it's not like you were making millions; it helped put ten extra bucks in the bank that paid for dinner for the week. you never showed your face, never put your real name on anything, never showed more of your room outside of one angle. it was anonymous as anonymous could be…until your attending pieces together that you're the amateur creator he keeps going back to. 11.5k
⟢ pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader
⟢ tags: MDNI/18+; f!reader; starts out in jack's pov sorry, i promise it's important for the plot; jack feels guilty about porn; brief m!masturbation; reader used to make amateur porn; reader is jack's coworker; insinuated age gap (reader's age not specified, insinuated to be late twenties); shen and ellis are here; shen's a little shit (affectionate); jack's kind of an asshole; little confrontation for the drama; bc reader does not put up with shit!; texting that leads to sexting; a lot of build up lol sorry; phone sex; pillow humping; open ending
⟢ A/N: WOOF it's finally done. i hope yall like it or i will be very sad. the idea/scenario popped into my brain one day and i needed to write this. i kinda lost steam towards the end and i feel like that's obivious sorryyyyy but i'm already considering a part two idk !!! have fun freaks <3
read on ao3
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Jack Abbot never considered himself a righteous man. With a laundry list of regrets and an even longer list of mistakes, he was always the last one to argue in favor of his virtue. But one thing Jack Abbot was not…was a pervert.
At least, that's what he was currently trying to convince himself.
And truth be told, he wasn't exactly doing a very good job at. Lying in bed half-hard and trying to will his blood to flow literally anywhere else, the corners of his mind kept floating back to fantasies that relieved him of the loneliness that life seemed determined to keep him under. It wasn't the desire itself that he fought his brain trying to repress. He'd lived too long to even attempt wrestling his body's urges or feign embarrassment from an overactive imagination. The only thing he'd been fighting was the urge to indulge using…the internet.
Jack liked to believe he could pride himself on his willpower. That whatever he set himself towards, he could do. Including the simple act of getting off to his own fantasies instead of relying on strangers on the internet to feed it to him with fake smiles and even faker moans. It wasn't like he was against the idea of porn—his track record of stolen Playboys and single college nights would prove that hypocrisy quick—it was just something about the internet aspect of it that made him feel…perverted.
Maybe it was the knowledge that he could be watching anyone post their body or their sex with the intention of other strangers getting off to it. Maybe it was the realization that most people who did the posting were half his age. It was there for a reason; it shouldn't have mattered, but he still felt like he needed to make excuses to justify why he turned to it.
Luckily, that pestering voice in the back of his mind always had an excuse to justify what he was doing. When he relented long enough to grab his phone, it was "to check the work email". When his thumb gravitated towards the internet safari, it was "to look up the Pirates' score" (when he knew full well baseball season was practically over). But the excuses started to fade when his free hand drifted over the front of his pants and palmed the bulge that was only growing larger with each second he tried to ignore it. Damn blood flow and its resolute persistence.
So, without any self-pitying justification to soften the blow, Jack Abbot succumbs to a weakness he'd never admit he has and pulls up the first website that pops up when he keywords amateur.
That was the one thing he wouldn't budge on when all the other willpower faltered. When cold showers and "imagination" couldn't solve the problem and he reluctantly turned to the wide scope of the internet, the one necessity was the lack of production value. He didn't want stage lights and camera crews and actors with more plastic than flesh. He didn't want a movie with advertisement. He wanted something as real as filmed sex could offer. Something he could envision actually happening that was actually desired by the performer.
And Jack couldn't decide if that made him more or less of a pervert. On one hand, it was a surefire way to feel like the world's biggest voyeur. On the other, he figured being so picky made him less of a target for the internet's average depiction of a pervert.
So picky, in fact, that he'd scrolled to the fifth page of this website and still struggled to find something that caught his attention. This was exactly why he didn't watch porn; the hand still lazily palming the outline of his dick was probably the only reason any blood kept flowing there. But he'd gotten past the hardest part of justifying it to his own brain—he just needed to pick something to jerk off to and deal with the post-nut clarity and regret when he got to the other side of it.
It was the sixth page that held the video he finally settled on. Nothing extravagant—as that was one of the qualifiers—with barely any views. Based on the thumbnail and title, it was a solo video. Just a woman, sat on her bed, getting herself off. Simple and easy and exactly what he wanted to see.
As soon as the video starts, he's met with less-than-ideal lighting that makes the camera fuzzy. Not enough to turn him off of it, just enough to give that homemade feel he preferred for this type of thing. The woman in question could be seen just fine; the angle cut off at the neck and highlighted everything from her chest and downward. She's sporting a thin little slip, body softened by the camera's grain, her skin highlighted by the soft glow of what Jack assumes is late afternoon sun filtering through beige curtains. The quality doesn't obscure the curves of her body or the soft pink of her cunt. Hell, he swears he can see her drip when she rubs circles against her perky little clit.
The video itself isn't unlike others he's seen. His dick seems to understand that as well as his brain, thickening behind his briefs to the sight on his phone. The fight's bled out of him by now; no need to justify himself when he fishes his cock out and strokes himself lazily. Especially not when the woman on-screen is spreading her own slick on her fingers and mewling sweet little sounds that make him twitch against his hand.
And that's exactly what he's focusing on by the time he spits into his palm to slick up his strokes. The little sounds that escape her—soft moans, choked breaths, and split-second whines—land straight in his gut. He can almost tell she's trying to stay quiet. Like if that camera inched up just a bit, he'd see her with a lip caught between her teeth. But she lets a little moan escape as those nimble fingers sink inside her cunt and Jack can't help but respond in vain with his own guttural sound. He tries to match the pace of her hand with his own, pumping his cock in time with her fingers disappearing into her slick hole, in some sort of pathetic mockery of actual sex. It's wet and sloppy and every kind of desperate. And it satisfied that itch just as quickly as he feared it would.
As the video comes to its (literal) climax, he can't help but imagine how her brow might furrow when she cums, how swollen her lips might look from biting back moans. Trying to picture a face as cute as the body on screen. That was another weakness he'd never admit to—always too curious about things he had no business wondering. He'd gotten off to a stranger's body and, before he'd even wiped his stomach clean of his own spend, he was wondering if she was always this quiet. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the question of why she was so quiet. Where was she? And why did she record in the middle of the day? Before the video cut off and turned the screen black, he wondered if the band poster on the wall behind her naked body was her favorite.
Jesus, he was getting old. Embarrassingly sentimental over a stranger in a porn video.
He tosses his phone onto the mattress beside him with a dejected sigh. The voice in his head that had initially come up with excuses to justify it had swiftly turned sour with guilt. There were enough things in life that lingered with regret (and this surely wouldn't be the last), but on the list of offenses, it sat pretty low. It was just a lapse in judgement he'd surely forget by tomorrow when he's wrist-deep in someone's chest.
But Jack most certainly did not forget about that video.
To be fair, it never popped into his mind while he was working. The never-ending onslaught of the hurt, sick, and broken didn't allow much time for his mind to wander where it didn't belong. This was when he had the right to be proud of his willpower. When, after three back-to-back traumas in the middle of the night, he was still focused on directing a team and getting the job done.
The weakness only came when loneliness settled too heavily on his shoulders. When he came back to an empty home after nearly 13 hours managing lives and had to pretend like taking care of himself was something easy. He liked to tell himself that being alone didn't bother him. Or that the quiet got easier to exist in. But the argument quickly died when he pulled up that same video only two days after the first time. The same video, borne from the same lapse in judgement—only this time it carried more guilt. Because it was bad enough to turn to the internet and take whatever it offered, it was another thing entirely to seek out something specific because he had an affinity for a goddamn stranger.
It wasn't every day, thank God. Some days, after working himself to the bone in hopes of clearing his mind, the only urge Jack came home with was the desperate need to sleep. That was how he operated; no opportunities for weakness to seep into his synapses and make another bad decision if he was overworked and dead on his feet, right? But the curiosity eventually became worse than the loneliness. And it was that same curiosity that led him back to that explicit sight to seek out that same woman, scroll through her profile, and see what else she'd shared with the world.
And that might've been the worst possible thing he could've done. Because seeing that small collection of videos only gave him more to latch onto. Gave him a reason to be disappointed when he saw every single video was dated eight years ago. Gave him a choice in favorites that he'd prefer over the others. (Right now, it was a short video of her grinding against a pillow—he could see the slick left behind on the fabric when she circled her hips like that.)
No matter how many times he fought his own brain, it always ended with that same woman on his screen and a hand choking his dick while he fantasized about being the one to draw that pleasure out of her. It was unlike him to get so attached—Christ, he hated even using that word—but something in him was addicted. She was just so…sweet. Her body, of course, but it was also the mannerisms that snuck their way into her videos and those cute little sounds she made when she felt good. She felt so real.
Jack Abbot was definitely a pervert.
"Jesus, this is the longest shift of my life."
You groaned into your hands as they ran over your face. Barely halfway through your scheduled twelve hours, your feet already ache, you're starving, and it seems like the universe has cursed you with some of the most insufferable patients. People freaking out over gas pain, MVA injuries that could've been avoided had anyone decided to wear a seatbelt or call a designated driver. Nothing that made you feel like the "savior" this job sometimes afforded you.
"So, not up for a double, then?" Shen circles you at the nurse's station, slotting one of the staff tablets into its charging slot. "Bummer," he sighs, "I thought you loved it here."
You laugh, bracing your hands against the countertop. "Don't start." Your head aches when you look up at the patient board and see the assortment waiting for you. The list of complaints sits like a taunt to your exhaustion. "I'm this close to walking out and leaving you fools."
"Oh, quit that." Lena doesn't even have to look up the papers in her hand for you to know she's talking to you. Forever observant, the nurses were. "Don't give Abbot more reason to be grumpy." That's when she looks up at you, peering over the rim of her glasses. If you didn't already agree, her glare would've convinced you to.
"Yeah," you roll your eyes and they land on Shen, "he doesn't need that."
You don't miss the little smile on Shen's face when he rounds the curve of the counter. "C'mon, you won't leave." He carries himself to one of the computers, scanning his badge with an accepting beep. "What've you got going on that's better than this?"
"Okay, ouch."
"No, I mean—"
"I do have a life, John."
"I…bet you do." He concedes with a shrug of his shoulders. "You just…" he takes a breath, searching for the right word, and you're already bracing for something too blunt. "Y'know, you work a lot."
You roll your eyes even as the back of your mind acknowledges his words to be true. "Which is why I need the break. You guys are driving me crazy."
"Big happy family." Shen gestures to the space around him as if to highlight the constant rush of people.
That almost earns another eye roll. You snatch a tablet off of the rack and tap through the screen prompts, checking for test results that should've been back ten minutes ago. "If you have to know, I'm meeting up with an old friend. Met her back in med school—"
"She teach you not to kill people?"
"Ha ha. I haven't seen her in a while since she moved out of town for her residency." Bingo, test results back. "Unlike you freaks, she's actually nice."
Shen responds with a laugh that comes out as a snort. "Don't leave us for too long. One taste of freedom and you really will ditch this place, I'm sure." Lena echoes the sentiment with a short 'don't tempt her' as she scurries past.
"Are we working or are we talking?" Abbot's voice seems to barrel over the emergency department's constant, hectic buzz. He braces two large hands against the countertop's edge, occupying the space between you and Shen. He looks between the two of you with that arch of his eyebrow that never seemed to soften.
Shen relents first, taking your silence as an opportunity. "She's leaving us, man," he gestures towards you with an accusatory glance.
Jack's eyes land on you, brow furrowed. "Leaving us?"
"No—Don't say it like that." You'd smack Shen if you could reach him. Especially after seeing him smile as he types away at a chart he surely had no interest in.
Jack straightens, sliding his hands off of the counter. He looked at you with that same assessing stare he gave everything he couldn't quite figure out. "You better not be. You're not allowed to leave."
You sigh, silently damning yourself for opening your mouth. "I took tomorrow off. You won't even miss me."
Before you even registered he'd moved in your direction, Jack stops just behind you. Stood with his hands behind his back—the same way he always did—he peers over your shoulder to look at the scans on the screen in your hands. A low sound rumbles from his throat. "I'll miss the extra hands." You look back over your shoulder to find his eyes on you instead of the screen. "At least go do your job before you leave us, yeah?" He holds that look, something indecipherable and intense, as he steps away.
You have to take a breath to level yourself. Jack could be such a difficult book to read sometimes; it was hard to tell what went on in that head when he wasn't working through an active trauma. You could tell he'd lived too long of a life to put up with nonsense and waste time on whatever he deemed unnecessary, small talk included. Slipping in and out of conversation to occupy himself with the responsibility of his job as an attending wasn't uncommon. Still, you liked to believe that unique brand of sarcasm was how he chose to show affection.
The smile Shen flashes in your direction, complete with a raised brow that seemed more intrigued than accusatory, only confirms that belief. "Wow. He might actually miss you while you're gone."
"Shut it." You sigh, sore feet carrying your body back to one of the patients waiting for your care. You just hope Jack doesn't realize you're cherry-picking the easier cases for the sake of your sanity. If he knew you were cherry-picking, he might've kept you charting well into day shift. At least then you could argue he wanted to keep you around.
Clocking in on Sunday reminded you exactly why you never took days off for social events. The rhythm of the night shift had been interrupted and you were left to live in the consequences. It was a fun day, but the change in sleep definitely had you dragging your feet. Shen made it a point to tease you with a pointed 'this is why you can't leave us!' And as hard as you rolled your eyes, the chaos did comfort you in some strange way. Still, the chaos would've been a little easier had you not been exhausted.
Ellis, never one to mince words, was the one to urge you towards the coffee in the break room when she saw the hunch in your shoulders. "You need to wake the hell up," she'd told you, "go get some of that coffee and figure it out."
So, figure it out you did. Even though the break room coffee had run cold and thick, sitting bitter in the pot, it was better than trying to brute force another eight hours. You yawn as you pour the lukewarm brew into a mug found in the depths of the break room cabinet. It was a wonder there were still clean dishes left to choose from.
Footsteps sound out at the doorway. You peer up with tired eyes to see Shen beelining for the fridge. He nods toward you, a sweet little "hey" dropping from his lips. The fridge creaks open under his hand. "Haven't had a chance to ask about your day of freedom," you hear from behind the door as he reaches inside.
"It was good," you nod, "I'm…exhausted now, though. Didn't get much chance to catch up on sleep."
Shen hums a sound of acknowledgement. He straightens up, now holding a half-empty cup of fast-food cold brew. "Hope your friend was worth it."
Your nose wrinkles at the bitter taste that hits your tongue when you take another sip of your own coffee. Man, something sugary and sweet and overly caffeinated sounded heavenly right now. "Yes, she was worth it. I missed her. She lives over in Philly, so we never really get to meet up anymore."
"Philly?" He whistles with a shake of his head. "Man, all for you?"
"No, for her family. I just met up with her for lunch." Another sip of bitter, thick coffee has you setting the mug on the countertop before continuing, "You don't think my company's worth the four-hour drive?" You look up at him with a cocked brow, but when his lips press into a thin line, you raise a hand to cut off whatever snarky response he could come up with. "Don't answer that." Shen holds his hands up in mock surrender—the same way he always did when his sarcasm was stopped before it could manifest. "We took some pictures while she was here…"
You pat the pockets of your scrubs, searching for your phone in the fabric, and pull it out with another yawn. Half a cup of lukewarm coffee didn't seem to do much in terms of waking you up, it seemed. You inch closer to Shen as you thumb through your phone and pull up the few photos from the day before. One of you and your friend smiling at the table of a cafe, another taken outside, a few silly photos that Shen doesn't find as hilarious as you do. But he humors you with a quiet aww that almost sounds like the reaction to a cute animal rather than a photo of his coworker.
"Well, look at you wearing something other than scrubs!"
You nudge him with your elbow, "Yeah, I told you I have a life."
Another set of footsteps crosses the threshold of the break room door, but it's the sharp whistle that follows that catches the attention of both you and Shen. It's Abbot, hovering like always, eyebrows raised at the sight of you two hunched of your phone. "Scatter, kids," he urges, thumbing back towards the bustling hall, "C'mon, no gossiping."
"M'not gossiping! I'm bragging about my day off." You turn your phone around, screen facing outwards to show off one of the photos from yesterday.
Jack doesn't seem to pay it much attention as he moves to pour his own cup of coffee. "Yeah?" He humors you long enough to look at the screen for a moment. He nods, as if granting his approval. "How was that?"
"Uh, great." The emphasis you put on the word is dramatic enough to prove your point. "I met her back in med school, but she moved to Philly for her residency. Haven't seen her in a while. But we were both happy to just…be out of the hospital for a day." Turning your phone in your hand, you scroll up through your entire collection of photos in search of a particular photo from years ago. "I'm sure I have a picture of us from back then. That was…God, eight years ago?"
"Eight years?" That seems to pique Jack's attention. You think he's poking fun, but the look on his face is one of disbelief. "You were in med school only eight years ago? Christ, way to make me feel old."
"Feel old?" Shen pipes up. You shoot him a look that he reciprocates before hiding his smile behind a sip of his cold brew.
"Oh, here we go. Wow, I look like a baby…"
An old photo from nearly eight years ago pulls up full-screen on your phone. It's of you with the same friend, both eight years younger, in the apartment you resided in during med school. You didn't look much different aside from a fuller face devoid of the stress lines your job had come to give you. But showing the photo off made the image feel like it was from a lifetime ago. Shen makes a cheeky comment about the unique style you sported back then. It's when you show Jack that something seems to land awkwardly.
You don't notice it, but the photo lands like a punch to the gut. Not only was it a shock to his system to see a young, twenty-something you fresh into med school, but he knew that room. He knew those sheets, the band poster hung over the bed, the curtains framing the window at the foot of the mattress. He'd seen it countless times on his own phone screen until the layout was burned into the recesses of his brain. Jack takes a deep breath to will away the sudden thrum of his heart.
"That's…" He clears his throat when the word comes out broken, "that's your apartment?"
"Yeah. Well, was. Don't judge it!" You laugh, turning the photo back towards yourself. "I know it looks shitty, but I was broke in med school. Cut me some slack."
Shen mutters something about it being 'not that bad' as Jack practically chugs the rest of his coffee. He sets the mug down in the sink harsher than any of you expect and straightens with a huff; the sharp clink of ceramic catches your attention, but the hard set of his jaw keeps it.
"Get off your phone," he grumbles without turning to look at you. He carries himself hurriedly, like he's trying to get out of the room as fast as he physically can. "Get back to work. People need you out there."
Your eyes follow the broad set of his back as Jack slips out of the break room. His absence leaves his tone to settle over you and Shen—who shares a look of disbelief your way—and something unwelcome shifts in the air. You slip your phone back into your pocket, embarrassment and uncertainty tightening in your chest. It was his job to keep you in line and on task; a simple reminder shouldn't have weighed on you the way it did.
"Yeah, told you he wouldn't miss me."
It was childish, sure. Unprofessional, definitely. But you cared too much about what he thought. You liked to tell yourself it was strictly about the job and that staying in the good graces of your attending would make life easier. And that was true, to an extent. But you didn't often let yourself acknowledge the curiosity in the back of your mind that constantly questioned what went on in his head. It would only serve as a distraction to concern yourself with whatever he stressed over. The easiest thing to do was just catch him when the night offered a break and he wasn't pulled in ten different directions. He was fine when he wanted to talk. The hard part was just finding the right moment.
And, unfortunately, that moment never seems to come. The night had its lulls, which were nothing more than minute-long breaks that allowed you to catch up on a paragraph of charting at a time. And, to your surprise, Abbot wasn't hovering or breaking heavy tension with dry humor that only he ever found funny. Well, he was…just not with you.
What you thought was just another sour mood slowly turned into the realization that your attending was treating you differently. Rather, he wasn't acknowledging you at all. He didn't turn the other direction to avoid you—he just looked past like you weren't even there. He didn't check in with a little tap on your arm and a thumbs-up that silently asked, 'Are you still with us'. It took a few hours to realize, but once it hit you, it settled heavy on your shoulders.
It really came to a head when you had to present a case. You slunk up beside him when he'd finished a conversation with one of the nurses, deliberately trying to catch him before he could busy himself with another task. The entire time you relayed the patient's status—test results, symptoms, possible diagnoses and why they didn't fit criteria—you looked up at Jack and waited for him to meet your gaze. But it never came. Instead, he signed off on another scan, handed the tablet back to you, and scurried off like the interaction had wasted his time.
You didn't consider yourself a favorite, but it was really unlike him to be so short with you. And when he brushed you off so easily over something work-related, the last thing you wanted to do was confront his attitude. You settled for the next best thing: interrogating your coworkers.
Ellis was the first one you landed eyes on. She was clearly on a mission, carrying herself from one room to the next, but you still sidled yourself up next to her. "Hey, uhm..." You matched her pace, hugging the tablet in your hands close to your body. "Have you noticed anything…off with Abbot?"
She tears her eyes away from the destination in front of her to look over at you. "Off?" She echoes in a plea for more information.
"Yeah, just…" you trail off, trying to find the right words, "I don't know. I'm getting a weird vibe."
"He seems fine to me."
"Really? You haven't noticed him being all…avoidant or whatever?"
"I mean," Ellis shrugs, trying to find the answer you're looking for, "I guess he's been in his head a bit more. Nothin' crazy, you know how he is."
You nod, all-too-aware of what she means. But you aren't satisfied with that answer. With what essentially served as confirmation that the sudden change in demeanor was only directed towards you, now came the urge to understand why. And while you didn't expect Parker—or any of your colleagues for that matter—to have the explanation you needed, it didn't stop you from questioning.
"Nothing happened while I was gone, did it?" You stop in your tracks, hoping she'll humor you long enough to give an actual response. "No…veterans came in yesterday? Was he with SWAT this morning?"
Ellis does stop, but she huffs a sigh as she turns in your direction. "Not that I know of. Look, if you think somethin's up, just ask him. We got shit to do, yeah?"
"Right." You concede reluctantly. "Yeah, of course."
Ellis cocks her head towards the North rooms as she takes her leave, a silent urge to distract yourself with productivity. She was right—your job was more important than gossiping about your attending. Patients didn't care whether or not you felt ignored. You take a breath and steel yourself for the remaining hours of chaos.
An ache in your hands reminds you of the tablet you're still hugging against your chest. You weren't even aware you were white-knuckling the device. You shake your head as if it'll clear the stress and suffocating stream of questions and carry yourself over to the nurse's station on tired feet. The board overhead never fell below a certain threshold of patients; the rotation of color made your head spin. As you slot the tablet into its charging dock, Lena rounds the corner. The first amusement you've felt in hours comes when she scolds a small group of NA's over their tendency to talk instead of work.
A voice in the back of your head tells you to get back to your charting. Instead, you lean against the countertop and hope Lena's the only one listening to you when you call out.
"Hey, Lena, how's my favorite charge nurse?"
The look she gives you is exactly what you expect. Skeptical. "Favorite?"
"Yeah, of course," you shrug. "Don't tell Dana. Hey, listen, have you noticed anything different with Abbot today?"
Lena doesn't answer you immediately. While you fill the silence with every possible response that would send you into a panic, she just grabs a clipboard and looks at you from over the rim of her glasses. She has the courtesy to step closer, keeping her voice as low as the bustle around the two of you would allow. "Now, why are you asking me that?"
Hearing it from her mouth gives you pause. She was great at making the trivial things feel as silly as they were. "I dunno, I just…" Your eyes scan the halls and, though you don't say it, you both know you're looking for him. "He's acting a little bit off, I think."
"Yeah. 'Cause he is 'a little bit off'. Aren't we all."
"Right." Concession was starting to come easy. "Just…keep an eye on him, please? You're always watching, you'll notice better than anyone."
That manages to earn a laugh from her. "Flattery will get you nowhere, sweetheart."
You flash a smile and drag yourself back into the fray. Her sentiment is already settled in the back of your mind. Yeah, you think, clearly not.
Seven A.M. couldn't have come any slower.
The night was one of the longest drags you'd ever lived through. Least of all because of the actual work you were expected to do; everything clinical moved like clockwork. Patients, paperwork, even charting was enough of a distraction to make time tick a little faster. The real problem was Abbot and whatever had him convinced that avoiding you was the best course of action. Time moved slower when every minute was a reminder that he wasn't acknowledging you.
If it were anyone else, you'd chalk it up to a bad day and try again tomorrow. But Jack didn't do this—the unprofessional silent treatment that bled into every aspect of the job. He was an adult. He was the one rallying teamwork and perseverance and how not to let baggage seep into the job. If there was a problem, he talked it out.
Until now, apparently.
When handoff finally came and the day shift slowly flooded in, you didn't find the relief you typically did with their presence. Yes, you could finally get off your feet, maybe catch up on the sleep you'd missed, and eat a real meal for the first time in hours. But it didn't feel right going home with uncertainty hanging over your head.
Lucky for no one but yourself, Jack's role as an attending kept him busier than others. Meaning you had time to do rounds and catch the day shift up to speed with the patients without worrying about him slipping away. It doesn't stop you from keeping an eye on him whenever you're able, though. He could ignore you in favor of work, but once the two of you were clocked out, there was no choice but to listen to you. At least, that's what you told yourself as you cornered him in the stairwell.
He barely gets through the heavy doors, bag slung on his shoulder, when you call out to him. The same quiet little "hey" you always greeted him with. It isn't lost on you the way he pauses before turning to face you.
"Hey." He tosses back. You think this is the first time he's looked at you in eight hours. It quickly diverts when he fidgets with the watch on his wrist instead. "How'd tonight treat you?"
You recognize it for what it is: a formality. He's not genuinely asking because he wants to know. If he were, he'd take care to close the nearly two feet of space between you.
"Fine. It was fine." Jesus, this was awkward. It would've been easier to just go home and sleep the shift off. But that wouldn't have given you answers. You sigh, clasping your hands together only to part them seconds later when you gesture to yourself. "Did I…do something?"
That makes Jack pause. His eyes dart up, looking at you, then past your form to the heavy doors leading back to the ED, then back at you. "Not that I'm aware of…Did you do something?"
"I…I don't know." Your shrug is one of exasperation. "It feels like you've been deliberately avoiding me all night. I felt like you didn't even want me to present cases or ask for your input." Your throat feels tight halfway through the explanation, your chest heavy with all the frustration and confusion that's built throughout the night. You take a break to steady yourself and shove your hands in your pockets. "You're my attending," you know he didn't need the reminder, "if I can't come to you, there's clearly a problem."
Jack doesn't offer a response, but at least he looks at you while the muscles in his jaw tick under white stubble. He didn't like it when people felt the need to state the obvious and tell him what he already knew. But reality and how it settled on your shoulders was far more important than his feelings about it. When you think he's going to leave you with nothing, he shifts his bag on his shoulder and shakes his head.
"There's no problem."
It's your turn to be silent and stare.
Your lips press thin in a tight line as you try to swallow some of your frustration. No problem? Right, because he'd been ignoring you just for the hell of it. Because the same man who always asked how you were doing and questioned how you spent your days suddenly decided your existence had no relevance. You take a deep breath and straighten your spine. If anything, it's to ground yourself and remember that cursing him out and risking your job wasn't worth it.
"Look," you start with a huff, voice as level as you can possibly manage, "if I did something to upset you, I'd like to know so I can fix it. If I did something wrong professionally, you need to tell me so I can better it."
Jack was always a particular case study—one you liked to think you were starting to understand—but the way he looks at you now is indecipherable. Part of you is just happy to have his eyes on you, but it doesn't feel as reassuring as you thought it would. Just when the silence stretches a moment too long, his eyes tear away from you and dart around the stairwell as if surveying the area around you.
"I'm not having this conversation here," he mutters, crossing those thick arms over his chest. It's meant to be a finality, but there's no way you're letting the conversation end unfinished.
"Uhm, yes we are? If this is something interfering with work, then the conversation can happen here."
"I promise this is not a conversation you wanna have in the hospital. You'll be better off if you wait." You scoff at that, annoyed, and he doesn't miss it. He's already starting to turn away, ready to leave it at that, before he adds, "You should have my number. Text me when you're home. We'll talk about it then."
You step after him when he moves away. What started as confusion had fully bled into frustration. "So, just to be clear, there is a problem. And you're not telling me how to fix it."
Jack huffs your name in an annoyed breath that's sharp enough to make you pause. "You didn't do anything. There's no problem." When he looks back at you from over his shoulder, you swear a shiver runs down your spine. "I promise." He shifts his bag on his shoulder one final time—something you're starting to assume is a nervous tick—and you watch the muscles in his back play under his scrubs. He starts down the corridor before tossing back, "We'll talk when you're home."
That was the finality. Not that he gave you much choice in the matter, but you make it a point to stay rooted in the stairwell. You aren't sure how long you stand there, replaying the conversation in your head. It felt less like a conversation and more like the prelude to something that made your chest feel tight the longer you thought about it. Whatever it was, it was bad enough that he couldn't even look at your face. Great. Now you were dreading the return home.
The walk to the lockers feels like a display of shame, even though you're the only one who knows what just happened. It's hard to tell if your sluggish movements are from exhaustion or the subconscious desire to get home as slow as possible. But the inevitable was exactly that, and curiosity still reluctantly pulled at the back of your mind. If he really was willing to talk, you wanted to hear it. Even a harsh truth would be better than being lost in the dark.
You didn't know what to do with yourself when you got home. The smartest thing to do would be to whip up something proper to eat and change out of your scrubs. A text conversation shouldn't have taken much attention, let alone a ton of effort.
What actually ended up happening was you, thumbing away at your phone as soon as you got through the door, desperately searching for Jack's contact information to send a haphazard 'I'm home now' text. And as soon as it sent, you paced through your kitchen just waiting for him to see it and respond. The minutes feel torturously long. Part of you starts to fear he'll ghost you and refuse to have the conversation. But he promised there was no problem. It felt childish to latch onto something as feeble as that, but it was all you had. Even more embarrassing was how much it ate away at you to be so blatantly ignored by him. The longer you thought about it, the more pathetic you thought yourself for craving his approval.
Maybe the only thing more pathetic was how you perked up hearing the chime of your phone. Three long minutes after your initial message came Jack's response. And he got right to the point.
Abbot: Is there anywhere someone might be able to recognize you from?
The question left you even more confused. One, what the hell did this have to do with work? Two, why would anyone recognize you? As the questions flooded your mind, you wanted to reply with an annoyed wall of question marks. Instead, you settle for more clarification:
You: i'm sorry?
Abbot: Answer the question.
You scoff at your phone, wondering how the hell you were meant to answer.
You: i mean i don't think any of my patients would recognize me
Abbot: Not what I meant.
Okay, dick. You weren't surprised to find him as blunt over the phone as he was in person. A beat passes before he sends another message.
Abbot: Have you ever posted anything online that people might recognize you from?
Somehow, this was clearing up nothing and only leaving you with more questions.
You: what?? you mean on like instagram or smth??
You: i doubt my 20 followers would recognize me
Twenty followers that were mostly friends and family that already knew you. But you kept the sarcasm minimal in hopes it'd make his point approach quicker.
When it takes another minute for him to respond, you decide to finally retreat to your bedroom and rid yourself of the scrubs you'd been stewing in for hours. Getting off your feet and into a warm bed and fresh clothes was the closest thing to Heaven right now. You hear your phone chime as you settle in and close out the Pittsburgh dawn with thick curtains. When you slip into bed to check the messages, there's two waiting for you.
The first is just your name, plain and simple. It makes you think of the way he spoke it in the stairwell—stern and final—and something about that makes your throat run dry. The next message makes your heart skip a beat:
Abbot: Okay, I'm not asking you this as your boss. We're off the clock.
Then, possibly the last message you ever could've expected from him:
Abbot: Have you ever shared anything pornographic?
If you weren't already in bed, you swear you could've fallen over. Your heart sinks so low it reaches the floor. Maybe, just maybe, you actually already died and this was Hell.
There was no way this was real.
And the worst about it? You couldn't even laugh it off or feign disgust. You couldn't send back an angry 'what the fuck are you talking about?' and why he'd ask such a thing. Well, you could've, but it would've felt pretty disingenuous. The absurdly formal way he posed the question aside, the only thing you wanted to ask was how the hell he found out. It was years ago, a stupid endeavor to make a little pocket money during med school. You'd barely even made content before deciding the effort wasn't worth the pay. You hadn't done it in so long—hadn't even thought about it in years.
With shaky thumbs and an erratic heartbeat, you managed to type back:
You: what the fuck jack
You could lie. You could say no and make him feel terrible for bringing it up. But there's no way he would ever bring it up if he didn't have a reason to.
You: ok yes but it was years ago. i told you i was broke in med school
Jack still hasn't responded. You felt sick wondering what he was doing with that confirmation. Maybe he was already typing up an email to HR. Maybe he was wondering how to bring up to the team that you'd no longer be working with them. Fuck. Panic sits in your gut and crawls up your throat until it's nearly impossible to breathe.
You: wajt how the fuck did you find out??? did soneone tell you????
Every possible scenario ranging from bad to awful to worse ran through your mind. What if someone told him and now he had to bring it up to someone higher. What if the whole emergency department knew, or someone in particular knew and was slowly sharing it. Oh, God, what if you walked in there tomorrow and everyone started asking you about those stupid videos and—
Abbot: No, no one told me.
Thank God. At least you could push away that particular worry for now. But it didn't answer the first question you posited.
You: so you just found it?? on accident??
Abbot: I didn't know it was you until today.
Abbot: I recognized the apartment when you showed me that picture of you in school.
Ah. So that's what was going on.
In hindsight, that made the entire night way less stressful than it felt in the moment. It almost made you laugh to think about; your attending had been avoiding you because he realized you made the porn he watched. Yeah, you weren't too sure you could've looked him in the eye after that, either.
But as the realization sinks into your brain, the reality of it hits you. To recognize the walls of your apartment, he had to have watched a video. More likely, several videos. The guy who ran your department had seen a 20-something-year-old you spread your legs on a shitty phone camera. He'd seen you touch yourself and put on a show for approval of strangers on the internet. Christ, you couldn't even remember half of what those videos contained—who knew what he'd witnessed you do in the desperation for a paycheck.
And for some perverted, selfish reason, it didn't repulse you in the slightest. It should've. You should've been typing out an apology and promising that content was from the past. You should've asked that he never watch it again because of the breach of privacy. Instead, you sat in your bed and wondered if he had a favorite. You wondered if he got off to any of it, and if the knowledge that it was you made it better or worse for him.
The chime of your phone snaps you back to reality. It's then you realize you've left Jack on read for nearly eight minutes.
Abbot: I'm sorry. I should've acted more professional at work. This isn't coming into work with me tomorrow.
Abbot: It's cleared up and done. Thank you for being honest.
Honest? He all but admitted he'd watched a porno of you, and he was thanking you for the honesty of clarifying it was you? The guy you reported to had seen you naked and trembling and desperate and then had the audacity to say he'd forget all about it by tomorrow?
Yeah, right.
You: did you at least enjoy the videos?
There's a stretch of silence with no response. You regret the words for a moment, wondering if the overstep was breaching further than a tease. Then he sends another message containing nothing more than your name. It's exactly the same as last time, but you can feel the difference in tone. Shakier. Warning you. Or maybe it was all in your head.
Abbot: I said this is done.
You: i thought we were being honest :/
Yeah, you were being annoying. But Jack left you unnecessarily stressed out for most of your shift. Surely he could put up with a little bit of pestering. He had a sense of humor about everything. But you watched the text bubble pop up and disappear five different times before he finally sent a response.
Abbot: I don't think that's appropriate.
You: jack. do you really think i'm gonna judge you for watching porn when i used to make it??
You don't get a response to that message. In the minutes that follow, as you're waiting for something to pop up, you wish you could jump through your phone screen and figure out what he was doing. Was he ignoring you on purpose? Did you finally annoy him enough? A far-too hopeful voice in the back of your mind hoped he was going through the list and figuring out which video was his favorite. Aside from being unrealistic, you cringe at the thought of him going back to old videos instead of reaching out for something new. The thought creeps in—not entirely unwelcome—wondering if he'd ask for that. Debating whether you'd fulfill it while knowing damn well you probably would.
Five long minutes pass and you huff a sigh. You knew he was right; this wasn't appropriate. And Jack was a man who lived so strictly to his regiment and rules.
You: sorry
You: just curious
You set your phone down with a finality you aren't too keen on accepting. That wasn't exactly the message you'd hoped to leave off on.
The darkness of the room creeps in without the light of your phone to light up your face. You slip under your sheets and try your hardest to prepare for a longer stretch of sleep than you had the previous day. Exhaustion hit you hard and sudden, pulling at your aching muscles, but your brain couldn't stay quiet. All it did was replay the night, every little conversation, what you could've done differently. Conjuring up scenarios where you confronted Jack earlier and saved yourself the stress, or what would've happened if you never showed him that photo of you and your friend. It was a whirlwind of what-ifs, more than enough to give you a headache.
The buzz of your phone, when it comes, is far too loud. And you, despite your exhaustion, are far too eager to see what it's from. The light of the screen nearly blinds you, but as you squint to look at the notification, your heart skips a beat.
It's Jack, with a simple message that responds to a specific one of your own. Replying to your earlier question about enjoying your videos, all he says in response:
Abbot: Yes.
Heat blooms throughout your body embarrassingly quick. Yes, he liked your videos. One, several, it didn't matter. Jack had seen you naked and whining, and he liked it.
You: wait which video
Abbot: Several.
Oh. So he really liked it. Must've been a hit in his browser history.
You: oh wow. okay
You: glad i could be of service then ;)
You plan to leave it at that and quit while you're ahead. Coaxing the confession out of him was precarious enough. Even though you were dying to know every detail and figure out exactly what he'd seen and what he liked best, you were content with just knowing he liked something about it. Teasing him was fun, but anything more would've been an HR disaster. It'd be interesting to see how Jack would explain that one.
But just as you're about to set your phone down, another message comes through:
Abbot: Yeah, you're really helpful.
Curiosity killed the cat and all that.
You: ?
You: with what?
You knew, in the back of your mind. Or, at least, you really fucking hoped. Every second drags out far too long for your eager nerves, itching to know how he'll respond. Thankfully, it's along the lines of something you were hoping for.
Abbot: Can I show you?
Always so formal.
You: yes please
Your heart was already thumping out of your chest. Working yourself up over whatever he was sending next, heat pumps thick in your veins and lands in your gut. You nearly chewed your lip raw lying in wait. You knew you were being impatient, but when the next message pops up on your screen, you decide every second was worth the wait.
It's an image (exactly what you wanted to see) taken awkwardly in the dark of a bedroom. In it is Jack's hand, which you recognize by the fine lines and freckles on his skin, wrapped loosely around the base of his cock. You assume the only light comes from the camera's flash when he'd taken the picture, but it highlights the pearls of precum welling at the red and ruddy skin of the fat tip. You realize he's still in his scrubs when your eyes trail down to see the waistband pushed down just underneath his heavy balls and the top bunched up to expose the soft pudge of his lower stomach.
It's no expert nude, but it's got a charm that undeniably fits him. And made you so absurdly wet in what you feel confident claiming is record time. You're throbbing at the sight of his cock on your screen. You were glad to see he also thought it fair that he show off in return after he'd seen you bare and desperate multiple times.
Your thighs press together to quell the incessant pulse between your legs as you hurriedly type out a response.
You: are you watching one right now??
Abbot: yeag
Abbot: *Yeah.
You: oh youre unbelievable
You laugh behind your phone screen. You aren't scolding him, just shocked at his audacity. Rolling over to reach your bedside, you flick on the closest light. It wasn't much, but it was enough to make the camera's job a little easier and make the final product a little more flattering.
You rid yourself of a majority of your clothes and kick the sheets off of your body. When you're stripped down to nothing more than a pair of unassuming panties, you lift your phone above your reclined figure, angle it just right, and snap a photo. The golden light from your lamp makes your skin look warm. Of course, the angle cuts off everything above the neck—old habits.
You send the photo with a message attached:
You: why are you watching an old video when you literally have access to me right now??
His response comes back in seconds:
Abbot: Jesus Christ
Abbot: Yeah good point
Abbot: Take the rest off. Let me see how wet you are
The command alone is enough to make you throb. You could snap a photo of the outside of your panties, focusing in on the fabric where it clings to your wet skin as slick seeps through the cotton. But you're both, decidedly, too worked up for any more teasing. So you slip the fabric off, kicking it somewhere on your bed, and bring your phone down between your parted legs.
Trying to find a flattering angle reminds you exactly how difficult it was to film the same thing years ago. It takes an awkward grip on your phone, but the camera catches the sheen of your cunt where your slick sits. Your puffy clit, all swollen with arousal, peeks out when you run your fingers through your slit.
You send two photos this time—one with your fingers teasing the bud of your clit, the other with you spread open and dripping. You send both out, typing out a message one-handed.
You: been wet since you said you liked my porno
You: wish you could feel it
Abbot: Yeah?
The gap of time between messages tells you he's probably typing one-handed as well.
Abbot: You like knowing I was getting off to you?
Abbot: Love watching that pretty pussy cum baby. Wish I could feel it too
You throb against your own hand, cunt fluttering at the filthy words on screen. You could almost picture that rumble in his voice he'd get when he was annoyed. Your fingers swirl against your clit, still slicked up, and picture how Jack's hands would feel instead. You scroll up through the messages, seeking out the picture he'd sent earlier. His fingers are thicker than yours, so confident and sure when they work, you know they'd stretch your cunt perfectly. He'd have to if he wanted to fit that fat cock inside—
Abbot: Can you do something for me?
The message pops up, bringing you back to the present conversation. You're already shivering trying to figure out what else he could want. Far too eager—bordering on desperate—you fumble through more messages.
You: yes
You: what do u want
Abbot: Do you have a pillow you can use?
You: u want me to ride it
Abbot: Fuck yes
You smile to yourself at his zealous reply. You knew that was something you'd recorded once upon a time—multiple times, if you recalled correctly. Must've been one of his favorites of yours to request an updated version.
You drag yourself up until you're sitting in the center of your mattress. Once you settle on a pillow to sacrifice, you fold it over and wedge it between your legs. The first brush against your clit makes you shiver, hips jerking into the friction. Already you can feel your arousal seeping into the pillowcase, slicking your movements when you give an experimental roll of your hips. Holding the pillow between your thighs, you fish around for your phone to prepare a picture. You take one, angling it below the neck, but that's not enough.
Finding something to prop your phone against was a nightmare, but once the camera sits steady with your body in frame, you tap the big, red 'record' button. It's an oddly nostalgic feeling; worrying about what's in frame, trying to get the best angle, wondering if the lighting will ruin it. But Jack's waiting, and your cunt's throbbing with the need to get off.
You rock your hips into the pillow with a slow grind that sends zaps up your spine. It's not enough to get off, but it's enough to keep you worked up. Your hands fist in the pillow, grabbing it from different angles, holding it in place while you grind. Your thighs hide most of the action from this angle, but you have a feeling it's the motion of your body that he cares about most. The way your hips swirl and your ass ripples with the motion, the way your chest moves and your tits bounce when you rock down, the way your thighs tense when the fabric drags just right against your clit.
Along the line of curses and swears, you pant Jack's name in that same pathetic whine. Who knew if he'd watch it with the sound on or if the camera could even pick it up from this distance. But you wanted him to know you were thinking about him. All of this was for him, no one else.
Another minute ticks by and you capture the hurried, desperate movement of your hips against your pillow. You know you aren't getting off from this alone, but it's left you hot and dripping. You cut the video and end the recording, not bothering to check the quality before sending it his way. Quality clearly wasn't an issue he was too picky about.
In the minutes that follow—waiting for him to respond—you keep rocking into the soft plush of the pillow. Your head spins trying to imagine the look on his face. You wanted to see what he did when he heard his name drop from your lips. Maybe you'd get another photo—or a video of your own.
Instead, your phone began to buzz incessantly, rhythmically. Jack was calling you. The screen changed, his name in bold letters up top with the taunting 'Accept' and 'Decline' buttons below. You stared at it for a moment, unsure how to respond once the barrier of text was removed and you got to hear his voice in real time. Your thumb moves before your brain.
You bring your phone to your ear, panting heavier than you realize. You mutter a shaky "Hello?" that sounds more timid than you feel.
Jack's voice comes through on the other end, preceded by a heavy breath you feel in your bones. "Are you still on that pillow?"
"Mm-hmm," you whine, nodding along as if he can see you
"Good." His voice is raspy, thick with a kind of desperation you didn't know he was capable of. "Good, I want you to cum like that."
"Yeah? Fuck—you gonna make me cum, Jack?" You swirl your hips and drag your clit along the soft swell of the pillow. The wetness you've left behind makes the glide easy, slicking your sensitive flesh.
"Fuck," he groans, breath catching in his throat. "Yeah, been waiting...been waiting to make that pretty pussy feel good." You swear you hear the wet schlick of his hand moving in the background. If you closed your eyes, you could almost picture one of those broad hands pumping the length of his cock. "You got awfully wet for me, huh?"
Another mm-hmm sounds out from your throat. Your fingers tighten around the length of your phone, the other in the fabric of the pillow. "M'so fucking wet…bet you'd fuck me so good."
"Fuck, yeah, I would. Ah, shit—I'd give you whatever you want, sweetheart."
Sweetheart. The name settles somewhere deep in your gut, stirring alongside the heat pulling at your core. "Yeah, you know what this pussy likes, don't you?"
All Jack offers in response is another low, rumbling groan. The wet schlick, schlick, schlick of his hand sounds out rhythmically in the background of his audio. Somewhere in the mess of sounds is your name, breathless and heavy, on his lips. Your thighs clench tight against the pillow as you rut, chasing the friction of the soaked fabric.
"Bet you'd look so good full of me. God…" He huffs. You can tell his jaw's set tight, cursing spilling out from behind grit teeth. "Can't wait to feel you around me…" You moan at his words, too afraid to speak lest you interrupt his filthy train of thought. "You'd take it, wouldn't you? You'd take it so fucking good, huh?"
Your hips stutter in their rhythm, twitching in an effort to chase the mounting pressure building in your core. "Fuuuck, Jack…" You whine, barely able to catch your breath.
"You gonna cum for me?"
"Mm-hmm…"
"Say it, baby, tell me you're gonna cum for me."
"M'gonna cum for you, Jack."
You're rutting like an animal, grinding against your pillow with energy you didn't know you had. The desperation gnawed at you, frenzied and greedy, pushing you towards a high you needed more than anything else. Between the soft, wet plush between your thighs and the hot, needy sounds he made in your ear, you were barreling towards the edge alarmingly quickly.
Jack curses, the sound heavy and strained, "Cum for me, baby. Let me hear you." He urges you with a desperation that rivals your own.
Pleasure shoots white-hot down your spine, seizing every muscle in your body. Your thighs clamp tight around the pillow, keeping it close and in place for the frantic rock of your hips. You nearly double over as you shake and whimper. The last thing on your mind is your phone, but when Jack's breath grows heavier, your awareness focuses in on the noises coming from your speaker. The groan that tears from him is unlike anything you've heard from him before. You know he's coming down from the same high when he's left panting into the phone wherever it sits on his end.
You aren't sure how long the two of you stay like that. Eventually your spine straightens, a small whimper escaping your throat when your sensitive flesh grazes the pillow. With the adrenaline and ecstasy wearing off, an ache begins to creep into the small of your back.
Jack's the first to break the silence. "You alright?" He asks, still winded himself.
"Mm. Yeah. You?"
"I am now. You were…a pretty great help."
You laugh a soft sound, feeling a flush creep up to your cheeks. It felt ridiculous to blush over a compliment when you'd both cum from the sound of each other's voices. He sounded so…pleased. With you or himself, you weren't completely sure.
"Told you, I'm glad to be of service." Now he laughs, the sound heavy with exhaustion. "Can I ask…how many of those videos you watched?"
"Uh…four?"
"Really? Only four? Thought it'd be more than that."
"Yeah, well…" He interrupts himself with a groan that makes you wonder if he's aching the same way you are. "Didn't have the time. I'm a busy man."
"And here I thought you were my biggest fan."
"Oh, no doubt about that." He sighs, and a beat of silence passes between the two of you. "Sorry about…how I acted today."
You move off of the pillow, wincing at the ache in your hips, as you move to gather your discarded clothes. "Oh, Jack, it's fine."
"No, I…It was unprofessional. I'm sorry." You slip your clothes on while he speaks, just letting him speak the apology. He needed it more than you did. "I'll…make it up to you. How about that?"
"More than this?"
"Oh, absolutely."
You find yourself easing in the lulls of silence, not too pressured to fill it with mindless chatter. As you turn the lights down and crawl back into your sheets, you aren't pressured to keep up with mindless chatter. What else was there to say, really? The rhythmic sound of his breathing, the airy feel of the lingering high, made you sink into your mattress.
You both needed sleep. Desperately.
"Okay, old man, I'm…I need sleep."
"Old man?"
"You should sleep, too."
"Hold on, 'old man'?"
"Jack."
"Fine." Another groan sounds out from his end. "After I clean up."
"Actually, could you…" You trail off before the request can form, heat creeping back up to your cheeks. You can picture his face, that cocked brow he always sported, waiting for you to use your words. "Could you take a picture before you clean up?"
"A picture? Of what, the mess you caused?"
Your mess. If you were less tired, that might've reignited something inside you. "Yeah. Just…I wanna see."
"You wanna see…" Jack echoes your words with a sarcastic tinge, but you can hear the smile in his voice. "Alright, fine. But you better sleep right after."
"I will. Promise."
"Good." Another beat passes where both of you take a deep, settling breath. "I'll see you tonight?"
Tonight. Right. You had to face him tonight for your next shift. That was a level of embarrassment and awkwardness you weren't ready to acknowledge quite yet. "Yeah," you concede, "see you then."
The call ends with a beep sounding out from your speaker. The lingering high has nearly worn off, only coaxed along this far by the sound of his voice. You hoped the ache in your back and the meat of your thighs would right themselves by the time you woke up. It was hard to know what, exactly, you were meant to feel. Truth be told, you were too tired to process anything outside of your exhaustion. Maybe you'd regret it when you realized it wasn't a dream. Maybe you'd still be riding a high. You quickly decided it was a problem for a future you who was more rested and level-headed.
One last chime rings out from your phone. Yet again, the screen blinds you in the darkness when you bring the device close. But seeing Jack's name with the notification of an attachment made your heart skip a beat. He'd followed through—always a man of his word. A similar photo taken from the same angle, his ruddy cock dribbling white onto his skin. The mess of liquid is larger than you'd anticipated, pooled over the soft pudge of his stomach and dripping down to the wiry, pale hair that trailed downward.
Yeah, even exhausted, that was enough to make something stir.
You: thank you <3
You: wish i was there to clean u up
Abbot: You said you'd go to sleep.
You: yes, sir
Abbot: Don't start with that or we won't get any sleep.
He was right, but would it really be that big of a shame? You'd worked doubles on less sleep before. The more you thought about it, though, the less you wanted to face the possibility of explaining yourself to Shen. And as selfish as you were, you knew Jack needed the rest more than anyone else could've. For the sake of his job, of course. But as you drifted off and let your mind wander to every possibility of what your next shift could hold, you quickly realized you needed him well-rested.
You had a real goal now. A goal that involved him and proving you weren't the same amateur from eight years ago.
Dirty Little Secret | Peter Parker x Fem!Stark!Reader
Summary: Tony Starks daughter, Wanda’s powers (but purple), dating the new intern in secret. What could possibly go wrong when Clint falls through the vents right after you sneak in your secret boyfriend?
Peter Parker one shot inspired by the song, Dirty Little Secret by The All-American Rejects!
Warnings: None
WC: 1.9K
Masterlist!
“I’ll keep you my dirty little secret”
You dating the new intern was your biggest secret.
Your father was the one and only, infamous, genius, billionaire, Tony Stark, aka Iron Man.
Of course, you somehow managed to be kidnapped by Hydra and experimented on, giving you powers that, oddly enough, were just like Wanda’s, but purple.
Due to this, your father was the most over protective person in your life.
You went to Midtown High, and tried to live a semi normal lifestyle. Everyone knew you were Tony Stark’s daughter. Who didn’t?
What they didn’t know was that you had super powers.
That was just one of your secrets.
Your biggest secret was that you were dating the new intern at the tower.
You were shocked to see the boy in your chem class at the tower one morning. Your father introduced you two and made it clear to the Parker boy that you were ‘off limits’.
But, oh boy, could Peter not resist you.
It didn’t take long for him to find any excuse to be around you.
He was officially an Avenger now. Of course he had to check your room for any potential threats.
He was totally failing science. Of course he needed to study with you.
It didn’t take long for you to take a liking to the boy. But, you couldn’t date him. Your father would kill you. The rest of the team wouldn’t live it down. Your first boyfriend and it was the intern?
What you could do, was date him in secret.
You were perched on the edge of your bed, in your pajamas, rock music playing from one of your speakers.
You were busily tinkering with one of Peter’s web shooters. He accidentally broke it and totally couldn’t fix it on his own.
He’d have to come by your room that night to pick it up from you.
You jumped and gasped at the sound of something hitting your window.
You rose to your feet and drew back the curtain to reveal your boyfriend in his spider suit.
“Hi!” he beamed from outside, clinging to the window.
You chuckled and opened the window, shushing him. “Someone might hear!” you whisper shouted.
Your heart beat in excitement. There was something exhilarating about doing something you knew you’d be crucified for.
Peter climbed into your room with ease, shutting the window behind him. “No one ever hears,” he replied, taking his mask off.
His hair was an absolute mess. His eyes were bright and full of love. He placed a kiss to your check and smiled down at you. “Did you finish fixing the web shooter?” he asked curiously.
“No,” you sighed dramatically. “This is sooo hard to fix,” you said sarcastically.
Peter hummed and his hands found your waist. “Guess I’ll have to stay then.”
You looked up at him with loving eyes. “I guess so.”
Peter giggled as he pulled you in close for a kiss.
His lips were warm and soft against yours.
Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer.
You pushed him back gently, he stumbled back, legs hitting the edge of your bed. He sat on your bed, pulling you on top of him.
His hands roamed your hips and back as your lips moved in perfect harmony.
He pulled away briefly to admire your face. “Gosh, I love you,” he breathed out.
You smiled and ran your fingers through his hair. “I love you too.”
He smiled and pulled you in for another kiss.
Your hands found his chest and you pushed him back, so that you were both now lying down, you on top of him.
One of his gloved hands held your waist while the other roamed through your hair.
Suddenly, you swore you heard the sound of something in your ceiling.
You pulled away and Peter gave you a confused look. “Did you hear that?” you asked.
Peter blinked. “No. Just the music,” he replied.
“Edith, turn the music off, please,” you asked the artificial intelligence.
“Turning the music off Stark Jr.”
The music turned off and the room fell silent.
“Maybe it was the song,” Peter suggested, pulling you back in for another kiss.
You hummed against his lips, ignoring whatever it was you thought you heard.
Thud
You gasped at the loud thud in your room. You pulled away and looked to your bedroom floor.
None other than Clint was on the floor looking at you with a petrified expression.
“Clint?!” you shouted, nearly flying off of Peter. “I told you to stay out of the vents!”
Clint had a bad habit of hanging out in the vents, and of course he had to just fall out of the vent in your room.
Where you were making out with your super secret boyfriend.
Peter jumped out of your bed and stood beside you, looking guilty as hell.
Clint looked between you and Peter with his jaw dropped. “You’ve been kissing on the new intern?!” he exclaimed. “Ooo, I’m telling your daddy!”
Your eyes, as well as Peter’s, widened in horror. “No!” you both shouted.
Clint looked at you, amused. “Give me one good reason to not.”
“He’s gonna kill me!” you exclaimed. “Please, Clint! Be the cool uncle you are!”
Your father was the last person you needed to know about Peter.
Clint, sure.
Tony Stark? No way.
Clint shrugged. “That’s not a good reason. I don’t really care.”
Your jaw dropped, but before you could say anything, there was a knock at the door.
“Everything okay in there?” Natasha asked from outside.
Your eyes widened as Clint raced to the door to open it and show Natasha the scene that was unfolding. “No!” you exclaimed, sticking your hand out to throw Clint back, a purple mist covering him.
“Hey! Don’t use your powers on me you little witch!” he shouted, sliding across the floor.
Natasha furrowed her brows from outside. “Clint? What’s going on in there?”
“Nothing!” you told her.
“I’m coming in there,” she said, barging through the door.
The door flew open and she looked to see you, face flushed with embarrassment, and Clint lying on the floor.
No Peter in her eyesight.
“What is happening?” she asked, confused. “Why are you yelling?”
“Because he won’t stay out of the vents!” you said, pointing a finger at him.
Clint rose to his feet with a laugh. “Tell her what really happened.”
“It’s true!”
Clint shook his head. “No, she was making out with some boy,” he told Natasha dramatically.
You swallowed, hard, eyes darting to Natasha who blinked. “What boy? There’s no one in here.”
Clint furrowed his brows and looked around your room.
Peter was gone.
“What?!” Clint exclaimed. “He was just here!”
Clint ducked to look under your bed, marched to your closet and opened the door, even checked your bathroom.
No Peter.
You looked up at your ceiling slowly.
There, Peter clung to it, putting a finger to his lips.
Your eyes widened, praying no one would look up.
“He was here!” Clint defended himself. “I swear!”
Natasha looked at you with raised brows. You pulled your lips into a tight line. “Right…” she trailed off.
You screamed and jumped back, as Vision phased through the wall. “Vision! Use the door!” you ridiculed.
“My apologies Tiny Stark,” he said sheepishly. “I heard yelling. I was concerned.”
Clint marched over to Vision. “Hey, check this place out. She just had a boy in here.”
“Clint!”
Vision blinked in shock. “A boy? Who?”
“No one!”
“It was that-”
Clint couldn’t finish his sentence before Loki walked in with a loud, dramatic, groan. “Can you mortals stop bickering? It’s awfully annoying.”
“You!” Clint beamed, pointing a finger at Loki. “You use magic. Find the boy!”
Loki furrowed his brows. “What boy?”
“The one she snuck in here,” Clint replied.
Loki looked at you, knowing exactly where Peter was. Your eyes were full of worry as your shook your head at him, a silent plead to not expose you.
Loki smirked at you.
“You mean the intern on the ceiling?”
“Loki!!!” you shouted at him.
Everyone in the room looked up at the ceiling to see Peter clung to the wall, eyes wide in horror.
“Ha!” Clint exclaimed. “Told you!”
Vision tilted his head slightly. “Peter?”
“You’re dating the intern?!” Natasha asked excitedly.
“Did someone say that Parker kid’s name?”Footsteps in the hallway approached your room.
Sam and Bucky.
Just your luck.
“Aye!” Sam exclaimed. “Get your ass down!” he yelled at Peter.
Peter flipped off of the ceiling, landing on his feet. His face was red with embarrassment. This was not the way he wanted your family to find out you were dating him.
Bucky sucked his teeth, giving you a disappointed look. “The spider guy? Really?”
Sam shook his head and crossed his arms. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” he lectured Peter. “Sneaking in here at night. I always knew he was a bad influence,” he muttered under his breath.
You groaned and threw your head back. “Sam, please leave him alone.”
Louder footsteps boomed down the hallway, Thor appeared in the doorway with a box of Poptarts. “Hey, why didn’t anyone invite me to this party?”
His eyes scanned the room and he hummed in thought. “Why’s he here?” he asked, looking dead at Peter.
“He snuck in,” Bucky explained. “I say we kill him for it.”
“What?!” Peter exclaimed. “Kill me?” he repeated in horror.
Sam nodded slowly. “Yeah! Kill you!”
“No!” you shouted. “No killing people! No nothing! How about,” you proposed, voice leveled. “How about, we all leave my room and pretend none of this ever happened?”
“Or,” Loki proposed. “We tell your father. I’m sure he’d love to hear you snuck in the intern he forbade you from dating.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Or,” you began. “We kill you instead!”
“What happened to no killing?” Sam asked with a laugh.
Seconds later, Bruce and Wanda wandered in. “What the…” Bruce trailed off.
“Oh, hi, Peter,” Wanda waved at the boy.
Peter awkwardly put his hand up, keeping his head low sheepishly.
This was too awkward.
It was only a matter of time before your father found out.
“So…” Clint trailed off. “Who’s gonna tell Tony?”
“No one! Please!” you begged. “I’ll do extra chores for a month! A year! I’ll never move out for college! I’ll never play my music loud again! I’ll do anything, just don’t tell him!”
Clint raised his brows up in shock that you were willing to do such things. “Okay,” he agreed. “Extra chores for a month.”
“And you won’t tell my dad?”
Clint nodded. “I won’t. I pinky promise.”
“I’ll tell him,” Sam spoke up.
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why?”
“I just don’t like him,” he said, pointing a finger at Peter.
“What did I do?” Peter asked, genuinely confused as to the one sided beef between him, Sam, and Bucky.
“Because,” Bucky replied.
“That’s not even a reason!”
“Look,” Natasha spoke up. “No one is telling Tony anything. This stays between us. She’s old enough to kiss boys, who cares. If anyone says anything to Tony, you’re dead.”
You let out a sigh of relief.
Everyone feared Natasha.
Your father wouldn’t know.
“Too late, I already know.”
You all turned to your window, the curtains wide open.
Your father was in his suit, floating right in front of your window.
“Mr. Stark!” Peter exclaimed. “I can explain!”
“No,” Stark interrupted. “No need,” he said calmly.
Peter swallowed hard. “Does this mean I’m fired?”
“No,” Tony chuckled. Peter let out a sigh of relief. “It means you’re dead!”
He lifted his hand and aimed it at the window. He fired his repulsor right at the widow, Peter dodging it just in time.
You were going to need a new window, and maybe, a new boyfriend, by the end of this.
Summary ⟅ After falling in love with Peter, you accept that he just doesn't love you back, that is until he lets three words slip free during one of your hookups.
Peter Parker x fwb!Reader / ⟣ SMUT & ANGST/ 1.2k ⟢
Warnings: bnd!peter, no spoilers that aren't in the trailer, enhanced arachnid DNA!peter, friends with benefits, hurt no comfort (with possibilities of a comfort part 2?), smut, dom!peter, mentions of choking, belly bulge kink, multiple orgasms, creampie, slight praise, love confession, unrequited (but secretly requited) love, peter is stupid and sad
Lily's note — 🪷 guys do not put a sad man in front of me im so serious 😭😭😭 okay i will make a part 2 if this does well but also my next one will be peter full of joy and whimsy because i have hurt him far to much!
Every time Peter found his way into your bed, you promised yourself it would be the last time.
I’ll confess tomorrow, you lied to yourself, knowing that the minute he flashed you his pretty brown eyes and smile, you’d lose your courage.
When you first became entangled in this arrangement, you only possessed a small crush for your friend. You’d found each other at the perfect time in your lives, both of you seemingly at your lowest. He’d swung himself onto one of the highest corporate buildings in the city, shedding himself of his mask and unknowingly exposing himself to you, sitting on the edge of the roof with your legs dangling over the side.
He panicked, of course, until you merely turned away from him, uncaring for the superhero behind you.
Eventually he moved to sit beside you and the rest was history. You both found an unlikely friend in one another, spending your nights together just talking, then your days.
Beneath the melancholy he was funny, smart, and incredibly sweet—it was no surprise that the crush developed. But then your relationship did too one random night when the troubles of your lives felt like too heavy a burden.
You weren’t sure who leaned in first, or who took off whose top first. All you remembered was his body pressed to yours, his cock driving into you over and over again until you saw stars, dispelling any and all worries from your brain.
The new escalation occurred monthly in addition to your friendship. And each time it did, your affection for him deepened. But you’d noticed him start to pull away from the emotional aspect as of late.
He started having less time to hang out, and more time to fuck you. With the newest development of his enhanced arachnid DNA—something you realized made his appetite for sex significantly higher—the monthly hookups turned weekly, your feelings for him growing deeper with each intimate night.
It was when he visited you twice in one week where you decided you needed to confess to him your feelings, the post orgasm clarity a brutal knife twisting low in your belly.
You couldn’t keep pretending like everything was fine, not when you were falling in love with him, not when you wanted something he couldn’t give you.
You knew for sure it was one sided when he’d hastily pull on his clothes and escape back out the window instead of spending the night with you like he usually did, avoiding eye contact and stumbling out a mess of excuses as he did so.
It made you feel bitter, it made you question why he couldn’t love you the way you wanted him to, especially when everything had started off so well.
Today was the fifth day in a row he’d come over, seeking relief. You could tell he was becoming needier and needier as he struggled to learn how to cope with this new part of him judging by the way he drove his cock into the deepest parts of your cunt, his hips pushing you deeper into the mattress.
You’d already finished twice, your cries muffled first by his hand wrapped snug around your throat, and second by your face pushed into the sheets below you as he showed no signs of slowing down.
The one hundred eighty degree switch since he first started changing was mind numbing. In the beginning he always came so quickly, likely from all the sensory overload. But now? His stamina must’ve been evolving too.
He gripped the flesh of your ass in his hand, kneading the skin while his other smoothed down your arched back. “That’s my good girl, taking my cock so perfectly.”
You whined from the overstimulation, fisting the sheets in your tight grip. He dropped your hips to the mattress, pressing himself against your back. But it wasn’t enough, he needed more.
He rolled you onto your side with one arm snug around your waist, the other hooking under your knee to hike your leg up, spreading you open for him. He rutted into you with a newfound sense of urgency, his face buried deep in your neck.
All you could feel was him, overwhelmingly engulfed in just taking what he wanted to give you, your head spinning with a dizziness as he fucked you dumb.
“So good,” he gasped into your ear. He pressed his hand over your lower stomach, groaning when he felt the outline of his cock pushing through the surface. “O-Oh fuck, you feel that? So full of me…”
“S-So—nghh—f-full…”
You turned your head, seeking his pretty brown eyes for comfort, finding them and the whites of his eyes engulfed in a pool of darkness. Your lips parted to whimper at the sight until he swallowed it with his own, capturing your mouth in a searing, sloppy kiss.
He shoved his face back into your neck, his thrusts turning erratic, his breaths leaving him in frantic, sharp exhales.
You could feel his cock swelling in your ruined cunt and a second later, he stilled behind you. With a guttural groan, right before he dissolved into his release, the words spilled out, raw and vulnerable.
“I love you.”
He spilled into you, his cock shooting jets of warm cum deep inside as the blood rushed to your ears, filling them with a loud ringing.
You remained still as he filled you up, trying to decipher whether you’d heard him correctly or if the words were a figment of your imagination, something you conjured from the desperation of wanting your love for him to be requited.
As the last tremors of pleasure passed through him, he carefully pulled out. Not a second later his warmth was gone from behind you. You shivered, pulling the blanket to your chest, turning to watch him dress with a hollow ache settling in your stomach where he’d been.
He didn’t turn to look at you once.
“What was that?”
He paused, his hand slipped through the sleeves of his shirt, your voice startling him. “Hmm?”
He pulled it over his head, deflecting your question as your eyes burned into his side.
“Why’d you say that, Peter?”
He turned, a confused chuckle spilling from his lips, his eyes dim. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You said you love me…” you whispered, a hint of hope in your voice.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion when he spoke. “It was… the heat of the moment. You know how it is.”
You’d never felt a dread so vast engulf you. “W-What?”
He regretted looking at you the second his eyes met yours, filled with a painful devastation, all hope stripped away. His indifference faltered, his pupils blowing wide with panic at the sheer amount of hurt on your face.
“Peter,” your voice cracked. “I love you.”
He shook his head, glancing away. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yes I do!” you sobbed. “I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks but you… you keep pulling away from me. Every time I get close—”
“Look, I’m sorry,” he choked out, his own eyes turning glassy as he looked away, betraying the detachment he tried to put on. “But I don’t… I don’t feel the same way.”
“Well then why can’t you look at me?” you challenged through a trembling voice.
He stubbornly kept his gaze glued to the floor.
“Peter.”
He lifted them back to you, finding the tears in your eyes spilled over, streaming down your cheeks.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he lamented.
“Say it again… Tell me you love me back,” you pleaded.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, the words hollow. “I can’t”
“Why?” Your voice rose, bordering on hysteria.
“I just can’t!” he shouted back, his control finally snapping. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands, his chest heaving.
He did nothing to hide the sorrow on his face now, his expression contradicting the lies he spoke. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
“You’re not just hurting me,’ you murmured, the fight draining out of you. “You’re hurting yourself. You don’t have to, Peter… You don’t have to push me away. You’re allowed to be happy.”
He gave a mournful shake of his head, the words slipping from his lips, broken and final. “I’m sorry.”
He couldn’t bear to look at you anymore. He turned to the window, shoving it open, the city sounds rushing in.
Just as he placed his hands on the windowsill, seconds away from leaping out and away from the wreckage he’d caused, your voice came.
“Goodbye, Peter.”
His shoulders fell. He turned his head slowly, wanting to glance back at you one final time, but he knew if he did, he’d crumble.
Unknowing to him, you’d already turned away from him, sinking into your sheets, your eyes clenched shut. You heard the whip of his web, felt his energy dissipate from the room, leaving you alone with only the ghost of him as a memory.
