ktchie

[ktchie]

Good

Pairing: detective!joel miller x f!reader (one-shot)

Summary: Joel gives into his desires and shows you just how good he could be for you, more than anyone else. Including your husband.

Warnings: no outbreak au, language, infidelity, extreme obsessive/possessive behavior (like, stalkerish), male masturbation, smut (18+ MDNI), angst, reader has long-ish hair (unspecified length), reader wears lingerie, pussy pronouns, unprotected piv sex, oral (f!receiving), Joel Miller worships the ground you walk on, ending implies some dark!joel

WC: 6.7K

A/N: very loosely inspired by season 1 of True Detective because I was bored on bed rest and cooked this up after a rewatch.

Joel Miller considered himself a good man.

He paid his taxes. He called his mother once a week. He took a baby aspirin for his heart every night. He rarely lost his temper — which was a huge feat, considering his profession. He played by the rules. He joined the precinct when they invited him out for drinks. He always laughed, joked, bought a few rounds.

Overall, he was a decent, ordinary man.

Except for one huge, gut-wrenching flaw.

You.

He was hopelessly and devastatingly in love with you.

He realized it for a while, now. Maybe six or eight months ago.

Before that, it was just a harmless crush. One that made his heart flutter whenever he was invited over for dinner. But somewhere along the way, he found himself thinking about you more and more. The way you smell, the way you laugh, the way you got shy every time he complimented your cooking.

After one particular dinner where he had a glass too much to drink, he crossed a line. At least, to him, he crossed a line.

He went home that night and barely stumbled through his front door before pulling out his cock. He had been hard for over an hour and it was making him sick, but the second he wrapped his fist around his aching length, the only thing he could think about was you.

And he couldn't stop.

It felt too fucking good.

Imagining you touching him instead, moaning into his mouth, leaking all over his lap, fucking — begging for him to fill you up and make you feel good.

He made a mess of himself, standing hunched over in his hallway, one hand holding up his weight against the wall, the other furiously stroking his cock until he came all over his own hand. He stared at the floor, gasping for air, watching as a few pearly white drops splashed on the hardwood.

And he swore he would never do it again.

Except, he couldn't stop. And it filled him with guilt every single time, but he couldn't help himself. You were too beautiful and sweet and funny — the perfect woman.

The only problem was, you're his partner's wife.

Anthony. Tony. Joel's closest friend for the last two years.

When he was first paired with your husband, Joel dodged your invitations to dinner, but you were insistent. You wanted to meet the man who was protecting your husband every day. You wanted to put a face to the name. And after a few months, Joel couldn't come up with any more excuses. So, he showed up on your doorstep, clutching some inexpensive bouquet of flowers in his right hand.

The flowers were an afterthought, something he bought in a panic along the way when he remembered his mother scolding him when he was younger about never showing up empty handed to someone's house.

When you saw them, you lit up. You gushed over how much you adored white daisies, took his coat, pushed a bottle of beer into his hand, and made him feel right at home.

Month after month, Joel sat at your dinner table, learning everything about you. He especially loved the way you spoke about Pennsylvania, home, where you and Tony had lived before he got a promotion and uprooted your lives to move to Austin. You spoke about the winters and how you missed those the most.

You mentioned you got married young and didn't ever pursue a degree, so you ended up working odd jobs here and there. You mentioned finding a job as an assistant manager at a local grocery store.

Once Joel's crush became too unmanageable for just a monthly dinner, he sought you out at work. Your store wasn't near his home, but he went out of his way to do his shopping just on the chance he would run into you.

It was the first clue Joel was sinking in too deep, but he couldn't see it.

Some time after that, when Tony would leave for mysterious lunch appointments, Joel would reach across the desk and turn a framed photograph of you in his direction. On those days, he liked to pretend you were his. That you were looking at him behind the camera, smiling and laughing like he was the only man in the world.

He was always careful about putting it back before Tony returned.

When out working a case, he would ask Tony how you liked work, how you were adjusting to life in Austin, if you made any friends. Eventually, Tony laughed and asked why he was asking so many questions. So foolishly, Joel said the only thing he could think of — he wanted to be set up on a date with someone you knew.

It was a stupid idea. Joel hated every second of the date. Nina was nice, but she didn't hold a candle to you. She was too loud, too flirty, and couldn't hold her liquor. And she was oblivious to the fact that Joel's mind was completely fixated on you the entire time.

But one good thing that came from it was the first phone call he had with you.

After he blew Nina off for another date, you called him at home one night, taking him completely by surprise. His damn knees just about gave out from under him when he heard your sweet voice on the other end playfully scolding him for not calling Nina back.

"She's gorgeous, Joel! And she's got a great job."

Joel shrugged, stretching his legs out across his bed, leaning his back up against the headboard.

"No spark, darlin'."

"She's always talking about her dates at book club," you mused, "I figured she was exactly what a guy is looking for."

Joel chuckled.

"Ain't what I'm lookin' for."

"Oh. Well, tell me what you like in a woman and maybe I can find a better match."

He paused when you asked him that, unsure how to answer because the first thing that jumped to the tip of his tongue was you — I'm looking for you.

"Uh, well..." he stammered, "I like girls who are easy to talk to. Girls who don't ask me for the gory details of my job. Girls who don't mind if I gotta work late or break dates last minute if we catch a hot lead."

He heard you scoff on the other end of the phone and he thought he heard sheets rustling. For one blissful moment, he imagined you in bed, in a silky gown with a lace edge, and thinking about him.

"That last one is tough, but it comes with time," you sighed. "Like tonight. Tony told me about that drug bust he had to supervise downtown."

"Drug bust?"

Joel sat up straighter in bed. Tony never mentioned anything to him about a drug bust.

"Yeah. And I get that it's part of the job, but I made his favorite dinner to surprise him..." You trailed off while Joel's mind raced. "But it's fine. It'll heat up tomorrow just fine. It's... fine."

"Darlin'," Joel murmured, "you said fine three times."

You groaned and he found himself smiling at the frustrated little noise.

"Okay, maybe it's not fine now, but it'll be fine."

After that, Joel started to pay attention more. The late nights, the missing hours midday... it was one thing to not be able to have you so long as you were happy and being taken care of, but it was another to discover Tony was cheating on you.

You. Of all people in the world. What could Tony possibly find in someone else that you didn't already have?

After Tony had come into work for the third time that month in the same clothes as the day before, Joel had had enough.

"Late night?"

Tony raked his fingers through his hair as he collapsed into his ancient rolling chair. The brown tie around his neck looked stretched, his tan shirt wrinkled. He looked like a mess.

"Yeah. Workin' that, uh, that Carter case."

Joel nodded, pretending to look impressed. He began to click things on his computer so it looked nonchalant when he asked, "Where'd you end up?"

"Not far. I think we gotta run at the ex again."

Joel hummed, blood boiling when Tony's phone pinged and he picked it up with a loopy smile. But when he asked if it was you texting, Tony shook his head.

"Nah. Just — y'know."

Joel had to force himself to stand and walk away before he punched Tony in the throat.

A few days later, Tony confessed. He was seeing another woman named Melissa, an informant on a closed case. He promised it wasn't serious, that he was being careful, just blowing off some steam, but Joel didn't want to hear it.

You deserved better than that. Tony took you from everything and everyone you loved and he had the audacity to cheat on you?

It wasn't right. But it wasn't his place to get involved, either.

So months went by where Joel sat at your kitchen table, gazing at you adoringly over white daisies while you talked about work or some movie you had just seen or how you were interested in learning how to play piano while Tony texted Melissa under the table.

Around that time, the phone calls became more frequent.

He would call to ask if you made it home okay after work because he heard a radio call for an accident. Joel knew you were fine — he knew your car and knew your schedule, but it was an excuse to hear your voice.

One time he called to tell you a movie you mentioned wanting to see was on cable. That time, he ended up staying on the phone with you for two hours, laughing and gasping together as you watched.

The calls became a regular thing, and so did Tony's absence.

Joel told himself he was calling to distract you, but he knew deep down he was being selfish. He needed those calls more than you did.

It wasn't until much later when he would realize you never bothered to ask why Joel wasn't working late along with Tony. He was too happy to have those evenings with you to question it. He looked forward to them. He could talk to you for hours.

It was why he began showing up a little early to your monthly dinners. The moment he got off work, he would rush home to fix his hair, change into a fresh suit, and stop to examine every petal on every white daisy until he found the perfect bouquet to present you with. And you got along so well, it was no problem if Joel made it to your house before Tony some nights. It was easy to pass the time with you. And if you let him, he'd roll up his sleeves and help you make dinner.

It was never a problem. Joel sucked it up, bit his tongue, admired you from a distance and allowed himself to have his fantasies in private.

Until one night, everything changed.

---

"So what was wrong with this one, Miller?" you asked, biting into a carrot stick with one hand while the other stirred a pot of pasta.

"Nothin' wrong with her," Joel corrected, "Lori's nice 'n all, but..."

He sighed and set his knife down next to your cutting board so he can turn to look at you.

"You ever notice she grinds her teeth when she gets nervous?"

You made a face before bursting out laughing. The sound set his heart on fire.

"Oh, Joel..." you giggled, wiping your hands on your apron as you turned down the burner on the stovetop. "I'm starting to think there isn't a woman on earth who would make you happy."

"Yeah, there is."

The words flew out of his mouth before he could stop them. Before he had a chance to swallow them down and muster up some joke in their place.

Perhaps if anyone else had said those words, someone who hadn't been calling a married woman twice a week to talk about everything and nothing for hours, someone who didn't sit in the parking lot of your grocery store to make sure you made it home okay when you closed down, someone who didn't steal a picture of you from your husband's wallet — a picture he now carried in his own — then the words wouldn't have held as much weight as they did.

But you felt it. You both did. Because your smile faltered when you read the serious expression on his face. Your eyes widened and your perfect lips parted to suck in more air to steady your shaking hands.

With his heart hammering in his chest, Joel took a step forward. And it looked for a second like you might do the same, but then your phone rang, cutting the moment down at the legs.

You blinked, cleared your throat, and hurried over to the counter where your phone was plugged in.

"Hey, h-honey."

Joel dropped his chin to his chest with a sigh. He pulled his phone out of his pocket for something to do.

"Oh, that's a shame. What, uh... what happened?"

He loosened his tie as you spoke, staring blankly down at his phone and idly opening his messages. He blinked when he noticed one from Tony about an hour ago.

"That so?"

Your tone went flat, Joel heard it. At the same time, he read the missed text from your husband:

Sorry for the late notice buddy, but we're gonna have to take a rain check on dinner. Little lady isn't feeling too hot tonight.

It took him a second to catch up to the lie, but unfortunately, you beat him to it.

"Yeah, that's not a problem. I understand."

Then you turned to face him when you added: "Tell Joel I said hello."

You hung up the phone, pinning him with a hard look. He slipped his phone back into his pocket.

"What's—" But you cut him off before he even began.

"Tony said he's spending the night with you, but I think he meant to say Melissa."

Joel's heart jumped into his throat at the same time the pot of water began to boil over. He swiveled around, cursing under his breath to turn off the stove.

"I'm— I'm sorry," was all he could mumble before facing you again. Your eyes watered but you shrugged indifferently and crossed your arms.

"Before her, there was Beth," you said bluntly. Joel leaned against your counter, the edge digging into his spine, watching as you pretended to think. "Oh! And before her there was Annie. There might have been another one, too, but I couldn't prove—"

"Why'd you stay with him, then?"

Your mouth clamped shut. You tilted your head to the side with a sad grin.

"C'mon, Joel," you said softly, taking a step forward. Towards him. "You know as well as anyone how cops make it so damn difficult to leave."

His fingers curled around the edge of the counter, nails digging angrily into the wood.

"Is he—"

Joel exhaled shakily and bit the inside of his cheek before trying again.

"Does he — hurt you?"

You shook your head and his shoulders sagged with relief. You took another step.

"Threaten you?"

You paused and rolled your eyes up to the ceiling in thought.

"Not directly, no," you finally said. "But there's been implications. Certain things said a certain way. You know how it is."

Joel shook his head, jaw pulled tight. "No. I don't."

You gazed up into his stormy eyes, feeling the anger radiating off his body. Watching the way his muscles twitched with restraint underneath his shirt. How white his knuckles appeared as he gripped the counter.

"I guess it's just easier. If all I gotta deal with is some side piece of his now and again, is that so bad?"

Joel's nostrils flared. His pulse kicked faster in his throat.

He wasn't a man who lost his temper. And yet, in that moment, if Tony were to appear, Joel had no doubt in his mind that he would wring that man's neck.

"You don't deserve that," he grit out. "You shouldn't have'ta put up with anythin'. You-you're so fuckin'—"

Joel caught himself that time. He bit his tongue, swallowed down the words, dropped his head between his shoulders and stared at the floor.

You took one more step. Close enough now so he could smell your perfume. The one he spent two hours in a department store months ago trying to find so he could buy a bottle and spray it on his pillow at home.

"Joel?"

He swallowed tightly, took a deep breath, and forced himself to meet your eye.

"Yeah?"

Slowly, you reached out. One of your hands covered his. His breath hitched at the contact, at the way your thumb grazed over his knuckles.

"Why don't you like any of the girls I set you up with?" you asked.

The question took him aback. He tore his eyes off your hand to look at you again. He searched your face, noting the way your chest rose and fell slightly faster and how wide your pupils looked.

You knew.

His gaze softened, and so did his grip on your countertop.

"Don't ask questions you already know the answers to."

You exhaled, sounding relieved. You managed a nervous smile before stretching up onto your tiptoes and slowly, tenderly, brushing your lips against his own.

He couldn't move. Every muscle in his body was rigid. He couldn't even close his eyes. He just stood there, hands planted on the counter behind him, watching you peck feather-light kisses against his lips. He dreamed about that moment for so long and yet, he couldn't react. Not right away.

Then your hands drifted up to press against his chest. Your fingers roamed a little shakily across his shirt, like you were trying to map out what he looked like. His eyes fluttered closed and his stomach tightened, unable to stop himself from swelling up behind his zipper. His clothed cock twitched against your stomach and he heard you gasp before dragging your lips lower, brushing over his prickily jaw until you found a spot you liked on his neck.

He swallowed thickly, his whole body shaking with restraint the bolder you became. Your lips puckered over his skin and you began to suck a little mark there while your hands slowly drifted lower, only pausing when your fingers reached his belt.

"Wh- what're y'doin'?"

His voice sounded nothing like his own. It was deep and filled with need. He was breathing so fast, he felt lightheaded, and he was so fucking hard that it hurt, yet he still couldn't touch you.

You froze and smiled into his skin before leaning back ever so slightly. You made sure he was looking you right in the eye when you replied:

"Don't ask questions you already know the answers to."

Everything snapped. It happened so fast that it made you yelp in surprise.

He scooped you up, wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, and crashed his mouth hungrily over yours. One hand remained firmly planted on your ass, holding you up. The other got lost in your hair, keeping your head still so he could plunge his tongue impatiently past your lips.

Your arms eventually circled around his neck and you whimpered into his mouth, making him think you might have wanted this just as badly as he did. His mind was a blur, every neuron firing off at once now that he knew what it was like to hold you, kiss you, taste you... yet he still somehow managed to successfully carry you down the hall past your kitchen, where he knew your bedroom to be.

When you cracked an eye open, you loosened your grip around him and fell onto your bed. Neither of you realized how starved for oxygen you were until you finally broke the kiss and you each dragged in deep lungfuls of air.

"Y'sure 'bout this?" he asked, ripping off his tie as if it offended him. You grinned and sat up to slide your jeans down your legs.

"Fuck yes. Are you?"

Your mouth watered as he began to unbutton his shirt. The pull between your legs was almost uncomfortable at that point, so you squirmed a bit, pressing your thighs together as Joel shed his dress shirt.

"Oh, darlin'," he cooed, untucking his undershirt from his slacks. His eyes raked up and down your body, still clad in your underwear and blouse. "You got no fuckin' idea how bad I want this."

You exhaled with a smirk before grabbing the hem of your shirt and tugging it over your head. Joel's hands paused on his belt, mouth going dry when he saw the matching set of black lingerie you had chosen to wear. You seemed pleased with his reaction but a little shy. You pressed your lips together, fingers grazing over the lacy edge of your underwear.

"You like it?"

Joel made a pained noise from the back of his throat, blinked, and began working twice as fast to remove the rest of his clothes.

"Love it," he croaked, dropping his belt to the floor and unbuttoning his pants. "You look... Jesus Christ, I— I never th—"

You grinned and pushed yourself up so you were kneeling on the mattress in front of him. Your fingers toyed with the edge of his white shirt, lifting it just a bit while he stepped out of his pants.

"Never thought what?"

"Never thought you'd be wearin' somethin' like this..."

He trailed off again, his eyes still greedily taking you in.

You lifted his shirt up and he raised his arms, letting you pull it over his head.

"Do you want to know a secret, Joel?"

He nodded, jaw slack, staring at you like he were in a trance. You bit your lip coyly and whispered, "I always wear something special whenever you come over. Always."

"Y— you do?"

"Mhm," you hummed, sliding your palms over the softness of his stomach. "And I try to wear loose tops so when I bend over, you might see."

His eyes fluttered closed with a groan. Your fingers travelled higher, over the broad planes of his chest.

"Didn't — didn't wanna look," he confessed softly, "didn't w-wanna disrespect you."

"You're such a good man, Joel," you purred, hands curling around his shoulders.

"I try," he whispered, tipping his head back so you could suckle on the flushed skin of his throat.

"But can you do me a favor tonight?" you asked, your voice sounding so soft and needy in his ear. He nodded, biting back a curse when your tongue peeked out to taste him.

You tore yourself away and slipped both hands through the loose curls on the back of his head. His eyelids opened, only halfway, still heavy with lust.

"Can you show me how bad you want me?"

"Yes," he rasped without hesitation. "Yes. Christ, honey, I think 'bout it all the time—"

He brought his hands to your hips, marveling at the softness of your bare skin.

"Think about what?" you urged, nails gently scraping against his scalp. He licked his lips, watching his rough hands glide across your sides, your ass, your back.

"Think 'bout... what I would do if y'were mine. 'N not just this," he clarified quickly, eyes snapping up to yours before looking back down at your body. "I think 'bout it all. Think 'bout takin' you to run errands, takin' trips together, celebratin' birthdays and holidays..."

His hand drfited up your arm and he gently pulled one of your hands free from his hair so you could lace your fingers together. He stared at the way your hands looked interlocked before pressing a kiss against each one of your fingers.

"Oh, Joel," you sighed, "I think about that, too. When I close my eyes at night, I pretend it's you sleeping next to me instead of—"

You stopped yourself from saying your husband's name out loud, but it wouldn't have mattered to Joel if you did. Tony stopped mattering to him twenty minutes ago. Now, his entire focus was firmly on you and you alone.

Nothing else mattered. Nothing.

"Don't worry," he murmured, then pressed a firm kiss to your lips while gently pushing you backwards. Your spine softened and you let him lower you carefully onto the mattress, his lips never leaving yours the entire time.

When you were laying flat, all sprawled out underneath him, hand still locked with his, he broke the kiss and looked down at you.

"You don't gotta pretend for long. I'll make it happen, baby. We'll be together, okay?"

Confusion flickered across your face for a moment, like you wanted to ask how, but you didn't. You trusted him. So you nodded obediently with a sweet smile.

"Make me yours, Joel."

Fuck, it felt like a dream to hear those words come from your mouth. He knew in that moment that he would do anything he had to — anything — to follow through with his promise.

He smiled, kissed the tip of your nose, then ventured lower. His lips grazed your chest, traced his tongue over the swell of your breasts spilling over the cups of your bra, and continued downward. Soft kisses were peppered down your stomach until he reached the band of your panties. His eyes flickered up to yours once, briefly, before releasing your hand. His fingers curled around the lace, tugging them down slowly until they slid down to your ankles. You wiggled your feet and let them fall to the floor with your other discarded clothes.

His palms slid over your thighs, gently prying them apart and pressing them into the mattress. He heard your breath stutter when your pussy was finally exposed to him.

"Oh, fuck," he moaned, fixated on the way you glistened, just for him. "You're so pretty. So, so pretty." His chest heaved as he stared between your legs, mania slowly curling around his brain with each passing second. "Can I— can I kiss her, baby? Can I taste her?"

"Yes," you breathed, squirming a little under his intense gaze. "Yes, please Joel, please—"

He didn't need to be told twice. He dropped his shoulders between your thighs, settling in, and suctioned his mouth around your pussy. You gasped at the contact and your back arched off the bed for a moment until you relaxed with a sigh. His kisses were messy. Loud. His tongue licked at you, diving between your folds and lapping up your arousal.

It was easy to sense his eagerness through his actions. Like he longed for you, longed for all of you. Like his only purpose on earth was to take care of you. Every lick and kiss and moan drove the point home — his, his, his.

He didn't tease you. Not that time. He wanted you too badly, and he had waited for so long. He was so patient and good, but he reached his limit.

Once he felt your muscles tense and your back arch off the bed, he didn't stop. He kept going, kept devouring, tongue merciless against your clit until you cried out his name, coming so hard that your vision blurred and you broke out into a light sweat.

"Good," he gasped, pressing a breathless kiss to the inside of your thigh. You trembled like a leaf under him. His eyes closed for a moment as he caught his breath. "Good girl. Did so good f'me. Feel good?"

"God, Joel," you moaned, voice cracking as you raked a hand through your own hair and took a deep breath. He grinned when you said, "You're fucking amazing at that. Holy shit..."

That's all he wanted. He wanted to make you happy, make you feel loved the way you deserved.

He was going to give you a break. You looked spent and loose, all spread out over your bed. He didn't want to rush, but the dark spot in his boxers was spreading, and his stomach ached from how hard he was.

As if you read his mind, your eyes fluttered open with a lazy smile. You reached behind you, unclasped your bra, and tossed it with a giggle over your head. Joel laughed, then brought a hand up to cup your bare breast. You bit your bottom lip and arched into his touch, moaning softly when his thumb toyed with your nipple.

"Fuck me, Joel," you whispered, sighing when the warmth of his mouth enveloped your breast. The tip of his tongue flicked teasingly over your nipple before paying the same attention to the other one.

"Yeah? You want it?" he asked, grinning like a fool when your fingers plucked hastily at the band of his boxers.

"Please," you begged. The sound made his knees weak.

"Okay," he breathed, pushing his boxers down his legs. "Okay, darlin'. I'll give you anythin' you want."

As he was dragging the head of his cock through your slit, in the back of his mind he knew he should ask if he should use protection. It would have been the right thing to do.

But he was sick of always doing the right thing.

And he was desperate to feel you. Really feel all of you.

So he pressed inside, parting your walls with a groan. He was still in disbelief that it was actually happening, and you felt so much better than he ever imagined. You were so warm and wet, your cunt fluttered perfectly around him, welcoming every inch of him inside while you babbled a slew of curses and gasps until his hips grew flush with yours.

He felt delirious, like he was losing all semblance of control. All of his wildest dreams suddenly came true and it was overwhelming. You wrapped your arms and legs around him, pulling him close so you could pepper kisses along his jaw while he struggled to collect himself.

He was utterly drowning in you. In your scent, in your warmth — he could still taste you on his tongue.

And you were perfect.

"Are you okay?" you asked.

You looked so sweet lying underneath him like that, stuffed full of his cock with your eyes wide and lips parted, looking at him like he was the answer to all your prayers.

"Yeah," he breathed, the corner of his mouth turning up into a little smile. He brushed a piece of hair off your cheek. "Just — can't believe how lucky I am."

You grinned and combed your fingers through his curls. His eyelids fluttered for a moment, the drag of your nails against his scalp sending a shiver down his spine.

"Thought you might be having second thoughts."

His eyes flew open and his smile fell.

"No," he said seriously. "Never. I would —"

Joel pulled back his hips until just the tip of his cock remained inside you. When he pushed back in, slowly, he watched with pride as your mouth fell open.

"— never have second thoughts. Y'hear me?"

You nodded with a whimper, the stretch of him splitting you open taking your breath away.

Second thoughts. How absurd.

"Now that I know what you feel like," he murmured, soft lips grazing lazily over yours as he began to move, pumping in and out of you just a little faster and finding a rhythm. "I ain't ever gonna let you go, baby. Never gonna get rid of me. Fuck — too fuckin' sweet for your own good, y'know that?"

You clawed at his back, nails leaving red trails in their wake. His cock felt so heavy and full inside of you, every thrust took you apart just to make you whole again a moment later. The way you fit together so perfectly had you thinking crazy thoughts, like maybe, just maybe, Joel would find a way to make this work.

"Feel how good that is? Huh?" he groaned, skin slapping steadily now that he found a pace he liked.

"Yes," you gasped, tilting your head back into the mattress. You hooked your ankles over the backs of his thighs for leverage so you could bring your hips up to match his rhythm. "Oh, god, Joel — just like that. Right there."

His lips suctioned to a spot on your neck, pulling at the skin to leave a bruise. He didn't care if Tony saw and neither did you.

"Can't get enough of you," he panted into your skin. Then he unhooked one of your legs from his waist so he could press it into the mattress, spreading your hips wider. You cried out at the angle — he was impossibly deep, and the way he rolled his hips to make sure he reached the spot that caused your eyes to roll to the back of your head had your stomach muscles pulling tight.

"J-Joel, I'm— I'm gonna—"

"Wait," he gasped, pulling out of you with a groan. You whined pathetically at the loss and tears welled up in your eyes. For a second, he thought his heart might break. He never, ever wanted to be the reason for your tears.

"'M sorry," he murmured, leaning back to sit on his knees. His cock twitched angrily when he saw your stretched out pussy clenching around nothing, beckoning him back in. He swallowed, took a deep breath, and pushed a hand through his messy hair.

"Turn around for me?" he asked with a tremble to his voice. Your eyes widened and you nodded, eagerly jumping to your hands and knees. He moaned at the sight of your ass in the air and at the arousal dripping down your inner thigh. He crawled forward and caressed your hip, admiring you for just a moment longer before notching himself at your entrance and easing back inside.

You inhaled sharply and curved your spine, taking him beautifully and giving him exactly what he wanted — what he needed.

"Shit," he growled, "look so good like this." His hips started to snap against your ass, picking up right where he left off. Your whines got more high pitched the faster he moved and it was making him insane. He tilted his chin towards the ceiling and closed his eyes. You felt so fucking good all wrapped around him, so tight and needy. There was nothing in the world that would make him stop loving you.

He hadn't realized how hard he was fucking you until you fell forward onto your elbows, shaking him out of his haze. He peeled his eyes open just to be met with his own reflection: across the bed was a dresser with a mirror, something he hadn't noticed at first.

And what he saw changed something within him.

He looked crazed. His eyes were heavy and dark, hair disheveled, chest and neck flushed. He could see the muscles in his arms twitching every time he slammed into you.

You.

Fuck... you looked — wrecked. Your eyes were squeezed shut, brows pinched and mouth agape as he pounded into you from behind. Your body jolted with each thrust, your hands curled into fists, and it was absolutely beautiful.

Before he had a chance to think, Joel reached down and gently took you by the chin. Your eyes flew open in surprise, instantly finding his in the mirror. He grinned, never slowing down.

"Don't we look good, baby?"

You moaned and nodded, mouth still hanging open to drag in more air. And it was fucking perfect until Joel's gaze dropped to the framed photo of your wedding day sitting on top of your dresser.

He frowned slightly for a moment, then shook it off.

Joel was a good man. Mild mannered. Polite. He always tried to do the right thing. But in that moment, something changed.

"You're mine," he growled, the possessiveness in his own voice giving him the chills. You nodded obediently and he released your jaw. "After this," he panted, "he doesn't get to touch you. Kiss you. Fuck you. Understand?"

"Yes," you gasped, then your head fell to hang between your shoulders. You were holding on by a thread and it filled him with a sick sense of pride. It had the heat rising to his cheeks and his hips stuttering with the need to let go, but you needed to come first.

You would always come first with him, in every way.

His hand slid between your legs, two fingers locating your clit with precision. He began to rub firm, quick circles, making you gasp and buck wildly underneath him.

"Don't stop," you begged, rolling your hips back to match his pace. Between your shaky thighs and ragged breaths, he could tell you were close — right on the edge. You threw your head back and moaned while pleading with him to keep going, keep going.

"I gotcha," he said through clenched teeth. His wrist kept snapping between your legs, playing with your clit while simultaneously slamming into you from behind, splitting you open and carving a spot within you forever.

"Joel..." you whimpered, upper body going lax. "O-Oh fuck— Joel—"

"Let go," he urged, fighting back his own desperation to come. He blinked away the sweat that dripped down from his forehead. "C'mon, baby, I'll catch you."

Finally, with a soft cry, you came. Your pussy clenched around him over and over, each tight squeeze making him see stars. He murmured quiet praises in your ear the whole time. He told you how good you felt, how beautiful you were, how he had been dreaming about that moment for almost a year — he repeated sweet words over and over until he couldn't hold back any longer.

With one final thrust, he grabbed hold of your hips and came with a rough groan ripping from his chest. He knew he should have asked or pulled out, but the rabid urge to mark you, to have a part of him leaking out of you for the next day or so was too strong to ignore.

Fortunately, you didn't seem to mind. In fact, you welcomed it with a lazy smile as he pumped you full of his seed until he collapsed on the bed, pulling you with him. He held you close, your back pressed to his chest, while you quietly caught your breath together. When your skin cooled and you shivered a bit in his arms, he tugged a blanket over you both, all while still plugging you with his cock.

"Joel?"

He hummed and with his eyes closed, pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder.

"Thank you," you whispered softly.

"F'what?" he mumbled.

"For... making me feel wanted again."

"Oh, darlin'," he cooed with another kiss, "I more than just want you."

Your silence in return had him cracking open one eye. He lovingly traced a circle into your arm with his thumb when he asked, "You alright?"

"Yeah," you breathed, then shifted a bit against him, pressing yourself deeper into his hold. But it wasn't enough.

"Did you—"

Joel swallowed nervously and took a deep breath before trying again.

"Did you do this just to get back at him?"

"No," you said quickly. You twisted around in his arms and he hissed when his softening cock slipped out of you. Then you cupped his cheek with a sweet smile. "No. I meant what I said."

He grinned with relief as you stifled a yawn.

"Good."

You closed your eyes and pushed your face into his chest, seeking out his warmth.

"How are we gonna make this work, Joel?"

You sounded so sleepy but so hopeful at the same time. He sighed and patted down your hair, then tenderly kissed your forehead.

"I told you," he said, "I'll do whatever I gotta do."

He sensed your curiosity but once again, you didn't ask him to elaborate. It was for the best that way. You shouldn't know what lengths he was willing to go to in order to have you all to himself. It might scare you. Hell, oftentimes it scared him. But as you drifted off to sleep, Joel told himself people do crazy things for love, and this would be no exception.

After all, he was a good man. Nobody would ever suspect a thing.

Please follow @punkshort-notifs and turn on notifications for fic updates ❤️

[ktchie]

ok but id seen a post where someone pointed out that since Jack works nights he prob is up to date with the gen-z lingo and I'd love if he was as chronically online as Shawn is lmao

"that’s big yikes, man."

the fingers flying over your keyboard freeze. when you look at ellis, she’s already looking back at you, and the both of you share an expression of furrowed eyebrows and frowns before shifting your stares to jack. the attending doesn’t notice the attention on him as he fiddles with something on the tablet in his hand.

you wait and wait for him to turn and elaborate… explain himself… something. no such thing happens.

finally, you sigh. “what was that, jack?”

the man clears his throat, setting down his device and flicking his eyes to you. “just got the x-rays back for the cyclist in 17. guy cracked his fibula in three different places. go ahead and call for an escort upstairs, let ortho cook…”

you blink, slowly rising from your seat and shuffling to stand in front of jack. he laughs a little, squinting when you yank your pen light from your pocket and shine it into his eyes.

“hell are you doing?”

“making sure you aren’t dying of a stroke,” you answer, and abbot chuckles again. “are you okay? did you not eat that protein bar i gave you?”

“i did. thank you, baby,” jack places a sweet hand at your elbow, rubbing his thumb across the skin and leaning to peck your cheek. “it was bussin’.”

you pivot to ellis with bewildered eyes, and she’s shaking with a round of cackles as she hurries to search for shen. mumbling something about how he needs to see this, the senior resident flutters away in search of the other attending.

you just barely stop the stunned laugh that bubbles from you, covering your mouth with a few fingers as you squint at your husband.

“...baby?”

“yes, queen?”

you try to pull away from jack with a funny looking grimace but he hooks an arm around your waist and tugs you back toward him. with a dipped hand, the man smirks.

“you have to stop. who the fuck even has you talking like that?”

“that kid who needed stitches on his eyebrow–uh, darius–taught me a whooole new dictionary of stuff the other night,” jack finally reveals. “thought i’d try some of it out. you know, connect with the youth.”

“that’s literally the last thing i need you doing, my love,” you stroke the stubble on his cheek before making your way back to the half finished chart on your computer screen. “remember, i like that you’re an old man.”

palms on the counter of the hub, jack studies you. swallowing down a sharp laugh and naughty smirk, he clears his throat and throws on a faux expression of hurt.

“‘f you really don’t like it, guess i’ll just have to take the l and move on.”

“jack!”

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[ktchie]

Frank seeing you wearing HIS scrub top in the morning of your day off. Yea you have your own but he sees you wearing his by the kitchen counter as you prepare breakfast

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 – 𝐟. 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐧 (𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝟏𝟖+) | hopping on the francis train with @ovaryacted! all aboard! he's sooo ugh. thank anon, for sending this in cause i'm thinking about him very hard. warnings for this one include: smut, language, unprotected sex, creampies, bodily fluids (mentioned), sex in the kitchen, undefined relationships, langdon being a fucking menace but also down bad for you, cooking (mentioned), me trying to use religious imagery (?) (@stellamarielu your turn 🫵🏾) w/c: 1.2k

“Frankie, the eggs–”

“Fuck the eggs,” he mumbles, the baritone of his voice a little thicker than usual thanks to the hours of well-earned rest. The man had slept like a rock next to you for most of the night, snoring off the exhaustion from his latest shift and how deep he’d fucked you in his bed afterward. One might think that Frank had satisfied his taste of you yesterday with the way he was babbling away in your ear while plowing into you from behind. This morning proves that fact is anything but the case.

Frank’s got his face buried into the skin of your neck, mouth attached and licking like you’re made of sugar. A groping tug at your sides drags you closer to him, and the cooling pan on yolk to your right is becoming but a distant recollection. He drags the kisses, wetting the skin from the dip of your shoulder to your jaw with thick laps of his tongue, and mewls with a little shudder at the way you tug his hair when his mouth slides back against yours.

When Langdon pulls away, it’s with a gentle grab of your bottom lip between his teeth. He has to smirk a little at how your eyes try to roll, and playfully nips the plush one last time before releasing the flesh.

“Fuck those eggs, turn around,” he breathes out, not waiting for you to respond before spinning you himself and pressing you into the nearest counter. Bunching up the fabric of his shirt–his fucking scrubs–he yanks it over your hips and pauses to throw his head back with a painful-sounding groan at the thong you’re wearing. It’s tiny and a shade pretty of aegean and finishes pumping his cock to a full length that bulges through the tight white of his underwear. “Christ, you’re fucking perfect.”

Frank’s compliment seeps out of him like a prayer, and he’s going to fuck you like you’re divinty itself.

He’s thick and aching as he sinks into you, and you can only whimper and grip the countertop as he clutches you with a crave-drive desperation. Frank’s thrusts start right away, his good friend impatience taking over to have its way with the man. Eyes clenching, he bends into a close hunch with a smushing of his front into you, your name tumbling from his lips in a way comparable to asking for forgiveness.

“Shit, Frankie…”

The falling of his name out of you forces Frank to grunt. Strings of his hair bounce in his face as he pumps himself into you, and both of your foreheads are starting to shine with a layer of sweat.

“Gonna let me come inside you this time?” Langdon questions, words uneven and mostly breath as his cock rams inside your pussy. Pulling back, he lowers his chin to his chest to watch the way you’re starting to cream around him, and the noise he makes has the audacity to fucking echo thanks to the steel appliances of the room.“Can even think of it as a–mmm–a souvenir, ‘f you want… n-nice little keepsake to remember me by ‘til you come back over tonight, and I get to–fuck–fuck‘til you’re seein’ five of me.”

Soon enough, you’re halfway folded onto the counter, and Frank’s already close.

His shirt. You were wearing his shirt, his goddamn scrubs, plus a thong in a shade of blue most people don’t know the name of while making him breakfast even though it’s your day off. And now, you’re letting him fuck you raw on his counter in the garment and drenching his cock in a mess that’s already running down to his balls.

“Oh, my God,” you’re forced to croak out when Frank quickens his pace, and you don’t have to see him to know what expression is gracing his face. You’ve seen it more than you thought you would when you’d started your residency at the PTMC; the hazy-eyes and glistening forehead. Browline pinched and jaw dropped like he’s closer to tears than he’ll ever admit. “How am I so fucking wet already? Jesus…”

Frank exhales with a laugh, not bothering to move the hair that’s starting to stick above his eyes. Steady in his pounding, he smirks.

“Oh, that’s just the Frankie Affect, sugar,” the man boasts, using the shirt he’s gripping to rut you back onto his cock, and you’d roll your eyes in annoyance if his tip wasn’t thwacking against your spot every two seconds. You can tell he wants to keep joking but a throaty moan interrupts him. Good.

“Gonna need an answer to that question soon,” Frank heaves, flushed cheeks puffing with the blow of a quick breath. “Very, very soon, darlin’.”

It takes you more than one attempt to answer him, as a wail beats your words every time you open your mouth. Core flooding with a pooling heat, you can just barely squeak out your repeated response of yes.

That’s all you manage to get out, mouth falling open in a silent scream when Frank’s waist surges with a new sense of drive. His thrusts grow sloppy as he starts to chase it, broken moans streaming from the man while you join him in a wash of unruly cries.

“Mmhm?” He checks one last time, his legs starting a shake he knows is only going to get worse. One last nod from you is all it takes for him to grit his teeth, keeping his angle perfect long enough for you to start squelching out your orgasm around his cock.

“That’s it,” Frank purrs out, squishing you in between himself and the counter, arms wrapping you in a strong embrace as you tremble powerless against him. “Mmm, right there… fuuuck, just like that.”

When Frank comes, it ruins him. At least, that’s what it sounds like.

He stiffens and holds you tighter, sobs falling loud upon your ears as he explodes inside you. You’re flooded with rope after rope of his thick spend, his hands disoriented and unsure which part of you they want to grab. Frank bawls your name, slurring out unintelligible stammers of unashamed curses while his sack pulses with mind-numbing twitches.

“Holy fu…,” Langdon whispers loudly with a few hitches inhales, remaining pressed into you as your hole milks him stupid. “You cannot be real.”

When you shake with a short but spent giggle, Frank nearly growls at you to not do that until he pulls out or he might faint.

Once his breath finally returns, Frank slides from you slow. His lips almost quirk up at the whimper he hears from you. Peeking down, he sniffs at the way some of his cum spills back out of you, painting his cock with a pretty pearl hue. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you nod, twisting to pull Langdon into a tender peck. He stops you when you pull away, grabbing your chin and kissing you once more, letting it linger until he’s satisfied. “Except for the fact that now I wanna shower but I don’t think my legs will let me make it there without giving out first.”

Face brightening with a grin, Frank loops an arm around you.

“Another ramification of the Frank Affect–”

You shut Frank up with a finger to his lips and shake your head.

“Mm-mm,” you hum out, and he ignores the urge to bite your finger, smiling wider.

“What? It’s a real thing! You just experienced it firsthand–”

“Stop while you’re ahead, Francis…”

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[ktchie]

Frank seeing you wearing HIS scrub top in the morning of your day off. Yea you have your own but he sees you wearing his by the kitchen counter as you prepare breakfast

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 – 𝐟. 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐧 (𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝟏𝟖+) | hopping on the francis train with @ovaryacted! all aboard! he's sooo ugh. thank anon, for sending this in cause i'm thinking about him very hard. warnings for this one include: smut, language, unprotected sex, creampies, bodily fluids (mentioned), sex in the kitchen, undefined relationships, langdon being a fucking menace but also down bad for you, cooking (mentioned), me trying to use religious imagery (?) (@stellamarielu your turn 🫵🏾) w/c: 1.2k

“Frankie, the eggs–”

“Fuck the eggs,” he mumbles, the baritone of his voice a little thicker than usual thanks to the hours of well-earned rest. The man had slept like a rock next to you for most of the night, snoring off the exhaustion from his latest shift and how deep he’d fucked you in his bed afterward. One might think that Frank had satisfied his taste of you yesterday with the way he was babbling away in your ear while plowing into you from behind. This morning proves that fact is anything but the case.

Frank’s got his face buried into the skin of your neck, mouth attached and licking like you’re made of sugar. A groping tug at your sides drags you closer to him, and the cooling pan on yolk to your right is becoming but a distant recollection. He drags the kisses, wetting the skin from the dip of your shoulder to your jaw with thick laps of his tongue, and mewls with a little shudder at the way you tug his hair when his mouth slides back against yours.

When Langdon pulls away, it’s with a gentle grab of your bottom lip between his teeth. He has to smirk a little at how your eyes try to roll, and playfully nips the plush one last time before releasing the flesh.

“Fuck those eggs, turn around,” he breathes out, not waiting for you to respond before spinning you himself and pressing you into the nearest counter. Bunching up the fabric of his shirt–his fucking scrubs–he yanks it over your hips and pauses to throw his head back with a painful-sounding groan at the thong you’re wearing. It’s tiny and a shade pretty of aegean and finishes pumping his cock to a full length that bulges through the tight white of his underwear. “Christ, you’re fucking perfect.”

Frank’s compliment seeps out of him like a prayer, and he’s going to fuck you like you’re divinty itself.

He’s thick and aching as he sinks into you, and you can only whimper and grip the countertop as he clutches you with a crave-drive desperation. Frank’s thrusts start right away, his good friend impatience taking over to have its way with the man. Eyes clenching, he bends into a close hunch with a smushing of his front into you, your name tumbling from his lips in a way comparable to asking for forgiveness.

“Shit, Frankie…”

The falling of his name out of you forces Frank to grunt. Strings of his hair bounce in his face as he pumps himself into you, and both of your foreheads are starting to shine with a layer of sweat.

“Gonna let me come inside you this time?” Langdon questions, words uneven and mostly breath as his cock rams inside your pussy. Pulling back, he lowers his chin to his chest to watch the way you’re starting to cream around him, and the noise he makes has the audacity to fucking echo thanks to the steel appliances of the room.“Can even think of it as a–mmm–a souvenir, ‘f you want… n-nice little keepsake to remember me by ‘til you come back over tonight, and I get to–fuck–fuck‘til you’re seein’ five of me.”

Soon enough, you’re halfway folded onto the counter, and Frank’s already close.

His shirt. You were wearing his shirt, his goddamn scrubs, plus a thong in a shade of blue most people don’t know the name of while making him breakfast even though it’s your day off. And now, you’re letting him fuck you raw on his counter in the garment and drenching his cock in a mess that’s already running down to his balls.

“Oh, my God,” you’re forced to croak out when Frank quickens his pace, and you don’t have to see him to know what expression is gracing his face. You’ve seen it more than you thought you would when you’d started your residency at the PTMC; the hazy-eyes and glistening forehead. Browline pinched and jaw dropped like he’s closer to tears than he’ll ever admit. “How am I so fucking wet already? Jesus…”

Frank exhales with a laugh, not bothering to move the hair that’s starting to stick above his eyes. Steady in his pounding, he smirks.

“Oh, that’s just the Frankie Affect, sugar,” the man boasts, using the shirt he’s gripping to rut you back onto his cock, and you’d roll your eyes in annoyance if his tip wasn’t thwacking against your spot every two seconds. You can tell he wants to keep joking but a throaty moan interrupts him. Good.

“Gonna need an answer to that question soon,” Frank heaves, flushed cheeks puffing with the blow of a quick breath. “Very, very soon, darlin’.”

It takes you more than one attempt to answer him, as a wail beats your words every time you open your mouth. Core flooding with a pooling heat, you can just barely squeak out your repeated response of yes.

That’s all you manage to get out, mouth falling open in a silent scream when Frank’s waist surges with a new sense of drive. His thrusts grow sloppy as he starts to chase it, broken moans streaming from the man while you join him in a wash of unruly cries.

“Mmhm?” He checks one last time, his legs starting a shake he knows is only going to get worse. One last nod from you is all it takes for him to grit his teeth, keeping his angle perfect long enough for you to start squelching out your orgasm around his cock.

“That’s it,” Frank purrs out, squishing you in between himself and the counter, arms wrapping you in a strong embrace as you tremble powerless against him. “Mmm, right there… fuuuck, just like that.”

When Frank comes, it ruins him. At least, that’s what it sounds like.

He stiffens and holds you tighter, sobs falling loud upon your ears as he explodes inside you. You’re flooded with rope after rope of his thick spend, his hands disoriented and unsure which part of you they want to grab. Frank bawls your name, slurring out unintelligible stammers of unashamed curses while his sack pulses with mind-numbing twitches.

“Holy fu…,” Langdon whispers loudly with a few hitches inhales, remaining pressed into you as your hole milks him stupid. “You cannot be real.”

When you shake with a short but spent giggle, Frank nearly growls at you to not do that until he pulls out or he might faint.

Once his breath finally returns, Frank slides from you slow. His lips almost quirk up at the whimper he hears from you. Peeking down, he sniffs at the way some of his cum spills back out of you, painting his cock with a pretty pearl hue. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you nod, twisting to pull Langdon into a tender peck. He stops you when you pull away, grabbing your chin and kissing you once more, letting it linger until he’s satisfied. “Except for the fact that now I wanna shower but I don’t think my legs will let me make it there without giving out first.”

Face brightening with a grin, Frank loops an arm around you.

“Another ramification of the Frank Affect–”

You shut Frank up with a finger to his lips and shake your head.

“Mm-mm,” you hum out, and he ignores the urge to bite your finger, smiling wider.

“What? It’s a real thing! You just experienced it firsthand–”

“Stop while you’re ahead, Francis…”

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[ktchie]

Tying a pretty lil pink ribbon around Abbot’s biceps <3 yes they’re just so scrummy!!! Maybe around both his wrists if the mood takes me :3

let's give him some credit... jack's trying. he really is.

...but the man is five seconds away from ripping this damn ribbon into broken strings of nothing with the way you're humping against his bulge. he's rock fucking solid and leaking a god damn lake through the tip of his cock, and there you are–agonizingly gorgeous... biting your lip through a smile at how pretty the pink looks against his skin.

"look..." jack starts, pausing to swallow because fuuuck. "i know you're havin' fun and all, but if you keep rocking against me like that, i'm gonna blow a blood vessel, sugar."

"i'd rather you blow a load inside me instead."

you're reply edges with a tease that he usually rejoices in. now, however, all it does is remind him of how many times you've slipped him in and out of you at a speed that feels quicker than light.

"oh, yeah?"

two words... those two words are all it takes for him to snap the cheap silk and grab you with rough palms. you squeal out a laugh but it softens into a long curse when jack spins you faster than you thought he was capable of and slicks himself inside you from behind.

“much better,” he groans aloud as his entire body sags onto yours. jack immediatley sets about with a weighty shove of his hips that causes your eyes to start watering. his chin finds home on your shoulder just in time for you to feel the hot breath that puffs out when he tells you, “that’s more like it, baby. s’posed to be nice and deep inside this pretty hole, not playing games… we both deserve better than that, don’t you think?”

a inkling of you questions how the fuck jack is still able to form complete sentences because you’d think he’d be closer to your state; sobbing and failing in your quest of trying not to drool all over the pillow beneath your head as he rails into you.

he’s relentless. keeping steady in the strike of the head of his cock into the deepest parts of you. arms trapping your figure and hips smacking messily against yours, jack’s eyes roll as he finally pleases the ache that’s been torturing the two of you since you looped the mediocre knot around his wrists.

“jesus, that feels good… so fuckin’ good…” he trails off, sinking into you in perfect time with the claps against your ass. 

“f-fuck, jack–”

“i know. i know, doll. lemme milk one out, then i’ll eat you nice and good, okay?” he murmurs, voice dripping with sweet, a gentle shush pushing from his lips when you whine. “ah, none of that, baby, ‘m just doing what you wanted, right? for me to blow my load instead of a vessel?”

is that what you said? you can’t remember–and don’t care that you can’t remember–because jack’s pounding into you with grunts that tell you he’s already closer than close. you’re pulsing and squelching with each flick of his hips, creaming a mess he’s itching to clean up with his tongue. like jack said, he’ll fuck you full and trap you to his mouth until you’re crying. then, he’ll wipe you down, kiss you dizzy, and go to buy some new ribbons that will be tied around your wrists next time.

and yes, it has to be tonight ‘cause robby’s coming over… and he’s a sucker for you in pink.

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[ktchie]

Pope doesn't realize what he does could be considered creepy or stalking. His views on relationships have been so warped he believes what he does is normal for the most part.

Doesn't everyone drive by their girlfriend's house to make she got home okay? Maybe it's not normal for him to get out of the car, check the windows, make sure the door is locked. He's just being protective and cautious. Someone could break in.

He sees her grocery shopping. Makes a note of what is in her cart. Buys a box of those granola bars to try them out, figure out what his girl likes, keep them on hand just in case. Also buys a box of the same tampons/pads and tracks the date. Pope keeps his distance as he watches her make her way through the aisles. Sometimes he'll pretend to run into her. Most of the time he just watches.

She begins to notice. A conversation about making plans for a day out together leads to Pope slipping up. She suggests they go Thursday but Pope speaks up reminding her of her doctor's appointment that day. She hadn't told him about that. It was only two days ago when she scheduled it and she hadn't seen Pope since. He shouldn't have known about it.

But things get brushed off. He's just observant. This is what boyfriends do. They pay attention to their girlfriend. He listens.

[ktchie]

"You Deserve to Be Happy."

Andrew 'Pope' Cody x Reader

WC: 3.5k

Tags: Established Relationship, Cunnilingus, PinV Sex, Vaginal Sex, Sub!Pope Cody, Dom-ish!You, Praise Kink, Riding, Sad Baby Boy!Pope

A/N: I want it to be known I have not seen a full episode of this show; I have been just skimming episodes for his scenes, so I hope this is sorta on point with his character. Also, this is different than my usual smut; this is more descriptive and less dialogue, and I don't know how I feel about it cause I usually don't like reading that, but I'm happy with it and hope you enjoy it.

Pope stands at your front door, a silent figure cast in the dim porch light. His hands are trembling slightly as he waits for you to greet him. His shoulders are tense, and his face is flushed with anxiety. Once the door opens, he refuses to meet your gaze, instead fixating on a spot on the floor.

"Pope, you okay?" you ask, eyebrows creasing with worry. Pope's eyes meet yours, wide and full of an odd mixture of emotions. It's like he's staring straight into your soul, trying to communicate something without words. He shakes his head "no," his gaze unblinking. You notice that Pope's whole body is trembling, his hands vibrating. Whatever has brought him here at this late hour has gotten under his skin. 

He gives a slight nod, his grip on you relaxing somewhat. "Yeah," he mumbles, his voice unsteady. You lead him through the door and over to your couch, encouraging him to sit down. He does so, his eyes unfocused, as if his mind were somewhere else entirely. Taking a seat beside him, you observe him. His hands are balled into tight fists, and you notice the visible tension in his jaw and the dirt on his clothes.

Taking a step closer, you try to calm him with a steady voice. "Just breathe," you say. You cautiously envelop Pope in a tight hug, and he appears to freeze at first. As he feels your touch, he melts into your embrace, hugging you back tightly. He rests his head on your shoulder, his grip on you becoming almost desperate, as if he is clinging to you for dear life.

With Pope still hanging on to you, you gently ask, "Do you want to come inside?"

"Are you okay?" you ask softly, trying to meet his eyes. He's silent, and you don't know if it's because he didn't hear you or because he doesn't want to answer. You lean in and ask, "Do you want to talk about what's wrong?" Pope shakes his head, but his silence isn't the nonchalant, dismissive sort.

Eventually, he takes a deep breath and blurts out, voice barely above a whisper, "I hurt someone tonight." His words hang in the air. The guilt on his face is unmistakable, a mixture of shame and regret that seems permanently etched across his features. Whatever happened, it has carved a deep mark on him.

He looks up suddenly, desperation swimming in his gaze. "I just want to forget about it—about hurting someone," he says, and his voice cracks, filled with a raw, aching honesty. "I want to do good. I need to make you feel good." His words tumble out in a rush, a jumble of emotions barely held together. “That's why I came here," he continues, almost imploring now. "Because I know I can be better. I just need—" He pauses, searching for the right words, or maybe just the courage to say them. His pleading gaze in his eyes silently asks for your understanding and support.

There are so many questions swimming through your mind, but you push them aside. Right now, what Pope needs is reassurance, a lifeline. 

The vulnerability in his eyes is almost painful. 

You hold his gaze, speaking softly, "It's okay."

Your words are more than just a gentle whisper of understanding and acceptance. You want him to know that you don't judge him, that whatever he's done doesn't define him.

"I—" he starts, but the words fade into a heavy sigh. "I don't know what to do," he finally mutters.

You move in nearer, and your closeness is a calming comfort. "That's alright," you reassure him. "You don't have to figure it all out right now."

Pope's jaw clenches. "I messed up," he whispers, more to himself than to you. A part of you wants to ask what happened—what he did—but you restrain yourself. Now is not the time for questions. Now, he needs comfort.

You reach out tentatively, your hand hovering above his arm, undecided. "Can I touch you?" you ask, your voice soft. There's a moment of hesitation, then he nods. As you place your hand tenderly on his arm, you feel him tense, his muscles rigid under your touch. But he doesn't pull away.

"It's going to be okay," you murmur, "I'm here for you."

The tension in Pope's body relaxes ever so slightly, as if your words, your presence, are slowly unraveling the knots of anxiety within him. 

"I don't deserve your kindness," he finally mutters, the words barely audible, almost choked out. Your heart breaks for him. You don't reply immediately, simply allowing your hand to remain on his arm, silently showing your support. You reach out tentatively, gently cupping his face in your hands. His skin is warm, the rough stubble on his cheeks prickly against your palms. For a moment, Pope freezes, surprised by the intimacy of your touch. But as your fingers gently graze his jawline, he seems to melt into your touch and closes his eyes, the tension in his face softening just a fraction.

Your fingers trace the contours of his face, feeling the heat of his skin. With gentle certainty, you lean forward and press a soft, almost chaste kiss to his lips. Pope's eyes fly open, surprise mixing with a raw vulnerability. For a moment, he seems frozen in place, as if your kiss has caught him off guard. But then, slowly, unexpectedly, he responds, returning the kiss, tentative yet yearning. You can feel the tension in his body melting away as he relaxes into your touch, his lips moving against yours in a silent plea for more.

"It's okay," you whisper, your fingers still cradling his face, anchoring him to the moment. "It's okay to want this. It's okay to need comfort." His hands, which had previously hung limply by his sides, slowly rise to rest on your waist, his touch hesitant, as if he's afraid of breaking something. 

With a determined yet tender grip, you take his hand in yours and guide him off the couch, leading him towards the bedroom. Your touch is gentle but firm, providing a steady anchor for him.

As you lead him into the bedroom, the room seems to shrink around you, becoming a bubble of intimacy. The outside world, with all its pain and guilt, feels far away, momentarily forgotten.

The room is softly lit, the ambiance intimate and soothing. You guide him towards the bed, your actions slow and measured, giving him plenty of time to back out if he wants to. 

"Sit down," you instruct softly, your voice a comforting command. Pope obeys, sinking onto the mattress. His gaze remains fixed on you, waiting for your next move. You sit down next to him. There's a moment of tension, a hesitation in the air. But then, before you can say anything, Pope leans in.

His lips find yours, his hand reaching up to cup your cheek, holding you in place as he kisses you, fiercely and tenderly all at once. You return the kiss, your mouth moving against his with a tender fervor. Your fingers find their way to the nape of his neck, pulling him closer still. 

"I'm here. I'm not going anywhere." He responds with a soft moan, his grip on you tightening, his body pressing against yours. The kiss grows more desperate, his tongue sliding into your mouth.

As the kiss continues, a hint of confidence returns to Pope. His hand, which had been trembling, now moves more assuredly, gently trailing down the side of your body. His fingers find the waistband of your shorts, and without hesitation, he undoes the button. There's a sense of urgency in his movements, as if he's desperate to please you, to distract himself from the pain that's eating at him. He ignores your shirt, focusing solely on the task at hand—getting closer to you, losing himself in the physical connection.

Pope pulls away from the kiss; with a rough, throaty voice, he gasps, "Can I—can I taste you? Please," he breathes, the words exhaling against your skin. He leans in, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, his lips burning a trail towards your throat. "Let me worship you."

A shiver runs down your spine at his words, his hot breath against your skin. "Yes," you murmur, your voice rough with desire. "Yes, please."

As his fingers slip beneath the waistband of your underwear, Pope lets out a low, guttural moan. He feels your wetness, his fingers gliding over your sensitive folds. His eyes darken, a new hunger sparking within him.

"Jesus," he breathes, his voice thick with desire. "You're soaked." Pope withdraws his hand from your underwear, his fingers glistening with your arousal. His eyes lock onto yours as he brings his wet fingers to his mouth, licking them clean, a low groan escaping his throat at the taste. His gaze never leaves yours as he sucks his fingers. "You taste so damn good," he growls, his voice rough with need.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he withdraws his fingers from his mouth, a thin string of saliva still connecting them to his lips. "I need more," he breathes, his voice dropping an octave. 

His hands move to your waist, gripping tightly as he positions himself between your thighs. The need in his eyes is almost feral, a hunger that threatens to consume him. His hands glide down your thighs, his fingertips following the same path, sending shivers up your spine. He pushes your shirt up but does not remove it as he moves lower, his mouth trailing behind, leaving a path of warm, gentle kisses on your stomach and your hips. He hesitates, his lips lingering near the edge of your underwear, his breath warm against your skin.

Without breaking eye contact, he dips his head lower, his mouth finding the damp fabric of your underwear. He presses a kiss to the thin barrier, his tongue flicking out to taste you through the cotton. The touch is light and teasing, and yet it sends a jolt of desire through you. 

A moan escapes your lips, your body arching towards him, seeking more contact. "God, Pope," you breathe, your voice ragged with arousal. "That feels so good." His eyes darken at the sound of your voice, your pleasure fueling his need.

He pushes your underwear aside, and his mouth is on you, hot and demanding. His tongue slides against your folds, flicking over your clit briefly before moving down to taste you fully. He groans against you, the vibrations sending bolts of pleasure. He alternates between quick, intense strokes and unhurried, gentle circles, each movement drawing a new sound from your lips. Your fingers naturally weave into his curls. 

"You taste amazing," he whispers, his eyes meeting yours. His hands find your hips, his fingers pressing firmly as he draws you back toward him.

"You're doing so good," you gasp, your fingers pulling at his curls. His tongue flickers over your clit, sending jolts of pleasure through you. "So good," you repeat, your voice breaking. "No one has ever made me feel like this," you whisper, your eyes locked on his. He responds to your praise with a moan, the sound muffled against your skin. He flattens his tongue against your clit, applying steady, firm pressure. You can feel him getting lost in the act, his focus entirely on your pleasure, his movements growing more intense. "Don't stop," you breathe, your fingers tightening in his hair. "Please, don’t stop." 

Pope feels you trembling, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He knows you're close, right on the edge, and he wants to push you further. He picks up the pace, his tongue working faster.

He pulls away just long enough to lock eyes with you, his gaze intense and needy. "Come for me," he growls, his voice low but commanding. "Come on my tongue."

Your body tenses at his words, the rough demand in his voice sending a shiver down your spine. You're so close, right on the edge, and the combined assault of his mouth and those words is all it takes to push you over. You cry out, your body arching off the bed, your fingers digging into the sheets as you come undone. 

As you come down from your climax, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath, you look down at Pope, still between your legs. It's clear from the look on his face that he would gladly keep going all day, his need for you unquenchable. But you know that you both need a moment, and so you gently tug at his hair, signaling for him to stop. He obeys, his mouth leaving your sensitive flesh, but not before he gives one final, tender lick. He raises his head, his gaze roaming your face as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

With a determined push, you roll him onto his back, straddling his hips. His hands grip your thighs, fingers digging into the flesh as he looks up at you, his gaze filled with an almost animalistic desire. His chest heaves with each ragged breath.

You run your fingers through his hair, your touch gentle and praising. "You look so pretty," you whisper. You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, then trailing down his cheek. Your words make him squirm slightly beneath you, a soft flush staining his cheeks. He reaches up to help you remove his shirt, the fabric skimming up his torso before being discarded, forgotten in a moment.

You pause, eyes roaming over his exposed chest, taking in the expanse of freckles that dot his skin like a spattering of paint. They're everywhere, and you find yourself entranced, the urge to trace each one of them nearly overwhelming. You reach to gently touch his chest, your fingers tracing over the freckles, a soft smile playing on your lips. "You have so many freckles," you murmur, your touch tender as you map out the constellations on his skin.

Your touch is gentle as you lean down to kiss him, your lips meeting in a soft, but heated, kiss. As you do so, you grind down, your body pressing against his hardness, the friction eliciting a soft gasp from his lips. Your fingers trail along his skin, tracing the line of his shoulders, the curve of his biceps, and the planes of his chest, leaving a trail of wildfire in your wake.

You pull away from the kiss, your breath fanning across his face as you look down at him, your gaze filled with a burning desire. "I want to ride you, is that okay?" your voice a low, breathy purr against his lips.

He groans at your words, the sound a mix of pleasure and need. "God, yes," he breathes, his grip on your hips tightening. His eyes lock on to yours, his gaze searing, almost feral in its intensity.

You lean down, your breath hot against his ear, sending a shiver down his spine. "Is that what you want, sweetheart? Do you want me to ride you?"

A rough gasp escapes his lips as he nods. His breaths are ragged, his body trembling with pent-up need. "Yes," he whispers, the word a desperate plea. "Yes. I want it."

"Good boy," you murmur, your lips brushing against his earlobe as you lean in even closer. "I'm going to make you feel so good." Your hands slide down his chest, nails raking lightly against his skin.

His reaction is immediate, his breath catching in his throat, a soft moan escaping his lips. As if those simple words carried a magnetic force, drawing out a response in him that was both raw and visceral.

"You like it when I call you that, don't you?" you ask, your voice a low purr.

He nods weakly, his words coming out in ragged gasps. "Yes," he manages to say, his voice thick with desire. "I love it."

You grin at his response, your gaze filled with a mix of lust and affection. You reach back, pushing his shorts down, revealing his leaking cock. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, you guide it up and down your drenched pussy. With a moan of pleasure, he can hardly believe what's happening. He looks you in the eye, as if to make sure this is real, before his eyes roll back as you slowly sink down his length.

His body trembles beneath you, his hands clenching and unclenching. "Oh God," he mutters, his voice ragged. "You're so... perfect."

You moan, feeling the stretch of him until he is at the hilt. Your head vibrates as you get used to him. The feeling of you gripping him tight almost drives him crazy, and he has to fight from coming right then and there. He grips your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your skin, as he tries to keep himself in check. 

He looks up at you with a mix of adoration and desperation, his head tossed back into the pillow. "You feel so good," he croaks. "So goddamn good.”

You start to move, lifting your hips up and down slowly, your pace unhurried.

You lean down, your face close to his, your breath fanning across his skin. "You're doing so good," you whisper, your voice soft. "Just relax. I've got you."

He nods, struggling to keep himself together, the sensations overwhelming him. "I'm trying," he mutters, his voice gravelly. "It's just... You feel so good. I don't know how long I can last like this."

Your hand reaches down, tracing the line of his jaw, the gesture one of comfort. "You don't have to hold back," you murmur. "I want you to feel good. Just let go."

His grip on you tightens again, this time as if to keep himself grounded, to prolong the moment for as long as possible. He manages a shaky nod, his breathing ragged as he forces himself to hold on just a bit longer. "I want to make you feel good too," he whispers, his voice a mix of need and desperation. "Please."

Your desire builds, fueled by his words and by the way he's holding you, as if his life depends on it. "You are," you rasp, "you are making me feel so damn good."

He groans, his eyes fluttering shut again, unable to keep them open as pleasure washes over him. "I won't last much longer," he manages to gasp out.

You lean down, your lips finding his neck, kissing and nibbling the sensitive skin. "Just let go," you whisper. "Let go and come in me. Need to feel you, Andrew." Your lips trail along his neck, teeth scraping against his skin, as you mark him as yours.

He lets out a desperate moan, the sound of pure need. "Say my name again," he whispers, his eyes still squeezed shut. "Say it again, please." The words are ragged, almost desperate, as if he needs to hear you say it to make it real.

"Andrew," you breathe against his skin, the word barely a whisper, but it echoes loudly in the room. "Andrew, let go. Come for me, baby."

That's all it takes, your words and the sound of his name on your tongue, for him to finally tip over the edge. He comes with a guttural moan, filling you with hot white stripes of his come. He gasps your name, the broken syllables falling from his lips like a prayer.

You rest your forehead against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart against your skin, the sweat on his skin mingling with yours. His grip on you tightens briefly before softening, his body starting to relax even as you lean against him. There are no words, not yet, just the quiet aftermath of pleasure, the sound of ragged breathing filling the room.

After a moment, his hand comes up to run through your hair, his touch tender and lingering. "You are so goddamn good to me," he mutters, his voice still hoarse. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

You lift your head, looking at him with a soft smile, your touch gentle as you tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. "You deserve to be happy," you say firmly.

"You think so?" he asks, his voice quieter than usual.

"I know so," you respond.

 You look him in the eye, your gaze steady and sincere, wanting him to understand that you mean every word. "Now, are you going to tell me what happened tonight?"

He leans up, capturing your lips in a soft, tender kiss. It's a silent reassurance, a gesture of trust, before he pulls away just enough to look into your eyes. "Tomorrow," he says softly. "I'll tell you everything tomorrow."

You nod, accepting his word, your trust in him overriding your curiosity. "Tomorrow," you repeat, leaning into his touch. 

He pulls you close, tucking you against him, your head resting on his chest. You can hear the steady beat of his heart, the sound soothing, a lullaby that soothes your racing thoughts. He's silent for a while, his fingers tracing soft, lazy circles on your skin, the simple contact a quiet comfort. You start to doze off.  

Just as you're hovering on the edge of sleep, you hear him speak, his words soft and murmured against your hair. "Thank you," he whispers, his voice carrying a weight of gratitude. "For staying."

MASTERLIST 

[ktchie]

JACK PUSSY INSPECTOR?? say more please!!! 🎤🎤

ohhh this man is thorough. and so, so cruel about it. if you think you're in his bed to make the headboard batter the walls, you are sorely mistaken. jack abbot has other things on his mind...

he's already got you on the bed, of course. leaning back on your elbows with your legs propped up as you playfully open and close your knees. it occurs to you now, as he stands at the edge, that he's still fully clothed while you've been stripped down to nothing but your underwear.

nsfw below

"take 'em off," you smile before lifting a leg to toe his belly, calf flexing with movement. "no clothes allowed, doctor." eyes locked as your pointed foot drifts from his navel down to the semi bulging beneath his pants. cocktease. he snatches your ankle before you get the chance to toy with him. it's too much fun, this game where you kick and squirm with laughter under his iron hold.

and then, softly: "be good for me, hm?"

just a few words have you stilled, legs lowering slowly as he releases your ankle.

"scoot up," he pats the side of your knee and you obey before resting your head on the pillow and watching him lay on the bed, belly down. chin tucked to your chest, you can tell he's not moving any time soon.

against your playful resistance, he manages to yank your panties off and wrench your thighs apart so that your feet flank his elbows. he's staring. he's staring, and it has you pulsing in front of him. waiting for him.

you feel his palms press against your inner thighs so your legs fall out wider, thumbs stroking your bare outer labia. it takes too much self-control to refrain from lifting your hips up with impatience. even then, his mouth is too far away. you know why. you can feel it now.

he draws his lips into an 'o' shape so he can blow cold air over your naked cunt. laughs when he watches you constrict at the cool, controlled pressure of his breath.

"jack," you grit. he's not listening because the bastard does it again. a harder and more sustained channel of cold breath hits your sex and you can't do anything when this is what entertains him. oh, but it's nowhere near the torture he conducts when his thumbs inch inward to spread your folds wide open.

"look at you, sweetheart," he murmurs as he watches slick gather in your hole, "wetting yourself." he blows again so he can witness the subsequent flutter of your pussy before letting it suck one of his broad thumbs inside. you hiss through your teeth when you feel him sink in and you can't even begin to think about how fascinated he must look right now. removing his thumb, he's completely enthralled by the way your cunt manages to swallow his middle and ring finger now. right to the base. you're dizzied by the sheer fucking width of his two fingers alone. says something to himself about slotting in a third.

(he didn't prepare you for that, by the way. no, he went ahead of himself and eased them in, satisfied by the way you take him anyway. satisfied by the sticky sheen of his skin after pulling out).

this is one of his favourite parts. he gets to observe how his fingers disappear inside your hole and feel your walls clench them tight like you're not ready to let them go. has to work his wrist back and forth just to fuck you with his fingers.

you're slurring his name again with hazy frustration at the way he plays with your pussy like he's never seen it before. like he's got all the time in the world—like you're not even there.

palming you now, he barely lets you grind against his splayed hand and you know how much it amuses him to see you try.

"somebody has to take a look at her every now and then," he says, matter-of-factly. the nerve of him—referring to your pussy like it's completely isolated from the rest of your body. "make sure she's alright, yeah?" he thumbs your swollen clit before blowing a strong but short force of air on it too. you jerk your hips in response.

"jesus christ, jack," your hands fist the sheets. "you're not making this any better."

his eyes flick up and he pretends to pout in feigned sympathy, "no?"

you curse everything in existence when you feel the warm hush of his breath under his low, derisive laugh. a fraction of a warning before his mouth latches onto your wet, aching sex. tongue exploring all the places that his fingers teased.

[ktchie]

Back again

parings. andrew "pope" cody x reader

summary. an unexpected visitor breaks into your house after having spent years locked away. unexpected, but not necessarily unwelcome.

warnings. age gap (pope 39, reader late 20s), breaking and entering, gun mentioned but not used, reader and pope have a son together, cody family mention, pope is awkward af but literally when is he not, reader does not stand on business and misses pope, pope in general, let me know if there's anything else.

notes. I genuinely struggled so hard with this, but it's finally out. I love the show though and am so glad shawn is getting his flowers with how popular the pitt became. if this flops, idk how much i'll regularly write for pope but if something pops into my head or if i get more requests i'll see what i can do! as always thank you so much and any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 2800+

It was past midnight.

The waves outside crashed gently against the cliffs, the ocean reflecting slivers of moonlight. Your bathroom—marble floors, soft golden lighting, wide windows overlooking the water—was quiet except for the hum of your favorite playlist and the low hiss of the shower shutting off.

You wrapped the towel around yourself, tucking it at your chest as you padded across the warm floors. Steam clung to the mirrors, fogged your reflection. You barely glanced at it. Just another night, just another routine. Lip balm, face serum, silk robe. Everything in its place. Controlled. Safe.

Until the lights flickered.

You froze. Turned slowly. Then the hallway sensor triggered—that soft click you weren’t supposed to hear from this side of the house.

Your stomach dropped.

This was a gated home. Security on every window and door. Patrols after dark. You lived here because no one was supposed to get in.

But someone had.

You grabbed the drawer under the sink. Your fingers skimmed the handle of the pistol you never thought you’d need to use again. Heart racing, you crept to the open door of the bathroom, back pressed to the wall, breath locked in your chest.

Then you heard it. Slow, steady footsteps on the hardwood. Not rushing. Not clumsy.

Deliberate.

And then he appeared.

You nearly dropped the gun.

“Jesus—”

“Hey,” Pope said quietly, stepping into the golden glow of the bathroom like he belonged there. Like this was his house. His ocean view. His night.

You stared at him—dripping water, towel barely hanging on, heart pounding so loud you couldn’t think. He looked the same and not the same. Bigger. Leaner. That same raw, unreadable face. Eyes locked on you like they hadn’t looked at anything else in three damn years.

“How—how the fuck did you get in?” you finally breathed, voice shaky but sharp.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked around. The bathroom. The house behind you. You.

“Security’s good,” he murmured. “But I’m better.”

Your fingers tightened on the handle of the pistol.

“Put it down,” he said softly. “If I wanted to hurt you… I wouldn’t be standing here talking.”

You hesitated. Then set it on the counter with a hard clack.

“You broke into my house.”

“I needed to see you.”

“You could’ve called.”

“You wouldn’t have answered.”

He took a step closer. You didn’t move, but your breath caught. Everything about him still made your skin burn—fear, fury, and something dangerously close to longing.

“I got out,” he said. “And you weren’t at our old house. Smurf told me you moved. Gave me pictures. Told me you were doing good.”

“Pictures?” Your voice broke. “She gave you pictures?”

“Of him too.”

Your heart clenched.

“I didn’t come to fight,” he said quietly. “Didn’t come to take anything. I just… I couldn’t sleep knowing you were out here, and I didn’t know if you were okay.”

You stared at him, the towel still wrapped tight around you, pulse thrumming through every inch of your body. The man who once held you like the world might end. The father of your child. The ghost that haunted every night you told yourself you were over him.

“I should call the cops.”

He nodded. “You should.”

But you didn’t move.

Neither did he.

And the silence between you burned.

You still didn’t move.

Pope stood just inside your bathroom, jaw tight, chest rising slow like every breath burned. His eyes swept over the space—over you—like he couldn’t believe it was real. Like maybe he’d dreamed this place a hundred times in a concrete cell and wasn’t sure yet if this was another one.

“Where is he?”

Your chest tightened. “He’s here, in his room.”

His brow twitched. “Here?”

You nodded, heart pounding. “Down the hall. Asleep.”

He blinked like you’d hit him.

You crossed your arms. “Didn’t see the point in running. Not when I already knew you would find us.” That landed. He looked away, jaw flexing, like he hated how easily he could’ve shown up if he’d tried.

“I figured you’d leave,” he said after a moment. “Take Danny. Disappear.”

You held his stare. “I thought about it. But… he’s got your last name. And I wasn’t gonna lie about that.”

Pope’s eyes flicked toward the hallway—like he could see through the walls. Like the kid he hadn’t seen in three years was just around the corner, breathing softly in his bed.

“Is he okay?” His voice cracked just a little. “I mean… is he good?”

You nodded slowly. “He’s wild. Sweet. Always asking questions. He’s obsessed with dinosaurs. He thinks mac and cheese is gourmet.”

A ghost of a smile touched Pope’s mouth, then faded fast.

“He’s four now?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

You didn’t say anything.

“Does he… does he know about me?”

You swallowed hard. “Only what I told him. That his dad had to go away for a while. But that he loves him.”

Pope stared at the ground for a long moment, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“I never got to say goodbye,” he said.

“I know.”

“I thought about him every damn day.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t trust yourself to.

“Can I see him?” he asked, voice rough. “Just for a second. I won’t wake him, I swear.”

You should’ve said no. Should’ve thrown him out right then and there.

But you couldn’t.

“Be quiet,” you whispered.

He followed you out of the bathroom. Every step down the hall felt heavy, soaked in everything unsaid. You stopped at the second door on the right—blue paint chipped from tiny hands slamming it too hard, a crooked dinosaur sticker stuck near the bottom.

You eased it open.

There he was—Danny. Small and soft and curled up in a tangle of blankets, one hand clutching a stuffed T-Rex, the other flopped above his head like he’d passed out mid-adventure. A dim night light lit up the corner, casting shadows over his round cheeks and dark lashes.

You felt Pope stop behind you.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. You didn’t even need to look at him to feel what was radiating off him like heat.

Grief. Wonder. Love. Guilt.

He stepped just close enough to see better—just close enough that his hand brushed the doorframe.

“I missed all of it,” he whispered.

You nodded. “Yeah. You did.”

He stared a little longer, eyes full of something thick and breaking. Then he backed away, slowly.

“Thank you,” he said, voice shaking.

You didn’t reply. Just quietly shut the door behind you.

And for a long, fragile moment, neither of you said anything.

Eventually you had taken him downstairs, after getting dressed. You moved around your kitchen slowly, barefoot on cold tile, the silence stretching between you as the fridge door hummed and the rain ticked against the windows. You grabbed two glasses just… needing something to do with your hands.

Andrew stood near the counter, watching you with that unreadable look he always had—like he was half in the room, half stuck in his own head. 

Staring. Always Staring. 

“I drove by our old place the other day,” you said, trying to sound casual. “It was gone. Sold, actually.”

He didn’t look surprised. “Yeah. Smurf sold it while I was inside, probably after you moved.”

You blinked. “She really sold it? That was your house.”

He shrugged, something bitter flashing in his eyes. “Technically it was Smurf’s. Always was. She held the deed. Didn’t want to ‘waste’ it on me rotting in prison after you left too.”

Your stomach twisted. “Jesus…”

“It’s fine,” he muttered, like it didn’t matter. “Wasn’t much to come back to anyway.”

You leaned against the island, glass in hand. “I thought you’d still be staying there. Honestly, I figured I’d see you lurking in the backyard one day.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “Didn’t think you wanted me anywhere near you.”

You gave a small, tired smirk. “Depends on the day.”

He didn’t laugh, but you saw the tension in his shoulders ease just a little. Still, he wouldn’t sit. Wouldn’t touch the water. Like he didn’t trust himself to get comfortable.

You let the silence hang a beat longer, then asked gently, “You been staying with your family?”

“Yes and no, mainly staying at a motel,” he said. 

You raised an eyebrow. “They don’t want you in the house?

“Pretty much.”

“And Smurf?”

He paused, eyes flicking toward the window. “She called it. Gave me some cash, some kid’s been staying in my room. You remember J?”

You swallowed. “Barely, but that sounds like your mom.”

He glanced at you. “You still see her?”

You hesitated. “Sometimes. Holidays, mostly. She sends gifts. Makes a show of being ‘Grandma Smurf.’” You exhaled, slow and careful. “It’s… complicated.”

“I bet,” he murmured.

You met his eyes. “I don’t hate her. For his sake, or yours, I let her in. But I don’t trust her.”

He nodded. “Good.”

Another pause. Then softly, “I didn’t think you’d still be here.”

“In Oceanside?”

He nodded once.

You let your fingers trail the edge of the counter. “Thought about leaving. But this is where he was born. Where we held him for the first time. I didn’t want to erase that just because it hurt.”

Pope looked at you like you’d cracked something in him wide open.

“I thought maybe you’d changed your name,” he said.

“I didn’t,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “I wanted him to remember where he came from. Even if he didn’t know all the details.”

Pope swallowed hard, his voice a low rasp. “I don’t deserve that.”

You shrugged. “It wasn’t about you.”

He looked down at the floor, then back at you, and for a second, it felt like time folded in on itself. Like you were young again, still stupid in love with the broken, furious man no one else could understand.

But you weren’t that girl anymore.

And he wasn’t that guy.

Still… your voice came soft, like it always did with him.

“You should stay. I’ll set out some blankets for the guest room.”

Pope didn’t move. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

You gave a tired smile. “Then don’t, Andrew.”

It didn’t take long for you to set him up, and go back to your own room. Sleep didn’t come easy after that conversation, and knowing that Andrew was in the house at your own volition didn’t do anything to ease the worry building in your chest. You didn’t know what time it was when you woke up—just that the light leaking through your curtains was soft and gray-blue, the kind that came before sunrise on cloudy mornings. Your pillow was warm. Your body was tired. But something pulled you from sleep. Some shift in the air.

Something was different.

You blinked your eyes open and sat up slowly, the ache in your chest blooming before your thoughts caught up. You glanced at the empty space in your bed. The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.

Then—faintly—voices.

You slipped out of bed barefoot once again, heart ticking fast for reasons you didn’t want to name. The air in the hallway was cool against your skin. You padded toward the stairs, one hand on the railing, every step measured like your body remembered how to be careful in moments like this.

The TV was on.

You crept down, slow and quiet, and paused just before the last step.

And there they were.

Danny curled up on the couch, wrapped in his blue fluffy blanket, head resting against a pillow like he’d done it a hundred times before. And next to him, hunched with his elbows on his knees, was Pope. Quiet, still, eyes trained on the screen—but not really watching.

He looked like he’d been sitting there for hours.

The TV played some old cartoon—one of those early-morning classics with soft colors and slower dialogue. Danny was focused, small smile tugging at his lips. Pope looked like he couldn’t breathe without permission.

He didn’t notice you at first.

Not until Danny mumbled something—“That guy’s mean,”—and Pope gave a little grunt of agreement.

Then his eyes lifted, soft hazel meeting yours.

His whole body tensed like he was about to explain himself, apologize, vanish into the walls. But you didn’t say anything. You just stood there, hand on the railing, heart breaking in slow motion.

“He couldn’t sleep,” Pope said softly. “Said he had a bad dream.”

You nodded, trying to find your voice. “He gets those sometimes.”

“I was coming down to make coffee. He was already up.”

“And you turned on cartoons?” you asked, almost smiling.

Pope looked down, a little sheepish. “Figured it was better than silence.”

You stepped off the last stair, legs slow, body unsure.

Danny caught sight of you and beamed. “He knows all of my shows!.”

“Oh yeah?” You swallowed the lump in your throat. “That’s impressive.”

“He doesn’t know the guy with the stick though.”

Pope gave a small, amused grunt. “I got nothing.”

Danny nodded. “It’s okay.”

You stood behind the couch for a second, arms crossed gently over your chest, watching the two of them. The way Danny had unconsciously scooted closer. The way Pope hadn’t moved a muscle, like shifting might shatter the moment.

You circled around and sat on the arm of the couch, your eyes on your son.

“You okay, baby?”

Danny nodded, rubbing his eye. “I’m not tired.”

“You want breakfast?”

“Not yet,” He leaned against the pillow. “I wanna finish this!”

“Okay bossy pants,” You glanced over at Pope. He was looking at Danny like he was still trying to believe he was real. That this whole thing wasn’t some dream he’d conjured behind a motel curtain.

You lowered your voice.

“How long’ve you been sitting here?”

“A while,” Pope admitted. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

You watched him a second, heart twisting in your chest. He looked more human now. Less like a ghost from your past, but still haunted.

He flicked his eyes toward you, voice quieter. “He’s good. You did good.”

You didn’t say anything for a beat. Then you nodded. “Thanks.”

The cartoon kept playing. The sky outside turned a little lighter, and things almost felt normal—Like the past three years had never happened. 

The cartoon kept playing in the background. The sky outside turned a little lighter, and things almost felt normal—like the past three years had never happened.

You sat in the quiet for a while, watching Danny’s eyelids droop again, little body finally giving in to sleep. His fingers still clutched the edge of his blanket, leaning into Pope, knowing nothing about personal space. 

Andrew hadn’t moved, barely even breathed, like one wrong shift might wake him or make you change your mind.

You turned your eyes to him, quiet. “So… are you planning on coming back?”

He looked at you then, really looked, his eyes tired and soft and full of something that made your chest ache.

“Only if you want me to.”

Your fingers tightened where they rested on the couch cushion. You wanted to say yes. God, part of you wanted to say it too quickly. But the rest—the part that remembered the weight of his family, the danger they lived in, the years you spent trying to keep Danny far away from it all—held you back.

“I don’t know if I can let you back into his life like nothing happened,” you said quietly. “Not after everything. Not if there’s even a chance they’ll pull you under again.”

“I wouldn’t let them,” Pope said. No hesitation. Just that low, steady conviction that used to scare you when it was aimed at other people, one you didn’t know if you could believe. “They don’t get to have that power anymore. Not over me, not over you, and not over him.”

You looked at him for a long moment. And whatever was in his face—grit, sorrow, a promise he hadn’t figured out how to say out loud—felt real.

“I want to believe you,” you whispered. “But I need more than words this time.”

He nodded slowly. “Then I’ll give you more.”

Your eyes fell to Danny, his lashes long against his cheeks, chest rising and falling in soft little breaths.

“You scared me last night,” you said. “But not because I thought you’d hurt us, just… well—I’m sure you get it”

“I do,” Pope murmured. “I get it.”

Another long, aching silence stretched between you. Then he shifted slightly, brushing Danny’s blanket up over his shoulder with a gentleness that shattered something inside you.

“I don’t want to blow this,” he said, eyes still on his son. “I’ll take whatever you’ll give me.”

You breathed in slow. Let it out slower.

“Okay,” you said. “Then stay for breakfast.”

Pope looked at you, the faintest flicker of relief in his eyes. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Just… don’t make a habit of breaking into my house.”

That earned the tiniest smile. “No promises.”

But the tension had cracked. The ice was melting, slowly. And somewhere in the quiet, cautious hope started to grow. The cartoon shifted to the next episode. The sun crept higher, lighting up the kitchen in soft gold.

And this time, it felt like maybe you wouldn’t be facing the morning alone.

mercvry-glow 2025

[ktchie]

time out ⊹ ࣪ ˖ frank langdon

SUMMARY. A 24 hrs work and a love relationship were not always compatible. That's why you and Frank had decided to keep it a secret for the time being, didn't want to give explanations or sign Human Resources papers, create rumors in the team or your relationship become a topic of conversation to others. So, both came to the agreement that was the best idea for the moment, you didn't know it, but he was not comfortable with that, Langdon’s hated to keep up appearances and keep his words to himself when you were together because of the risk that others might hear, but to be with you he was willing to make an effort.

WARNINGS. Soft!AU, Langdon is a complacent for his gf. They have been in a relationship for less than a month, so it is still new.

AUTHOR’S NOTE. For some reason everybody loves fluff!Langdon scenarios and here we are. ((in my the pitt era, really sorry my hotd people i still love you))

For some reason Robby decided buy pizza for the whole team which for you was just as freking exciting as Christmas. You had been on shift for about four hours and it was time to rest for at least thirty minutes, Dr. Mohan -your new public enemy- charged you directly to Dana who ended up kicking off any case that came through the door until you ate something, drank fluids and rested your mind for at least half an hour. You couldn't refuse, no one was capable of winning an argument with Dana, if you wanted to survive in The Pittsburgh it was a known fact; never to take it up with the nurse in charge.

Robby made it very clear, do what Dana says when she says it.

You settled into the old armchair in the break room, unwashed cups on the table was a common thing to find here, the coffee pot always with coffee inside no matter the time of day, you had to be lucky to find it warm. Opened one of the pizza boxes finding it empty, you let out an insult into the air that no one heard and threw it in the trash, was it so hard to do at the time? Continued in your search until found the vegetarian pizza almost intact, you thanked your fellow carnivores who ignored the vegetables because at that moment it became a real delicacy for your palate.

You had been so busy at work that didn't realize you were fucking starving.

The fluorescent light flickered on the ceiling but at this point everyone was used to it, decide took off your shoes for comfort while enjoyed your breakfast/lunch and maybe also the dinner today. You looked for your water bottle that you had left behind, hours before just had to run out for an emergency and had to leave it behind, luckily no one had drank from it.

You looked at the clock on your phone for the tenth time in the hope this way the minutes would pass faster, you felt like an athlete on the bench while the rest of the team was still in competition. But also felt strange this kind of tranquility, no noise, no people around you walking in a hurry everywhere, no orders. Just quiet.

The door opened and without warning Dr. Frank Langdon entered the break room so fast to saw his favorite girl esting in the couch, taking a couple of seconds to notice you. His messy hair was one of your secret weaknesses, loving the way that his brown locks fell loose on his forehead but he hated them. Frank walked straight to the coffee pot almost instinctively grabbing one of the few clean cups left on the cabinet, were still minding your own business on your phone, but looking at him over the screen.

"Why are you doing here?" Langdon asked turning on the coffee pot. "We have an accident en route arriving in ten minutes."

Threw your head back in frustration, thanks to Dana now you'll miss out on the fun. "I'm grounded like a thief in jail."

"Was Dana, right?" Langdon turned to look at you furrowing his eyebrows. You nodded in response looking like a girl without her toys locked in the most boring room in the world. "Don't even think about escaping or you'll be in worse trouble. How long did she give you?"

"Thirty minutes." Replied causing a small chuckle from him who scoffed at your misfortune. "It's not funny! I'm on tech break."

"Must be better behaving yourself." Poured himself the steaming coffee from the machine, instead of taking a seat in one of the chairs surrounding the table he preferred to settle in the same armchair as you, in his head it was a better idea taking advantage of the fact that for now they were alone. "Do you eat that cold?"

"It doesn't matter. Still tastes good." Lifted your shoulders with your mouth full of pizza, your pitiful words understood.

"As you wish." Took a sip of his hot drink, burning his lips in the process. He learned not to mess with your food because you always were going to get mad.

The two of you were little silent for a while, between you it wasn't awkward nor did you need a topic of conversation. Although you felt Frank’s gaze, watched you for a few seconds. He wasn't saying anything, but he didn't need to: he has that way of looking at you that makes you feel scrutinized beyond the physical.

"At least that shit tastes good?" Pointed to the coffee with displeasure.

"Of course not." Langdon replied instantly to then take a sip from the cup.

You let out a laugh that filled the room making your cheeks round and your eyes flatten, Frank looked at you saving that cute image for the rest of the day. Finally finished your poor meal and immediately stretched out on the couch, resting your head on Langdon’s legs who didn't object to being used as a pillow, well, just because it was you, no one would put up with something similar.

"Really?"

"I'm rested as requested. Or this bother you?”

"C’mon, you know I don't."

You looked up at him from below, a genuine smile forming on your lips as Frank tried to remain serious in a staring war that he was obviously going to end up losing. His serious-performance didn't last long finally let out a low, a real laugh as he stared at the ceiling thinking about what you had done to make him a stupidly happy man.

"You're so good at making me forget the rules." He said letting his deeply thoughts come out all too naturally.

"What rules?" Looked up barely with your head on his thighs.

"Human Resources and their bullshit rules that say I shouldn't like you." Frank dropped one of his hands gently to rest on your belly, not possessively, but comfortably. As if it was already natural to have you there. Holding his coffee with the other being cautious that the hot liquid didn't fall over your body.

Your cheeks lit up in a lovely pink color, sometimes felt that Frank didn't realize the things he was saying or the effect it could have. At a certain point you shared it too, they knew that HR was going to become a problem sooner or later for their relationship and would have to give explanations both weren't prepared to give, the boring bureaucracy, you didn't want to answer questions of; How long ago did their relationship start? Is it serious? And all that crap about confidentiality politics, conflicts of interest.

Just weren't ready.

"I have to go." Frank said with a grimace of displeasure, gently tidying the strands of your hair in your face. "Sorry, babe."

"Yeah, sure." You sat down leaving him free to stand up. "There's more than one trauma coming, you must be really excited."

Another chuckle from him. Langdon set the empty cup down on the table before looking back at you. "Maybe it’s true, but you have less time left before your time away is up."

Rolled your eyes not taking him seriously settling back, missing his smell of coffee and perfume that you never guess what the hell smells like.

"Go to save lives, I'll stay cooped up dying of boredom." You snort picking up again the cell phone that put aside.

Langdon looked at the door to the room, sighing to look back at you. Ever the adrenaline junkie he wondered if it was worth taking the risk, hell, with you it was. He turned back to where you are sit and tilts his face to yours, in a matter of seconds taking it between his hard fingers squeezing your cheeks hard enough to push your mouth against his. It is not a fleeting kiss. It's something slow, determined, as if he's been imagining it for hours. Frank’s lips press against yours with a restrained desperation, hunger disguised as calm. I'd been watching you for hours and I could finally give you a fucking kiss, it was torture to work with his girlfriend and put up an emotional barrier.

You freeze for a second, surprised... but only for a second because you kiss him back with your eyes closed and the heart pounding in your throat, feeling the touch of his chin, the heat emanating from Frank’s body, and that slight sigh that escapes of him at the end.

When he pulls away from you does so slowly, just a few millimeters. His blue eyes are still locked on yours, both knowing that door separates you from legal troubles.

"I'll save you a good case for when you come back, okay?” He tells knowing it's what you wanted to hear, you immediately smile contentedly and he gives you a soft, brief kiss. Just enough to catch your breath. Just enough to silence you.

[ktchie]

cry it out. — a. cody

tags: subby!pope cody, dom-ish!reader, gn reader, edging (pope!receiving), finger fucking (pope!receiving), age gap (reader is 27-30 while pope is early forties)

notes: my first offering to the pope cody tag 🙇🏻‍♂️ 1) i was going to wait until tomorrow to post this but i got too excited about actually writing something and finishing it for once so i'm posting it now. 2) this started bc of pope wearing black nitrile/latex or whatever gloves. then once i finished writing, i realized i only mention the gloves twice. i think this was just an excuse to write subby pope idk LMAO.

other: no physical descriptions of reader given. no use of y/n. second person POV used. not beta'd. wrote this on my phone and finished editing it on my puter.

no capitalization is a stylistic choice.

summary: pope needs a release. you offer one. word count: 690

pope rarely - if ever - askes for a release.

more often, you were the one who recognized the signs that he needed one. more tension held in his shoulders – if that was even possible, a stronger set to his brows. he was also more prone to just...zoning out. staring off into nothing as if his brain just wouldn't shut off.

you know how to shut it off.

like now, for example.

a pair of black nitrile gloves slipped onto your hands, now shiny and slicked up with lube. one hand wraps around pope's cock, stroking him at an agonizingly slow pace as your other hand is currently working two fingers inside of pope.

you've brought him to the edge thrice already, dangerously close to a fourth time as pope lets out a ragged breath when you curl your fingers just right and rub up against his prostate.

"you'll tell me when you're close again, yeah?" you ask sweetly, leaning over pope so you can press your lips to the corner of his mouth; a grin crossing your lips as the faintest whine bubbles up into pope's throat.

"ye-yeah. fuck, yeah, i'll tell you," he rasps, his eyes closed as his fingers curl into the soft sheets on your bed.

"good boy,"

the praise earns you a moan from the man underneath you, causing your grin to widen as you pick up the pace of both your hands. within moments of picking up the pace, pope's hips shift as his heels dig into the bed. "close," he warns.

you push him dangerously closer to that edge before you pull your hands away, watching the way his chest heaves and a sound somewhere between a sob and a moan breaks past his lips. you take a moment to watch him, head tipped to the side as his eyes meet yours.

there they are.

the unshed tears.

that's what you'd been looking for. the beginning of the release.

once his breathing evens out once more, you lean down once more to give him a proper kiss. as you do, your hands begin their work once more and you easily swallow the whine that pope releases. "such a good boy for me, hm?" you mumble, your forehead pressed to his, watching as a tear escapes pope's eye and slips down into his hair line.

"yeah," he gasps into the space between the two of you.

your hand shifts, angling your two fingers and curling them so that your hitting pope's prostate on every thrust; timing each thrust with every upstroke on pope's cock.

pope's head swims, a few more tears escaping his eyes as the pleasure overwhelms him. he's fast approaching that edge again, fingers curling into and pulling at the bedsheets as jolts of pleasure zing down into his abdomen. the muscles jump and twitch and a pleasured sob leaves him as your thumb swipes over the head of his cock.

"close," he warns, eyes squeezing shut as he waits for the inevitable halt of pleasure.

you hum in acknowledgement, doing nothing more than quickening your pace just a touch. "look at me, andrew," you murmur, waiting for him to follow the request. when he does, you grin. "you can come, baby. been so good for me, hm? think you deserve it now."

it doesn't take long for pope to cum with a guttural moan, eyes rolling back as his head drops back into the pillows. he cums hard, his cum –whatever does hit his stomach – mixing with the lube on your gloves and adding to the slickness as you work him through his climax; only stopping once he weakly bats your hand away.

you slip the gloves off, tossing them into the trash bin next to the nightstand while you give pope a moment to return to his body. once you've tossed them, you turn back to pope. you run your hands along his chest, playfully tweaking one of his nipples and giggling softly at the soft noise he makes.

"let's get you cleaned up. think a nice hot shower'll help you sleep."

"give me five to regain the use of my legs."

[ktchie]

𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐞 — 𝐚.𝐜.

summary: you take care of lena, clean up around the house, and always leave dinner for him when he gets home late. and among constant and never-ending change, you are andrew's northern star.

pairing: andrew cody x babysitter!reader

word count: 13.3k

warnings: read carefully! age-gap dynamics, reader is said to have recently graduated college, i basically ignore anything from the show that wouldn't make sense in my perfect little world. smut—arm humping, oral sex, penetration, the tiniest bit of breeding if you squint real hard.

author's note: and here she is. also known as shea wants to write about doing things to pope's arms.

you used to complain if someone called you their nanny. you’re just a babysitter. this would not—could not—be your full time job. it’s just so demanding. you love the kids you take care of but the idea of saying that you’re a nanny makes it a little more real. like you wouldn’t be able to get out of this, despite how hard you’re trying.

you just don’t want to be a babysitter forever. 

but the first time mister cody introduces you as lena’s nanny, you don’t think you mind it all that much. 

babysitters are temporary—girls in high school looking for money to pay for coffee and nail appointments, covering date-nights and overtime at the office.

nannies are permanent—it’s a career. you’re responsible for the kid pretty much twenty-four hours a day. kids with nannies are rich, mom and dad too busy at work to be at home. from the little you deduced, nannies buy groceries and make three meals. they go to doctor’s appointments and organize play-dates with other nannies. 

you do some of those things for lena. her uncle tries to take her and pick her up from school when he can, and when he calls to tell you that he won’t be able to make it every now and then, he sounds so sorry about it, you don’t know what you can do to reassure him that it’s okay. lena’s young, she doesn’t care about stuff like that so deeply. and she likes you, which helps matters a lot.

you had finished the last few classes you needed to graduate a couple months ago. before that, you’d have to tell mister cody no, i’m sorry occasionally, something that you really didn’t like doing. he seemed like he had enough going on without the babysitter cancelling.

and besides, after you had told him that your classes were done, you were supposed to tell him that you would be looking for a real job, something with your degree, that he should start looking for a real nanny for lena. you were supposed to politely, yet firmly allude to how you’d been scrambling with classes, finishing assignments in the car in between picking up his niece and after she’d fallen asleep at night. how you missed an important lecture because the pediatrician’s office was running behind an hour and lena’s grandmother wasn’t available to take her.

instead, the second you had met his eyes (which were terribly green and incredibly sad), you had folded, and told him you’d be available whenever he needed. and you thought maybe that would garner you a smile—and you’d been wrong. he had looked your way for about five seconds, muttered thank you, and walked away. 

and maybe if you could resist those terribly green and incredibly sad eyes, you wouldn’t have wound up as a full-time nanny. life could always be worse—that’s the motto you’ve grown up with. there are so many worse things in oceanside than spending every day in a pretty house by the beach and taking care of a quiet little girl. 

if not anything else, you could start making payments on your student loans, if you wanted. mister cody paid you in cash, and he paid you way too much, probably his way of apologizing for how much you had stepped up in the last couple months. but again, you didn’t really mind anymore. maybe if it was another family, you would care more about finding a real job.

but you like lena. you like her uncle, too, you think, as much as you can like a man who is virtually silent and stares at you like he’s boring into your soul when you’re making dinner. you like him because he’s good with her, you can always tell he’s trying his absolute best, his hardest with her. (it doesn’t help that he’s cute—cute in the way that strays are, like you wish you could fix everything wrong with him and reassure him that he’s doing enough, and tell him to stop staring and just come tell you what he’s thinking instead.) 

the first couple months were the hardest. lena wasn’t eating, wasn’t sleeping. she hated school, hated all the things she had still cared for when her dad was alive. you’d tried bribing her with trips to the beach, the playground, ice cream with extra fudge and sprinkles. all the things that kids liked. but she wasn’t just a normal kid—and it seemed that you and her uncle were the only ones who understood this. 

you didn’t realize you had such a maternal instinct inside of you. maybe it’s because the other kids you’d babysat in your life had been brats, sticky handed toddlers going through the terrible twos and making your life hell while you were trying to pass your classes. lena is the opposite. 

she’s the saddest child you’ve ever met, and you know nothing that you or her uncle do is going to fix it overnight.

but progress comes in stages. the first step had been getting her to want to eat again. you’d sat on the couch next to her, watching a nature documentary that her uncle had probably left playing on the tv.

(he is a whole other can of worms—he doesn’t sleep or eat that much either, and one time you had come in really early to get some work done before getting her to school. he’d been awake, watching something just like this, at five-thirty in the morning. and when you’d asked him when he’d gotten up, he had shrugged, and murmured something that sounded suspiciously close to i don’t sleep. that’s your next mission, because you can only focus on one at a time.)

“you hungry, sweetie?” you didn’t want to be pushy. she wouldn’t like that, would only retreat further into herself. you wanted her to come to you when she was ready to eat. lena shook her head and focused back on the television. “okay. well, if you get hungry later, i’ll eat with you.”

lena says okay in her quiet voice, holding onto a stuffed animal and staring ahead. you wait a couple of hours—there’s always something to do in the house. you clean up, wiping counters and sweeping while she stays on the couch. you check in every now and then to make sure she didn’t fall asleep. 

and then, thirty minutes before her new bedtime, she comes and sits on the chair by the dining table while you’re wiping it down.

“can we get pizza?” she asks, and you nod right away.

“of course we can. what kind do you want?”

another thirty minutes later, the pizza’s there, and you’re both eating slices of pepperoni and spinach. you’ve formulated your plan for the rest of the night—her uncle’s still not home, which means you can crash on the couch or stay awake. you decide to stay awake, since there’s no follow up text from him. if he wasn’t going to come home tonight, you’d expect the standard, concise message; won’t be back tonight. is lena okay? 

and you’re stupid, because you think it’s sweet that he always asks if she’s okay. like you wouldn’t call him the second something went wrong, like he doesn’t believe that you’d trust him with that information before anyone else. but there’s no texts tonight from the contact you’d saved as andrew cody (lena’s uncle). 

lena’s finishing her last slice and you’re cleaning up when you hear it—the rumble of his truck pulling up to the house. then a minute later, footsteps and the front door opening.

“what’s all this?” he asks, and you have to remember to find the words. 

you don’t know why that happens when he comes around—you’re usually great with dads. maybe it’s because he looks tired, more tired than usual, at least. his copper curls are messed up, like he’s been running a hand through his hair all night. lena’s uncle is always stiff, but it seems worse today, somehow.

(another thought seeps in, an uninvited guest in your mind, about how you’d really like to take care of him. he just needs some sleep, a little peace of mind. that’s it. you’re still trying to figure out the best way to give it to him.)

“we got pizza, uncle pope,” lena fills in, setting down the last piece of crust you knew she wouldn’t finish. 

“there should be enough for you,” you add, smiling at him. he doesn’t smile back, but you’re used to that at this point. and you can tell what’s about to come. “lena, can you go brush your teeth and get your pajamas on for me?” 

she nods and climbs off the chair, running into her room. 

“it’s past her bedtime,” he starts, taking a few steps closer to you. “and pizza for dinner-”

you interrupt him, even though you probably shouldn’t. you close up the box, setting it on the island and you go back to wipe the table.

“she’s not eating, mister cody,” you put the paper towel down, getting your bearings in order to face him, make the dreaded, never-ending eye-contact. “when kids don’t eat you have to meet them halfway. i thought this was better than her going to bed without eating at all.” 

he keeps looking at you. you think you should be a little nervous, but you don’t get like that anymore. flustered, sure, but not nervous—lena’s uncle is just kind of a starer, and you’ve gotten used to it by now. 

“i’m sorry. i’ll run it by you next time, i promise. i just wanted her to eat something.” he’s silent for a while, like he’s processing what you said. 

“yeah. okay. thanks.” 

you smile again, a small one. the kitchen’s clean now, or at least as clean as you can get it. you’re sure that when you’re back in the morning, it’ll be spotless, which you can only assume is one of mister cody’s nocturnal activities. you have a routine before leaving—you say goodnight to lena, make sure you didn’t leave anything behind, and tell her uncle you’ll see him in the morning.

he doesn’t normally say anything back, maybe a grunt of acknowledgement. so you’re surprised tonight, when you grab your bag and your keys and hear—

“have a good night.” 

“you too, mister cody.” 

+

it took time, but you’ve gotten her schedule better. she eats dinner with you now, whatever semi-healthy thing you can think of with the stuff in the pantry and the groceries you picked up while she’s at school. her uncle leaves money for that sort of thing—an envelope filled with hundred dollar bills. it’s labeled lena’s babysitter in stiff, neat handwriting and he told you to use it for copays and ice-cream and anything else that lena needs. but it feels wrong to use his money when he already overpays you, so you just use your own. 

you thought he might not have noticed that the envelope isn’t getting any thinner, until one morning when you arrive and see him counting the notes in it with his head down. now you’re the one staring—watching his arm flex and the muscles move as he flips through the bills. he wears the same kind of shirts every day, short sleeve button-ups, and every day, you are subject to watch his forearms while he does whatever he does. it’s a cruel and unusual punishment.

the worst had been when you needed a box down from the cabinet, the one with the muffin tins and cookie cutters. he had appeared behind you and taken it down for you in seconds, carrying it to the kitchen for you. you had been staring then too, uncomfortable and slack-jawed and wondering why his arms had your mouth dry. (you know the answer, it’s just better to live in denial, you think.)

“good morning, mister cody.” you set your bag down on the sofa, heading inside to get started on breakfast. you open the fridge, taking out a carton of eggs and orange juice and avoiding looking right at him. you don’t need to be flustered before seven-thirty am.

“you haven’t been using this money,” he states. you wish you could figure out what his tone means—there’s no inflections, no emotion simmering behind the words. it’s just cut and dry, stating a fact.

“well, i-” you turn back and look up from the stove and your words die on your tongue. he’s standing up, looking right at you, a fist full of cash like he’s going to make you use it one way or another. a single vein running through his arms tenses. your gaze flickers from it to his eyes quickly, looking at you like he wants you to start listening to him.

“i, um, i had enough.”

“you should use it.”

“but you already gave me a lot, so i-”

“i want you to use it.” the way he says it, it’s not a request. 

“right. i-i will. is lena awake?”

“she’s getting ready.”

“great. thank you.” you turn back to the eggs with a flushed face. and even though you’re not facing him anymore, you can tell he’s still staring at you. 

“i might not be back tonight.” you turn around and meet his eyes again. terribly green, incredibly sad. you’re too far now to see the brown, but you know it’s there. “i…i’ve got some work. it’ll be late, if i do.”

“thank you for the heads up. i, uh, i’ll crash on the couch then.” you think he might say something else, but you’re not sure. it’s silent for a moment, while you get the eggs onto a plate and hurry into the hallway to get lena.

she comes out first, carrying her backpack. you follow with her hairbrush for once she’s done eating, getting her already packed lunch out from the fridge to sort into her bag. there’s a whole routine that you had learned when you first started babysitting her, and now it’s just a way of life. filling up her water bottle, checking the calendar on the fridge to make sure there’s nothing you’re missing, pulling her jacket from the closet if it’s cold outside.

you get the bottle out, glancing back at her uncle. he’s leaning in while lena takes a bite of the eggs, probably telling her that he won’t be home, and to have a good day, and all the other things you’re sure he says to her. then they hug, and you feel like you’re intruding.

he picks up his keys, which rest in the small blue bowl by the door where yours sit too. and without thinking, you call out after him.

“have a good day at work.” he doesn’t say anything back, but he looks at you before he leaves. you don’t even know what he does for work.

“ready for school?” lena shakes her head no like always.

+

the days are long, but the weeks are short. you bring lena to school, but they have a half-day, so there’s no point in going home for the day if you need to be back in a couple of hours. so you head back to mister cody’s place, focusing your attention on cleaning the remnants from breakfast. you check the fridge, making note of how much fruit and milk you have left, scribbling onto a piece of paper for later. and for once, you listen to him, taking a single bill out of the envelope and putting it into your wallet. there’s other hundred dollar bills in there too, ones you need to deposit.

it hasn’t been making sense lately. a lot of nannies live with their families because it avoids the wastefulness of paying rent for an apartment you hardly ever visit. you pay internet and electric for a one-bedroom that’s empty the entire day. and now that you’re done with classes, you don’t even need to work on anything late at night or even at lena’s house. you carry around a book with you, and you think you’ve even left a couple on the coffee table, just for the future. 

you don’t know why you still have your apartment. well, you know why—mister cody has never mentioned you moving in. and he probably never will, because he doesn’t want you to. but it just doesn’t make sense the more you think about it. you show up between six and seven and sometimes you don’t go home until ten. sometimes you don’t go home at all.

after making your list, you rack your head of things you can do to occupy lena’s time today. the library has a weekly reading, and there’ll be other kids there. you like to pick things so she can get some company from kids her age, so she’s not only stuck with you and her uncle all the time. 

closer to when school gets out, you get in the car, bringing in your emergency bag with a change of clothes and your toothbrush since you’ll be staying the night. it’s not an entirely uncommon occurrence, which is why the bag, and a couple others like it, is always ready to go. you go to the bank first, depositing everything except the single hundred-dollar bill you took today. then you drive by the park, see if they’re having any of those pet-therapy sessions today. and then finally school to pick up lena.

the rest of the day goes how you planned. you forget how exhausting it is keeping a little kid entertained for hours on end, unsure of exactly what her uncle pope and his brothers do with her sometimes, when you struggle to fill up a couple of extra hours. the grocery store—where you splurge and buy ingredients to make stove-top smores because lena asks and you’ll take your wins where you can get them—then the library, where you take out a couple of books for lena to read at home and smile when she’s talking with some of the other girls there, then the playground for an hour, before home for dinner.

you make spaghetti while she finishes her homework, and review her homework while she changes into pajamas. and then it’s time for the routine she loves so much, just like her uncle, a nature documentary about penguins while you toast the marshmallows on a fork. 

an hour later, lena’s asleep in bed, and you’re scrubbing hardened chocolate off the counter next to the stove. you don’t want more work for her uncle when he’s back, and you’ve learned lena’s a heavy sleeper, so you get to cleaning. it’s not like, as pathetic as the thought is, you have anything better to do. 

and then about two hours after that, it’s eleven-thirty. it’s right around the latest that mister cody has ever come home, so you’re pretty sure he won’t be back tonight. 

the only thing you have to look forward to in your apartment is the shower you take after a long day. you’ll have to make do with the shower inside the room where mister cody sleeps, since lena’s is close to her room and filled with products for an eight year old, and at the very least, you need adult shampoo and soap. 

the room is bare—you would have guessed it’s a guest room if you didn’t know better. you’re not nosy, but you look around, trying to see if there’s anything there that makes the room her uncle’s. you know there’s still another bedroom, the one her parents used to share, since lena sometimes goes in there when she can’t sleep. so this was a guest room, and now it’s mister cody’s, and now you’re lurking in it.

besides for a closet full of clean-pressed button up shirts and organized shoes, you can’t discern anything that makes this room his. there’s not a single thing out of place, from the garden-variety decor that someone else had picked to the artwork to the sheets. the bathroom is more of the same, the entire place having that lemon-cleaner smell to it. 

you turn the water on and strip, trying to avoid thinking about how you’ll be sleeping on the couch after this. and even inside the shower, you stare at the two-in-one shampoo bottle and the old spice body wash—old spice. who would have thought?—like you can’t believe what you’re looking at. you inhale the scent for longer than you need to. wrap yourself in a clean towel that doesn’t belong to you. brush your teeth with his spearmint toothpaste. and then you open your overnight bag, and find nothing but sundresses and bathing suits.

it’s past midnight, and you’ve grabbed the wrong bag. you need to get up in about six and a half hours to get lena ready for school, and you’re not positive you have the correct bag in the back of your car. 

hesitantly, you open one of the dresser drawers. there’s black and white t-shirts folded precisely, tucked in evenly. one drawer up there’s folded socks and boxers. 

you chew on your cheek. he did say that he won’t be home tonight. there’s no way he would know you took anything if you ran a load of laundry as soon as you woke up and folded it after morning drop-off. he might not even be home until the afternoon or evening, for all you know.

your tiredness makes the decision for you. the couch isn’t that comfortable, and you refuse to sleep in the shirt and jean skirt you spent all day in. you take a white shirt and black boxers, and then sneak back in for a pair of black socks because the living room is cold at night. and then you set your alarm, turn on another documentary—this one about hummingbirds, wrap yourself in the throw blanket on the couch, and close your eyes. 

andrew comes home at quarter to three. it would have been a lot sooner—he doesn’t like leaving you alone here at night with lena if he can avoid it—but he doesn’t always have control over it. a bullet had grazed deran and he’d spent two hours cleaning up that mess, and then they had to organize their splits before leaving. he had to make sure to stay for that—he needs the cash to pay you, rent for baz’s place, money to put into lena’s savings account. 

but he hates leaving you alone in the apartment with lena. not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he knows now it’s not safe, not without him there. he likes to get you home early but it’s rarely the case, and then he feels like he should pay you extra since he’s making you drive home alone in the dark.

telling you to stay is a better option. you can sleep in his room—it’s not like he’s going to sleep in there anyways. but he doesn’t say that, doesn’t need the nanny thinking there’s something wrong with him too. so he settles for telling you to stay the night, and letting you decide where you’ll sleep. 

you always pick the couch. and sometimes, he’s not back early enough, sometimes you’re already up making breakfast or gone out for the day with lena by the time he’s back.

 but tonight, you’re asleep on the couch. he sets down the bag with the cash on the couch, hovering over you. the television is still on, stuck on a are you still watching? screen, covering up a photo of some birds. a breath leaves him when he realizes you’re watching what he always watches. you’re knocked out—he can tell since the front door opening didn’t wake you like it sometimes does. you’ve kicked away the blanket you usually use, and he thinks for a second he should just cover you up and let you sleep.

but he doesn’t. he stands over you, staring at your sleeping form. he doesn’t like it—how pretty you are when you sleep. it’s a distraction that he can’t escape, knows that the next time he closes his eyes, he’ll think of you. that the next time he sits on this couch, he’ll be able to smell your skin. you snore softly, chest rising and falling evenly. 

and then he notices it—the plain shirt, black socks with a familiar logo. are those his boxers? and now he definitely can’t look away. he puts the pieces together—your hair is wet, meaning you must have showered and then put on his clothes before coming back out here. if you were going to do all of that, why didn’t you just sleep in his room?

yes, pope decides, he needs you to sleep in his bed. he needs the couch anyways, since he won’t be sleeping, so he might as well bring you inside. 

he lifts you carefully, not wanting to stir you accidentally. his shirt is a little big on you, hanging off your shoulder. you stay sound asleep the entire short walk to his bedroom, not stirring even when he sets you down. you must have been really tired, but that makes sense, given the fact that you’ve been out all day with lena.

he thought about sticking a tracker on your car, but the first time he was taking care of lena, after baz, you had shared your phone’s location with him so he could keep track. you had offered it, voluntarily, saying something about how that’s common with babysitters now, and that you never go anywhere without your phone so he won’t have to worry about you leaving it at home.

you thought reassuring him that he would always have lena’s location in his phone would make him feel better. and maybe it had, but he’d never mentioned it again after that day, never brought up if he actually checked it or not.

(it’s not like you would know if he was using it, it doesn’t work like that. deran had explained it to him.) he did check it, pretty frequently, actually. he checked it after you’d leave when he got home, after lena was asleep. he’d watch your little circle drive home and pull into the parking lot of your apartment complex. it wasn’t as bad of an area as it could be, but it wasn’t that safe either. he liked to check it every now and then too, middle of the night, saturday evenings when he was home with lena and you got to leave early or had the day off.

he assumed, somehow, that you’d be in bars or parties at your college, maybe. but when he looks at your location late at night, you’re always at home. he checks other times too—but he’s just trying to keep you safe. (that’s what he tells himself—that finding another babysitter than lena liked and that he trusted would be a hassle. he needs to keep you safe.)

but it doesn’t seem like you like any of that stuff. he’s never seen you drink the beer in the fridge, though you offer one to him every now and then. you’ve met smurf and deran and craig before, like when you’d go to drop off lena before one of your classes, back before you had finished school.

you were smart—he knew that much. that was the kind of good example he needed around lena, someone who had gone through school and finished. he didn’t know what your degree was in, but it must’ve been something smart, something important. you were always typing on your computer and reading books. whatever it is that you studied, he wants someone in lena’s life that can help her with that stuff, stuff he doesn’t know much about, when it’s time.

you were smart enough to turn down every joint or bump that craig offered. you never accepted a drink from smurf that didn’t come from a can that you opened yourself. and baz used to tell him that you were just a local college kid, that you didn’t have any family nearby or anyone to occupy your time, really. 

it didn’t make sense—pretty girl like you. he would have thought you had a boyfriend, but if you do, you’ve never brought him around. and if he didn’t live with you or live at that coffee shop you liked that was down the street from your apartment, then he didn’t know if you even had one. maybe he shouldn’t spend any time thinking about your hypothetical boyfriend, but that’s just what comes up sometimes when he thinks about you for too long. like right now.

you look peaceful lying in his bed. your eyes flutter quickly like you’re having a dream, and he sits on the bed next to you, watching you sleep. your hair falls across your face, and his finger twitches. he almost moves his hand to brush the hair away, but he decides not to, settling for just watching you for another minute or two. 

the bed creaks slightly when he gets up. no one uses it much, so it’s a little weary. he doesn’t think the noise is anything, but your eyes blink open. the door’s open, light from the living room illuminating a sliver of the space.

he thinks he should get out before you can ask any questions, but he doesn’t, hovering over the bed while you look around. 

“andrew?” and god if it doesn’t sound different coming from your lips. you’re too tired to remember that you usually stick with mister cody, which is so formal it hurts. it sounds real, sincere, not filled with fear or anger or anything else. you haven’t even said anything and he thinks he’s losing his mind. 

it’s just the way you say it. there’s no question attached, no demand, no sacrifice. just you, making sure it’s him. 

“that couch is bad for your back,” he says. 

he knows it is, the couple times he tried to lay down and stare at the ceiling. he’s always sore, muscles screaming and joints aching but he knows how to ignore it. he doesn’t think you should start feeling like that. feels angry at the very idea that you would be sore after spending a night on the couch, taking care of his niece, looking after baz’s house. doing all the things that he’s too busy to do.

you take care of things. you do a good job too—figuring out how to get lena to eat and sleep again. making sure her routine doesn’t go awry just because he’s gone on a job all day. you remember things that he doesn’t even know about—activities with kids after school and how the school has soccer practice starting soon. you think a couple steps ahead when it comes to lena, and sometimes, he doesn’t think you see it as a job. 

like when you make enough breakfast for the three of you. leave dinner on a plate inside the microwave with a note on the counter. when you clean like it’s your house, make sure things stay in the place they’re supposed to, which is so much harder when there’s a kid around. he’s not stupid—it’s why he gives you so much money each week, shoves an envelope into your hand despite your protests. why the first thing he does after he gets his cut is make sure you get yours. 

and as hard as the thought is to swallow, he doesn’t think he could do all of this without you. 

“mmh-” you agree, making a soft noise. he wishes he could engrain it into his brain and replay it whenever he wants. “i thought you don’t sleep?” you ask, and he sees your lips turn up into a smile. he wishes the lights were on.

“i try,” he replies, realizing that he’s still hovering over you. he wonders why you weren’t scared the moment you woke up. “sometimes. i try.” 

“do you wanna try now?” you ask, whispering. and he goes silent—because what is he supposed to say that? 

you reach out in the dark for his hand, and he flinches, taking it back. but you don’t retreat, reaching out again until you’re grasping his fingers. 

“try for a couple hours. i set an alarm,” you say, and the way you say it, it doesn’t sound like a bad idea. you have a way of convincing him, or maybe it’s just late and you’re tired, and your sleepy voice isn’t helping matters. nor does the fact that you don’t seem even remotely concerned that you’re inviting him to come sleep on the bed next to you.

you sit up a little, and he regrets even staying as long as he did. you need your sleep, unlike him. you’re still holding onto his hand, and your skin is warm on his. it couldn’t really be, but it feels like it’s burning his, where your palm rests against his, where your fingers twist with his. 

“hey,” you start, slow and soft. “don’t think about it. just sleep for a little.” 

“yeah,” he says. “okay. a little.”

you move over, and when he lays down—back straight against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling—it’s warm where your body was resting. you’re still holding onto his hand, not letting go. your grip is loose enough that he could free his hand easily, and even if it wasn’t, he could overpower you if he wanted.

but he doesn’t want to. and somewhere between your slow breaths and how you rub his knuckles, running your soft skin against dozens of old scars—because that’s his punching hand—andrew falls asleep.

you can hear it, his breaths getting steady, evening out. your hands stay together in the middle of the bed, between you, and you wonder for a split second how you’re going to deal with this in the morning, how you’ll make sense of this in daylight. the semblance of a professional relationship you had maintained this entire time might turn into dust in a couple hours. and then you breathe in andrew’s comforting scent, clean linen and saltwater, and fall back asleep.

the best thing about this house is the light and the waves. golden rays pour in through the half-way open blinds and you can hear the ocean crashing against the rocks in the distance. it’s the perfect way to wake up, even if it is six-thirty and your alarm is going off in the living room, where your phone must be.

you need to get up. you don’t want lena to wake up from the noise, even though you know she won’t—that girl can sleep through anything. it’s a problem for when she’s older, when she goes to college and there’s no one besides a roommate to make sure she doesn’t miss class. even half-asleep, you smile thinking about it.

and somehow, when you look on the other side of the bed, it hits you that it wasn’t a dream. andrew is asleep next to you, still in whatever clothes he was wearing throughout the day. a short sleeved button up and pants. you’re surprised that he didn’t fall asleep with his shoes on. 

he looks very calm when he sleeps. the lines of tension on his forehead and around his eyes are soft when he’s like this, his hair a mess and cheek smushed against the pillow, against your hand.

he’s still holding your hand. it makes a certain kind of warmth rain all over you, flooding you from inside out. he’s on top of the covers and you’re under the throw blanket, and you don’t remember doing that, which means that he did.

an exhausted, half-asleep andrew cody covered you up before he fell asleep on top of the covers. he fell asleep holding your hand and your chest hurts because he won’t wake up holding it still, since you need to go turn that stupid alarm off. 

he never sleeps, you know this. he’s never been asleep when you show up early, never heading to bed when you leave for the day. this bed is pretty much always made, sheets never rustled and not a pillow out of place because no one sleeps here. you hope you can start changing that.

you don’t want to pull your hand away from him. it’s so simple, so sweet that you can’t bring yourself to do it. that this whole time, andrew just needed someone to sleep beside him. you rest your head back on the pillow, continue staring, creepy as it is. you’ve never been able to study him like this before, have never been close enough. 

the hand holding onto yours is softer than you’d imagined. the veins running through his forearm are thick and tense, even when he’s like this. you think it might be from how tightly he’s holding onto your hand, like even in his sleep he’s worried he might lose you somehow. 

andrew cody has freckles—all across his arms and on his hands too. there’s a splatter of them across his nose and cheeks, places where he must have gotten burnt as a kid, maybe when he was lena’s age. the tips of his ears flush pink while he sleeps, and he snores. all things that make you smile, things that are so personal you feel your face getting warm, like you shouldn’t have access to that information. 

you need to turn that god-damn alarm off, before it wakes him up. you think you’d rather die than disrupt the few hours of peaceful sleep he’s getting right now. so you wriggle your hand, trying to find the best way to get it out of his grip and make sure you don’t wake him in the process. nothing’s working, even in his sleep he’s thrice as strong as you. the generic alarm tone keeps going in the background.

you lean in, pressing a chaste kiss to andrew’s cheek, whispering that you promise to be right back. and for a split second he moves around, and you regain control of your tingling hand.

the bed creaks a little when you get up, but you do it slowly so it’s not too loud. walk to the couch as fast as your bare feet will take you, looking down and realizing you’re still in andrew’s socks.

(his shirt and boxers too, but you’re choosing to ignore that for now. if someone walked in through the front door in this moment, it would look like you and him were something other than a guardian and babysitter. you think you’d actually enjoy trying to see him explain to his brothers why you’re in his clothes head to toe. you might like this more than you think you did.)

you can hear the ocean again once the alarm is turned off. it’s a beautiful thing to wake up too, you think, pulling open the curtains and looking outside on the street. people are on runs, doing yoga on the beach, watching the sunrise with their dogs.

and inside, andrew cody is sound asleep.

the first part of your day is waking up lena. she grumbles and takes five, sometimes ten, minutes to get up after you go in there. in that time, you set out clothes for her and then head back to the kitchen. you have a habit of making sure her backpack has everything—the colorful pens she’s always telling you about and yesterday’s homework. if she forgot something at home, the school would call andrew, and then andrew would call you, and you hate adding more work to his life. so, you make sure it’s all there before she leaves.

then breakfast—eggs and toast if you’re running late, pancakes if you got there early. it’s seeming like a pancake sort of day.

you make the batter and then pull out the bag of chocolate chips and head back to lena’s room. you use the semi-sweet morsels as an incentive to get her up, which works like a charm. while she’s changing and brushing her teeth, you make three pancakes. two for lena, and the first one you peeled that’s never quite as good is for you. 

lena comes to the table to eat her pancakes, and you tell her to stay just a little quieter than usual because her uncle pope is still sleeping.

“really?” she asks, and you feel something inside of you twist in discomfort. as if you had imagined before you met him, maybe he was sleeping, that maybe this was something recent. you smile at lena.

“yeah, sweetie, really.” 

you bring lena to school, come back home, and check on andrew—who is still sleeping. you cover him up with the blanket you’d slept under and then make three more pancakes and some scrambled eggs. there’s no bacon in the house or you would have made that too.

you scribble it on the grocery list and then head back inside the bedroom, carefully perching yourself on the edge of the bed and maybe a little too comfortable, too quick, run your fingers through his messy hair. he sighs against the pillow and it makes you smile immediately. you keep going, fingers not stopping until you see his eyes fluttering open. you don’t want to make him uncomfortable, though you don’t want to stop either. 

“i made breakfast,” you say quietly. andrew looks up at you, and then to your slept-in side of the bed. he moves, sitting up in the bed and you take back your hand tentatively. his hair is soft like you’d imagined.

 he wipes his face with his hands, rubbing at his eyes. and when he looks at you, you feel any prudence that once was inside you melt away. well-rested, sleepy andrew cody, waking up in the bed you shared last night, while you tell him about the pancakes you made for him. you couldn’t have imagined this, for some reason, which makes it feel all the more real. 

“what time is it?” he asks, in a gruff, sleepy voice.

“almost nine, i think.” he looks up at you quickly.

“lena?”

“i brought her to school already. you-you were sleeping. i didn’t want to wake you.” 

“when did you get up?” 

“six-thirty. my alarm. remember?” you do remember telling him about it before you fell asleep, one of the last things you had said in a conversation that feels like it was light-years ago. 

“yeah.” you know better than to expect anything right now. he’s always been quiet, sentences curt and expressions relatively blank. you’ve had a few hours to simmer in it—think about what’ll happen tomorrow and next week and what it means to sleep in the bed next to the man whose niece you babysit. he just woke up a few minutes ago.

“well, there’s pancakes. and eggs. there’s no bacon but i’ll go get some later-”

“did you eat?” you catch his eye. perched on the bed next to him, you can see more than just green. brown too, around his pupils. not nearly as sad as they had seemed yesterday. 

“yeah. i had one.” 

“just one?” you don’t have an answer for that, but unusually confident, you stand up. 

“i’ll have a bite of yours if you come eat with me.”

and though you couldn’t have imagined it last night, you end up leaning against the counter with andrew, splitting bites of chocolate-chip pancakes (yours drenched in syrup, his comparably dry as a bone), and luke-warm scrambled eggs. 

he washes the dishes, and you put them away. it’s incredibly domestic. 

“i’m sorry about your clothes,” you say, sliding a plate back into the cupboard. “um, i’ll wash everything today.” you had to bring it up at some point.

and then andrew turns to look at you. head to toe, he stares, gaze flicking up and down for what seems like eons. you don’t have a guess for why, maybe he’s trying to decide if he’ll accept your apology.

(he’s trying to memorize it, capture it like a picture in his brain, seal it up and hold onto it forever. how you look right now—his white shirt, with nothing underneath, which must be why he can see the outline of your breasts when you turn to put another dish away. his boxers, that you bunched up around your waist, his socks, one rolled up around your ankle and the other halfway up your calf. did you go to the school drop-off in his clothes, too?)

“and i can wash your jacket too, i’m sorry. it was kind of cold and i don’t know where my hoodie is. i-i’m sorry.”

he turns to look at you again. you seem worried, chewing on your cheek, waiting for his answer.

“don’t wash the jacket,” he says, and turns back to the sink. he doesn’t want it to stop smelling like you, but you don’t need to know that.

“yeah. sure. i won’t. sorry again, andrew.” 

his heart thuds in this chest at the realization that you might never go back to calling him mister cody. 

the two of you finish the dishes. he wipes up the counter while you put away lena’s things, and then he grabs his keys and puts on his shoes. you stand there watching, feeling awfully close to something like a wife watching her husband about to leave her for the day. and when you open your mouth, you can’t stop it from coming out.

“do you know when you’ll be back?”

“i’ll be here for dinner. can you pick up lena?” he doesn’t want to leave you, but there’s about ten texts and three missed calls on his phone that he needs to deal with. when he shrugs his jacket on, it does, in fact, smell like you. it might be enough to keep him calm the rest of the day.

“yeah, of course. well.. i’ll go start the laundry.” a vision of you peeling off your—his—clothes plagues his mind momentarily. “i’ll see you later?” you say, smiling hesitantly. 

and without thinking too much about it, andrew comes up close to you, leans in a little awkwardly, and kisses your forehead.

“i’ll see you later.” he leaves you there in his shirt and socks, blinking stupidly at the door. 

+

andrew does come back for dinner. you make an attempt at chicken parm at lena’s request, which really just turns out to be a sort of chicken parm-casserole situation, but lena likes it and the garlic bread tastes good, so you will call it a win for now.

while you’re simmering sauce and frying the cutlets, your mind flicks through everything you know about lena’s uncle. he’d never once been anything but nice to you—nice is one way to put it. polite is another. courteous, appropriate, reserved. 

one night you had been waiting for him so you could leave, and he’d come home with lena’s other uncles. you had introduced yourself and smiled nicely, and when you left and gotten into your car, it hadn’t turned on. you remember debating if you should go back inside or just call triple a and wait, but somehow, andrew had known something was wrong. he had come out a few minutes later, told you that he would drive you home while his brother stayed at home and that he’d be back in a minute. 

he’d dropped you off at home and told you he’d come get you in the morning. and you had slept anxiously that night, wondering what was wrong with your car and how much of a disturbance it would be to andrew to come get you. 

but after the two of you had dropped lena off at school—again, disturbingly domestic—he brought you back to the house. and without any words at all, he worked on your car while you sat and watched. you held a flashlight when he needed it, and he said it shouldn’t happen again when he was done. 

and you guess that’s the kind of man andrew cody is.

true to his word, andrew comes home in time to eat dinner with you and lena. after dinner, since it’s friday, you let her have a brownie and a half, the ones you’d made earlier that day. you have one too and you offer one to andrew, but he shakes his head, and you’re only mildly disappointed.

you haven’t been home, so you’re wearing one of the dresses from the wrong overnight bag you’d brought here. (your disappointment goes away when you notice that he hasn’t stopped staring at your exposed thighs since the minute he walked through the door.)

lena watches a cartoon before bed and you try to clean up the rest of the kitchen, but it’s hard, since andrew’s done most of the leg-work already. he tucks lena in and you gather your belongings—and true to your word, you did laundry and put his clothes back in the exact place you found them. 

(you did steal another pair of socks, but you hardly think he minds now. he kissed you goodbye this morning like he was actually your husband, or something, and every minute you spend in this house washing dishes and scrubbing counters next to him is not helping. he stares at the straps of your dress like he could slip them off your shoulder with his mind, like it’s the only thing he’s thinking about. you don’t mind.) 

“she’s out,” he says, coming back into the living room. you’re sitting on the couch, knees tucked to your chest while you change the channel to one of those documentaries you’ve been so fond of recently. you turn to smile at andrew and he comes and takes a seat next to you. 

“that’s good. i can go soon.” but you make no effort to move, staring at the screen in front of you. this one is about sea-life, shades of blue flooding ahead of you both. 

“you can stay,” andrew says, quiet like always. “if you want.” his voice is deep and gravelly, and the words he says scratch an itch somewhere deep inside of you, and the relief is visible on your body. you sink a little further into the sofa, knees falling next to andrew’s, thighs touching. 

“if that’s okay with you.” you whisper it, as if saying it too loudly might make the entire idea crack open and fall apart.

you two stay like that for a while. you don’t know when, but andrew swings an arm around your shoulder, and you rest your head against his chest, collapsing into his comfortable grip. you can hear his heart beating, can feel every breath he takes. his hand brushes the top of your shoulder every time you breath, and his other hand is clasped with yours. you watch schools of fish and pods of dolphins, and you think that any other night, you could fall asleep like this. 

“andrew?” you ask, still staring straight ahead. you brush your fingers over his knuckles like you had done last night, and you can feel his hand tense under your touch, until it finally relaxes. “do you want to go to bed?” 

“yeah, kid,” he says. “let’s go to bed.” 

and you’ll be damned if the domesticity doesn’t kick you in the stomach, sucker punch you in the chest and knock all the wind out of you. andrew turns the tv off, puts the remote back in the right place. and then he picks you up, and you make a quiet noise of surprise, underestimating him momentarily. you should know better.

one hand wraps around your legs and the other around your back, bridal-style (fitting, you think), and he sets you down on the creaky bed. you worry, how loud it’ll be and how you’ll have to be quiet but then andrew hovers over you, nothing but a tiny lamp brightening up the room, and you lose your train of thought.

“you sure you wanna do this?” he asks, that rough voice again. like you’ve thought about anything else for the last twenty-four hours. you nod quickly, bringing your hands to his chest, and then his arms, fingers tracing the sinewy veins and thrumming muscles up and down on both sides. his eyes shut while you do it, breaths getting heavy and deep. but you keep going—it’s only fair. you’ve only thought about it a million times. 

“does that feel good?” you whisper, and he lets out a quiet, almost painful groan.

“y-yes,” and you smile, fingers moving on their own while you lean in for the kiss you’ve been waiting for. 

andrew’s mouth is hot, and his kisses are like fire. as soon as your lips touch, he pins you all the way down, his body weight on top of yours. he kisses you the same way he had held your hand last night, the same way he held you on the couch, like you’ll slip away if he stops for even a second. your lips start to ache, but you moan quietly into his mouth, letting him swallow them while you still stroke his arms. one day, you’ll crawl into his lap and play with his hands until he’s sick of you, but today, you need to feel him. 

you can’t do much from your position, but you can wrap your legs around his waist, one hand going towards his chest to pull at his shirt. he takes it off in one motion, yanking the fabric at the back until it comes off, messing up his hair while he pulls it. your free hand goes there, running through his hair again. you use it to steady yourself, gaining leverage while he keeps kissing you like there’s nothing else for him to do. like his life depends on it. he thinks it just might.

“an-andrew,” you get out in gasps, moving your mouth away for a second. “i need to breathe,” you pant, but he doesn’t stop, kisses your cheek and your jaw and buries his face in your neck. you feel the skin there between his lips, then his teeth, and you grip hard on his arm while he keeps going. you want him to keep going, you want to see the marks he leaves tomorrow and every other day. you want everyone to look at you and know that he’s the one who left them. and you think your wish is about to come true.

your fingers let go of his arms and he groans against your skin—there’s no words but you know he didn’t want you to stop. instead you guide them to both sides of his face, staring up at him and then bringing him back in for another kiss. you think you’d be perfectly content to do this forever, that you could spend hours, days, weeks in bed kissing andrew cody. that you’d be stupid to ever leave this bed, leave this house, when there’s a man here who kisses you like each touch of your lips is a prayer, like he’s here to worship. 

he’s not hesitant anymore, not wondering if you’re going to pull away and walk out and ask to pretend this never happened. you keep your hands on his face, and then work down to his jaw and neck, clasping your arms around to keep him in place. 

and his mind is empty. he thinks he should know what to do with you, with your labile body flush against his, all the things he’s been thinking about for the last months, if not at least what he was thinking since this morning. you’re still in your little dress, one of the thin straps fallen over your shoulder and dangling on the skin of your upper arm. he pulls away and you whine, another noise he wishes he could capture somehow. it’s a melody, one he wants to keep hearing. 

you wish he hadn’t stopped the kiss, and you expect him to lean right back in after you both catch your breath, but he doesn’t. andrew’s hovering over you, eyes fixated on your shoulder, staring intently at the strap of your dress. 

“andrew?” you whisper, the hand on his neck rubbing the tense skin there, wondering if you could get your kiss back. “is something wrong?”

his lovely eyes flicker up to you, staring while you swallow and wait patiently. maybe you’d been too eager, maybe he was having regrets—after all, you’re the nanny and he’s the dad and maybe you’d been too presumptuous in assuming that he wanted you as badly as you wanted him—

“no. nothing’s wrong.” you sigh a tiny breath of relief, it comes out before you even notice. but andrew is nothing if not perceptive, and he wraps his hand around your back and lays you back on his bed. 

“why did you stop?” you question, flustered and embarrassed as the words come out, sounding like a spoiled child. but you suppose you had been spoiled these last few hours, getting everything you wanted—his hot touch, breathless kisses, the ability to finally see what the veins on his arms feel like under your palm. 

he doesn’t answer your question, just flicks his eyes back to your shoulder. and then he leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the end of your collarbone, tracing more kisses down through the length of your shoulder, stopping when he reaches the skimpy cotton of your dress. you take deep breaths, watching it happen in front of you. he repeats the same with the other side, pulls the strap down like he’s unfolding a gift, kisses your skin like you’re his present. and you think you are.

there’s nothing between you two except your thin dress, and you pull on it eagerly, trying to get it off, when his hands come and stop on top of yours.

“you’ll rip it,” andrew says, fingers going towards the zipper in the back, undoing it slowly.

“i don’t care,” breathless, eager, unable to wait even another minute to get what you want. he pulls the zipper all the down, your dress falling off as your shrug out of it. 

and you want another kiss, you want his touch, you want something, anything—but all you get is andrew staring at your naked body. and you think somehow this is worse than anything else, anticipation burning in your belly painfully. your thighs feel sticky and sore and your underwear is soaked through. and all he’s done is kiss you. 

“you’re perfect,” he says quietly, and you feel your entire face burn hot. you don’t think you’ve ever felt like this before—and you know how andrew is. he doesn’t lie, he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. 

you tilt your head up, pressing your lips to his for a moment, a soft kiss in contrast to the ones from earlier.

“so are you,” and you kiss him again, smiling against his mouth. he feels it, though he doesn’t smile back. and when he pulls away, he looks down at you, naked and willing in his bed, smiling up at him and telling him he’s perfect, when you don’t even know half the monster he is. “you are,” you repeat, watching andrew’s eyes as he thinks a million thoughts in his head, carries a million burdens on his shoulders. “even if you don’t believe me. i think you’re perfect.” 

you feel cheesy saying it, though you know there isn’t another man in the world who needs to hear it more. you can hear him make a noise of protest, like he doesn’t think you mean it, and incredibly desperate for him to believe you, you sit up.

your hands go to sturdy shoulders while you try to get him to move, until he’s sitting back against the headboard and you can crawl onto his lap. he’s silent, watching you as you do it, exposed body flush against his skin, and yet, you don’t feel scared. you don’t feel embarrassed, or worried. you just want to make him feel good.

you start with a kiss to his jaw. andrew’s body tenses under yours, the slightest bit of contact making him groan and buck up, his hands tight on the soft skin of your waist to keep you both steady. you work your way down to his neck, pressing kisses everywhere in your path. 

“do you want to know what i’ve thought about you?” you ask, though you don’t wait for an answer. you kiss down his chest, stopping at the strong muscles of his chest and the old bruises and scars that cover some of them. “i thought that you’re so good at taking care of your family.” you move down to his abs, more kisses, hearing more noises from andrew that you never would have thought he would make for you. he takes shuddering breaths, not replying to you but grunting from pleasure while you keep going. “i thought that you’re so good to me. that i don’t have to worry since i know i can always come to you.” you think of your car and the money he gives you and how you woke up in bed despite falling asleep on the couch. 

finally you make your way to the waistband of his jeans, undoing the belt with surprisingly steady hands. he reaches down, his hands covering yours for a moment, but you stare up at him with your glassy eyes, not even pulling the entire belt off, just enough to get you what you need—what you want. and then you undo his zipper, tug down his boxers, and take his girthy length into your hand, stroking up and down while still staring up at him. 

“can i take care of you, andrew?” and you don’t realize how it must sound to him, his head thudding back onto the pillow. you press a gentle kiss to his leaking tip, both hands wrapped around his dick and stroking while you wait for your answer. 

“y-yes, yes-” and you don’t wait any longer, taking as much of andrew into your mouth as you can fit. you drive your mouth up and down, your hands twisting around the base, everything wet and warm and sticky from your spit. and you think you would do this forever, that you would do this everyday if you could hear the noises he makes and how his body takes the pleasure you give him. you gag around him, feeling his hand snake into your hair, pulling you off gently. you smile up at him, though you’re sure you look like a mess, hot tears running down your cheeks and lips shiny and wet. 

but you don’t stop—licking up and down until you bring him back into your mouth. you can feel how embarrassingly wet you are right now, can feel yourself leaking onto your thighs and the sheets, wanting friction as badly as you wanted to make andrew feel good right now. and then you hear it—andrew’s moan, louder than any of the other noises and full and from the chest. he bucks up into your mouth and you take it, ready to hear what he sounds like when he finishes, when he pulls you off of him. 

“andrew—” you whine, as though you were the one about to come. he pulls you up, naked bodies pushed against each other, and kisses you until you feel light-headed.

“not until you do,” he murmurs, and you feel dizzy all over again.

“but i’m not done,” still eager to kiss the rest of his body and tell him how good he is, until he starts to believe you. you wrangle out of his loose grip, knowing full well if he wanted to stop, he could have. he could pin you down and do whatever he wanted to you and you wouldn’t be able to fight him, a thought that makes you feel like you’re going to faint. but you resume quickly, starting at his shoulders—stopping to admire all the sunspots spattered there—and starting your journey again, working down his bicep and to his freckled forearm, the ones you stared at whenever the opportunity presented itself, the one you thought about all the time.

andrew doesn’t know about that, and you’re not sure you can bear to tell him. it feels too revealing, despite how you’re naked on top of him, your breasts pressed against him and wet pussy on top of his hard, leaking dick. but sure—that’s what you get nervous about. 

you stop and trace all the veins with your fingers, feeling him pulse underneath you, repeating on both sides. he’s got his head tilted back, soft groans filling the empty space between you as you keep going. if they’re this sensitive for him, you can only imagine what it would feel like for you, especially the one leading down to the middle of his wrist—and then the words slip out before you can realize you had said them out loud.

your face goes hot again. he looks up at you a little confused, and you have to stop yourself from collapsing and burying your face into the pillow next to you.

“andrew?” you ask, shy and embarrassed and yet not stopping yourself at all. 

“you… you like my arms?” he says, and you feel your face heat up.

but so many things have happened already that you couldn’t have even dreamt about twenty-four hours ago, so you think it’s worth a shot. (that’s a lie. you have dreamt about this, so many times that you’ve woken up in your bed covered in a cold sweat, that you’ve burned through a vibrator and ruined pillows imagining what it would be like to rub yourself against his veiny arms. you guess you’re about to find out). 

your fingers trace the length of them again.

“i like everything about you,” you say quietly, understanding just how silly you sound. “but we don’t have to do anything.” you try to cover your tracts, worried you’ve just messed up the incredible time you’ve been having so far littering his body with kisses and feeling butterflies in your cunt from the fact that andrew will be inside of you soon. 

“how would you-” andrew starts, and you watch him carefully as he gets out the next few words. “do it? how?” and it’s just cut and dry way he speaks, though it’s really going to your head (and other places) right now. 

“well, i-”

“show me.” oh. 

you feel yourself pulse and throb in response to his words. even below you, you can still feel how hard andrew is. you try to start positioning yourself, but you must be moving too slowly for him, and you feel his hand on your ass, grabbing you and pushing you up to his chest, face to face. he lays his arm next to you, watching your naked body as you try to balance yourself between it, his free arm on your hip, keeping you steady. 

when you lower yourself, just an inch or two, just until you feel the ridge of his forearm and you can decide what to do after realizing that you are, in fact, doing this, andrew curses under his breath.

“fuck, you’re so wet.” he can feel it. feel you, on his arm, leaking, for him. you take a deep breath, pressing your hands against his chest to keep your balance, moving your hips up and down slowly. and your eyes flutter shut because fuck, if it isn’t better than every fantasy you’ve ever had.

you hadn’t known that your pathetic attempts to recreate this at home would have never lived up to the real thing, and now you realize you’ll never be able to go back to anything else but andrew, that no one else could make you feel this way. months of pent-up desire leave your body as you rock yourself against him, finally getting the stimulation you’ve been craving.

when you open your eyes, just for a second, you see andrew, his eyes glued to where your pussy meets his arm, his breaths heavy and deep, like he wouldn’t look away from the sight before him for anything.

and then you feel the veins rub against your clit, and your eyes roll back into your head. you keep going, trying to muffle your moans and sighs, but you can’t get the image out of your head—andrew staring at you, like he wanted this as much as you’ve wanted it, like he needs to see you cum like this. you start going faster, the friction and the slide from your juices making it easier and the veins rubbing at you just the right way—

he leans in, putting one of your peaked nipples into his mouth, flicking his tongue against it, before letting go and repeating the same with the other one. but it’s really when andrew starts talking that you’re pulled over the edge, his hand hot on your back.

“please,” he says, and you feel yourself falling into it, hanging onto every raspy word, so much better than you could have ever dreamed, “-i-i need you to cum for me. i need to feel you, i need to see it, please-”

and you do. you always listen to andrew, all the white-hot tension wound up in your belly releasing, flooding your entire body with the relief you’ve been wanting all night. your body tightens up, stopping, but he moves you with the huge hand on your hip, makes you rub on him all through it, pulling your body like you’re a toy for him.

your mind is empty while your toes curl and uncurl, thighs aching and sore in this position. andrew ushers you towards him, and you collapse on his chest, heaving and sweaty and tired—and the realization hits you that he hasn’t even been inside of you yet.

he kisses you while he has you trapped in his arms, your eyes shut as you breathe him in, moan into his mouth and let him swallow it. 

“y-your arm,” you get out, realizing you’re not speaking in coherent sentences. “i’m sorry-”

“why?” he asks, and you shut up instantly. “didn’t know you liked them that much.” 

he laughs quietly, a sound you have only heard a few times. you laugh against his chest for a moment, before pulling him in for another kiss. this time, it deepens, and he gets you on your back in front of him before he pulls away. you stare up at him, mind empty and chest heaving, seeing how his eyes stay on your tits, and you reach up, putting your hands on his chest while he hovers over you.

“it might hurt,” he says, and you feel your entire body tighten, your walls clench at his words. there’s nothing but truth behind his statement—it’s not meant to be arrogant or boastful, he’s warning you. it’s going to hurt, you know it is—you could barely fit half of him in your mouth and it took you both hands to be able to comfortably stroke him.

but the way he says it elicits a fire in you, and suddenly you need him now, no matter how much it hurts. 

“i don’t care, andrew, please,” you beg, staring up at him. he still hovers, licking his lips and staring at your how tits bounce while you beg him to fuck you—a thought that he cannot process, even with you splayed out in front of him. he brings his arms out, fingers teasing your sensitive nipples until you’re covering your own mouth to avoid being too loud and you think you’re going to black out. (even in the dim light you can see the shine on his forearm from you, and the memory of it takes over your mind like a twister.) 

“i have to stretch you out first.” the words possess your body like a demon. andrew takes your knees and spreads them apart, and no matter how hard you try to close them, you can’t compete against him. when he slides in one huge finger, your eyes roll back. he slips in so easily, the noise is obscene. the second finger goes in just as quickly, but there’s more resistance. two of his fingers are at least three of yours (if not more, you think, and then you want to faint again). the stretch is delicious, your pulsing walls realizing that this has been what you’ve been craving all along. that no toys or pillows or fingers of your own could ever compare.

when he slips a third finger in, he doesn’t change the pace. just keeps pushing them in and out of you like you’re a toy he’s testing the limits with, seeing how much you can take before you break. there’s no instructions for you besides to sit back and take it—and your toes curl and your head spins at how good he feels. the stretch hurts, but you want it so badly, you hear yourself crying out and saying incoherent things. you think you see andrew smile from where he is, watching your cunt suck his fingers in, his entire hand coated in your juices.

and when he hovers over you, bringing his tip to your entrance and prodding against you for a moment, you think you’re in heaven. he’s so flushed, tips of ears and his cheeks pink, sweat coating his body, just like yours. you can only imagine how hard he is, how you’ll get to feel how hard he is soon enough. his eyes stay at your pussy, pushing in, just barely, but you need more. you bring your hands to his arms, holding onto him while he slides in, and when you feel him push all the way in—so much bigger than you could have imagined, three of his fingers is nothing compared to this, nothing, nothing, nothing—he’s on top of you and kissing you. 

whatever noises you make are tuned out—your ears are ringing and you can’t hear anything besides andrew’s grunts and moans as they come into your mouth. you keep kissing him, pulling on his lower lip and feeling his tongue on yours, but your entire body goes slack when he starts on a brutal pace, pulling all the way out and slamming into you. the bed is creaky, and the only noise besides it is the obscene one—the squelch of your soaking wet cunt taking andrew all the way, the repetitive slap of his skin meeting yours. you feel everything—the pressure of his hands while he holds you incredibly tightly, the fullness in your cunt that makes it feel like you can’t breathe.

and then andrew kisses your lips and makes a noise that makes you leak even more, and you know you’ll be just fine.

“i-i want-” he starts, and you feel him slow down the pace slightly.

“please, andrew,” you beg, and he resumes, fucking into you with an intensity that reminds you how badly he wants you, how long he’s wanted this. it reminds you of every time you caught him staring, every time you smiled at him wondering what he was thinking. and now you think you know—maybe he was thinking about something like this.

“i want another one,” he says into the skin of your neck, feeling him lick the sweat there and kiss the skin. “i want to feel it while i’m inside-” and god if you can’t comply. you want to do every single thing he tells you for the rest of your life, you don’t want to make another decision without andrew cody. 

he changes the position, pulling out of you for a second and making you whine again. (spoiled, you think, he’s spoiled me for anyone else forever.) he holds both of your knees up and spreads them wide and wraps your arms around them, keeping them in place. and then he slides back inside of you in one swift movement, making your eyelids flutter shut. he doesn’t get right on top of you, leaving space between you that makes it impossible to lean in for a kiss, and you keep whining, impossibly and irrationally angry that you can’t kiss him, wondering why he wants you like this, when you feel his fingers circle your clit slowly—then quickly.

your head falls back onto the pillow. andrew can feel you pulsing around him, walls clenching every time he rubs your sensitive clit, and that’s what he wants, that’s what he needs, wants to feel you cum around his dick and squeeze him even tighter than you are right now. wants to see how you look completely fucked out, wants to see if you can give him a third. (he’ll get it, he decides, later. he’ll give you a chance to breathe, get you water after this. all the things he would do to take care of you, just like how you deserve, how a husband would take care of his wife.) 

because at the end of the day, isn’t that what you two basically already are? you couldn’t be a girlfriend, because you have to get comfortable around a girlfriend. 

no, he thinks, watching your fucked-out, flushed body take him like you were made for it. you already know him, know what he likes and doesn’t like, know how to make him feel good like you had been inside of his head already. you have been inside. you’re all he thinks about. that’s a wife, that is something that is forever, what the two of you have. 

he doesn’t realize how hard he’s going, how fast, or how you’ve been squealing with your entire body tensing while he was stuck in his thoughts about you. this time when you finish, it explodes through you, the electric current staring from your core and spreading to every finger and toe. you jolt, legs shaking and head heavy, the after effect rolling through you while andrew keeps fucking you, keeps going even though he should probably stop. you’re incoherent, writhing and crying and feeling completely numb and like your entire body is burning all at once. 

and when you blink open your watery eyes at andrew, smile sweetly and reach out for a kiss, one that he happily gives you, you say it quietly.

“i love you, andrew.” and you feel his thrusts stutter, his body weight almost collapsing on you. you feel andrew cum, feel it filling you up while you listen to his quiet moans and run your hands over his tense muscles, saying sweet things that he can barely understand in this state. 

he rolls over minutes later, not pulling out until you were done kissing him. the room is filled with nothing but your heavy breaths. you need a shower, and you need to sleep.

you curl up on andrew’s chest like you had been on the couch what felt like a lifetime ago. you play with his fingers and he runs his other hand up and down the expanse of your arm. you can hear birds outside—and you know you need to get up soon, but you can’t find any words. 

“you think that was enough?” andrew asks, and you look up at him with a confused expression. he looks at you with so much sincerity you feel like crying. your andrew.

“what do you mean?” you ask quietly, still not sure what he’s even talking about. your head is spinning and your eyes are tired—every part of you is tired.

“we can go again after you get some sleep. it might take more than once.”

“andrew?”

“you don’t have to worry about it. i’ll figure it out. i won’t stop until i put a baby in you.”

♡ thank you for reading

[ktchie]

baptise in your thighs, till it hurts

pairing : andrew “pope” cody x reader

warnings : SMUT ❗❗fingering, messy pussy eating, cumming, squirting, violence, headlock, leglock, choking, slapping, scratching, putting pressure on a bloody bullet wound, biting, blood, pussy drunk pope. pet names : kid, kiddo, whore (once n affectionate), sweet thing, pretty girl, pope calls himself daddy once.

summary : read part 1 & part 2. pope teaches you self defence. he puts you in a headlock, then you put him in a leglock. 

wc : 2k

a/n : i blame @ozarkthedog for this because this gifset won't leave my mind. i did very slight research on fighting for this so i'm sorry for any inaccuracies. i also did in fact try to bite my arm as i put myself in a (loose) chokehold to see if it was possible lol. pretty please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed, i love reading reactions <33. gif credits: @ozarkthedog. divider credits: @cafekitsune.

You’re helping J with school in the kitchen when Pope walks in. Stare heavy as he spots the two of you sitting shoulder to shoulder. 

“Don’t. Even start.” You call out without even having to turn around to sense his presence.

“M’ just lending a second pair of eyes for his assignment, not that his grades need any help.” Letting a small smile appear as you bump your elbow to J.

Your softness disappears when you turn a little, giving Pope a mean stink eye. Or as mean as you think you look. He still wants to squish your cheeks and peck your lips.

Pope gets closer to J, planting his hands on the younger man’s shoulders. J’s eyes briefly connect with yours before he gets dragged into a chokehold from behind.

You run a hand over your face as you witness the scene unfolding. To J’s credit, he’s holding his own against Pope, but the man has too much familiarity with bloody knuckles and faded scars. Something else festers in your mind as you watch J struggling in Pope’s flexed arms.

“Andrew! I said, that’s enough.” Your words are final with your hands on your hips.

Pope lets go of J. His eyes lingering on your frame as J coughs and catches his breath. 

His mind supplies a fantasy.

You scolding him like this.

Is this how you would scold him if you caught him feeding your baby girl ice cream before dinner?

Would you be helping your baby girl with her homework like you did with J?

Maybe he can let J be close with you if these are the thoughts that fill his mind now instead of jealousy.

Pope shakes J by the shoulders, playfully slapping him on the cheek once, twice.

“Good, that was good. No hard feelings, huh J?”

“... Yeah, s’whatever man.” J shrugs him off, making his way back over to you to collect his work.

“Sheeesh. Knew you were gonna leash our guard dog sooner or later.” Deran announces as he enters the kitchen just as J passes him by.

You slowly turn, hands still on the hips and squint your eyes at him. 

“I’m not making you lunch just for that comment.” You deadpan as you push and lead Pope to the bedroom.

“What? No, hey I was just playing around c’monnn you gonna let a poor man starve? Smurf ain’t home and you make the best b-” You slam the door in Deran’s face, stopping him trailing after the two of you like a lost puppy.

You spin, arms crossed over your chest. Pope is sitting on the edge of the bed. Still. And staring. As always.

“You mad?” 

Sighing, you cross the distance to him. Standing in between his legs, you run a hand through his soft curls.

“M’not mad … kinda want you to put me in a chokehold though.” You laugh shyly.

Pope’s eyes that were closed from your touch open back up. Confusion swirls in his gaze. A “why” evident with his tilted head as he looks up at you.

“Just … I dunno,” You continue while lowering yourself on his lap, “I liked your arms when you did that. The way they flexed, you know?” 

Pope’s face screams “No, I do not know”.

“You like my arms? That it?” It’s a genuine question, because he can't comprehend why you would.

You groan, thinking Pope’s not taking you seriously. Hiding your face in his neck, you mumble out,

“Why don’t you teach me some self defence classes? Show you how much I like em,” You pout, not realising he isn't making fun of you.

Not realising the dangerous idea you just gave Pope permission to carry out.

That’s how you end up here days later when the adrenaline from a mission is running high, Pope’s body littered with injuries.

He wraps his strong arm around your neck, confining you into a chokehold. You claw at the muscle as he twists the both of you around. But you're so focused on his arms and escaping his grasp, that you keep your legs unguarded. Pope manages to bring his legs over yours with ease, trapping them on the outside of his. Eye widening as you realise his play, but you’re just a second too late because Pope is already shoving his free hand down your pants.

“Oh, already dripping wet just from this kiddo? Just gotta throw you around a little, put you in a headlock and you soak right through your panties.” His gravelly voice mocks you.

You tear your claws away from his now scratched up bicep to dig into the wrist that’s disappeared below the waistband of your bottoms. But the pleasure from Pope rubbing circles and pressing down hard through your panties, makes your wires cross.

“Kid, can’t tell if you're tryin’ to pull my hand away, or push it deeper into you.” Pope smirks against the top of your head.

“But since your poor pussy’s clenching around nothing, let’s give her some attention yeah?”

Then Pope is pushing your panties to the side and plunging two fingers deep into you.

You whine, jerking in his hold from the intrusion of pleasure, rising your arms above your head to swat at his face. But when the slaps land, Pope only shudders at the pain and enters a third finger, hitting all the right places.

Bucking your hips at the feeling of being filled up when he cages his bicep around your neck just a little tighter. 

“Could cum just from hearing your pretty moans, y’know that kiddo? Makes me so hard when you cry out. And the noises your pretty pussy is making, fuck.” Pope groans above you.

The pressure on your airflow combined with his thick fingers hitting that g-spot on every thrust, makes your body pliable like jelly. Your body weakens in his embrace as the pleasure makes your mind fuzzy. Whimpers and slick gushing fill the room.

Pope tsks.

“C’mon kiddo, we’re still trying to learn something here. Already know you’re a little whore for Daddy, so why don’t you learn how to fight back a little harder? Know you can do better kid, I’ll give you a little treat if you escape my hold c’mon.” Pope nuzzles his nose into your hair, as if he isn't making you see stars with the onslaught of his fingers.

Pope slows down his deep thrusts by just a fraction, as if he knows the pleasure he’s giving you is clouding your ability to think straight. 

Your mind clears a little, and you reach up a hand even higher to yank at Pope’s roots. He groans, momentarily distracted by the pain. His pace falters when you rake your other hand across his bicep, nails breaking skin.

Curling your right shoulder inwards, you quickly fill the gap by taking back your hand in his hair and pushing at his arm. But Pope regains his focus even faster. He pulls out of you completely to reinforce the chokehold, his left hand now gripping his right wrist to cage you in again. The delicious pressure makes your eyes roll back.

“Think kid, know I didn’t fuck your pretty brains out yet. Focus on catching me off guard again.” He whispers into your hair.

Think.

What would make him distracted?

An idea forms just as tears well up in the corner of your eyes.

You open your mouth and bite down hard into his bicep, reaching a hand down to Pope’s bandage at the side of his chest. Ripping it open and pressing into the bullet wound. 

“O-oh, fuck me,” A gutteral growl in your ear sends a shiver down your body.

He finally releases you from the chokehold as you scramble up to sit up. You kick your legs as you move backwards to the side to land on the floor instead of on his body, freeing yourself.

Pope is up on his elbows, hissing as he puts pressure with the ripped bandage back on his bleeding wound. A prominent bite mark is visible on his bicep. Dark eyes meeting your worried gaze as you take in the blood escaping to the floor.

“Fuck m’sorry it was the only thing I thought of are you-” Your rambling gets cut off as Pope drags your ankle with the hand not at his wound.

Your back hits the floor from the movement, elbows braced backwards to stop your head from following.

He looms over you as he yanks at your bottoms, dragging your panties down along with it. 

“Pope, stop. We need to patch you up you’re-”

“Told you I’d give you a little treat if you got out, didn’t I sweet thing? So let me make good on my words.”

Your brows forrow in confusion but you can’t think any longer when Pope surges down and starts eating you out like a man starved for days. He moans at your taste, like you’re feeding him sweet honey. Your head lolls back, whimpering as his tongue reaches deep into you. He takes it back out to suck on your clit, making you whine out in ecstacy. 

You barely register Pope putting your thighs on his shoulder, too high on cloud 9 from him making out with your pussy. Only fussing and looking at him when he stops, meeting his almost completely dilated eyes that are already on you.

“Wrap your legs around me kid. C’mon pretty girl, put me in a leglock till you squirt all over my face.”

Oh, fuck.

You don’t need telling twice as you follow his instructions. Tightening your legs around his head, you cross them at the knees to hold him into place.

The new position allows Pope to ruin you. He’s hungrily licking and sucking. Slowly dragging his tongue from from your entrance all the way up to your clit, angling his head and sucking hard on your clit. Your cries fill the room with the slick sounds of your wetness. Grabbing at his sweaty curls, you grind your hips up into Pope’s face. The both of you rolling your eyes into the back of your skulls as the newfound position makes you two closer. Deeper, harder, faster.

His hands knead the meat of your thighs. Pope grinds down on the floor, trying to alleviate the need from feeling your pussy clench around his tongue, the weight of your thighs squeezing around him and the fucked-out moans echoing to his covered ears. He can tell you’re getting close, attuned to your body.

“W-wait! Andrew somethings weird- I feel weird, I can’t s’too much!”

Pope’s eyes irises are completely black, desire taking over him. He pushes his face into you even more, slipping his tongue impossibly deep before sucking and swallowing around your clit.

Your vision turns white as shockwaves are sent throughout your entire body. You feel it travel from your blank mind to your shaking legs, as you squirt messily all over Pope’s face. It makes your body go lax, weakening the leghold you have on him.

“Fuckkk, yeah that's it kid. Give it all to me, wan’ be drenched in you. Wanna suck it all up, won’t waste a drop I promise.” His words are slurred like he’s pussydrunk on your taste.

You’re too weak to even writhe in pleasure, your high pitched moans and cries music to his ears. The loud slurping of his makes your face turn red, as your vision of the room returns slowly. You're still panting, breathing erratic when you blurrily register Pope planting one last sweet kiss to your messy cunt before making his way up to your face.

His completely darkened eyes finally come into full focus as he strokes your cheek affectionately. Closing the distance, he kisses you deep and slow, the taste of you hitting your own tongue. He pecks your pouty lips when he retreats slightly, knuckles dragging along your cheekbones. You think he looks like the Devil with his dark, crazed eyes drunk on your pleasure.

“One more, kid? You can give me one more can’t you, my sweet girl?” He mutters softly against your lips.

You think Pope really might be, as he lowers himself once more.

a/n : likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated as always muaks.

no pressure tags for beloved mooties/fellow pope enjoyers from previous parts : @erwinsvow @callsign-fangirl @mangonom @flofaiiry @superhoeva @flamingdisputes @loveslide @twentytoo22 @likedovesinthewnd / @awkwardpersonsthings @nyheartbreak @paintlavillered @roses-and-grasses @readerimagines666 @ultr4vjolence

[ktchie]

Y‘all ready for some oldman!joel FILTH???🤭🤭🤭

ITS HERE!!!

If you wanna be added to the taglist, pls let me know!!!

[ktchie]

dr. abbot's the kind of man to have you back against the bed, holding your own knees as far back as they'll go while he spits at and sucks you silly.

a growl leaves him as his tongue dips into your hole, nosing at your clit with a long inhale.

"fuck, you're somethin' else," dr. abbot mumbles, eyes clouded with the same fire you recognize with earlier after he led you through the successful save of a patient suffering from toxic shock. he'd praised you afterwards in a raspy whisper and sly smirk that you'd thought about for the rest of the week.

two days catching him staring at you from across the room later, and here you are; squirming against the bedsheets of your attending while he fucks you with his tongue. you've already come on dr. abbot's face twice at his command but the fervor of his mouth shows no decline.

the flicking of jack's tongue sounds loudly in the air of your room, barely covered by your loud gasps and long whines of his name. he does anything but let up, forehead shining with a thin layer of sweat, lugging the flat of his tongue up to wipe across your clit. you flinch at the feeling, and your thighs starts to quake when he repeats the action before pulling away with one last suck.

"gonna come for me one more time," he instructs, guiding one your quivering legs to hang over his shoulder while the other goes limp onto the bed. "then i'm gonna fuck you like the brilliant, badass resident you are. that sound alright to you?"

jack's mouth quirks at your blissed-out nod, only giving you a single second before a pair of his fingers swipe and press against your slit. he watches, fascinated, at how slick you've become as he eases inside.

he curls inside you immediately, the pads of his fingers dancing along spots that sucks all the air from your lungs. a breathy moan escapes the man at your warmth, and he follows the sound with the dipping of his to lap at you again.

tongue moving in a frenzy, dr. abbot resumes his devouring of you with an unashamed groan and working jaw, fingers working in and out of you in perfect sequence.

"been my fuckin' favorite for a damn year, you know that?" he mumbles messily against you, eyes cutting upwards to watch you tremble and clutch the sheets... his sheets.

god, jack known there was something about you from the second you stepped into his er. he finally figured out what it was when you performed a perfect thoracotomy and a retrograde intubation on the same damn day. inadvertently, the attending had the tendency to stick by your side ever since that day, making sure that you consult and present to him, and trying not to lose his shit at the times you already have the correct answer.

something inside you had felt the pull. the inescapable tug produced by the intensity of mundane conversations, how close the two of you stand without noticing, the quipping that oozes a step past workplace banter.

all of it–the looks and touches and fucking yearning–have come to a head through the form of his tongue and fingers working you close to tears... starving for you and proving it tenfold.

there's a precision abbot cares for you with. his movements are sharp but tender, engulfing you in the suffocating pleasure his measured purpose brings about.

"yeeeah. you got it," jack coos raspily at your growing whimpers, bullying his tongue back onto your clit with a reassuring wink. "gimme one more, baby... then we'll see f'you and can take my cock as well as you're taking my fingers."

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[ktchie]

if there’s one thing about jack abbot, it’s that he’s going to mock you during sex… though never done out of cruelty or with any malicious intent. if fact, the two of you don’t even think of it as such—mocking.

his words are more of a… provocative ribbing that he knows will flood your mind with a haze. a haze you’re comfortable with floating in, that fills you full, right into a world-bending breaking point.

you’re both on your sides, facing and pressing against each other. substituting oxygen with your panting huffs, jack inhales your moans with sloppy, spit-slick kisses. he feels you shiver in his arms when he slips himself back inside, resettling your leg over his hip to push as far into your pussy as you’ll let him.

jack smirks to himself, his palm moving to splay against the cheek of your ass and yank you closer. he grunts through a sudden exhale at the new angle, commencing a roll of his waist that causes a gasp to burn your lungs.

“fuck, jack,” your mewl, voice weak and wobbly. “ah—ah, ‘s so deep…”

“is it? s’it nice and deep, baby?” he mumbles at your lips, copying your desperate nod and small yeahs with an expression of pity you can tell is fake. “wonder ‘f i can get any deeper...”

you aren’t given a chance to wonder the same before jack is gripping your ass with a stronger squeeze. his tender thrusts adjust into a sharp, sturdy pounding that jerks his balls back and forth against your pussy.

leaking around his thickness, you hand reaches behind to clench the sheet beneath you. it’s the only thing you can manage, the rest of your mind a sweet mush.

“t-too much.” you can barley talk, air escaping your body faster than you can replace it. “it’s too much, feels too good.”

jack doesn’t let up, cock throbbing and pumping hard into your heat. his bottom lip pokes out, just barely, matching your blissed out expression.

“oh, ‘too much, it’s too much’,” he recites, drawing out the words in a teasing tone you wouldn’t tolerate from anyone else. “i don’t think so, baby. shit, you’re doing so good. takin’ my cock all nice and pretty.”

you crumble against jack but he holds you steady. lips smushed into his neck, you smear it messy with the spit drooling from slurred, open-mouthed mumbles. 

“you’re so big,” you stammer, vision going blurry at the wet squelch that sounds whenever he rears out of you, and subsequent groan that jumps from jack when he slicks back inside your creaming hole. 

“ooh, i‘m so big?” jack keeps his pace steady through the witty responses, and you can’t yourself from meeting his thrusts with your own grind. you don’t have to see him to feel the grin quirking the corners of his mouth. “hm? maybe i should pull out, give you a break—”

“no. no,” you whine over the rocking of the bed, clutching his as if he’s truly considering slipping his cock out and leaving you empty and cold. “no, don’t stop. gonna come again…”

the words flip a switch in jacks brain and he fucks you the hardest he has all night. foot planting into the bed, he sounds with deep coos at your uncontrollable cries he forces out of you.

it’s disgusting, the way you’ve coated his member in a velvety mixture of your juices. dripping down, it even collects against his sack, glossing him and making his eyes roll.

“gimme that cum, baby. just like last time, squirt it all out for me.”

you body goes numb yet feels like it’s imploding all at once. jack watches the way you shiver in his grasp, clenching around his swollen cock as you gush messily. he fucks you through it, the liquid spurting to wet his stomach and balls.

“that’s it,” he chokes out, inching dangerously close to his own finish. it only takes a few more pulses of your peak to finally clutch his own, plunging feverishly until he’s balls deep inside you. “f-fuck, yeah, right there.”

jack breaks. groaning into the side of your face and latching onto you while comes, the inescapable bliss makes his entire body twitch with harsh trembles.

“holy fuck, i’m still goin,” jack almost growls, air caught in his throat at the continuous ropes of cum he spills into you. the both of you are still heaving and coming as he leaks out of you. your lips puffy and swollen, and a sticky mess. it goes on for so long that jack ends up laughing through his moans, stomach sore from all the clenching.

it takes a few more minutes for your bodies to finally melt into tangled piles of limbs, the warm residue of your climax swimming nicely in your belly.

“you still with me, gorgeous?”

the only response you can muster is a sleepy mm-mm, and he gives you an equally-exhausted laugh. you only find the strength to peel open your eyes when a soft hand cradles your chin to tilt your head.

eyelids fluttering, you stare at him in a lost, fuzzy daze. thumb stroking your cheek, jack blinks sleepily at you before planting a soft kiss on the corner of your lips.

“i’m right here,” he promises, words certain but still far away when they reach your ears. “right here, baby. need you to come back for me, okay?”

a whine seeps from your lips. it’s not a defiance but you’re not obliging him either. you’re just… still in orbit, where you are the sun and jack’s the earth just before a dawn; as usual, he’ll push past the incoming fatigue, and wait for the otherworldly, ingrained tug that will eventually pull you back to him.

“right here…”

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[ktchie]

𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 – 𝐦. 𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡 (𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭; +𝟏𝟖) | what a fucking delight it was to write this, as someone who has a big fat crush on this ^ man right here and as someone who is also a lifelong steeler fan. this one goes out to @ovaryacted (who pretty much beta-ed the first handful of pages for this), @heavenbarnes (who maybe might have been bitten by the robby bug?? no pressure to read babes), @jackabbotsfakeleg (who is the first fellow steelers fan i found on tumblr; this team is my doom but i love them!), plus all the robby fiends

warning(s) include language, inappropriate relations (?),age gap (reader is 25ish/2nd year med student, while robby is pushing 50), he fell first and harder, sexual tension, reader is a steelers fan and from pittsburgh, (american) football talk, baltimore ravens trashing, injury (mentioned), smut, penetrative sex (p in v), oral sex (f receiving), handjob, nipple play, bodily fluids, big dick/down bad!robby, special appearance at the end; she's thick, guys... sitting at 5.2k words!

Medical school lecture halls are just as chilly as Robby remembers.

The air feels a little less clean, a little more human, but still. There’s a nip to the air that takes him back to his Monday-Wednesday-Friday EMED 851 lecture. Part of him wishes he had worn one of his hoodies, though that would look a little weird with the button-up and slacks he has on. The light blue–cornflower, the tag reads–top and black bottoms feel odd, tugging at Robby’s skin in a way that his scrubs and cargos don’t.

There’s a wide array of students scattered across the seats of the room. To his surprise, most of them listen to him ramble about airways with attentive eyes and scribble down whatever they can catch. Good. That means that they’re maybe halfway serious about this shit, which earns them 2% of the qualification needed to work in emergency medicine.

Other than a lull of awkward silence at the very beginning plus a few verbal stumbles in the form of curses that cause the class to giggle while he apologizes and gathers himself, the doctor is pretty solid. 

There’s only one other time he flounders, if he should even call it that. It was more of an unforeseen pause. Nothing more than the tick of a few seconds when his eyes lock with yours for the first time today.

You’re already staring in his direction, waiting for him to finish the word that collapses surprisingly easy on his lips at the sight of you. He blinks, a strange flush ricocheting across the skin of his face when you blink at him, even throwing in a little grin just as he snatches back his composure with a distracted um.

The shirt you’re wearing is nice. Simple and fitted. Cap sleeves stop right below your shoulder and reveal intricate lines of ink that swirl back under the fabric in loops that make Robby wonder more than he should. You’re wearing shorts, too. Huh. He’d have half a mind to question how your exposed legs bear the nippy air of the hall, but it doesn’t matter. You make it work–and well–the material cutting off just a little higher than he initially realized.

Zipping his eyes back up to yours, he warms at how you’re picking at your bottom lip; your other hand now using your pen to write down something you remember him saying a few moments earlier.

Covering his gulp with a fast wipe at his beard, Robby somehow finds a way to push out the words that have been stuck in his throat for what feels like longer than the brisk five seconds that have passed since he spoke last.

His head tilts, barely, and his lips twitch into a small smile, dragging his stare from you to the carpet beneath him so he can speak again. Robby plays off the mistake as him thinking–about the question itself and not how you are unmistakably the prettiest thing in this room.

Eleven. That’s how many times he glances at you between then and the end of his lecture. The first three times were a genuine accident, and boy, did they feel like one. Goosebumps flutter across the back of his neck, which he’s rubbed enough times that some of the students probably think there’s something wrong with the tendons there. Robby almost agrees, with the way they keep allowing him to swivel and study you.

The more it happens, the oops of peeking at you, the longer it takes for him to look away. By the end of his knowledge-packed but run-on sentence answers, Robby’s stare cements to you. You’re nodding, legs crossed, and unintentionally drawing patterns with the pad of your finger across the skin of your thigh. For some reason, he’s fairly confident in the fact that you probably don’t even realize you’re doing it.

“Any more questions for Dr. Robinavitch?”

Dr. Robinavitch. Professors, man.

Robby doesn’t try to stop himself from glimpsing in your vicinity. Not right at you but close, so his peripheral can catch any possible movement of your hand raising. His eyes burn with an unsettling eagerness while he waits for something to happen. What the fuck is wrong with him? What the fuck is wrong with you for wearing shorts that fit that well even while you’re sitting?

Your hand stays where it is, arm propped against the side of your seat, fingers fiddling with the pen he can tell you’re trying not to click. The small pang of disappointment that rises inside him squashes away in seconds, and he prays that his ears don’t start to hue red after you hold his stare the longest you have for the entire class.

Looking at him through your lashes, you wait. And wait… and wait. A smirk barely ghosts across your mouth, and Robby rips away his stare. Throat bobbing while he swallows, blinking faster than he means to, he looks to the professor.

“Think they’re ready to kick me out, Dr. Hummel. I’ve probably rambled for long enough, yeah?” Robby shrugs. A sheepish smile warms his face when the room echoes with a healthy applause, and Robby almost recoils at the sound. There’s no way Hummel didn’t tell them to do that. And all he can do is stand and take it, hands tucked into his pockets, his thanks an awkward nod and embarrassed grimace-flavored grin.

Robby tries not to blush when he spots you clapping along with everyone else. He tucks his chin, feeling a little silly with how satisfying it feels to know he’s spoken well enough for you to show some appreciation. Or maybe you’re just doing it to be nice. Either way, you’re making the attending pinker than usual.

Class wraps in a daze.

Dr. Hummel leaves Robby lingering to the side, a wave of shuffling backpacks and zippers echoes throughout the hall. There’s a reminder announcement about a research paper due two weeks from today… or is it a presentation? Robby doesn’t listen hard enough to verify.

A sprinkle of pupils, glowing with a luster that only presents itself after their final class of the week concludes, come up to formally greet Robby. All with names he’ll try to remember but won’t. Bright-eyed and buzzing more than he thinks one would be after an hour and a half long lecture on airways, but hey. He appreciates the eagerness, even if it’s a little much.

Doing his best to be polite, Robby tries to seem as if he’s actively listening–nodding, humming, and throwing in a smile for good measure. He catches a few of the words being smattered his way, but he’s already forgotten them by the time the students leave him be. A sigh of relief sinks out of his nose when he turns his head to find you still in the room, only just now standing from your chair and sliding a thick notebook into your bag.

A line of spit gets caught in his throat when he sees you adjust your shorts, subtly tugging at where they’ve ridden up in between the warmth of your thighs–warmth of your thighs? Fuck, Michael, get it the hell together.

Robby coughs loudly into the crook of his elbow before pivoting to find you gliding his way. His heart jumps as you head right for the man, and his mind races to search for something to say. Hi? Nice to meet you? I really like those shorts?

His mouth opens to speak, though he quickly settles it into a kind grin as you scoot past him with a smile of your own.

“S’cuse me,” you pronounce gently, and Robby’s throat bobs.

“Of course,” he nods, voice huskier than he means for it to be as he takes a polite step to the side. You gift him one last breath-snatching smile before floating out of the hall without a second look. A long hum seeps from Robby, his fingers reaching to scrape at the nape of his neck.

Fuck, he needs to change out of these clothes… and maybe receive a beating of some kind for how long he let himself gawk at your ass just now.

Unfortunately, Robby doesn’t find the courage to ask anyone to smack him across the face the entire walk to his car. He does, however, have enough sense to unfasten the button that’s been digging into his skin since he threw on the shirt.

The man could cry happy tears when he pulls into the Panera Bread parking lot to find it close to empty. Surprising, considering that it’s the middle of the day on the UPMC campus but hey. He’s not complaining. The less college students in line between him and his overpriced iced green tea and tomato basil BLT, the better. In fact, he might splurge and go for a brownie, too… maybe that’ll clear the fog you’ve spelled him under.

His mind wandered for the whole ride over–swirling with blurry images of you and tingling with unanswered questions. Robby even stumbles through his order a few times, though the embarrassment over that is briskly wiped away when he turns his head to find you sitting at one of the tables.

Of course, you’re here.

Of course, you’re here and snacking on chocolate croissants and sipping coffee while reading off the screen of your laptop with the most delightful expression of intrigue he’s ever seen.

You aren’t real… you can’t be because only dreams are this coincidental.

Teeth grinding, Robby scans the area around you. Empty, other than an older man stirring his tomato soup and a mother and daughter sharing a frosted cookie with a pair of soft smiles. Robby’s eyes crinkle at the sight, shifting in his place at the counter in deep thought.

He guesses it’ll be a short wait for his food, as it always is. Then all he needs to do is fill his cup at the machine, wait for his number to be called and he’s home free… no matter how tempting it would be to tip over your way and say a quick hello. There’s a voice in the back of his head chanting for him to swallow the nerves and fucking do it, yet he still isn’t sure what’d he start with. What do you say to a young woman you’re certain will haunt you for the rest of you life–

“Dr. Robinavitch? Hi…”

It takes Robby a second to look at you. Even without, an odd feeling tightens Robby’s chest. He finally turns, swallowing through a tickle in his throat, just barely blinking away how his eyes try to water as you approach him carefully. Dear lord, someone please help him–your voice. All you’ve said is his name and a simple, normal hello yet he’s already turning into a puddle of nothing.

“Oh, please. Everyone just calls me Robby,” he holds his hand out for you to shake but regrets it immediately at the spark that ignites when your palms touch. Clenching his teeth at the feeling, Robby masks his tight jaw with a warm smile. “You were just in my lecture, if I remember correctly.”

Robby feels dumb when he tags on the question at the end. There’s no doubt surrounding whether he’s remembering correctly, as he’ll never forget you or those shorts even if he were to try.

“Yeah, for Hummel’s class. I’m actually glad I ran into you again. I really enjoyed you coming to talk to us today. And I’m sorry, I feel like I should’ve said something before leaving class but I couldn’t think of any cool questions to ask you afterwards but, uh, yeah. Having an actual attending from an ED come to talk to you about using a mac versus a miller is much more pleasing than reading about it in some textbook at three in the morning.”

A small chuckle lightens his face. “That’s very kind of you, ‘m glad you liked it. Is ED your main interest?”

“One-hundred percent. I mean, I won’t even start my rotations for another year but that’s definitely the end goal.” 

“Well, good. That’s good, um… sorry, one sec,” Robby’s cut off by the calling of his number, but raises a gentle hand with a pleasant smile in hopes that you’ll stay put. He mumbles a small thank you to the worker that slides him his bag, turning back to you with a lick to his lips. “Like I was saying, that’s great. We could always use more people like you in the ED.”

Wait. Shit. People like you? The man hasn’t even known you for that long and has talked to you for even less. He finds himself lucky when you decide not to think about the statement as hard as he does, accepting the compliment with a small grin.

“I appreciate that, Robby. Hopefully at least one of my clinicals ends up being in The Pitt. I can’t even imagine all the things I’d learn as your MS considering that all it took was a class of you speaking for me to fill up two pages of notes.”

Is he as red as he feels?

“Ah, hearing that, I’m sure you’d fit right in wherever you end up. Secretly kinda hoping it is in my ED at some point, though.” And not just because you’re a knockout and a half. “Just over the short time I’ve talked to you, you seem stellar. Good listener, pretty, cares about the details.”

Wait. Shit, that second one is a slip and much too obvious to just glaze over like his last one. You’re blinking at him in a way that itches his insides, and he exhales a rough breath. Shaking his head, he dips his nose in an embarrassed hang of his head.

“‘M sorry,” he starts with a breathy laugh because it’s all he can do. “That wasn’t appropriate of me, I’m sorry. Your good looks have nothin’ to do with your abilities.”

Suddenly, it feels like karma is having its way with Robby. Was there a door he should’ve held but didn’t? A thank you he forgot to tell someone? There must be because he’s usually quicker to control himself around someone that’s piqued his interests as much as you have.

When he tilts his gaze back to you, there’s something in your face hinting at something he doesn’t let himself attempt to decrypt.

“Jeez, I’m really eatin’ it today, aren’t I,” Robby squirms with a sheepish smile. “And that feels like my cue to leave you to you’re studying before I am forced to have you gag me.”

“Oh, I’m not studying. I mean, I should be but your answer to that one question Jeremiah asked has me knee deep in an article about the history of clinical airway management. Also, I didn’t take you to be into that kinda stuff, but I’ll make sure to be gentle if you really want me to.” 

Brow line raising in a flutter of rousing excitement, Robby allows himself a full grin. You match the toothy-smile, leaning with something that looks like anticipation with another wring of your hands.

What a well-dressed, witty, gorgeous geek you’re proving yourself to be.

“I, uh, I actually know of a few other studies you might be interested in,” Robby suggests, a wave of poise centering his thoughts and reprioritizing his intentions. “...if you've got the time?”

The next sixty-ish minutes pass devastatingly fast. A few more people have populated the Panera dining room but Robby’s too high on your presence and one and a half cups of iced green tea to care.

“You’re making this up, you gotta be.”

“I swear, Robby,” you hold up your hands. “I will admit, losing to the ratbirds–at home, in OT–does tend to cloud one's judegment, but enough to think they have the upperhand against a metal lightpost? All Dad saw was red and I ended up waiting in the ER with him while he waited to get his fingers re-set. We we’re at chairs for a while and then brought to the back, and the thing I remember the most was this hum hanging in the air the entire time. Even though I was only around five, that shit was… addicting. Not as electric as a Steelers home game but pretty close. The nurse and my dad kept having to tell me to stay behind the curtain but, of course, I didn’t. ‘Cause, you know. Children. But watching all those people come in broken just to have people like you give their everything to try and fix them… that’s when I knew I wanted to be an emergency physician.”

The corner of Robby’s lips quirks up as he watches you. You stare back at him with held breath before ripping your eyes away to the half-eaten piece of brownie he’d offered you. A little dry but completely worth it with how your hands brushed when he passed you the sweet.

“So basically what I’m hearing is that the Baltimore Ravens are the reason you were able to find your purpose in life so early on…” Robby eases out, rubbing a hand across his beard in anticipation of the response he’s fishing for. He gets it and more when your face wrinkles into a cute grimace and you flinch with a shudder.

“You put it that way, and it almost makes me think I should drop outta med school to move to Canada.”

Your words pull a deep chuckle from Robby, who’s feeling warm at how the two of you are leaning and talking. Bodies relaxed and bellies content with sandwiches and baked goods, the dance you’re both performing is becoming more difficult by the second.

He’s starting to feel less and less sorry about how the side of his shoe keeps knocking against yours, even doing it once on purpose as a thanks for when you notify him of a loose crumb in his beard. The tips of your fingers keep creeping towards each other but Robby blames that on the smaller scale of the table he’s joined you at. You got up, once, for napkins and the man had to take in a deep breath at the swing of your hips. He’s not  sure he looked away fast enough either. At least, that’s what the smirk that dashes across your face reveals to him.

“So,” Robby starts after a comfortable lull in the conversation, pausing to clear his throat. “Are all of Hummel’s students this awesome or did I just get lucky runnin’ into you again?”

Flattery. The age old tactic and Robby makes sure not to lay it on too thick. In all of his bumbling and slip ups from earlier, he’s maganed to regain some of his bravado. It returns to him slowly but surely as he starts to unravel you. Not by much but enough to finger out what makes you tick; which jokes to draw out, what subjects (medical or otherwise) gets you going, which throw of his timbre embellishes the shine in your eyes.

“Mm, most of them are pretty cool. Some are also the biggest assholes you’ll ever meet but what’s any place without a few of those?”

“Heaven,” Robby answers with an unbothered shrug of his shoulders and you bob your head in agreement.

“Preach,” you grin, popping a corner of brownie into your mouth. “They were on their best behavior today with you being there but trust me, they’re incapable of going twenty four hours without creaming their pants over making other people feel like shit.”

Wow. “Oh, yeah?”

“For sure. Dr. Hummel should have you come around more often, though. Maybe next time you can snap a few egos in check.”

You’re into whatever this is, Robby can feel it. It’s in your eyes, that don’t notice their lingering on the hair that’s peeking out at the top of his exposed chest. In your voice, that’s lilting in a manner that’s ringing through the thick fog he entered the building with to guide his ship closer to your sweet taunt.

Robby’s quicker than the hesitation his words want to bite back on, tilting his head to give you a quick once over before flicking them away with a grin that’s smugger than he means for it to be.

“Oh, that’s definitely something I’d consider as long as you're still sittin’ front row.”

Your lips curl upwards and Robby is buzzing at the win. It makes his chest puff a little, too, and his head starts to feel a little funny when he catches you staring again.

“Hey, uh,” just do it, Rob, “why don’t we exhancge numbers? You know, in case you ever feel like conversing more over slightly-stale bread and the best passion papaya iced green tea on this side of the Mississippi.”

Taking a second to think, you sniff.

“While I have had better passion… papaya iced green tea–” you recite the words with a subtle unsureness, laughing a little at the nod Robby encourages you with.

“You got it,” he reassures you, voice rasping with obvious amusement before letting you continue.

“–I’d love to keep picking your brain. I will warn you, though, since the age of eleven, I have somehow managed to, uh, shift every conversation I’ve been a part of to the topic of the Pittsburgh Steelers at some point, so if that’s not your thing, then…”

Your words melt into a stronger laugh than you expected to leave you, and it wraps arround the high-pitched giggle trickles out of Robby.

“Oh, I’ve dealt with worse, sweetheart,” he winks, pulling out his phone from his back pocket and opening it before sliding it your way. He holds his breath the entire time you add your contact, eyes flicking to his screen where he sees your name along with a simple :). He huffs at the sight, plucking the device back into his grip. “Much, much worse.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

You add a smirk and tip of your head with the question. Robby’s soaring.

The following hours prove to be just as indelible as your shorts, and it’s all because of you.

You’re more than special, and Robby sits undisputed in that fact as he commences the third round of the night. The slide into you is just as good as the first and the second. You’re on top this time, your hands clutching his face to rub at the thick of his beard while you sink down onto him.

Robby holds your waist, hands light but still there as he splits you open. A noise breaks from his throat when you sit fully, and he rests his forehead against yours. While you take a second to adjust, Robby peeks down past the pudge of his belly to where the two of you meet, groaning at the sight of you stretcehed around him.

Eyes flicking to yours, Robby tightens the arm he has around your waist to tug you until your breasts are flush against his chest. You cling to him at the shift, hips barely lifting before collapsing back down onto him with a shuggering grunt.

Your body keeps the same languid speed, Robby helping you just barely with a hand splayed just above your ass.

“Fuck, you’re so deep,” you pant out against his mouth. “And fucking huge. I should’ve known considering how you walked into class earlier, though.”

“Shit,” Robby moans. “Really?”

You bob your head, hand reaching to grab at Robby’s shoulder. The muscle holds strong under your squeeze, you answer him during another rock of your hips.

“Mmhm. You just… oh, fuck, you walk like it’s big. Which it totally is, by the way.”

“So you’ve said,” Robby ribs, adding a few bucks of his hips that yanks a squeak out of you. “Actually screamed it a few times, too.”

“Well, can you blame me–”

You’re interrupted by Robby, who surprises you with a steep roll to the side. Now hanging over you, Robby pants through a groan. He’s gonna feel that tomorrow but the chance of a strained back isn’t gonna stop him from trying to get you to keep making those sounds that have him seeing stars.

He takes the miracle of his cock remaining inside you even after the change of position, hitching both of your legs back as far as they’ll let him and jerking you with a thrust. It’s deep and driving, intentional enough to make you feel every inch and vein of his swollen member. You wail out right next to his ear and he smiles against the tattoo on your shoulder in victory. He still doesn’t know what it is. You won’t tell him and he got tired of guessing.

“No, I can’t,” Robby throws back, hips falling into a pattern of sharp thrusts. You feel bottomless and it makes his stomach clench. “Eyes on me, baby. Right here, okay?

Robby meets your stare as soon as you crack open your lids. He tightens the snap of his hips, allowing himself to indulge. Call it a habit but he likes to look… observe the way your mouth parts as you puff out air every time your clit hits his pelvis… how your brows pinch together and eyes water as he pounds into the spot it only took him a total of seven thrusts to find… how your hands reach for his neck, squeezing when you hear him flutter your name out on a gruttal moan.

You especially like him loud, he’s found. Not bold enough to ask for it, Robby had the pleasure of figuring the phenomenon out on his own. It didn’t take long, thankfully, as he got embarrassingly close to blowing a vocal cord when you tongued at his nipples and skillfully jerked out his cum onto your stomach. Afterwards, his taste buds found your slit a sopping mess of slick and cream, which he slurped away at until you tugged him up by the hair and kissed your juices from his mouth.

The first time he’d fucked you, it was slow. A loitering exploration of every indent and ripple inside your hole, every mole and freckle of your skin. You’d already come once against his tongue after he’d convinced you that no, you were not going to die if he didn’t kiss you right then.

(‘What about her, hm?’ He’d asked with a finger ghosting across your clit. ‘Nothin’ wrong with being a little greedy but I gotta show her some love, too, alright? She’s much too pretty to ignore, even with you givin’ me those eyes…’)

However, it’s the first time you peak around him that the sky parts. Heaven calls, singing songs of eternal delights but Robby declines the offer. His soul finds the symphony of you falling apart much more satisfying. Ever more gratifying, as it’s his name flooding from your lips. Not God’s or some boy in one of your classes in those cold ass rooms–his.

The second time you’d come around him hits both of you like a train. He’d gotten you trapped on your side, leg hanging in the air helplessly. Neck stretching, you’d bit at his tongue a few times when he’d upped the speed of his hips, warning Robby that you were gonna come again. After you added on a whine that you did not want him pulling out when he came, he flipped you into a rough prone bone, pounding you until your pussy creamed with his cum and your ears heard nothing but dial tones.

This time–the third time–Robby lets himself get lost in it. Uses his mind and body for the sole purpose of calling forth and tying your euphoria to his. A perfect ache is throbbing a pulse through his cock, and the man can only plunge himself in and out of you with mindless, hoarse grunts.

Robby executes it flawlessly, the seaming of the end of your climax grazing just over the start of his. You cry out unintelligible words, grabbing at him like he’ll disappear if you don’t and trembling as he works to milk out your release for as long as he can.

“That’s my–fuck… yeah, that’s my sweet girl,” Robby pants, still rocking you as his thrusts melt into a sloppy chasing of his own end. His sweet girl. That’s exactly what you are now, regardless of what happens after this. “Gonna fill you up again. Make you nice and full’a me.”

The only warning Robby’s able to give is a long, choked swear before he starts to spasm, sack twitching as he surges out rope after rope of a plentiful load. He uses a few more thrusts to fuck the cum deeper before joining your lips in a tired kiss. When you run your hands up his back to rake your nails through his hair, Robby groans.

Hips still, his softening cock remains a welcome intrusion. His eyes flicker shut at your appreciated touch across his scalp, the man melts completely into you, hoping it takes a long while for your breaths to return.

Robby’s mind is completely still. Numb, even, and there are only figures of you. Clenching his eyes, he sighs before mumbling something so muffled that he has to repeat it.

“I said,” he begins with a kiss to your jaw, “the Ravens might be my new favorite team.”

Robby feels your inhale pause and lifts his head to look in your eyes. A short laugh wheezes out of him when he finds you already staring back, your face a cross of complete and utter confusion and a little bit of hurt.

“What on earth could have possibly compelled you to say that to me?”

Your question starts strong but falls apart with giggles at how Robby keeps laughing. The two of you shake with stupid giggles, and Robby has to take a second to remember where he was going with this.

“Only ‘cause they led you to me. No Ravens, no angry dad. No angry dad, no ER visit. No ER visit, no grand revelation of wanting to become a doctor in emergency medicine. It’s simple, I’m a little surprised I had to explain it.”

“...you think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“Oh, baby, I know I am.”

“Hello?”

Robby blinks, and wants to glower at the fingers Jack snaps in front of his face until he remembers he’s supposed to be answering something. A question. He’s supposed to be answering a question.

Which question?

Fuck if he knows.

Who asked it?

Fuck if he knows.

It takes every part of Robby’s being to not look to the right because that’s where you’re sitting with a wide smile just barely hidden beneath your palm. Eyes boring into him, you stretch your crossed legs and reposition.

“E-even though that might have looked like a stroke, guys, it was not… I don’t think,” Jack picks up for Robby with a pat to the later man’s shoulder. “It’s actually something we in our profession call getting old, but please don’t worry. I’m going through it, too. Apparently, not as fast as this guy, though.”

The rest of the room lightens with a chuckle so Robby’s laughs along with them. It’s fake and ugly but the pause gives him a chance to zip his eyes your way and back.

And, of course, Jack catches him. Hell, he knows Robby well enough to have already seen the way that his hand clenches into a fist every time you move so much as an inch.

As Dr. Hummel attempts to return order to the slightly distracted class, Jack gives Robby a silent not bad, Rob. At all, though a little more decorum wouldn’t hurt.

Robby bites at his tongue, completely pink.

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚