shawnyhats #1 fan

27 - shawn hatosy content w/ a sprinkle of other fandoms

[sleepingbeautiiies]

When Did You Get So Hot? - Animal Kingdom SMAU - PT. 46

+18 MDNI

pt. 45 / pt. 47

summary: family dinner with the cody's. dun dun DUN.

content: pope cody x fem!reader, age gap (reader is around deran's age), lewd conversations. VIOLENCE. a fork being used as a weapon. reader goes feral. VERBAL ABUSE (?) - reader receives and dishes out. smurf is a warning on her own. so is baz. making out. craig having ZERO table manners. mentions of prostitution. mormons. brief talk of pregnancy. brief mentions of incest. pope would kill for reader. reader would kill for pope.

a/n: this was a BEAST. literally thought this chapter was gonna kill me but we made it. 🫡 also! au where craig doesn't have a kid. I HOPE IT HITS!!!!! - taglist is closed!

────﹒♡﹒────

“We can still leave.” 

You look over at Pope; his brow furrowed and concern written all over his face. 

“Andy, babe, it’s gonna be fine.” you say, rubbing soothing circles on his bicep. “If things get weird, we’ll dip.” you shrug. 

Pope huffs. “So we’ll walk in and then immediately walk out?” he jokes.

You snort out a laugh, slapping his arm. Pope shoots you a lopsided smile.

“C’mon, let’s go.” you say, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze. Heading into the arena (aka the Cody house) hand in hand.  

You’re walking through the house when all of a sudden, you hear this agitating, grating voice call to you from the kitchen. 

“In here you two!” Smurf yells. 

You feel Pope tense next to you as you make your way into the kitchen. Smurf greets him with a hug first, barely acknowledging you. 

“Hi, baby.” she says, kissing the corner of his mouth. Smurf turns to you with a smirk that doesn’t reach her eyes. “So nice to see you again, Y/N.” her tone bored, giving you a brief hug, fingers digging tightly into your arms. 

“You want some wine?... If Cath hasn’t drank the whole bottle.” Smurf laughs, turning back to the pot of pasta sauce boiling on the stove. Cath bristles, lazily chopping a carrot. 

“Hey Cath!” you say brightly, giving her a little wave. She smiles back, relaxing slightly at your presence. “I’d love a glass of white.” you request, keeping your tone even. 

Smurf gives you a tight smile, her patience with you already waning. Before she can bark out an order, you quickly turn to Pope, giving him a sweet smile. 

“Babe, would you get me a glass?” you say, batting your eyelashes at him. 

“Sure, sweetie.” he mumbles gruffly, giving your hand a squeeze before moving through the kitchen. 

Smurf looks you up and down, sizing you up. You meet her gaze head on, not shying away. Leaving you both in a silent standoff. Cath has abandoned the carrot, staring between you two with a mixture of worry and amusement. 

Pope returns to your side, handing you the glass. Noting the tension but saying nothing. 

“Thanks, Andy.” you smile, wiping away where Smurf kissed him and planting a sensual kiss on Pope’s lips. 

You see Smurf tense, but her fake smile stays plastered on her face. 

“Need any help, Smurf?” you ask, tone sweet but with a sharp edge to it. 

“No, Cath and I’ve got it. You don’t seem like the kind of girl who likes to get her hands dirty.” she says it lightly, but there’s an undercurrent of ridicule behind it. 

You let out an obviously fake laugh, narrowing your eyes at her. 

“C’mon babe, let’s go sit.” you say, gripping Pope’s arm tightly in your perfectly manicured hand. 

You give Cath a wink and a smirk as you leave the kitchen and head to the living room to sit with the rest of the family. 

────﹒♡﹒────

Deran and Craig are already giving you side eye as you walk in, both wondering what you’ve got planned. 

“Idiots.” you nod to them both, before turning to Baz and J.

 “J, good to see you.” you smile. He gives you a simple nod in response. “Barry.” you say flatly, not bothering to look at him as you guide Pope down on the couch, next to Deran. 

You settle yourself right on his lap, nestling comfortably against him. He gives a surprised look but quickly grips onto your hip, holding you close to him. You can feel the heat of Baz’s stare looking up and down your body. You ignore him, focusing your attention on Craig. 

“So… what’s happening in the ghost hunting world.” 

“Alright so they’re in an old hotel, fuck ton of spirits. One of em’ is a 12 year old boy named Radcliffe. He’s from the civil war, I guess. I think-”

You’ve already stopped listening, your eyes glazing over. Craig’s making punching motions with his fist, saying something about being able to take Radcliffe. 

Pope chuckles under you, making your eyes shoot over to him. He’s staring at you with a warmth in his eyes that’s only reserved for you. You quirk a smile at him, cocking an eyebrow. You take a hearty gulp of wine, a drop dripping from your mouth and down your chin. Pope catches it with his thumb, bringing the drop to his mouth. Sucking it off his thumb. 

You giggle, leaning in to give Pope a light kiss. 

A harsh gagging sound breaks you from yours and Pope’s bubble. 

“Yo! You two are fucking nasty.” Deran groans. 

“Oh my god, chill. We’re kissing.” you roll your eyes. 

“Craig! Come in here and help me with the garlic bread!” Smurf calls from the kitchen. Craig groans, dragging himself from the couch. 

“Dude, you better wash your hands. I’m not missing out on garlic bread cause’ you got your unwashed ballsack hands all over it.” Deran complains. 

“I second that motion!” you pipe up. 

“M’ gonna wash my hands.” Craig says, offended. “Do you guys think I’m an animal or somethin’?” 

You and Deran answer “yes” at the same time. Both of you turning to each other with a laugh, and high fiving. 

Craig mumbles “fuck you guys” under his breath as he stumbles out of the living room. Cath passes him, settling in next to Baz. You give each other knowing looks. 

Cath snorts out a laugh, earning stares from the rest of the room. You giggle behind your wine glass. Pope raises an eyebrow but you just shake your.

Cath lets out another chuckle, shaking her head at you. You wink at her and finish off your glass of wine and move to stand up. 

“I’m gonna get a refill.” 

Pope almost doesn’t let you up, gripping you tighter against him. You kiss his cheek and he releases you, reluctantly. He gives you his hand, helping you stand up. 

“Thanks honeybee.” you smile, giving his hand a rub. 

“Honeybee?” Deran snorts. 

“I don’t need your toxic energy right now Deran.” you say, giving a ‘talk to the hand’ gesture as you walk past. 

You head into the kitchen, bracing yourself for whatever bullshit Smurf’s gonna throw your way. Thankfully, she’s setting the table. Craig’s digging into a jar from the fridge. 

“Dude, what are you doing?” you ask, grabbing the bottle of wine and refilling your glass. 

“Hungry. Wanted a snack.” Craig mumbles around a mouthful of…

“Bro no way you’re raw dogging pickled jalapeños right now?” you snort. 

Craig shrugs and shoves a couple more slices into his mouth, sucking his fingers clean. 

“Oh hey…. You find Ferretuccine yet?” you whisper conspiratorially. 

“No.” Craig sighs dejectedly. “He’s living in the walls now. Found a hole Smurf don’t know about. Been leaving food for him. I hear him rustling sometimes, so at least he’s still alive?” 

“What are you two whispering about?” Smurf says, annoyed. 

“Nothing.” you both say simultaneously. 

Smurf gives you both a narrowed glare, shaking her head. Moving about the kitchen. 

“Dinner’s gonna be ready soon.” Smurf says coldly, giving you a judgemental look up and down. “Y/N, go get my boys.” she turns away from you, her tone possessive. 

You hum, taking another gulp of wine. This is going to be… interesting. 

────﹒♡﹒────

You’re all seated around the dining table, the sounds of casual conversation and clinking utensils filling the room. Smurf’s at the head of the table, watching you carefully. Baz is next to her, trying to talk business, with Cath bored out of her mind next to him. J’s on Smurf’s other side, picking at his food and texting under the table. You’re in the middle, between J and Pope. Craig and Deran seated across from you. 

Pope hasn’t moved his hand from your thigh since you sat down. You’ve never seen him more tense than he is right now. He’s barely eating, his eyes flickering between you and Smurf. 

Craig’s shoveling forkful after forkful of pasta in his mouth. Deran’s watching him in disgust, like a car crash you can’t look away from. 

“Craig, no one’s gonna take it from you.” you mock, picking at the piece of garlic bread on your plate. 

Craig takes another huge forkful out of spite and flips you off. 

“So Y/N, how long have you and Andrew been together now?” Smurf asks, studying you. 

You take a long sip of wine, making her wait. Pope’s staring her down, waiting for when she might strike. 

“Oh… It’s been what, babe?” you turn to Pope in mock wonder. “5-ish months?” you look back over at Smurf with a smile that’s anything but sweet. 

Craig snorts. 

You glare at him. 

“What? You’re acting like you don’t keep track down to the day.” Craig shrugs. 

Deran kicks him in the shin. Mumbling at him to “shut the fuck up”. 

“Craig, don’t be a weasel.” you glare, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Right… sorry. Shutting up.” He mumbles, stuffing an entire piece of garlic bread into his mouth. 

“Down to the day, huh?” Baz scoffs. 

You can feel your eye start to twitch. 

“Okay fine. 5 months, 2 weeks, and 4 days.” you say matter of factly. 

“Cute.” Smurf chuckles, continuing to size you up. 

Cath tries to steer the conversation toward neutral territory, something about renovations on their house. You give her a thankful look. 

Smurf doesn’t budge. 

“Over 5 months and Andrew’s just now bringing you around for a family dinner?” she says thoughtfully. “I thought you said it was serious?” 

“Oh it is!” you correct, smile tight and fake. “I guess I’ve just been… keeping him busy.” you smirk at her, letting the insinuation land. Pope’s grip on your thigh tightens. 

Smurf’s jaw ticks, narrowing her eyes at you. 

The room has gone quiet, except for Craig's scarfing. 

You take another deep gulp of wine, trying to steady yourself. 

“Smurf, what’s with all the questions?’ Deran says, breaking the silence. 

She shoots Deran a look that has him clearing his throat and looking back down at his plate. 

“Just wanting to get…. reacquainted with Y/N. As Andrew’s… girlfriend-.” she says girlfriend like it’s a bad taste in her mouth. “Not just yours and Craig’s little groupie.” 

“Smurf…” Pope warns. 

Deran and Craig are looking between the three of you like this is a tennis match. 

You grip your fork tightly, considering jamming it right in Smurf’s eye. Pope rubs soothing circles on your thigh, reminding you that you’re not alone in this. 

“Groupie? Do you mean a ‘friend’?” you joke. “I know you don’t have any of those that aren’t either blackmailed or bought, so it must be confusing.” you say with mock sympathy. 

Everyone at the table freezes. Deran and Craig are looking at you like you’ve grown a second head. Cath lightly gasps, her eyes going wide. 

Smurf bristles, putting her wine glass down. 

“Hmm… funny.” Smurf says, leaning back. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, what’s your going rate?” 

You furrow your brow, tilting your head slightly. 

“Your work.” Smurf says, like it’s obvious. “Do you have any other clients or is it just my son paying you to spread your legs?” 

You can’t help the shocked laugh that bubbles from your throat. 

The table falls dead silent for a moment before erupting into chaos. 

Deran and Craig both protesting, asking Smurf “what the fuck.” You can feel the anger radiating off Pope, his hands now flat on the table. He’s staring at Smurf like he might rip her head off. 

“Smurf…” Pope warns, voice coming out in a growl. 

“What?” Smurf asks innocently. 

Pope just stares her down, eyes full of hatred. It catches Smurf off guard for a moment before she’s able to replace her mask of cool indifference. 

“This tracks…” you mumble, rolling your eyes. 

“What tracks?” Smurf asks. 

“You being way too interested in where your son sticks his dick. It tracks.” you shrug, not breaking eye contact. 

“Y/N, please don’t.” Deran groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“What are you implying?” Smurf asks, leaning forward in her chair.

“I think you know exactly what I’m implying.” you say, a laugh escaping. 

Smurf is speechless. Actually speechless. Her eyes go wide, full of fire. 

“You disgusting little-“ 

You hold your hands up in surrender. 

“Hey, you’re the one who’s always macking on her adult sons.” you say. 

“Listen here you little bimbo-“ 

“Oh my god! I’m so sick of your monologuing, you fucking cunt-“ 

Pope slams his palms down on the table hard, making everyone jump. 

“Enough.” he commands harshly. 

“Andrew-“ Smurf starts. 

“No Smurf. I said enough.” Pope grunts. “You will not talk to her that way.” His eyes never leaving Smurfs. 

“Talk to her that way?! This little slut just called me a cunt!” 

You scoff. Rolling your eyes and crossing your arms. 

“I don’t care. You started it. I’m finishing it.” Pope says. “Y/N is mine. No one talks to her that way.” He clenches his fists and his jaw. “No. One.” 

Smurf is silent, reassessing her son. Her eyes cloud with several different emotions; anger, shock, fear. 

Her and Pope are still in a standoff when Baz laughs into his beer, earning a jab in the ribs from Cath. 

“I know your ass isn’t laughing right now.” you warn, shooting Baz daggers. 

Baz shrugs with a smug smirk. 

“No seriously, Y/N. Is he paying you? Cause that would make him pulling you make way more sense.” Baz asks. 

“Baz, I swear to god.” Cath grumbles, covering her face with her hands. 

“Excuse me?” you ask darkly, squeezing your hands into fists. 

“Y/N… chill.” Deran says carefully. “He’s not worth it.” 

Baz chuckles, leaning back and putting his hands up in surrender. 

“I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. Pope’s a freak, he’d have to pay a chick to put up with him.” Baz laughs.

“Baz, that’s enough-“ Smurf starts 

You don’t let her finish. You’re already flying out of your chair, knocking it to the ground behind you. You grip your fork and lunge across the table at Baz.

“I will fucking gut you, you shrimp dick motherfucker.” you growl, jabbing your fork in his direction. 

Pope wraps his arms around you quickly, holding you against his chest. Deran is up and trying to take the fork from you. Craig is cheering you on, clapping and whooping. J is staring between you and Baz in shocked silence. Cath is trying to mediate, without much success. And Smurf is watching you, shocked, with her eyebrows up to her hairline. 

“Let me go, Andrew!” you grunt, trying to free yourself from Pope’s grip.

Baz is backing away from you with his hands up and his brows furrowed. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” Baz shouts.

“Choke and die.” you say simply.

Deran is able to pry the fork from your vice like grip, letting it clatter to the floor. 

“Y/N, calm down.” Pope mumbles into your ear, still hugging you to his chest.

“No! I’m not gonna let this sack of shit talk about you like that.” 

“Get her out of here before she destroys my dining room.” Smurf yells, watching you like you’re a live grenade. 

“Craig.” Pope motions to you with his head. “Take her outside.” 

Craig hesitates briefly, before coming around the table and throwing you over his shoulder. 

“Oh put me down you big doofus.” you complain, slapping at Craig’s back. You pass Baz and Cath on your way out. “Baz… when I get my hands on you…” you warn, looking at him with complete disgust and hatred. 

You’re spewing insults at Baz, “cocksucker” and “manwhore”, as Craig carries you out of the house and to Pope’s truck. 

“Craig put me down already.” you huff, pushing at his back. 

“You promise you’re gonna be chill?” Craig questions.

“Sure, whatever.” you grumble, rolling your eyes. 

Craig groans, pulling open the passenger side of Pope’s truck and depositing you into the front seat. You cross your arms over your chest, glaring towards the house. 

“Dude…” Craig starts “That was fucking awesome.” he laughs, sticking out his fist for a fist bump. 

You stare at him for a moment, trying to fight a smile, before rolling your eyes and giving in. Bumping your fists. You sit in silence like that for a minute before you groan in realization. 

“Smurf is totally banning me from the house now…” you pout, slumping in your seat. “There goes my pool time.” you grumble. Craig chuckles and ruffles your hair. 

Movement near the front door catches your eye; Cath and Baz are headed towards their car. Baz is avoiding looking your way, moving quickly as Cath angrily berates him. She looks over to you and nods. 

“Sorry Cath!” you say, cringing at the fact that she was caught in the middle of that.

Baz scoffs, throwing open his door. “Get in the car, Catherine.” 

Cath turns to you.

 “I’ll text you.” she says softly, giving you a small smile, before joining Baz in the car.

He wastes no time, pulling out of the driveway quickly and driving off. You flip off the car as it goes, shaking your head. 

Craig lets out a low whistle, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Can you go see what’s taking Andrew so long?” you ask. 

“Yeah sure thing, dudette.” Craig nods, giving you an awkward pat on the knee before heading off back to the house. 

Tossing your phone on the center console, you watch Pope stalk towards you. He doesn’t say a word as he stands in front of you and buries his head in your chest, taking deep breaths. 

“Andy… I’m so sorry…” you say, your voice small and vulnerable. 

Pope doesn’t speak, just grips your waist tightly and groans. He doesn’t look at you as he pulls away and gets you settled in your seat, buckling you in and closing the door. You watch him cross in front of the truck, rubbing a hand down his face in frustration. 

He still doesn’t say anything to you when he gets in the car. Or when he pulls out and heads towards your apartment. You’re halfway to your place when you finally break the silence.

“Andrew. I really am so sorry. I shouldn’t have-” 

“You’re fine.” Pope grunts, keeping his focus on the road. 

“Andrew-” 

“Sweetheart. Drop it.” 

“We need to talk about what happened.” 

“Later.” he says, pulling into your complex. 

“But-” you whine lightly. 

“No.” he says, a finality in his tone. 

The intensity in his eyes tells you not to argue. You just nod, looking down at your hands in your lap. 

You can’t help but worry that the family dinner from hell ruined things. That you ruined things. 

────﹒♡﹒────

────﹒♡﹒────

You toss your phone on your bed and finish getting unready. Sliding on your pink, silk pajamas. Making your way out of your bedroom, you spot Pope sitting on the couch; his head in his hands. Padding your way to him, you clear your throat. Pope shoots his head up, dropping his arms to his sides. You plop down onto his lap and lock your arms around his neck. 

“Okay first things first.” you start, meeting his stormy eyes. “I’m sorry for calling your mom a cunt and trying to murder Baz at the dinner table.” 

Pope huffs, shaking his head. “Sweetheart…” 

“No. Let me finish.” you cut him off. “Second. Deran told me what went down after I left… I love you so so so much for defending my honor against Smurf. You are the sweetest, most amazing boyfriend anyone could EVER ask for.” you say, kissing him sweetly on the lips. 

Pope chases your mouth as you pull away. His eyes are glossy and a red flush across his cheeks. 

“And finally… Baz is a fucking moron.” you say, rolling your eyes. “We haven’t talked about it but… I want you to know I see a future with you. The whole white picket fence thing…” you say shyly, voice small and vulnerable. 

“Really?” Pope questions, voice coming out hoarse.

You giggle and nod your head. “I mean- I am so not ready to be a mom.” you laugh. “But eventually… I would love to have a baby with you.” you whisper. Kissing him again, slower and sensually. 

Pope whimpers into the kiss, holding onto you like a life preserver. You quickly find your rhythm, the kiss turning open mouthed and sloppy. Your tongues exploring each other's mouths. You whine into the kiss, feeling him harden underneath you. 

He reluctantly pulls away, resting his forehead against yours. 

“You really mean that?” he asks, his voice full of hope and longing. 

You nod at him with a shy smile. Hugging him tightly.

“Come to bed Andy…” you say breathlessly. Your lips are swollen from the kissing, eyes hooded, and face flushed. 

He growls and scoops you up in his arms, hauling you to the bedroom. A giddy shriek leaving your lips. You hold on tight, looking up at him like he hung the moon. 

────﹒♡﹒────

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[r4bidabbott]

more bimbo!read x freshly divorced!sammy who is lowkey scared of her (smut y'all)

sammy hadn't seen you since the day he left your apartment. you sent him off with a big juicy kiss to his lips, telling him that 'if he wanted to fuck you he had to take you on a date first.' he spent the next 3 days avoiding your texts. it wasn't that he didn't like you or enjoy the time you had together. he liked you too much and enjoyed it too much. you had sent him countless texts over the past couple days. some just saying hi, some begging to see him, an occasional nude here and there. you would be met with either a short reply that he was busy or no reply at all. it was driving you crazy. he was too worried about getting too involved with you, his own relationship traumas ruining things. you were too young, too pretty, too good for him. that didn't stop him from jacking off each night to the photos you sent him.

when friday had rolled around you were radio silent to him. no texts, no pictures, nothing. he thought maybe he had got rid of you, and it broke his heart a little. he couldn't get the thought of you out of his head, the image of you on your knees choking on his dick was going to be burned in his mind forever. when evening had finally rolled around, all of the officers were making their way to the bar for their usual friday unwind. sammy was on one mission. drink till he could forget about you. it was going perfect too. he was many beers in, laughing and joking with his friends as they all sat at the bar. the place was booming with people, the busy crowd and loud music distracting him from the sounds of your gags ringing in his ears. it was going perfect until an all too familiar voice was behind him.

"hi sammy," your voice spoke from behind him, his heart immediately dropping to his stomach. he slowly turned around, the other officers eyeing you suspiciously. you were stood with a few bills in your hand, waiting your turn to order from the bar. the shirt you had on was tighter than ever, the skirt matching the skimpiness of your outfit. "hey-hi," he stuttered out, his cheeks immediately turning a dark red as those around him began to tease him a little. you didn't care about their comments. you loved how embarrassed he was getting. you moved to squeeze into the bar between him and one of the other men, ordering some drinks for your friends before turning to face him as you waited. he was speechless as he watched you, hand gripping the bottle he held so tight he thought it would explode. "why have you been avoiding me?" you spoke, that pout that drove him insane forming on your lips.

he was quick to look around, hoping, praying, that no one heard you. they would make his life absolute hell. he shook his head at you, reaching up to adjust the collar of his shirt that felt like it was choking him. "i have just been busy," he spoke softly, eyes trying to avoid yours as you stared him down. the pout on your lips only grew, your finger tips brushing against his thigh as you looked at him. you leaned down, lips brushing against his ears that were now a light pink from embarrassment. "you don't look too busy right now," you spoke softly, hand fully resting on his thigh now. the officers around you had turned their gazes elsewhere, occasionally glancing back at their friend to make sure he didn't need help. he needed help, just not from them.

he was quick to grab your wrist tightly as it began to move up his thigh, squeezing you. "please do not do this here," he begged quietly, his eyes finally locking on yours as you pulled back a little bit. the smirk that formed on your glossy lips only terrified him more, your hand yanking away from his grip to grab your drinks from the bartender. "you owe me," you mumbled in his ear again, pressing a glossy wet kiss to his cheek before you were walking back to your friends. you could see all of the people he was with immediately turn to question him on why he wasn't following you. he simply waved them off, turning to glance back at you every now and then. you were on a mission to make him regret shooting you down.

the night felt like it was crawling by as he continued to slam down beers, his gaze on you only lasting longer and longer. it wasn't until he finally watched as you were dancing on a man in the middle of a bar, the guy's hands roaming all over your body. sammy felt like he could explode at any minute, your eyes landing on him every now and then with that same evil smirk. "you look like you're gonna puke," nate spoke, nudging sammy who was now fully turned in his stool as he watched you. sammy had enough. he slammed his beer down on the bar, pushing through the crowd before he was grabbing your arm hard. "what are you doing? i was having fun," you whined to him, the man pulling you straight outside. the cold air of the night had your nipples rock hard as he pushed you towards his car, unlocking it quickly.

he was silent, pushing you in the backseat with a grunt. "this is what you wanted wasn't it? wanted me to return the favor?" he mumbled as he climbed over you, shutting the door behind him. he didn't even give you time to reply, pushing your skirt up to your stomach so he was face to face with your cunt. it was an awkward fit for the chubbier man, but he couldn't care less. a moan left your lips as he pressed his mouth to the fabric of your underwear, small kisses being left to form a little wet spot. "you're fucking soaked," he groaned, thumb coming to continue to rub over where he was just kissing. you huffed, hand grabbing a fistful of his hair to press his face back between your thighs. "eat it before i find someone else to," you mumbled, even though you both knew that wasn't going to happen.

he rolled his eyes, wrapping one of the straps of your thong around his fist before he was pulling hard. the rip of your underwear made you gasp, watching as he shoved the remnants of it in his back pocket. "looks so much better in person than over the phone," he groaned, lips brushing against your soaked core. he looked amazed, his eyes watery and bloodshot as he stared at your cunt. you couldn't wait any longer, hands wrapping to grab the back of his head before you were forcing his mouth forward. your head was thrown back immediately, a loud moan leaving your lips as his tongue began to move like a starved man.

his groans were only egging you on, one of his hand wrapped around your thigh tightly while the other was shoved down his pants to touch himself. "so good, sammy. such a good boy," you cooed, his eyes immediately moving to stare at your blissed out face. your praises went straight to his dick, his tongue continuing to move against you. it wasn't until you were fucking yourself against his face that his eyes shut tightly, his own orgasm approaching faster than expected. "fuck- don't stop. gonna cum," you panted out, fingernails digging into his scalp so hard he was sure he was bleeding. his fist slowed around his cock as he came, a loud moan leaving his lips straight into you. the noise had you cumming right after, soaking his mouth.

he stayed there for a moment, still lapping at your overstimulated clit before he was slowly pulling back. "happy now?" he hummed, pulling his cum covered hand from his pants, wiping it on the backseat. you couldn't help but giggle, pulling your skirt back down as you sat up. he was slightly caught of guard as you lurched forward to press your lips to his, arms wrapping around his neck. his eyes immediately shut, hand moving to grab the back of your neck to keep your mouth against him. the sight of the two of you was pornographic. you pulled away with a smile, thumb coming to wipe some of your cum from his cheek. "so when's our date?" you snickered, raising an eyebrow at him.

he was in too deep now. no backing out anymore.

🏷️ @honeygirl724 @princesscelesticc @prettylittlelattesworld @jmlilypad @leeaaahhhhhh23 @ridingthehotmessexpress @impactmintsfreshagain

[esotericcherub]

SOLAR POWER

reader is trinity and dennis roommate that is a resident at another hospital, but you transferred over to PTMC and quickly catches the eye of jack abbot. the team invite you to a day out at the beach, and jack takes this as his opportunity to get to know you.

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader

warnings: reader is slightly insecure about their body, age gap, reader is an r2, jack takes care of reader, kissing, smoking weed, pet names (sweetheart), y/n only used twice.

wc: 7.1k

a/n: the heatwave has passed in my country so i’m reliving those blissful couple of weeks through this one shot 😌 okay i know it’s unrealistic that the whole team would be able to go to the beach but just imagine there’s a whole other team covering for them OKAY??

You were rushing around the apartment that you shared with Trinity and Dennis, a slice of toast hanging out of your mouth while you stuffed everything you needed for the day into a purple backpack. Today was your first day at PTMC and it was safe to say you were nervous.

You had been working at Westbridge Memorial ever since your third year of med school, but you were transferring over to PTMC due to an incident that happened there and the fact that PTMC were severely understaffed. You had never been happier to see the back of Westbridge, the place brung you nothing but trouble.

“Relax, you’re going to be fine.” Trinity said from her spot on the couch as she watched you move around the apartment frantically. “Dude, our shift starts in half an hour and you’re just sitting there!” You exclaimed.

“With my driving, I’ll get us all there in ten minutes tops.” Trinity said smugly, you widened your eyes and nodded as you knew that statement was very true.

You sat next to Trinity on the couch, waiting on Dennis who was moving at an achingly slow pace in the bathroom. Trinity had shouted down the hall at him to hurry up a couple of times.

“Do you think they’re going to like me?” You asked, picking at the skin around your fingernails. “Stop,” Trinity said, placing her hand on yours. “The Pitt isn’t like Westbridge, the people here are actually nice. Besides, you’ve met the majority of them anyway.”

That was true, sometimes you got invited to the bar with some of Trinity and Dennis' coworkers after work if you were also finishing at the same time. Everyone always welcomed you with open arms, but you only really spoke to Trinity and Dennis and by extension the people they had roped into conversation. You knew Garcia pretty well, due to how many times you stumbled in the door after work and saw them laying up on the couch.

“Den, Hurry up!” You shouted, your patience was wearing very thin. “Yeah, and pick up your dirty clothes! I don’t want to see that shit.” Trinity added on.

“Jeez,” Dennis said, stumbling out of the bathroom with his dirty laundry in a ball in his hands. “It’s her first day, have some more consideration for others.” Trinity scolded, you stood behind her with your lips pressed in a thin line to stop you from laughing.

“Right. Sorry.” Dennis nodded, apologising to you but you just waved it off.

You remember the day Trinity brought Dennis home, you weren’t working that day so you were sitting on the couch tucked up reading a book, trying to distract yourself as the loneliness crept in.

The door opened and you put your book down, ready to greet Trinity with a smile and inform her that you stuck her dinner in the microwave, but your expression turned into one of confusion when you saw a guy trail behind her with the saddest eyes you had ever seen.

“Who’s the stray you dragged in, Trin.” You said jokingly, the guy rubbed the back of his neck, an anxious tic you recognised so well. “This is Dennis, I work with him. He needed a place to stay.” Trinity shrugged as she threw her bag on the couch.

You didn’t ask anymore questions but you understood. Dennis stood rooted in place, seeming unsure of himself and his place. Your heart melted and your expression softened, already feeling his presence in you and Trinity's life was going to be important.

“I’ve made too much dinner, so there’s enough for you and Trinity.” You said to him, also informing Trinity at the same time. He nodded and said a quick ‘Thanks’ and followed Trinity into the kitchen.

When he returned you turned around to him, lifting up the TV remote and speaking “I was just about to stick a movie on. Since you’re our new guest, the picks yours, if you want.”

“I’d like that.” Dennis smiled.

You still had a soft spot for Dennis, almost a year on and cringed anytime that Trinity was too hard on him. “Hey, leave him be.” You rolled your eyes and practically dragged everyone out the door.

Like Trinity said, you all made it to the hospital within minutes of your first shift starting. Trinity and Dennis led you to the locker room where you dropped off your bag and jacket, you stepped out onto the floor feeling overwhelmed already.

“Hon! So good to see you again, I am so happy you’re working with us.” Dana smiled, placing her hand on the small of your back and guiding you over to the hub to meet everyone.

“Thank you! I’m happy too.” You smiled, your nerves settling. “I heard about everything at Westbridge, I never liked them anyways.” Princess cut in, you smiled.

“Seems like that’s everyone from day shift now.” Trinity commented, sliding up beside you.

“Ready to start your first day?” Robby asked, walking up to greet you. You had met him a couple times, never chatting with him long enough to get to know him, but from the little conversation you had with Robby, he seemed nice enough.

“Yup.” You nodded, morphing your expression into one of confidence.

“Everyone listen up!” Robby announced, gathering the attention of everyone.

“This is Dr. Y/N. She has just transferred from Westbridge, please make her feel welcome!” Robby’s voice boomed as everyone’s eyes turned to face you. Immediately, everyone started introducing themselves and you smiled as you saw some familiar faces.

Just as you were about to open your mouth to start speaking to a couple of people, the doors burst open and incoming traumas rolled in. You jumped into action immediately, finding it oddly easy enough to slide into place and feel like you belonged there.

“Remember, two taps on my arm if you need help,” Trinity started, bringing up a little thing that you and Trinity shared whenever you both couldn’t articulate your words and feelings but you needed the other person. “Seriously. Don’t let yourself get too deep in this chaos that it’s impossible to pull yourself back out.”

You swallowed and nodded at the statement, shaking off the anxiety you were feeling and jumping into doctor mode.

The day had passed you by in a blur of chaos, you had acclimated well in this new setting and you were getting used to the way everyone worked. The way that everyone worked around each other in PTMC, was without a doubt better.

Right now, you were finally getting a chance to sit down and catch up on your charting for the day. Your feet ached and you were sure you were developing blisters on your ankles as you hadn’t fully broken in your shoes yet. Your back was stiff and tender and you had a pounding headache.

And to top it all off, despite the fact that it was only March, you were overheating, your scrub top was clinging to you and loose tendrils of your hair stuck to your forehead.

You plopped down on one of the rolling chairs with a sigh, swiping your ID and logging on to start charting. “How’s your first day been?” Dennis asked, as she did the same and also started chatting.

“Chaotic and busier than I expected. But, I can see myself working here for a longtime.” You said, a tired smile stretching on your lips. “This place has its moments.” Dennis explained.

“Yeah,” You sighed. A silence had washed over the two of you, the sound of keyboards clacking and the low humming of the ER that you had mostly drowned out could be heard.

You lifted your head and saw that the night shift had started to trickle in, you hadn’t gotten a chance to get to know any of the night shift. Mainly because they were all working whenever the day shift went out to the bar.

A few polite smiles were thrown your way as people passed by you.

You were spinning around on your chair, waiting for those eight minutes to pass so that you could finally go home. “You’re making me dizzy.” Dennis grumbled as he placed a hand on your chair to stop you.

“You’re no fun.” You pouted, it took a second for your vision to return back to normal as you did make yourself dizzy. You looked up and saw an unbelievably hot man that you could only guess was an attending for the night shift, leaning against the counter talking with Robby.

Your mouth was slack as you practically drank him in, his grey curls and the way he filled out his scrubs that you could tell he was buff underneath made your stomach swoop like you were a teenager again. “Who is that.” You asked Dennis, taking your eyes off the mysterious attending for a second.

Dennis stopped typing and followed your eyes, “Oh no.” Dennis scolded, looking at you disapprovingly. “Oh yes.” You echoed, a smirk curling up on your lips.

“That’s Dr. Abbot, he’s the nightshift attending.” Dennis clarified. You made a satisfied noise and returned back to your charting, Dennis shook his head and braced himself as he knew now that you had set your sights on someone, you would not shut up about them when you all returned home.

“Who are you eye fucking?” Trinity asked, settling down onto the stool next to you. “Abbot.” Dennis said simply. “Oh.” Trinity laughed and nodded her head.

“Why didn’t you warn me there were hot men at this hospital?” You hissed. “I don’t know if you’ve forgotten but I am in fact a lesbian. I don’t see men in that way.” Trinity rolled her eyes.

You swivelled around to face Dennis going to accuse him “Well why didn’t you warn me?”

“I’m not gay!” Dennis choked, defending himself a little too loudly that Princess and Perlah looked at him then started speaking in Tagalog. You and Trinity gave each other a knowing look and then went back to charting.

Across the room, Jack Abbot was staring at you but you hadn’t realised. You were talking in whispers with Santos and Whitaker, an occasional laugh from you breaking the otherwise hush tones you were speaking in.

Jack looked at you fondly, smiling when you smiled, he loved how your smile lit up your entire face. Robby slid up beside Jack, not noticing the way he was staring at you.

“I think that is everything ready to be handed over to the night shift, the day shift should clear out soon.” Robby murmured, pulling his glasses on and looking over everything on his tablet.

Truthfully, Jack hadn’t listened to anything that Robby said, only nodded slowly as he continued staring at you. Jack knew that his stare could be a little intense, he’s been told so by basically every person he’s met but he couldn’t pull his eyes off of you.

“Are you listening?” Robby sighed, placing the tablet down and putting his glasses away. “Who is she?” Jack asked, not bothering to answer Robby.

Robby followed Jack's line of vision and saw that they landed on you. Robby closed his eyes and sighed, he could not deal with Jack's lovesick shit again. “That’s the new doctor on day shift, she transferred from Westbridge, it’s her first day.” Robby said.

“She’s cute,” Jack smirked, glancing over at Robby to gauge his reaction. “Don’t even go there.” Robby warned, leaning against the counter and raising his eyebrow.

“Why? Are you jealous?” Jack teased, forcing himself to take his eyes off you. “You wish. No, she’s incredibly sweet and a very good doctor, I don’t want her to have any distractions,” Robby said pointedly.

“You mean me?” Jack gasped, feigning that he was hurt. “Yes. And do I need to remind you that she’s a resident and you are her attending?” Robby said.

“She’s not my resident.” Jack smirked. “Oh for fuck sake.” Robby sighed and moved to walk away.

“That statement about how she’s my resident and I'm her attending bullshit is hypocritical coming from you.” Jack teased.

“That was a low blow, brother.” Robby chuckled, giving him the middle finger and walking away to go round up the rest of the day shift.

Tonight was your last night shift, and you had to admit to yourself that you would miss this. The past week, you had been covering someone else’s shifts as they had switched to day shift temporarily.

You jumped at the opportunity to volunteer to take their shifts on. Mainly, because you wanted a change of scenery and to experience how night shift operated. And, partly because it meant you would spend more time with Jack.

You had been at PTMC for nearly four months now and hadn’t yet had the chance to have a proper conversation with Jack, you usually only spoke to him at handover. Filling him in on the events of the day and the patients that were still in the ER, and making light small talk that never came of anything.

Of course you had his number, mainly for communicating about hospital stuff and you had even been added to the night shift group chat and you were surprised to learn that the chat was actually quite entertaining. But, you deemed it unprofessional to start messaging Jack separately about anything other than work, so you held back like you always do.

“Piece of shit.” You muttered under your breath as you kicked the vending machine, trying to get it to dispense an energy bar that you needed badly right now. You needed this to power on through the last dregs of this shift.

“You need to do it like this,” Jack said, startling you a little as you didn’t even hear him walk up to stand beside you. Jack gave the vending machine a boot and your energy bar fell from its place.

“Thanks.” You smiled, bending down to retrieve it.

“So this was your last shift on nights,” Jack observed, you answered with a simple nod. “How did you find the nightshift?”

“Chaotic in its own unique way, but it was good chaos. I enjoyed it more than I thought actually,” You smiled. “So does this mean you’ll convert to nights?” Jack asked, a hopeful glint in his eyes as he leaned against the vending machine and crossed his arms. The gesture making his bicep muscles pop that you had to force your eyes off.

“No way. I value my sleep too much.” You joked, thinking about going home and crashing. “That’s too bad, I know you’ll be missed around here.” Jack pouted.

“Really?” You questioned.

“Everyone loves you, it would be a pleasure for us to have you permanently.” Jack smiled, his words made your cheeks flush a deep shade of pink. “Thank you, Dr. Abbot.” You said genuinely.

“Jack.” he corrected.

“Right, thank you, Jack.” You echoed. “But, I’ll still see you all at handovers.”

“True,” He nodded and then a comfortable silence fell over the two of you.

“I forgot to say, but we’re all going to the beach in a couple of weeks time. Would you like to come?” Jack asked.

Truthfully, you had known about this beach trip for weeks and even confirmed you were coming when Trinity asked if you were up for it. But, something about Jack asking you specifically made you giddy.

“I would love to!” You exclaimed. “Great! I’ll text you the details closer to the time.” Jack smiled as he took in how genuinely thrilled you looked at the invite. You swallowed nervously and nodded, he was going to text you personally.

“You’re free to go,” Jack said, glancing at his watch. “But, shouldn’t I stay to help out a little longer?” You frowned.

“Day shift is trickling in and most of the loose ends have been tied up. Go, get some sleep.” Jack ordered, placing a hand on your shoulder to push you lightly in the direction of the locker room.

“See you tomorrow, Jack.” You smiled, testing out how his name felt on your tongue. Jack nodded and waved you off.

You gathered your stuff and walked towards the exit, passing by Trinity and Dennis who were just coming in for their shift. You sent them a quick see you at home and left.

Once you got inside, you stripped off and stepped under the roasting heat of the shower. Washing off the smell of the hospital and any badness that clung to your skin.

You combed through your wet hair and got changed into a matching yellow soft cotton pyjama set and got settled in bed.

You pulled out your phone to text Trinity and Dennis, a cheeky smile already making its way up to your lips.

To: Trin 🍒, Dennis!

You: jack invited me to the beach!!!!! like me personally

Dennis!: but we already invited you?? and you already said yes.

You: i know but it means more coming from him

Dennis!: ok i see how it is

Trin 🍒: first name basis already i see ;)

Trin 🍒: did u embarrass yourself and crumple under his “intense stare” as u would put it?

You: i kept my composure !!

Dennis!: that’s a first

You: stfu huckleberry

Dennis!: wow.

Trin 🍒: both of u stfu before i remove you both because i have admin rights. i’m trying to work.

You smiled and put your phone down, turning over to sleep.

You were sitting on the couch, Trinity at one corner and you at the other. The TV hummed lowly in the background as you had turned it down slightly to speak to Trinity.

Trinity sat up straight, ranting about Garcia and how she only uses her. The longer the conversation stretched on, the further you slumped downwards, you gripped a cushion and lay your head down on it, occasionally humming in agreement with Trinity.

“I mean, isn’t using each other the whole point?” You questioned, you were confused about their weird relationship. “Yeah, but I didn’t think she would quite literally use me. I expected us to do things other than sex,” Trinity sighed, exasperated.

You hummed in agreement, she did have a point. “I rarely get aftercare.” Trinity admitted.

“No!” You gasped. “Trin, I say this with love, but you need to get your shit together and end this thing with Garcia.”

“I know, I know.” Trinity grumbled, stuffing her face into the cushion to conceal her embarrassment.

Your phone buzzed from its place next to you on the couch. You picked up the phone and scanned the message and your expression morphed into one of excitement when you saw who the notification was from.

Jack.

“Jack just texted!” You gasped. “Show me.” Trinity demanded, scooting closer to you so she could see the text thread.

To: You

Abbot: Hi, it’s Jack.

Abbot: This is the beach we’re going to. July 18th at 11am.

*Abbot sent you a pin.*

You: sounds like a plan!

Jack: Make sure you bring SPF 50. I’m not making any trips into the ER on my day off because you got sun poisoning.

You: already packed, don’t worry doc

Jack: Good.

Jack: Looking forward to it :)

You: me too !

You: can’t wait :))

*Jack heart reacted to your message.*

Trinity looked at you with a knowing smirk, feeling excited for you.

“He texts like such a grandpa.” Trinity laughed as you placed your phone back down.

“It’s charming!” You said, defending him.

You, Trinity, and Dennis took the subway down to the beach. Strolling onto the beach, majority of your coworkers were already there and had found a spot that was a sun trap.

You were wearing a royal blue bikini, but you covered it up with a graphic oversized tee that hung off one shoulder.

“Hey!” Mel beamed as she saw the three of you approach. You quickly greeted everyone and then zoned in on an empty spot next to Jack, you took this as your chance and put your stuff down.

“Hi, stranger.” Jack teased as you took a towel out your beach bag and placed it next to his. You shot him a quick smile and got yourself situated.

“Look I packed my sunscreen like you told me to.” You said, pulling out the Hawaiian Tropic sunscreen and lathering some on your arms and legs. You weren’t entirely comfortable with taking off your shirt just yet, it was acting like a safety blanket.

You now had the opportunity to really look at Jack. He was shirtless, his skin had started to tan nicely which meant his freckles had become more accentuated, his prosthetic leg was out, you knew he had one but you had never seen it before.

“Did you find this okay?” Jack asked, referring to your journey down to the beach. “Yeah! We just hopped on the subway, it isn’t that long of a journey.” You explained.

You both fell into a silence as you looked over everyone, the sound of music filtered through the area as you had brought your speaker from the apartment, connecting to Trinity’s summer playlist.

The air had a distinct smell of sunscreen, mixed with coconut and the smell of the sea. This was bliss, the fact that you didn’t have to worry about any patients for a couple hours.

The ER had felt weird without Robby, who had taken off on his sabbatical a couple weeks ago. His presence at the beach was missed but Al-Hashimi had filled in his place, and you had grown to like her.

She was sitting off to the side speaking with Samira, Trinity was sitting a little too close to Garcia, Mel spoke enthusiastically with Langdon, Dennis had been roped into conversation with Victoria, and Ellis was arguing with Shen like they always did. That just left you and Jack as the only silent ones but you enjoyed people watching.

“Beer?” Jack offered, opening a cooler and passing you an ice cold can of beer. “Thanks.” You smiled, cracking it open and taking a big gulp, the alcohol already seeping into your bloodstream.

“Jeez, it’s hot.” You sighed, fanning yourself and laying down on your towel as if it would somehow help. “You could take that large tshirt off,” Jack quipped.

You smirked at him, disguising the fact that you felt insecure about exposing your body.

“I—.” You hesitated, but Jack stared at you urging you to continue.

“I’m not the most… secure in my body…” You trailed off, trying to accurately think of a word that perfectly summed up how you felt.

Jack nodded, understanding exactly how you felt, his gazes landed on his leg. “If I take the leg off, would that make you feel better?” He reasoned.

“You don’t have to… It’s just me being stupid.” You said, shaking your head. “Don’t do that. Don’t try to diminish how you feel. It really doesn’t bother me.” Jack shrugged.

Jack reached down and took off his prosthetic, placing it next to him and massaging at his skin. “There.”

You gripped the bottom of your shirt and pulled it up over your head, tossing it to the side. You looked away, trying to make the action look nonchalant but also avoiding Jack's eyes.

Jack eyes trailed up and down your body, drinking in how the colour of your bikini contrasted nicely against your skin. You also looked hot.

“Better?” He smirked. “Better.” You echoed.

“Get my back?” You asked innocently, handing Jack the sunscreen. “Happily,” He replied as you turned to angle your back at him.

He squirted the sunscreen onto your back and gently rubbed it into your skin that was currently burning underneath his touch. You closed your eyes as it felt more like he was giving you a massage, but when you opened your eyes you saw Dennis looking over at you with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“I see what you did.” Dennis mouthed, you scrunched your nose up at him and discreetly sent him the middle finger.

Jack knew that the cream had been fully rubbed into your skin now, no white cast left behind but he couldn’t remove his hands from your back just yet.

You noticed that he was taking longer than it usually would take, but you didn’t mind his hands on yours. Infact, you leaned into his touch ever so slightly wishing that he could keep his hands there permanently and that it wouldn’t be a problem.

Jack took his hands off you and rubbed the excess cream off on his swim shorts, not wanting to raise any suspicion among your coworkers, especially Al-Hashimi who was already eying him weirdly.

“Thank you.” You smiled leaning back and propping yourself up on your elbows. You grabbed for the beer that he had given you earlier that had gone warm in your mouth, you grimaced as you hesitantly swallowed it lukewarm beer.

“Here’s a fresh one,” Jack offered, grabbing you a new one from the cooler. “Is there anything other than beer in there?” You asked, you didn’t like the taste of beer that much, only accepting the drink in the first place because Jack had asked you first. How pathetic.

“There’s some cocktail cans in here,” Jack started, rooting around in the cooler for a flavour he thought that you might like. “Pornstair Martini?” He offered, holding the can out to you which you happily snatched.

“My favourite.” You giggled, taking a sip and instantly relaxing. “I thought so, it’s sweet. Like you.” Jack smirked. “So corny,” You laughed.

You saw everyone start to head for the water, all trailing off one by one until eventually it was just you and Jack left. You looked off at the distance, desperately wanting to join them but not wanting to leave Jack. You tried to busy yourself with a book that you had packed, but you kept getting distracted.

“Join them,” Jack said, noticing how you kept looking at all your coworkers with a certain type of longing. “No! I’m fine here,” You smiled sweetly, clearing your throat and going back to your book.

“Sweetheart, if it’s because you're worried about how I’ll be sitting alone, I'm fine.” Jack laughed. “Are you sure?” You questioned, but your eyes kept landing on his prosthetic leg.

“Oh this,” Jack chuckled, observing how your eyes landed on his leg and what you really meant by hanging back with him. “I can go into the water with this, I’m just soaking up the sun and finishing my beer off.”

You nodded, making your way to stand up before Jack's hand shot up to stop you from leaving. He tipped his head back as he gulped down the last dregs of beer, and then he put his prosthetic bag on. You stared at him quizzically, wondering why he stopped you if he was so insistent on you going in the first place.

“Race you.” Jack smirked as he set off before you even had the chance to register his words. “Oh that is so not fair! You’re playing dirty Abbot!” You exclaimed as you bolted after him.

“Don’t let an ‘old man’ out run you!” Jack shouted back at you. You scowled and picked up the pace but Jack reached the water before you.

The water was freezing, your body was littered in goosebumps instantly, but the deeper you got the water became more pleasant and cooled your burning skin.

“Cheat,” You grumbled, kicking water at him. “That was cruel,” Jack pouted as he bent down and splashed water at you with his hand.

Somehow, after splashing around for a little you and your coworkers all managed to play a game that you hadn’t played since you were all children. Someone was nominated as the ‘killer’ and tried to chase everyone else, if you caught someone they joined you.

You realised how childish you must look to everyone else at the beach but you all were having too much fun to care. This was a nice distraction away from the blood and stress of the ER.

Jack was nominated as the ‘killer’ and of course he decided to relentlessly chase after you more than the others. You didn’t realise how fast Jack was, especially in the water which would normally slow everyone down, but not him.

After the game finished, you lazed around in the water chatting with Dennis, Victoria, and Samira while Jack spoke to Ellis, Shen, and Al-Hashimi. “Let’s play mermaids.” Samira announced as she let herself float back.

“Oh my goodness, yes!” Victoria exclaimed, you saw how she held back at first, not wanting to be deemed ‘childish’. “That would be super fun,” You smiled as you pretended to be a mermaid.

“You don’t even have tails?” Dennis questioned. “That is what the brain is for, we’re using our imaginations!” You defended.

“And, you’re the evil ruler of the sea.” You smirked. “So you’re comparing me to Poseidon.” Dennis said proudly. “Not necessarily a good thing,” You giggled, Dennis rolled his eyes at you and swam around for a little.

“This is healing,” You announced. “Agreed.” Samira mumbled.

You tipped your head upwards, the sunlight beamed on your face.

Fifteen minutes later, you decided your time in the water was finished. But, when you stood up you suddenly found that you felt dizzy, you lost your footing slightly as you stood up. “I got you,” Jack whispered in your ear, you were grateful that it was him that caught you and not anyone else.

“I feel a little dizzy,” You whispered back to him as you started trying to walk back to your towel in a straight line. “Not so fast,” Jack said, you looked at him with a furrow in your brow.

Jack scooped you up and threw you over his shoulder as if you weighed nothing. “Jack!” You exclaimed, feeling blood rush up to your cheeks at the thought of everyone else seeing you both.

“Oh please,” Jack started as he placed you back down on your towel. “There was no way you were making it back over here without stumbling over your feet.”

You grumbled but you knew he was right.

“Let me check you over.” Jack said, silently asking for your consent. “You don’t need to act like a doctor, not right now when we’re enjoying ourselves.” You frowned.

Jack waved you off and checked over you, placing the back of his hand over your forehead and pressing his fingers against your pulse points.

“You have heat exhaustion, you’ll be okay.” Jack said finally, reaching into the cooler and grabbing a bottle of water for you. “I know I will, thanks.” You said and chugged back the ice cold water.

“I am a doctor too, Jack.” You giggled as you finished off the water.

“So you’re fine then?” He asked, he was genuinely concerned for you.

Truthfully, you were far from fine. You were actually feeling sick and your body was so hot that it was practically uncomfortable to be in. You wanted nothing more than to shower and curl up in a ball.

“I actually feel a little nauseous,” You confessed, downplaying your symptoms. “Do you want to go home?” Jack asked, you didn’t want to put a damper on everyone else’s day but you knew that you could be honest with Jack.

You nodded and so did he. Jack started rolling up his towel and packing his bag. “What are you doing?” You said carefully, as you were packing your own bags.

“I’m taking you home, even though I didn’t drive today, I’ll take the subway with you.” Jack said finally. “But, I arrived with Trinity and Dennis?” You said in confusion.

“I don’t see them around.” Jack shrugged, gesturing over to the little area you were sitting in and at the water. You frowned and pulled your phone out of the pocket in your bag.

To: You, Dennis!

Trin 🍒: going home with garcia ;)) would’ve stayed longer but i’m too horny

Dennis!: ew i did not need to know that

Trin 🍒: Shut the fuck up— Garcia.

Dennis!: so now ur getting ur bodyguard on me?Dennis!: i’m also leaving early. amy needs me, said it was an emergency.

Dennis!: i’m sorry for leaving u y/n

Trin 🍒: i’m sure she’ll have so much fun with dr. abbotttttt

You: have fun guys!!!

You pocketed your phone again and said quiet goodbyes to the remaining people, walking and chatting lowly with Jack to the subway station.

You got to your apartment, Jack insisting he come inside to make sure he would be okay to leave you. You acted shy, but secretly you were thrilled.

“Why don’t you go for a shower and change into something comfortable, while I make you an early dinner.” Jack said, closing the door softly behind him.

“Jack, you really don’t have to. I’ll be completely fine and I can make my own meals.” You pushed back, him making sure you got home safe and sound was already a lot, you didn’t want to burden him further.

“It’s really no problem.” He said finally. You were quiet for a moment before nodding and giving in, it was nice for someone to take care of you when your whole purpose was people relying on you to take care of them.

“I don’t know what you’ll find in our cabinets to whip up a whole meal, we haven’t had a chance to go grocery shopping yet.” You laughed, it had totally slipped everyone’s minds to go grocery shopping as it was always too late by the time you left work or you were all too tired.

“I’ll make something work,” Jack winked, your brain short-circuited at the fact he had just winked at you. “Go shower! I promise whatever I make will be delicious.”

You smiled and thanked him and slipped away to your bedroom to grab a fresh pair of pyjamas and then to the bathroom.

You turned on the shower and stood under the stream of water, letting the boiling water batter off your sun-kissed skin and wash away all the sand, sweat, and sunscreen from the day. You instantly felt better now that you were devoid of all of that.

You worked your shampoo into your hair, massaging your scalp as the hair tie that was in your hair was pulled just a little too tight.

You stepped out of the shower, drying yourself off and doing your skincare before slapping aloe vera to soothe your skin and finishing off with a coconut scented moisturiser. You brushed through your wet hair, applying hair treatments and then deciding to leave it down to air dry naturally.

Initially, you were going to toss on a tshirt and sweatpants, wanting to be modest in front of your boss. But then you thought, fuck it, he’s already seen enough of your skin today why cover up? So you tossed on a skimpy tank and sleep shorts.

You stepped out of the bathroom, the smell of food instantly flooded your nostrils and made your stomach rumble. Whatever Jack had cooked smelled good.

You rounded the corner and seen Jack plating your food, and then you saw that he had made himself a bowl too. You were silently relieved that he was staying long enough to eat dinner, not wanting to be alone tonight.

“I whipped up a stirfry!” Jack announced as he saw you approach and sit on the couch, you pretended that you didn’t see his trail down your figure for a third time that day, you suppressed a smirk not wanting to give anything away.

“I’m surprised there was any ingredients to make a stirfry!” You laughed as he handed you a bowl, making himself comfortable next to you.

“It wasn’t that hard. Stirfry noodles, Chicken, and Soy Sauce. Although, you literally have no vegetables.” Jack said with an accusing tone. “Yeah, we forgot to eat our greens, sue us!” You exclaimed, lifted the fork up to your mouth and blew on the food.

“You’re a doctor! You should know better!” Jack said jokingly, you shrugged as you shovelled the food into your mouth.

“Jack, this is delicious!” You praised as you went back for more. Jack smiled, acting as though your praise didn’t make him secretly giddy.

“Do you wanna watch a movie?” You asked. Jack nodded and you scrolled through the movie selection on your streaming services. “How about How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days?” You suggested.

“A classic!” Jack exclaimed, you stared at him with your mouth practically hanging open. You did not peg Jack Abbot as a Romcom guy.

“So what, I like romantic comedys.” Jack shrugged. “Green flag.” You smirked and turned back to the movie.

You finished your dinner at the same time Jack did, you both placed your empty dishes on the coffee table and then got yourselfs comfortable to watch the duration of the movie.

You kept glancing sideways at Jack, debating whether or not you should rest your head against his shoulder. You were inching closer to him, trying to muster up the courage to do so.

“Come here,” Jack said, holding open his arm for you to crawl under, he sensed you building up the courage so he thought that he would make it easier for you.

Your heartbeat quickened as you crawled under his arm, resting your head on his solid shoulder. You felt Jack soften underneath you, his hand coming to rest around your shoulders as he tried to pull you further into him.

You peeled open your eyes gently, feeling disoriented and confused at the fact that you were waking up.

“I fell asleep?” You questioned pulling your head back to look at Jack. “Yeah, you’ve been out for a while or so.” Jack smiled softly, stroking a strand of hair out of your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” You apologised, stretching and glancing at the TV to see that another romcom had come on. “Don’t apologise,” Jack frowned. “Your body must have needed it.”

Your shoulders dropped in relief, as if your crush on Jack Abbot couldn’t get any bigger, he was one of the people that never judged you for falling asleep and always claimed ‘your body must have needed it’.

“I feel much better now actually.” You said in realisation, you didn’t feel nauseous or as exhausted as you felt a couple of hours prior.

“I have something that you might enjoy.” Jack said, getting up from the couch and retrieving items from his bag. “Oh?” You said, cocking an eyebrow at the mysterious things in his hands.

“Have you ever smoked weed?” Jack asked. “Yes, but I haven’t smoked it since… high school.” You said. You laughed as he pulled out a grinder that had weed in it and rolling papers.

“I had no idea you smoked weed.” You chuckled. Now that you thought about it, it didn’t really surprise you.

“It helps.” Jack said simply, you didn’t question what it helped exactly.

You watched as Jack placed the weed in the paper, rolling it up and then licking the paper so it stayed in place. He showed you the finished product and you were pleasantly surprised at his rolling abilities.

He walked over to the big window in your living room and opened it wide. “Wouldn’t want to piss off Santos.” He shivered, imagining her coming home and attempting to murder him as the smell of weed clung to the surfaces.

“Yeah you don’t want to get on her bad side.” You laughed as you stood next to him at the window. Jack lifted the joint up to his lips and lit the end of it, inhaling and then exhaling and tipping his head back in delight.

“That’s good shit,” Jack commented, passing the joint over to you.

You lifted it tentatively to your lips and inhaled, letting the smoke travel to your lungs, feeling the familiar burning sensation that hit the spot just right, then exhaling the smoke out.

“You weren’t wrong,” You nodded as you passed the joint back to him. You bent over slightly, hanging your arms out the window and admiring as the clear sky turned into a mix of yellow and red as night fell on the city of Pittsburgh.

You passed the blunt between the two of you, chatting about anything and everything as you felt like the world started to fuzz and your brain drift.

You observed Jack and saw how his eyes had begun to get red and the things he was talking to you about was utter nonsense, you had never seen this side of him. So chill and laid back.

“Let me try something,” Jack said, turning to face you, you mirrored him and did the same.

“Open your mouth.” Jack demanded, you were taken aback at that command. “Yes, sir.” You said, letting giggle slip past your lips as you hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

Jack inhaled once again and then inched closer to you so that your lips were practically touching. You understood what he was about to do.

Jack pressed his lips lightly against yours, exhaling the smoke into your mouth which you inhaled before blowing it back out again.

Jack grinded the end of the joint out and threw it out your window before turning back to you.

“Can I?” He asked as he got impossibly close to your lips again. “Please,” You said softly.

Jack smashed his lips against yours, you let out a noise of surprise before melting into the kiss. You had wanted this for so long that you grabbed at the curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him into you desperately.

Jack's lips were soft, kissing you gently just the way you liked it. His tongue darted against your lips, wetting them and silently asking to be let in. You opened your mouth without hesitation and let his tongue slip inside your mouth.

His tongue swirled around yours, moving in sync with you. Jack had the perfect amount of tongue and it wasn’t overwhelming at all.

He moved his lips away from yours and kissed the corner of your mouth.

Jack pulled back and looked at yours, his usually intense stare was something you didn’t mind right now.

“I think I could get used to making this a regular thing.” You laughed, Jack chuckled and then dove back in and kissed you again.

[r4bidabbott]

follow up of this ask. i love sammy bryant so bad i want to torture him.

sammy still thought some sort of cruel joke was being played on him when he got off of work that evening. why would a girl like you give him your number? he was awkward, chubby, quiet. you were fit, loud, bubbly. you could've picked any officer in that station, why him? he stared at the piece of paper you wrote your name and number on like it was an ancient relic he had just discovered, like it was the most amazing thing he had ever seen in his life. he couldn't get the picture of you out of his head. your sweet voice. the gum smacking in your mouth with each chomp. your tits basically flowing out of your top. he didn't even realized he had typed your number into his phone before it was ringing through, a shaky hand moving to hold the phone up to his ear.

"helloo?" you questioned into the phone, sat on your balcony as you painted your nails. you always were one to answer unrecognized numbers. it excited you. "y/n?" sammy hesitated to speak, loosening his tie a little bit. you couldn't help the butterflies that erupted in your stomach at the sound of his voice. "is this sammy?' you cooed, setting your nail polish down to fan at your toenails. you could hear the hard swallow he did through the phone, a wide grin spreading across your lips. "got so scared, sammy. was worried you weren't going to call me back," your voice came out as a whine, the sound having sammy chubbed up immediately in his slacks. "i-uhh.. i got busy with work. sorry," he spoke, hand immediately going to just his half hard dick in his pants.

it was quiet for a moment, before a small giggle left your lips. "so you called. does that mean you want to come over? yknow for the report," you hummed, chewing on your bottom lip as you immediately stood. you had zero plan to tell him what happened. you just wanted to see how far he'd let you go. it was like you could hear him fighting with himself in his mind over whether or not he was actually going to come. you felt a slight bit of guilt trying to coax the freshly divorced officer to your help. you only wanted to take his mind off of things. "i'm going to take your silence as a yes. i'll text you my address. see you soon sammy," you spoke quickly, a little giggle leaving your lips. "wait i-," he started but was immediately cut off to the sound of the phone call dropping, his head immediately throwing back against the couch.

poor oblivious man thought he really was coming over to take a report from you. he didn't even change out of his work clothes, his tie laying loose around his neck as he drove to the address you sent him. his head was spilling with hundreds of thoughts. why was he doing this? why didn't you just make the report at the station? what color panties were you wearing? he hadn't realized he was already there, parked outside of the apartment. what he didn't see was you peeking out of the curtain, a slick smile on your lips as you moved back at the sight of him walking up to the door. you did a once over of yourself in the mirror, a satisfied smirk on your face as the doorbell rang.

sammy felt like all the wind was knocked out of his lungs as the front door to your apartment swung open to reveal you standing there. a baby pink nightgown was the only thing covering you. covering used lightly. he could see your nipples straight through your night gown, the bottom hem just falling below your cunt. the room was filled with pink, and glitter, and diamonds. "hi sammy," you cooed sweetly, batting your eyelashes at him as he stood speechless. your small manicured hand wrapped around his much larger one, pulling him inside before slamming the door shut. he swears he's watched a porno that started just like this.

[dirty-noona]

Thinking about Shawn Hatosy’s back muscles

Specifically as season 4 Pope Cody

[usershawn]

Shawn Hatosy attends the SAG-AFTRA Foundation Conversations Presents Building a Character From Scratch With 2026 Emmy Nominees event at The Meryl Streep Center for Performing Arts on August 3, 2026, in Los Angeles, California

[usershawn]

Shawn Hatosy attends the SAG-AFTRA Foundation Conversations Presents Building a Character From Scratch With 2026 Emmy Nominees event at The Meryl Streep Center for Performing Arts on August 3, 2026, in Los Angeles, California

[r4bidabbott]

pt 8 of baby daddy!pope but now there is love making (18+ smut y'all)

prev. part

craig stood with his mouth slightly open as he stared down at you, the large man who was usually never embarrassed now wore a red tint on his cheeks. "you're a pig, craig," you spoke with a roll of your eyes, turning your back to him once more to order yourself and sunny some ice cream. "i had no idea it was you, y/n, i swear. i'm sorry," he mumbled, moving to stand beside you now as he scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck. "does that ever actually work on girls?" you spoke as you paid the girl behind the counter, turning to face him again as you waited for your ice cream. you could tell he was still a bit embarrassed, a slight nervousness in his gaze as he looked around to see if his older brother was nearby. "you'd be surprised," he chuckled, ordering himself some ice cream before turning back to you. "was just surprised it was you. never see you out anymore," he spoke, trying to shift the conversation as the girl handed you your two ice creams. "a baby will do that to you," you sighed, licking yours as craig got his. you could tell he was going to follow so you waited a moment, heading back to where pope was.

"what are you doing?" pope asked to his brother as soon as the two of you approached to where your little camp was set up, pope moving to stand in front of his brother as you sat down with sunny and fed the ice cream to her. "just saw her and thought i'd say hi," he lied, which you knew was for the best considering pope only needed one simple reason to get pissed and cause a scene. "hi baby," craig cooed as he squatted down in front of sunny, a large hand reaching to pinch her cheek lightly causing the little girl to giggle, craig's eyes moving from your daughter to you, glancing at your chest. "you two together now?" he hummed as he stood back up, eating his ice cream. "no," you spoke a little too quick, pope rolling his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest. "yes we are," he corrected you, chest slightly puffed out to assert some sort of dominance over his younger brother. it made you giggle, the sight of him trying to appear bigger than the much taller man. his height was no match, but his muscles definitely were better.

"are you here alone?" you asked, eyes scanning around the beach to see if you could spot who he was here with. you hoped and prayed smurf wasn't around. "no smurf, don't worry. just deran," he shrugged, pointing to the man who was a little ways down the beach with some friends. you immediately were at ease, nodding a little as you looked over at pope who still seemed on edge. "so you two live together now?" craig finally spoke to take up the silence that had fallen on you all. you continued to look at pope, waiting for him to answer as you continued to feed sunny her ice cream. "you're asking too many questions," he mumbled, taking the ice cream from sunny once she had had enough, finishing it himself. craig rolled his eyes, looking back at you but all you managed to do was give an awkward smile, too worried to tell that you were living together in case it got back to smurf. you hadn't even noticed deran come up until he was sitting in the sand in front of sunny, reaching to bury her feet in the sand as she squealed and giggled loudly.

"smurf's out of town for the weekend if you guys want to come over," deran had suggested, a small sigh leaving your lips. you didn't know what to say, just continuing to stare at the sand. if she found out the two of you were there without her knowing she would lose it. "we can order pizza and just chill. we want to see sunny and you too, yknow," deran spoke again, flicking a little sand at you to get you to smile. you just nodded, turning back to look at pope who was staring right back at you, trying to gauge how you were feeling. "let me think about it, yeah?" you finally managed to speak, shooting both of the men a smile. they looked at you, before back at pope who was shooting a glare at them as to say 'leave'. without another thought, they both leaned down to press a kiss to your daughter's head before waving goodbye, making their way back down the beach. it was quiet as you sat, sunny climbing to curl up in pope's lap with a yawn. "do you want to go there?" you asked him softly as you stood, dusting the sand off of your legs. all he could do was shrug, looking up at you. "i will do whatever you want me to do," he spoke finally, leaning back a little as your daughter finally began to doze off in his lap. you nodded, reaching to pull your hair out of the bun it was in. "let me get in the water and wash the sand off and we can go," you spoke to him, shooting a small smile as you made your way to the water.

pope couldn't help but stare as he watched you dive into the water, coming back up to flip your now wet hair back and out of your face. he didn't like the idea of taking you and your daughter back to the cody house, but if that was what you wanted to do, he was willing to do it for you. you sunk back into the water again, staying under for a few moments before finally coming back up, smiling at pope from the water. you slowly made your way back to where he was, reaching for a towel to dry yourself off as he watched you. "you take her. i will get everything in the car," he mumbled, eyes never leaving your body as he placed sunny's sleeping body in your arms. you couldn't help the blush that covered your cheeks as he stared at you like he wanted to devour you. you watched as he gathered everything before leading you to the car, shoving everything in the back as you strapped sunny in. he was in a rush for whatever reason, getting everything packed up in only two trips before you were on your way back home.

"i'll unpack. you just get her changed and down for a nap," he spoke as you arrived back, getting her out of her seat before he was handing her to you. and you did just that. you undressed her from her wet bathing suit, the little girl whining and half asleep. all you could do was try and soothe her to keep her asleep as you redressed her, finally laying her down in her bed before making your way back downstairs. you could hear pope shuffling around in the kitchen, so you followed the noise to where he was unpacking the cooler now. "do you need help?" you spoke softly, holding the beach towel tighter to your body as you watched him. all he did was shake his head, glancing over at you before he went back to putting things away. it was quiet as you watched him, your bottom lip now between your teeth as you basically drooled over his shirtless self. you couldn't hold back any longer.

"i am going to shower. do you.. would you want to shower with me?" you finally blurted out, pope immediately freezing where he stood before turning to look at you. "you serious?" he asked, his face completely deadpanned as he stared you down. this had to be some mean joke you were pulling on him. "yeah sorry that was stupid to ask, im sorry," you mumbled, cheeks immediately red because you thought he was rejecting your offer. "it wasn't stupid. i'll be up in a minute go start the shower," he nodded, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. you couldn't help the giddiness that flowed through your body as you practically ran up the stairs to the bathroom, grabbing the baby monitor on your way. you were quick to strip, starting the shower and climbing in as you heard him making his way up the stairs. your heart felt like it was going to beat out of your chest. calm down. you're acting like you're a virgin who is about to sleep with the man of your dreams. except you aren't a virgin. but pope is the man of your dreams.

you watched through the shower door as he made his way inside the bathroom, slowly taking his swim trunks off as he stared at you through the glass. you weren't sure what was hotter, the water that was streaming down on you, the wetness between your legs, or pope finally getting in naked. there was a silence as you both stood face to face, the shower beating down on both of you. it wasn't an awkward silence. just silence. it was like a huge wave a confidence rushed over you as you wrapped your arms around his neck, slamming your lips to his. his hands were quick to wrap around you, pulling your body tightly against his as your mouthes moved together. you couldn't remember the last time you had given pope more than a peck. you weren't even sure the last time you saw him naked, but holy shit was it a sight. before you could even think, his tongue was filling your mouth, like it was searching for the taste he missed. he couldn't stop the groan that left his mouth as you moved to kiss at his jaw before moving to his neck, his hand immediately grabbing onto your ass tightly.

you couldn't stop as you continued to kiss down his neck, across his collarbone, and down his chest. you almost made it to his stomach before he was pulling you back up, pressing his mouth back to yours. "just want to be inside you. if you blow me i'll cum in two seconds," he muttered against your mouth, grabbing one of your legs to hike it up onto his hip. you couldn't help but giggle at his eagerness, your giggle being replaced with a moan as he grabbed his tip to rub it through your folds. pope was big, always had been. huge is a better word to describe it. seemed to be something you forgot about somehow. a gasp left your lips as he slowly began to push in, your head slamming back into the shower wall at the stretch. "jesus christ," you groaned, nails digging into his shoulders to keep yourself upright. he was sucking hard at your neck, fighting everything in him not to buck his hips up into you as hard as he could. also fighting everything in him not to cum just from the tip being in.

your legs shook as he slowly began to push all the way in, your cunt burning from the stretch. "you tell me when you're ready, baby," he mumbled into your ear, kissing the skin underneath it over and over. "so big, andy," you shuttered, head still pressed back against the shower wall. you could stay like this forever. you pulled his head back by his hair from your neck, pressing your lips back to his just for comfort. "move," you mumbled against his lips, your other leg quickly moving so he was now holding you up against the wall. he didn't need anything else as he pulled out almost completely, hips snapping right back into you to cause you both to moan loudly. "quiet," you whimpered, not wanting to wake sunny. he nodded, lips immediately going back to sucking on your neck as his hips began to move in a steady rhythm, groans erupting against your neck whenever he hit especially deep.

"i swear to god your pussy was made for me," he spoke against your skin as you clawed at his back, your head spinning as your core tightened. you could tell he was fighting every nerve in his body not to cum early, he wanted you to first. he always made sure you would cum. you couldn't even speak with the way he was pounding into you, the sound of wet skin slapping and both of your moans echoing through the bathroom. "i can't anymore. i'm going to cum," he groaned finally, his hand sneaking down between your body so his thumb was now rubbing fast circles on your clit. it wasn't even a second later that you could feel his cum filling you up, his hips stuttering a little but refusing to stop. he would hate to ruin an orgasm for you. "come on, be a good girl and cum for me," he mumbled in your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. his words went straight to your cunt, eyes shutting tightly as you came in his cock with a whimper, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as your body shook.

you both stayed like that, pope's cock going slightly limp inside as you clung to him, both of your chests heaving. he moved to unwrap your legs from his waist, stopping when you only held on tighter. you didn't want to move, just wanted him to hold you a little longer. "i've got you," he murmured into your ear, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek before burying his face back into your neck. you stayed like that for only a minute before you slowly peeled yourself off of him, shaking legs stepping back down onto the shower floor. all you could do was stare up at him, hands resting on his chest as he stared down at you. you felt like you were dreaming. you never thought you'd fall back into this again with pope, but here you were. and you didn't regret it one bit. "i love you," he spoke softly, pushing some of your wet hair back and out of your face before he leaned to press his lips to yours once more. you kissed him back, hand rubbing his chest gently. "i love you," you finally whispered back once he pulled away, a smile forming on his face immediately. "we need to finish showering though. we have a party to crash," you teased, pressing another kiss to his lips.

pope was finally yours again and you were ready to show the world. ready to show smurf that she couldn't ever get rid of you.

⊹₊⟡⋆⊹₊⟡⋆⊹₊⟡⋆⊹₊⟡⋆⊹₊⟡⋆⊹₊⟡⋆⊹₊⟡⋆⊹₊⟡⋆⊹₊⟡⋆⊹₊⟡⋆⊹₊⟡⋆⊹₊⟡⋆⊹₊⟡⋆⊹₊⟡⋆

author's note: yay they finally made sweet sweet love!! (youre welcome) have to rain on everyone's parade though now. get ready for some angst ↻(𓄼 .̀ ̮.́)Ψ

🏷️ @theycallmebigmamalikeafatb @missmillivanilli @thedarkseidofthemoon @hugospritzz @laylataylor0910 @harrystylesyogurt @velvetumbranightmare @little-dollygirl @impossibleblizzardstudentposts @croissant31 @jeshomie @homegirl14 @corpsebridenightamare @taniamiller @barcelonaaababe @socialawkwardbutterfly @aileen1237 @hellboundblogger @slytherclaw1978 @rathatosy @stickyvoidkitty @whiskerchloe @123passwort @louisx-xsh @joelmillerswifey @noirecherie @gragrace @sorryimshannoon @onlythehobi @vipervixxen @urstrulylove @jackabbotshottt @psychojoker09 @itchlbbwgirl03 @leeaaahhhhhh23 @angelofthepitt @idkwhattodosooo @staley83 @stylesonlyangel4 @celestialsonglines @seadoesnotchange @bokutowo @hsudikis @weirdoneattheparty @blurryboundaries @m0sh-girl @softlypaleprodigy @dianaxx99

[abbot-fanatic]

tbh - i don’t understand the hybrid bunny reader stuff but I love to read it!

[hermionecanwrite]

The Jack Abbot smutty request was so good 🫢. Would you ever do Brendon Park? If so, my request is reader likes to flirt with him and talks dirty a lot. But when Park decides to bite back, reader short circuits and does not know how to react. Park is all "you were talking big, what happened?" or something 🫣

This took so long, but at lest it's a long imagine lol hope you like it

You know…who the fuck did Brendon Park think he was anyway?

Don’t get it twisted; you knew exactly what his deal was - everyone did.

The man stalked through the ED like he owned it when he came down to consult. Six plus feet of orthopedic surgeon with permanently furrowed brows, broad shoulders, immaculate posture, and enough resting hostility to curdle milk. Nurses scattered when they saw him coming. Residents rehearsed presentations in their heads before speaking to him. Even Robby, who routinely stared down drunks, gang members, and the occasional homicidal patient, approached Park with careful diplomacy.

It was ridiculous.

The whole department bent around him because he was brilliant, and intimidating, and apparently because no one had ever told him he didn't have to behave like a disgruntled bull shark wearing hospital scrubs.

You'd watched him snap at three different people already, and it wasn’t even noon yet!

Enough.

If everyone else insisted on treating him like some apex predator, that was their business. You had another idea.

Because, again, who the fuck did he think he was?

If he wanted to loom over people? Fine.

If he wanted to bark orders? Fine.

If he wanted to scowl dramatically into the middle distance like he was auditioning for Brooding Man Quarterly? Fine.

But you were done letting him get away with making everyone uncomfortable for free. From now on, every sharp look, every sarcastic remark, every clipped response?

You were simply going to act like he was aggressively flirting.

If he wanted to act like a little boy pulling pigtails because he didn't know how to talk to girls? Wonderful. Excellent. Brilliant, even.

You were going to meet him exactly where he was.

The opportunity came faster than expected.

You were restocking a supply cart when his shadow fell across the shelves.

"You're in my way."

You look up and give him your softest smile. "Oh. I see."

He looks at you like you’ve grown an extra head.

You don’t stop smiling. "You know, you can just say you wanted my attention."

He frowns at you, motioning towards the cart. "I need the splints."

"Oh, you don't have to make excuses," you say, patting his arm. “Don’t worry; I understand.”

"...Excuse me?"

"I know it can be hard to figure out how to start a conversation when you’re flustered."

The silence that followed was...delicious.

He stared.

You stared back, the look on your face all fond indulgence.

Finally he spoke, voice low and intense. "The. Splints."

You giggled.

He reached around you and into the cabinet without sparing you another glance.

"You know," he said flatly, "you're not nearly as charming as you seem to think you are."

You leaned against the counter.

"Oh?"

“What, no stupid comments?” He shut the cabinet. "Reality finally set in?"

“Wait…” You tilted your head. "Was that supposed to change my assumptions?"

"I was hoping it might," he deadpaned.

You looked genuinely thoughtful because you know the pause will annoy him but won’t be long enough for him to comment on. "I don't think it took."

"..."

"I appreciate the effort though. That was a really vulnerable thing for you to admit."

"...What."

You shrugged. "Well, if you weren't interested, you wouldn't care whether I was charming."

“...”

"But clearly you've been thinking about it."

"..."

"You've formed an opinion."

"..."

"Which means you've been observing me."

Park blinked. "No."

"You called me charming."

"I said you weren't."

"But the word occurred to you. So it's been on your mind when you think of me."

Whitaker, pretending very hard to organize IV tubing three feet away, physically turned his back so neither of you would see him laughing.

Park’s head snapped in his direction, glaring at him.

Whitaker suddenly found the tubing fascinating.

Park looked back at you. "...You are exhausting."

Your face lit up. "Aww. You think about me enough to be tired? Did I have you up all night, Dr. Park?"

He looked at the ceiling for a long moment, as if summoning strength. "I have operated on patients with rebar through their chest."

"Congratulations?"

"They were less difficult than you."

You gasped, a hand coming to your chest as if deeply touched. "You really compare me to your most memorable cases?" He opens his mouth to snap at you, but you plow on before he can get a word out. "I knew I stood out to you."

Park made a sound that wasn't quite a sigh and wasn't quite a growl. "I don't know if you're stupid or should be committed."

You beamed. "You don’t have to pull my pigtails, you know. You can just say you admire me."

"I don’t."

You look at him like he’s the crazy one. "But you keep insisting on talking to me."

Brendon doesn’t even attempt to hide his exasperation. You lean forward to pat his arm with what is entirely condescension, but could arguably be compassion. "It’s ok. Someday you’ll be man enough to own it."

You’re pretty sure Park thinks that conversation was a strange one off. He’s back on his bullshit the next time he’s in the ED and…well. That’s practically begging for it as far as you're concerned.

You join in on whatever case he’s consulting on, only briefly reading the patient’s chart. It’s not your finest moment as a doctor, but hey - it’s not your case. Mohan has this handled. 

You’re just here to handle Park.

Mohan gave you a look the second you wandered into the room, a curious little what are you doing here spoken without words. She'd learned over the years that you rarely inserted yourself into consults without a reason.

Unfortunately for her, your reason today was six foot three and glaring at an xray.

The patient, a man in his sixties with a swollen wrist cradled against his chest, looked anxiously between the orthopedic surgeon and the monitor. Brendon hadn't said a word in nearly thirty seconds.

He just stood there, arms folded, jaw set, and studying the films with an intensity that suggested the radius had personally offended him.

The patient's voice came out hesitant when he finally broke the silence. "...Is it bad?"

Before Mohan could answer, you leaned toward the bed with an easy smile. "Oh, don't worry. That's just his thinking face,” you tell him conspiratorally. "He always looks like somebody just insulted his mother, but the poor man can’t help it."

The patient's shoulders loosened just a fraction.

“Besides,” you go on, glancing toward Park. "Isn't he handsome when he scowls?"

Mohan looked down very suddenly, biting the inside of her cheek.

The patient looked between you and Brendon, clearly aware something was happening between you both but also lacking any form of context as to what. And because people always error on the side of caution, (and because even you had to admit that Brendon was objectively good looking) the patient found himself nodding along. "...I suppose he is."

"Right?" You smiled triumphantly. "I think it’s the eyebrows that does it for me."

Park didn't even look away from the imaging, but annoyance was clear in his tone. "I'm looking at a fracture."

"I know," you reply, chipper as anything.

A muscle in his jaw ticks. "So stop talking."

You sighed dreamily, turning back to the patient. "He gets so bashful when he knows I’m watching."

That finally did it. Park lowered the films just enough to look at you. "I am not bashful."

The patient looked utterly bewildered."...Are…" He hesitated a moment, then pressed on to the only conclusion he could make. "...are y'all married?"

Mohan made a choking noise that she tried to cover with a cough.

Brendon looked furious, but that didn’t change his expression much so you’re pretty sure you’re the only one who noticed. You brighten at the sight, and manage to turn the laugh bubbling up into amusement at the suggestion rather than delight at getting under Park’s skin. "Oh, no." You waved a hand dismissively at the patient. "He's still pretending he doesn't like me. But I know better."

Park closed his eyes briefly before he looked back at you. "...Are you finished?"

Oh.

Well.

He walked right into that one.

You looked at the patient again a little slyly. "He always makes sure I’ve finished."

Park made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a man reconsidering his medical license.

After that, every time Brendon came down to the ED, you somehow found a reason to end up in the room with him.

Not because you were needed.

Mohan, Langdon, Robby; they all had the medicine handled.

You were there for something else.

Someone had to keep morale up, after all, and it certainly wasn't going to be Brendon.

Over the following weeks, you became alarmingly proficient at the linguistic judo required to reinterpret every clipped, irritated comment that came out of his mouth into either affection or innuendo.

You sighed dreamily, waxing poetic over his eyes whenever he glared at your coworkers.

You admired his forearms aloud while he broodily examined severed extremities.

You complimented the way his scrubs fit his shoulders at least twice, then thoughtfully informed him that carrying unconscious patients around all day had clearly done wonders for his physique.

More than that, every order he gave you, you twisted into a taciturn man’s concern.

Every criticism from his mouth you played off as teasing.

Every exasperated sigh became longing he was too bashful to cop to while on the clock.

By the third week you barely even had to think about it anymore.

Park would snarl stay out of the way. You’d reassure him that you weren’t close enough to get hurt and would stay where he could see you.

He’d snap a terse stop talking. You’d apologize - you know how your voice always gets his mind so distracted.

He’d bite out that he wasn’t asking you. You’d look at him fondly and coo that he should know by now that he never has to ask.

The truly beautiful part was that he never adapted. He continued speaking entirely normally, as though each sentence wasn't about to be weaponized against him.

It was almost sweet.

Almost.

Really, he was lasting longer than you'd expected. You'd honestly figured that by now he'd have stopped coming down and started sending Garcia or one of his residents to handle ED consults. It certainly would've been easier for him.

No more interruptions.

No more public humiliation.

No more you.

Instead...there he was. Every single time.

Huh.

You frowned thoughtfully. Apparently the man was even more stubborn than you'd given him credit for.

The orthopedic consult is over.

Mohan has already peeled off toward the next room, muttering something about discharge paperwork. The patient has been wheeled upstairs. But you? You’re still in the exam room, because for once Park hasn’t peeled out of there to stride towards the elevators in a huff.

For the first time all morning - for the first time in general - it's just the two of you behind closed doors.

Park is at the sink, washing his hands with the same meticulous focus he brings to everything else.

You lean against the counter, because bothering him has become one of your favorite pastimes and you’ve chosen not to examine why that might be. "So..."

He doesn’t say anything, but then he rarely does.

"You know," you muse, "I think today's the first time you only looked at me three times while pretending to glare."

The water shuts off.

He reaches for a towel with precise motions, his movements smooth and unhurried. "You count how often I look at you?"

“You’re not very subtle.” You shrug with a smug little expression. "I notice."

He dries his hands slowly. "...Hm."

"Someone’s getting less bashful," you singsong at him with a grin. “Soon you might manage more than denials and redirects.”

He throws the towel away without looking at you.

You narrow your eyes. "...You're awfully quiet. Usually you’d have said something by now."

"I've been thinking,” he offers, taciturn as ever.

"Oh?"

He turns to face you. "You've spent the better part of a month informing everyone I'm flirting with you."

“Of course,” you beam. “You didn’t think I’d hide you? Though really, I hardly had to say anything with the way you act-"

"I was wondering." He interrupts you without remorse, folding his arms. "What exactly is your long term plan?"

"My…?"

"Plan."

You blink at him. "I don't under-"

"You've apparently decided every sentence out of my mouth is a declaration of affection."

You look at him, entirely guilelessly. You know because you’ve gotten very good at the expression over the last few weeks "Well. Isn’t it?"

"Hm. So." He takes one unhurried step toward you. "I’m asking what happens if you were right?"

You look up at him with wide eyes.

He takes another step, close enough now to remind you that he’s a very large man with very broad shoulders and very intense eyes. "You've seemed very confident."

His expression is the same one he wears discussing complicated fractures. Focused. Calm. Certain. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

His eyebrow lifts. "You had an answer for everything five minutes ago."

Your brain, so dependable for the last few weeks, has abruptly wandered off without you.

He watches you for another beat. Then one corner of his mouth twitches up into that unbearable smug expression.

"You were talking awfully big. What happened?"

"I..." You clear your throat. "I wasn't expecting you…"

"No." He shakes his head. "I don't think you were."

The silence stretches between you. 

He nods once, like he's finally solved a puzzle. "Ah. I understand now."

He starts toward the door. As he passes, he pauses just long enough to glance back at you.

"I liked you better when you had something to say."

Then he walks out.

You remain exactly where you are. A little shocked. A little aroused. A little furious about that parting shot.

…Who the fuck did he think he was?

You spent the rest of your shift in a state best described as professionally outraged.

It certainly wasn't embarrassment.

Absolutely not.

You'd simply been momentarily surprised. Anyone would've been surprised! He'd changed the rules halfway through the game!

It was unsporting. Rude, even.

By the time you’d finished giving handoff, you'd worked yourself into quite the huff.

"...And bed twelve's waiting on repeat labs."

The night attending nodded. "Anything else?"

"Nope.” You shut the chart with perhaps a touch more force than strictly necessary. “That’s the whole shebang."

"You good, kid?" Dana called after you as you headed for the elevator.

"Peachy."

"...Where are you going?"

You didn't even slow down. "To win an argument."

Dana watched you disappear around the corner. "...God help orthopedics."

It didn't take long to find him; Brendon Park was a creature of habit.

You spotted him halfway down the hall when you stepped off the elevator on the ortho floor, a dictation recorder in one hand and a chart tucked beneath his other arm. He glanced into one of the on call rooms, ducking inside when he saw it was vacant.

Perfect.

You caught the door before it swung shut, striding in because slipping in didn’t feel assertive enough.

He looks up at you without surprise. "...Can I help you?"

"You know what?"

Brendon sighs, tossing the chart and the recorder onto the tiny side table. "What?"

You fold your arms. "You've gotten cocky."

"I was already cocky," he tells you, stepping closer.

You can feel your lips purse. It’s very much not a pout. 

There’s a beat where you both just look at each other. Then, for the first time the expression on his face slides into something other than annoyance. That throws you hard. It’s a look that’s almost…fond. 

He reaches over. Not to touch you. Brendon reaches right past you actually.

To click the door lock.

You glance at the door, then turn wide eyes back to him.

"So no one interrupts," he says softly.

He's standing so close to you. Looking down at you. Still cocky, still smug, still broad. But for once it doesn’t make you feel like you have to push at him. It makes you feel like it might be ok to stop trying to push at all.

"You wanted my attention." He takes a slow step closer. "You have it."

And suddenly...

You realize you’ve gotten exactly what you’ve spent weeks pretending you didn’t want.

There's no audience here. No Whitaker trying not to laugh. No patient to perform for. No Mohan trying not to choke. It's just Brendon Park looking at you with that same unnervingly steady focus he uses on x rays and compound fractures.

His hands come to rest on your hips. They’re strong hands, but they hold you lightly. As if to make sure you know you can move away from them.

You don’t.

"So. You followed me in here."

"...I did."

"You wanted to."

"I wanted to yell at you."

He hums in a tone that says sure you did wordlessly. "You've spent a month insisting all our interactions were romantic. Did you think I was stupid, or just that I’d never take the hint?"

You open your mouth, but somehow he’s got you speechless yet again.

Brendon raises one eyebrow and you feel heat flood across your cheeks.

"I thought you’d have something to say,” he says with that same amused fondness.

“I usually do,” you grumble.

He chuckles. “I know. You’re very mouthy. And you can’t seem to help batting at me.”

“I do not-”

“You’ve spent the last month following me around the hospital, as though you can embarrass me. Trying to claw at me like a feral little thing.” His thumbs stroke the top of your hips. “Like a kitten who thinks she’s hunting.”

Your lips purse again. “I could hunt you if I wanted to.”

His hands flex on your hips. “And which one of us is caught, kitten?”

You draw in a sharp breath and almost instantly follow it with a huff. He chuckles again, pulling you closer.

“I’m on a double,” he tells you. “But barring an emergency…I’m not expected anywhere.”

“O-oh?” you manage, trying hard to bounce back. “Well then. You should spend some time making all this up to me.”

He scoffs. “Making what up to you? You’re the one who’d been walking around trying to make me blush.”

“Yes,” you nod. “And you’ve been very bad about letting me. So I think you owe me.”

You lean in and kiss him - without asking, without warning, like you’ve waited long enough and you’re not waiting another goddamn minute. It’s the culmination of weeks of glances, innuendo, and every moment you’ve spent poking at him with a smile.

He gasps against your mouth like he wasn’t ready. And then he melts into it. One hand goes to your waist, the other sinking into your hair, that professional stoicism nowhere to be found now. It’s long gone, replaced with heat and hunger.

He kisses you like a man who’s surrendered. 

And when you finally pull back, just barely, just enough to look at him, he exhales like he’s been drowning and only just now remembered how to breathe.

Of course, that’s the moment when he remembers who the fuck he is. 

It’s not long before you’re spread out on the bed, half undressed and looking up at him. His face is all flushed cheeks and wicked triumph. “You know, I think you may be right about me owing you,” he says, voice low.

 “Good,” you pant, dragging your fingers slowly up the back of his neck. “Then you should pay me back - with interest.”

He stares at you, pupils dilated, his kiss bruised lips parted like he can’t believe this is happening. “Interest,” he repeats, dazed.

You smile, slow and dangerous. “It’s been weeks. Overdue debts accrue penalties.”

And that’s it. The final straw. You watch the switch flip - the moment the man replaces the unflappable doctor. When the man who once scowled at your wit suddenly decides to embrace it.

He growls low in his throat, running his big hands up and down your sides. “Then I guess I’d better start repaying you. Thoroughly.”

He undresses you like you’re a lesson he’s delighted to learn: carefully, curiously, utterly absorbed. He trails his lips down your sternum like he’s mapping the shape of your skeleton. And when he slides your panties down your thighs, he does it with the kind of single minded focus you’ve only ever seen him apply to complex procedures.

Then he touches you. With his hands. With his mouth. With the kind of unrelenting attention usually reserved for x rays and impossible cases. He maps your body like terrain he’s determined to conquer.

You grip his shoulders, arch into him, and let out a sound he will remember until the day he dies - because this isn’t just sex. This is reclamation.

He mouths at your throat. Your collarbone. Your breasts. And all the while his hand slips between your thighs, fingers stroking through the slick heat of your folds.

He doesn’t just take you over the edge. He studies you there. He watches the way your body arches, learns every breathless little sound you make, and chases them like they’re the answer to a question he’s been dying to ask. His hands stay steady even as his breathing turns ragged, entirely focused on the way you’re falling apart under him. His mouth brushes yours, firm and grounding, right as his fingers curl exactly right.

“I’ve got you,” he says. “Let go.”

And just like that you shatter on his fingers. Back arched, mouth open, your body going tight and then boneless under his - because he doesn’t stop. Not when you moan, not when you tremble, not even when you gasp his name.

Your body is still trembling when he pulls back, his eyes wild, still dark with the rush of it. But he’s not done. Not even close.

You’re barely catching your breath, flushed and deliciously wrecked, when you feel his mouth press low, at the crease of your thigh. Then he kisses higher. And higher. And just when you think you might recover he licks a broad stripe up your folds.

“You didn’t think that was the end, did you Kitten?”

His voice is almost unrecognizable. All gravel and reverence and heat. A man who just got a taste of everything he’d been denying himself and now wants the whole damn feast.

He drags it out. Slowly. Intentionally. Worshipfully.

Your thighs fall open for him before you even realize you’ve moved. One of his hands cradles your hip, the other settling beneath your thigh to hold your leg up as his mouth begins its slow descent.

And when he slides his tongue across you? You cry out. Not just from sensation, but from the realization:

Brendon Park eats like he operates: thoroughly, obsessively, and with a disturbing commitment to detail. He learns you. What makes you whimper. What makes you grab at his hair. What makes you chant his name like a prayer that ends in expletives. And he doesn’t stop. Not when you gasp, or beg, or writhe. Not even when you come again, harder than before, hand slapping the hospital sheets like a woman possessed.

“Jesus Christ! Bren, please-”

“Still paying my debt,” he murmurs against your thigh. “You racked up a lot of interest, sweetheart.”

He kisses his way back up your body, mouth wet, eyes burning, and slides inside you like he was meant to live there. The first thrust is slow. Intentional. He’s giving you time. Letting you feel it. And then he looks down at you, voice shaking as he takes a shaky breath and tries not to pound into you. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

And you, still high on your last orgasm, smile like the devil. “It’s not enough.”

He groans like he’s been sucker punched. And then he gives you everything. Every thrust is a benediction. Every kiss is a confession. Your bodies move like you’ve done this in every lifetime and were just waiting to do it in this one too.

He takes you again and again. On your back. On top. Sitting in his lap with his arms wrapped tight around you, swearing as he moves you up and down. You lose track of how many times you come. He doesn’t; he keeps count. You know because he tells you.

And when you’re both spent and breathless, tangled together in damp linens and discarded scrubs, he pulls you close as he strokes your hair. “There we go, Kitten. You just needed some petting to turn sweet for me, huh?”

You mewl into his chest, tucked up under his chin.

He smirks into your hair. “Uh huh. We’ll see how long it lasts. Bet you’re back to biting at my ankles in no time…”

[clementine-67]

Paging Doctor Park

Brendon Park x Curvy Fem Reader

Summary - Reader has been accidentally paging Dr. Park instead of the resident on call, but he never corrected her.

*Reader has a face claim and is curvy with a brief mention of weight loss*

A/N - hi everyone!! i’m so glad you guys loved my first one of these so much and i’m so appreciative of all the kind comments <3 I had the idea for this when I accidentally paged the wrong doctor at work and he wasn’t so nice about it 😭

thank you everyone so much for scrolling all the way down! i love you all, feel free to give requests <3

divider by @toyboxpuppie

[memoriescountthemiles]

Because You See Me

a/n: I started watching Animal Kingdom. Nuff said.

summary: As J's girlfriend, you're used to romance and gentleness. But when he moves into his grandmother's house, you meet his uncles, and become intrigued by one uncle in particular.

pairings: pope x f!reader

word count: 5.9k

warnings: age gap (everyone is 20+), implied violence, blood, cheating, smut (dom!Pope, spanking, biting, but reader wants it)

Part 2

You notice him before he notices you.

Not because he’s loud—he’s the opposite. The rest of them fill space like they own it. J with his quiet calculation, fingers drumming methodically against his thigh; Craig with his restless energy, all broad shoulders and sudden laughs; Deran with that sharp, coiled edge, jaw working as he scans the room; and Baz, seeming relaxed as ever, his arm draped over the back of the couch, the neck of a beer bottle dangling loosely from his fingers.

But Pope is different. Pope stands with his weight centered perfectly, shoulders squared, hands hanging loose at his sides. Like a soldier waiting for orders that never come.

You’re halfway through a lukewarm beer you didn’t really want, condensation dampening your fingers as you perch on the arm of J’s chair, when you catch it. The way Pope watches the room from the shadowed corner—eyes moving in slow, deliberate sweeps, brow furrowed slightly—like it’s a crime scene he hasn’t pieced together yet.

He turns. Slow. Deliberate. Like a predator sensing movement in tall grass. You don’t look away. His eyes narrow just slightly, hazel irises contracting around dilated pupils, like he’s trying to discern if you’re a threat. You lift your chin a fraction, feeling the cool air on your throat. Not a challenge. Just… not backing down. After a beat, he walks over, footsteps nearly silent against the worn floorboards.

“Have you two met?” J asks, casual, fingers still tapping that same rhythm against his thigh.

Pope doesn’t answer him. His eyes stay on you, unblinking, focused with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.

“No,” you say, offering your name, voice steadier than you expected.

He repeats it, quieter. Testing how it sounds on his tongue. The word hangs in the air between you, simple and insufficient.

“That’s it?” you ask, one brow lifting, condensation from your bottle dripping onto your knuckles. “That’s all I get?”

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, just a momentary softening of that granite expression. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know. Your name?” The question feels more intimate than it should.

There’s a pause. You can almost see him deciding, jaw working slightly beneath stubbled skin. “Pope.”

You tilt your head, hair brushing your collarbone. “You always this intense?”

J lets out a quiet huff beside you, like he’s expecting this to go sideways, his body tensing subtly, as the eyes of his uncles flicker nervously between you and Pope.

But Pope just watches you, shoulders squared beneath his faded gray t-shirt. “You always ask questions like that?”

“Only when people answer like you do.” The words come out with more heat than intended.

He reaches out, taking the beer from your hand, and takes a slow swig, throat working as he swallows, eyes never leaving yours. After another beat, he walks away, leaving nothing but a lingering tension in the air where he stood.

You roll over, unable to fall asleep next to J in his small twin bed, his breathing too even, too controlled, like everything else about him. The clock’s red numbers cast a glow across the rumpled sheets: 2:17 AM. You decide to give up on sleep, easing your weight off the creaking mattress and padding barefoot across the cold tile floor to the kitchen.

“What are you doing?”

You turn, droplets sliding down your wrists as you dry your hands on a dish towel that was probably more expensive than any clothing hanging in your closet, unfazed by the man standing in the shadowed doorway, his broad shoulders nearly filling the frame. “The dishes.”

“Why?” His voice is gravel, rough from disuse at this hour.

“Can’t sleep. Figured I might as well do something useful.” The faucet drips behind you, each drop echoing in the quiet kitchen.

He steps closer, not threatening—just intent, the moonlight from the window catching the sharp angles of his face. “It’s not your house.”

You shrug, leaning back against the counter’s cold edge, ceramic pressing into your lower back. “So that means I can’t be helpful?”

His brow furrows, deep lines etching between his eyebrows like they’ve been carved there. “You’re not doing it right.”

“Sorry,” you huff, “I didn’t know there was a wrong way to scrub crusty mashed potatoes off a plate.” Your words hang there, suspended in the dim kitchen like dust motes.

Pope stares at you like you’ve said something wrong, his eyes unnervingly focused, pupils dilated in the low light. He doesn’t respond with words, instead stepping to the sink beside you, his arm brushing yours as he grabs the wet sponge off the counter, water dripping between his calloused fingers.

“Pope, you don’t—“

“Andrew,” he says, rinsing a plate under the stream of water, the sound cutting through the silence as he hands it out to you, waiting, droplets sliding down the ceramic.

“What?” you ask, grabbing a dishcloth that smells faintly of detergent.

“My name. It’s not Pope. It’s Andrew.” His voice softens on his own name, like he’s sharing something precious and forgotten.

“So why does everyone -”

He cuts you off again, turning to face you, locking your eyes in his stare. The hazel of his irises catches the moonlight, turning them almost amber. “You can call me Andrew.”

A slight smile curves on your lips, the corner of your mouth lifting just enough to create a dimple. “Okay, Andrew. What makes me so special?”

He turns back to the now empty sink, gripping the edge of the counter until his knuckles shine white against his tanned skin. You can’t help but notice how the muscles in his arms flex at the movement, veins rising beneath the thin fabric of his worn t-shirt.

“Because you treat me like a person,” he offers simply, voice rough like sandpaper against concrete.

In the half-day you’ve known him, you’ve seen how the rest of his family treats him - guarded, almost afraid, like they have to walk on eggshells around him. The way they tense when he enters a room, conversations dying mid-sentence. J had mentioned his uncle had some...odd behaviors, but something in Pope’s careful stillness doesn’t frighten you the way it should.

“Well, you are a person,” you respond, offering the small joke to try to ease his tension, your voice softer than intended.

He exhales slowly, his broad shoulders dropping a fraction, like that hit somewhere deeper than expected. “You don’t know what I am,” he mutters, the words barely audible over the persistent drip of the faucet.

You meet his eyes, stepping close enough to catch the faint scent of soap again. “Then tell me what you are.”

Silence stretches between you, thick as honey. For a second, you think he might actually tell you.

Instead, he shakes his head, jaw clenching tight enough that a muscle jumps beneath the stubble. “You wouldn’t come around here if I did.”

You don’t answer right away. Because that feels like a test. And you’re not sure who you’re trying to convince when you say, “You don’t know that.”

His gaze sharpens, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of color remains. “I do.”

“How?”

He steps closer. Not touching. Just there, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. “Because no one else wants to. Not really.”

He walks away without another word, leaving you standing alone in the kitchen, your fingers still damp from dishwater, gripping the counter edge too hard.

The next few weeks become a slow torture. Whenever his brothers throw a party, Pope is there—not having fun, but cleaning up, his presence both unsettling and oddly comforting. When he finally lets himself relax, his eyes are on you. You tell yourself to look away, but can’t. You sit on J’s lap, his hand rubbing small circles on your bare thigh, while Pope brushes off any woman who approaches him. J’s lips brush against your neck, and instead of closing your eyes and savoring the feeling, you meet Pope’s gaze across the room, hating yourself for the electricity that sparks between you.

You try to convince yourself it’s nothing—just attention from someone when J has grown distant since moving in with Smurf. But late at night, guilt gnaws at you, making your stomach twist, yet you still count the hours until you might see Andrew again. Wrong and right fade together like watercolors, leaving you sick with want and shame.

A few weeks later, you arrive at your apartment to find Pope leaning against your door, one shoulder pressed to the peeling paint, his face half-shadowed in the dim hallway lighting.

“Andrew,” you say, his name still unfamiliar on your tongue. “What are you doing here...and how do you know where I live?”

“You never ask me for anything,” he says with no greeting, ignoring your second question entirely. You probably don’t want to know anyway.

“I can say the same to you.” You dig through your bag, past crumpled receipts and loose change, for keys that somehow always fall to the very bottom.

“I’m asking now.” His eyes, hazel with flecks of amber, lock onto yours.

“For what?”

His gaze flicks to your mouth, lingering on your lower lip for a heartbeat too long, then back to your eyes. “For you to open your door.”

You exhale slowly, the sound loud in the quiet hallway, and slide the key into the lock. The familiar click echoes as you step into your apartment, the wooden floor creaking beneath your feet. He’s your boyfriend’s uncle. A man whose very presence makes rooms go silent. But you can’t resist his pull, magnetic and dangerous.

“Want to talk about what’s bothering you?” you ask, standing beside the open door, one hand still on the knob. You study him, noticing the way his shoulders tense, the way his jaw tightens at the question.

“I don’t know,” he admits. It’s quiet. Honest.

More honest than you expected from him. You feel something loosen in your chest, just a fraction. “Fair enough.”

The rapid knocks slice through the silence of your apartment. Adrenaline floods your system as you lunge across the room, fingers fumbling with the lock, your pulse hammering in your throat. There’s only one person who would come to see you at this hour of the night.

When you swing the door open, you find Pope slumped against the frame. Ghostly pale. Each breath a gasp. His hand clamped against his side where thin, crimson liquid seeps between his fingers, darkening his already dark shirt.

“Oh my God—” You choke back his name, glancing frantically down the hallway. “Get in. Now.”

He staggers forward. You yank him inside, slamming the door, eyes darting wildly—lock engaged, blinds closed, no witnesses. Blood roars in your ears as your body shifts into survival mode.

“Sit,” you command, half-dragging him toward the couch.

“I’m fine,” he growls through clenched teeth.

“You’re bleeding through your goddamn shirt.”

“Had worse.”

“Congratulations,” you hiss, shoving him down. “Sit your ass down before you collapse.”

He sits slowly, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead.

You’re already grabbing a faded blue towel from the bathroom, your brain flipping through your inventory—first aid kit under the sink, a half-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol, gauze bandages. Not enough for a wound like this, but it’ll have to be.

“What happened?” you ask, kneeling on the hard floor in front of him, the chill seeping through your thin pajama pants.

“Nothing,” he says automatically, voice a raspy whisper.

You give him a look, eyebrows raised, lips pressed into a thin line. “Try again.”

You watch the veins in his throat as he swallows. “Job went sideways.”

“Clearly.” You reach for the blood-soaked hem of his shirt. His hand catches your wrist—not rough, but firm, his palm hot against your skin.

“Wait.”

You still, pulse fluttering beneath his fingertips. “What?”

His eyes flick over your face, searching. “You don’t have to do this.”

The words hit wrong, settling like stones in your stomach. Almost like he’s giving you an out. You frown, the crease between your brows deepening. “Yeah, I do.”

“No,” he says quietly, his breath warm against your cheek. “You don’t.”

“I’m already doing it,” you reply, softer now, leaning close enough to smell copper and sweat. “So unless you want to bleed out on my couch, let go.”

His grip loosens, fingers trailing reluctantly across your skin as they fall away.

You pull your hand free and pull up his shirt. Your stomach drops. The gash tears across his ribs, jagged and raw, still weeping blood that pools in the hollows of his abdomen. Purple bruising is already radiating outward from the wound.

You inhale sharply. “Jesus Christ, Andrew.”

“Told you, I’ve had worse.” His voice is labored.

“That’s not comforting.”

“It should be.”

You lock eyes with him, heat rising in your chest. “It’s really fucking not.” His gaze burns into yours, unblinking. Devouring. You snatch the towel and press it hard against the wound. He hisses, body going rigid, veins standing out on his neck.

“I know, I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Hold still.”

“I am.” His jaw clenches tight enough to crack.

“You’re not.”

“Yes, I am.” Each word is forced through gritted teeth.

“You’re shaking.”

You press harder on the wound, blood seeping between your fingers as you reach blindly for the first aid kit. “A hospital never crossed your mind?” Your voice comes out sharper than intended.

He just stares at you, jaw muscle twitching.

“Right.” You press harder, making him hiss. “Stupid question.” The silence between you pulses like the blood under your hands. “You came here,” you finally say, the accusation hanging.

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t have any other options.” Your eyes burn into his.

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Not ones I wanted.”

Your hands freeze against his torn flesh. Something electric passes between you before you force yourself back to the task. “Andrew—“

“I know,” he cuts in, voice raw. “I’m sorry.”

You rip open gauze packets with your teeth.

“Wasn’t thinking.” His admission hangs in the air between you.

You meet his eyes, close enough to feel his ragged breath, as you tear the blood-soaked towel away without warning. He stifles a groan that vibrates through your bones. “I need to clean it.”

A curt nod.

“This is gonna hurt like hell.”

“Do it.”

Your fingers hover over the wound. “Nothing for the pain?”

“No.” The word is final.

You exhale shakily. “If you hit me—“

“I won’t.” His eyes lock onto yours with such intensity you can barely breathe.

“You might want to.”

His hand suddenly grips your wrist again. “I won’t.”

His certainty anchors you in the chaos. “Alright,” you breathe, fingers trembling as you soak the gauze with alcohol. “Ready?”

He nods once. You press it against the wound. His entire body goes rigid, a strangled sound caught in his throat as his knuckles turn white against the couch. Blood seeps through the gauze, staining your fingers.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper repeatedly, your face inches from his. His breath comes hot against your cheek, the scent of copper and sweat filling your lungs. You work methodically, your hands steady while your heart hammers violently against your ribs. Each time he flinches, something twists deeper inside you.

“You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt,” you say, voice raw.

“I’m not pretending.” His words scrape out between clenched teeth.

“Andrew—“

“Fine. It hurts,” he cuts you off, eyes burning into yours, “like fucking fire.”

You freeze, caught in his gaze.

“But I’m fine.” The words vibrate with tension.

You shake your head, leaning closer. “Liar.”

His expression shifts—something dark and electric flashing behind his eyes. You don’t push him. Once the wound is clean, you reach for bandages, fingers trembling against his blood-slick skin. “This might need stitches,” you mutter, throat tight.

“I’ll be fine.” His words vibrate against your fingertips.

“You keep saying that.” Your voice cracks.

“Because it’s true.” His eyes burn into yours, daring you to look away.

You don’t. You stare back, taking in every detail—the pallor beneath his skin, the sweat beading his temples, the pulse hammering in his throat. “Yeah,” you breathe, barely audible. “You usually are.” The words hang between you like a confession.

Pope’s gaze locks onto yours, pupils dilating. “Usually?”

You tie off the bandage with shaking hands, knuckles brushing his ribs. “Even Cody’s have limits, Andrew,” you whisper. You lean closer until your breath mingles with his. “You don’t have to hit it alone.”

The air between you crackles, charged and dangerous. Pope’s fingers suddenly grip your hand, his touch burning. “You mean that?” His voice is raw, desperate.

Your heart slams against your ribs. “Yeah,” you say, not breaking eye contact. “I do.”

He studies you with such intensity you can barely breathe, like he’s memorizing every detail of your face. Then, his thumb traces the back of your hand. “Okay.”

You finish securing the bandage, your hands lingering against his skin until he inhales sharply. You pull back like you’ve been burned. “There,” you say, voice unsteady. “Try not to rip that open again.”

“I’ll try.”

You shake your head, the motion gentle and unhurried. There’s no real frustration there—only a slow, quiet acceptance that settles in your chest. You push yourself upward, but before you can rise fully, his hand drifts to you and curls around your hip, a steady, warm weight that pins you in place. You freeze, eyes tracing the line of his fingers, solid and grounding against your skin. A low pulse of heat blooms where they rest.

“Sit with me for a second,” he says, his voice hushed and rough at the edges. It’s not a command, but a plea.

You swallow. Logically, you tell yourself you should brush his hand away, reassert the distance you’re accustomed to. But instead your voice slips out: “Just until you stop looking like you might pass out.”

His grip tightens, just enough to communicate relief without causing pain. He exhales.

“Okay.” You lower yourself back onto the couch, settling beside him, closer than necessary. Neither of you moves away. After a minute, he shifts with a careful movement so as not to undue all the work you just did.

His shoulder presses against yours, light yet unmistakable. You stay still, heart thudding softly against your ribs. He leans his head toward you, close enough that you feel its weight humming next to your arm.

“Hurts,” he murmurs after a few seconds, voice nearly lost in the hush of the room.

You glance at him. In the soft lamp light, you see his jaw set, eyes shadowed with fatigue. “I know.”

He nods, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Silence follows, thick and warm. “Thank you.”

You blink, surprised by the vulnerability in his tone. “Don’t make it weird,” you say automatically, though your voice is softer than you intend.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Am not.”

You let out a soft laugh from the back of your throat. “You’re really bad at this.”

“At what?”

“Being taken care of.”

He tilts his head, thinking. “Smurf’s the only one who’s ever taken care of me. So, yeah—you’re probably right.”

Your chest constricts, lips pressing together. “Good thing I’m nothing like her then,” you murmur.

He turns his head just enough to catch your face. “Yeah,” he says quietly. A few more minutes pass in easy silence. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

You swallow hard, catching the glint of something wet in his gaze. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth before debating your options. You finally decide to answer honestly. “Because I know what it’s like.” You offer him a sad smile, the corners of your mouth tugging down. “My brother… he took the same meds as you.”

His eyebrows knit together, confusion and concern mingling in his expression.

“I saw the prescription bottle on the kitchen counter one day. Smurf asked me to grab something for her, and I—” you cut off, shaking your head.

He reaches up, fingers brushing your arm. “It’s okay. I’m not mad.”

You let a shaky sigh escape. “I was close with my brother before he died - car accident,” you offer before he has a chance to assume. “I never felt afraid of him, so…I guess that’s why I’m not scared of you. And you,” you add after a pause, “you’ve never given me any reason to be.”

He looks down at his hands, then back up at you. “Sometimes I wonder,” he murmurs, voice low, “if my dad hadn’t left, if Smurf wasn’t… who she was, maybe I could’ve been—normal.”

Something like ice settles in your gut at his confession. You shift until you hold him gently into your arms. You’re careful around the bandage on his side, mindful of every movement.

He responds by wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing his head into the hollow of your shoulder. You don’t need words; the embrace says it all: comfort, solidarity, the silent promise that someone will always be here.

You don’t cross the line all at once. You step a toe over, sitting poolside on a Saturday, the concrete hot against your bare thighs, the air smelling of chlorine.

“You’re staring again,” you say, sunglasses pushed up into your damp hair.

Pope doesn’t look away, his eyes intense and unblinking. “You noticed.”

“Hard not to.” Your fingers trace condensation down the side of your glass.

“Does it bother you?”

You shake your head, feeling droplets of water slide from your hair down your neck. “No. Just makes me wonder.”

“What?”

“What you’re thinking about.”

A pause. His jaw works slightly, that muscle twitching the way it does when he’s deciding whether to speak. “You.”

You huff out a quiet laugh that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “That’s not helpful.”

“It’s true.” His voice is rough, honest in a way that makes your skin prickle.

“Okay,” you push lightly, leaning forward so your shadow falls across his chest, “what about me?”

His gaze drifts over your face, like he’s memorizing the curve of your cheekbones, the shape of your mouth. “You say one thing,” he says slowly, each word deliberate, “but you mean something else.”

Your stomach tightens into a hard knot. “Like what?”

“You say you love J,” he continues, sunlight catching the flecks of amber in his eyes, “but you don’t sound like it when you talk about him.”

“That’s not—“ Your protest dies as his fingers brush against yours on the hot concrete.

“You don’t look at him the way you look at me.”

That shuts you up. The pool filter hums in the silence between you. “Andrew—” His name tastes different on your tongue now.

“I’m not wrong.” There’s no triumph in his voice, just quiet certainty.

“No,” you admit, quieter now, watching a bead of sweat trace his collarbone. “You’re not wrong.”

The air shifts, heavy with something electric that makes the hairs on your arms stand up.

“Why are you still with him then?” he asks, the question hanging between you like smoke.

You swallow, throat clicking dry. “I don’t know.”

He steps closer, close enough that you can smell his skin—chlorine and sweat, and something musky. “Yeah, you do.”

Your voice drops to barely above a whisper, the words scraping your throat. “It’s not that simple, okay? You’re J’s uncle. And you’re older—”

“Is that bad?” His question cuts through pretense, eyes searching yours with that unnerving directness.

You let out a breath and meet his eyes, noting how his pupils have expanded, leaving only a thin ring of color. “No,” you say, feeling something inside you surrender. “That’s the problem.”

That night, he knocks on your apartment door, three sharp raps that echo through your empty living room. When you open it, the hallway light catches on the angles of his face, shadowing the hollow beneath his cheekbones.

“You shouldn’t be here, Andrew.” Your voice sounds thin even to your own ears.

His jaw tightens, that familiar muscle jumping beneath the stubble on his chin. “You want me to go.” It’s not a question.

His flat tone catches you off guard. “That’s not what I said.” The door frame digs into your palm as you grip it tighter.

“Semantics.”

You shake your head, hair brushing against your cheek. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” He shifts his weight, boots scuffing against the worn linoleum in the hallway.

“Make it that simple.” The air between you feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.

He steps closer then, leaning his body towards you. “It is simple.”

“For you.” Your voice drops to a whisper.

“For us.” The word hangs in the narrow space between your bodies.

Your chest tightens, lungs constricting. “There is no ‘us.’”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. He just looks at you, gaze traveling over every inch of your face. “Say that again,” he says, the words barely disturbing the air.

You hesitate, mouth dry as sand.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth lifting in the ghost of a smile.

You hate how easily he reads you, how he peels back your layers with surgical precision.

“Andrew—”

“I don’t want anything from you,” he says suddenly, hands hanging loose at his sides, knuckles scarred from fights you’ve never asked about.

You blink, heat rising to your face. “That’s... not true.”

“It is.” His voice is steady. Certain. “I’m not asking you to leave him. I’m not asking you for anything you don’t already give.” He steps into your space, close enough that your breath stutters, that you can feel the heat radiating from his skin.

And you know he’s right. Some part of you has wanted him since he helped you with the dishes that first night you stayed over at Smurf’s, his forearms slick with soap suds, veins prominent under tanned skin. You’d stopped trying to hide it—looking at him just as intensely as he looks at you, never breaking eye contact with him when J kisses you, your gaze locked on Pope’s over his nephew’s shoulder.

You’re lost in your thoughts until Pope grabs your chin, his thumb rough against your skin, bringing your eyes up to meet his. The contact sends a jolt of electricity down your spine.

“Do you want me to go?” His breath fans across your face, warm and smelling faintly of whiskey.

It’s a question this time.

And you answer the only way you know how—crashing your lips onto his, clutching the collar of his button-down, pulling him over the threshold. You don’t give him a chance to ask the question again, deepening the kiss, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him until his chest is flush against yours. The door slams shut behind him.

He hesitates for a fraction of a second, a stiffening of his shoulders that betrays the war between his better judgement and his desire. But then his hands are on you, large and warm, settling on your waist. He holds you like a porcelain doll, like something fragile that might break if he squeezes too hard. It’s infuriating. It’s exactly what you’re trying to escape with J.

You pull back just enough to look at him, admiring the lines of experience etched around his mouth and eyes. Standing here in your entryway, he’s holding himself back with a trembling control.

“Take me to the bedroom,” you whisper against his lips.

He nods, a short, jerky motion, and lets you lead him down the hall. When the back of your knees hit the mattress, you sit, pulling him down with you. He settles his weight over you with agonizing slowness. His lips find yours again, softer this time, exploring. 

His hand slides up your side, thumb brushing the curve of your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt. The touch is feather-light, a ghost of the pressure you’re seeking. You arch your back, trying to force more contact, trying to tell him without words that you don’t need to be handled with care. 

His fingers fumble with the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly, exposing your skin to the cool air inch by inch. He presses open-mouthes kisses to your stomach, his tongue flicking out against your skin with a delicate, wet touch. 

“Andrew,” you breathe, your voice coming out harsher than you intend.

He looks up, his eyes dark, his hair messy from your fingers. “What is it? Are you okay? Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” you say, reaching down to unbuckle his belt. “I don’t want you to stop. I want you to stop being so gentle. You’ve been burning holes in me with those eyes for months. Show me how much you want me.”

His gaze hardens, his soft eyes sharpening into something predatory. He understands. The shift in the air is instantaneous. “You want rough?” he asks, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating against your ribs.

“I want you to fuck me like you mean it,” you challenge. 

A low growl rumbles in his chest, and his veneer shatters. He doesn’t ease into it - he snaps. He surges forward, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss that steals the air from your lungs. His teeth graze your bottom lip, biting down just hard enough to send a jolt of electricity straight to your core.

His hands are no longer tentative. He rips your shirt off, no longer bothering with the slow, seductive removal of fabric. The sound of tearing seams fills the room, but you don’t care.

He breaks the kiss only to shrug off his own shirt, revealing a chest lightly dusted with hair and defined by hard muscle.

Then he’s back on you, kissing you, devouring you, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat. He doesn’t squeeze, just rests his fingers there, a heavy, possessive weight that makes your pulse flutter beneath his palm.

“Is this better?” he mutters against your mouth.

“More,” you gasp, tilting your head back to expose more of your neck to him.

He bites down on the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark. You cry out, your nails raking down his back, urging him on. He grinds his hips against yours, letting you feel the hard ridge of his cock through his jeans. He’s not holding back now. The friction from the denim is rough against your bare thighs.

He reaches between you, pressing the heel of his hand against the apex of your thighs, rubbing you through your pajama shorts. The pressure is firm and unrelenting, forcing a rhythm on you that you can’t escape. You buck your hips up to meet him, desperate for more.

“Look at you,” he groans, pulling back to watch your face. “So fucking hungry for it. Does he touch you like this? Does he make you this wet?”

“No,” you whimper, shamelessly grinding against his hand. “Never.”

“Good,” he says, suddenly flipping you over.

The movement is effortless, a display of strength that makes your head spin. You land on your stomach, face pressed into the pillows, before you can even process the change in position. He grabs the waistband of your shorts and yanks them down to your knees in one rough tug. The air hits your exposed ass, making you shiver, but before you can adjust, his hand comes down in a sharp slap.

The sound cracks through the room like a whip. A stinging heat blooms across your right cheek, radiating outward. You gasp into the pillow, your back arching instinctively. It hurts, but the pain is grounding, clearing away the fog of longing and need that’s been clouding your mind for months.

“Andrew!” you cry out, the volume muffled by the pillow.

“Tell me you like it,” he demands, his hand coming down on the other cheek, harder this time. The impact sends a shockwave through your body, making your pussy clench around nothing.

“I love it,” you moan, pushing your ass back up. “Don’t stop.”

He spanks you again, developing a punishing rhythm that leaves your skin burning and your nerve endings on fire. Between slaps, he kneads the flesh, fingers gripping tight. You feel exposed, vulnerable, and incredibly powerful.

“You’re soaking,” he observes, his voice thick with lust. “I think you were waiting for this. Waiting for someone to treat you like the dirty girl you are.”

“Yes,” you hiss, rocking back against his hand. “Please.”

“Please what?” He leans over you, his chest pressing against your back, his breath hot in your ear. “Please fuck you? Please ruin you for every other man?”

“Fuck me,” you beg, your voice breaking. “Ruin me, please.”

You hear the rustle of fabric as he finally frees himself from his jeans. A moment later, the hot, heavy weight of his cock rests against the crease of your ass. He feels bigger than you imagined, thick and throbbing with need.

He lines himself up with your entrance, not teasing, not waiting for you to adjust. He grips your hips tightly and slams into you in one thrust.

You scream into the pillow, your body stretching to accommodate him, the sudden fullness bordering on too much. He doesn’t pause to let you catch your breath. He immediately sets a punishing, pulling out almost entirely before driving back in deep, his hips slapping against your ass with every thrust. The bed frame slams against the wall, a testament to the strength of his movements.

This isn’t making love. It’s raw and primal and exactly what you asked for. He reaches around, finding your clit with his fingers, rubbing it in time with his thrusts, forcing you toward the edge whether you’re ready or not.

“Take it,” he grunts, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your back. “Every inch.”

You do. You meet him thrust for thrust, your body reveling in the sheer intensity of him.

After, you both lie on your backs, panting heavily, trying to catch your breath. 

“Why me?” The question slips out before you can stop it, hanging in the darkness between you.

Pope turns his head slightly on the pillow, the sheets rustling beneath him. His eyes catch what little moonlight filters through your blinds, making them shine. “What?”

“Out of all the women who are always hanging around,” you say, running your finger across his collarbone. “The ones always hanging around your brothers. The blonde at the bar last week. Why me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. The ceiling fan clicks softly overhead, stirring the humid air. When he does speak, his voice is soft but certain, like the low rumble before an avalanche.

“Because you see me,” he says simply, knuckles brushing against your bare hip.

You swallow, feeling your throat click in the silence. “That’s not a good reason.”

“It is for me.” The mattress dips as he shifts his weight. He scoots you closer, cradling your head against his chest, and pulling your leg up to rest across his hips, rubbing soothing circles against your outer thigh.

Your chest tightens, heart drumming against your ribs. “Will you please stay tonight?”

He laces his fingers through yours, grip firm as iron. His eyes never leave yours, pupils dilated in the darkness. “As long as you want, Baby.”

Sleep finally comes easily for you, wrapped in Pope’s arms, anchored to him like a ship in a storm.

[shyneedycrybaby]

His voce is so sweet <3

[robbyscoffee]

Lynnie's Coffee Shop ☕︎⋆.˚

𝐋𝐘𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐄'𝐒 𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐔 ☕︎⋆.˚ Where 𝜗𝜚 equates to 𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐅𝐅, ★ equates to 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓, ׂׂૢ equates to 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐓, and ♞ equates to 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓. More than one symbol? 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄.

if you can’t find what you’re craving, put in a request .ᐟ

® ROBBYSCOFFEE, 2026

michael “robby” robinavitch ⋆˚✿˖°

house specials ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ drabbles

★ our little secret 𑣲 where you’re seeing robby in private but teasing him for it in public.

bakery ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ fanfics

★ ׂׂૢ I’D DO WHATEVER I COULD DO | 𝓜 ❝ robby ❞ robinavitch 𑣲 In I’d Do Whatever I Could Do, Your father calls you mid-shift to make you feel how he always does: Like he couldn’t care less about his only daughter. You try to push through and keep your head up, be the lovergirl everyone knows you as, but you can’t help but crumble, because all you want is to be enough for your father. Special to him. Who’d show you just how special you really are but the day shift attending?

secret menu ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ series

check back for updates. . . ❤︎

joel miller ⋆˚✿˖°

house specials ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ drabbles

★ ceo!joel’s a cheater 𑣲 where joel’s a married ceo with kids, but he can’t pass up his sweet little assistant.

★ daddy!joel ramble 𑣲

bakery ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ fanfics

check back for updates. . . ❤︎

secret menu ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ series

𝜗𝜚 ׂׂૢ ★ A SECOND CHANCE 𑣲 In A Second Chance, Joel was sent by Marlene to come find you and bring you to Saint Mary’s. You are the only human aside from Ellie Williams who has been bitten and not turned: You are the only way that a cure can be created where no blood is shed. But to do that, you’ll have to warm up to the hardass that is Joel goddamn Miller.

part 1.

jack abbot ⋆˚✿˖°

house specials ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ drabbles

★ jack when you’re on your period 𑣲 where that time of the month isn’t going to stop jack from caring for his girl.

★ sending jack pictures on shift 𑣲 where jack asks for pictures of you to get him through his shift, but it only makes him miss you more.

massaging you after a workout 𑣲 where after an intense workout, jack massages you to ease the tension.

★ going to sleep in nighties 𑣲 where jack has free use of you.

★ happy 2 help 𑣲 where you give a special massage to an older jack with erectile dysfunction.

bakery ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ fanfics

check back for updates. . . ❤︎

secret menu ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ series

check back for updates. . . ❤︎

rabbot ⋆˚✿˖°

house specials ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ drabbles

★ using you after a long day 𑣲 where rabbot take their pleasure with you and get it all on film.

★ rabbot walking in on you 𑣲 where rabbot walk in on you playing with your wand.

★ that’s our girl 𑣲 where rabbot reward you for being well behaved.

★ lesson learned 𑣲 where rabbot punish you for misbehaving.

𝜗𝜚 sleeping between rabbot 𑣲 where rabbot dote on you before bed.

bakery ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ fanfics

check back for updates. . . ❤︎

secret menu ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ series

check back for updates. . . ❤︎

javier peña ⋆˚✿˖°

house specials ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ drabbles

check back for updates. . . ❤︎

bakery ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ fanfics

check back for updates. . . ❤︎

secret menu ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ series

𝜗𝜚 ׂׂૢ ★ BY THE COFFEE MACHINE 𑣲 In By The Coffee Machine, Javier Peña doesn’t like you. You’re too nice, too bubbly, and you get on his last nerve. He didn’t get how anybody in this line of work could be so goddamn cheery all the time. Though aside from your, in his eyes, forced and fake kindness, you had no bad features, and perhaps that, added to your beauty, is what ticked him off so much. Could he learn to like you the more time passes, or would you do this dance of hatred forever?

teaser. part 1.

future menu items. . .frank langdon. aaron hotchner. spencer reid 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. you can put in requests for any of them .ᐟ

[rr-after-dark]

“Everything Good in You” - Brendon Park x Reader

Summary: A hot doctor rescues you from a creep outside of your gym and it turns out you have a lot more in common than your choice of workout venue.

Or, the D/s universe getting together fic I've been yapping about for months!

Story Tags/Notes: girly!sub!reader, dom!brendon, reader is a kids' ballet teacher, brendon is a trauma surgeon in the ED, getting together fic, slow-ish burn, kink dynamic/relationship negotiation, communication porn, sugaring/spoiling/gifts, reader is mentioned as not shaving body hair, full aftercare

NSFW Tags/Notes: its a lengthy smut so, panty sniffing, teasing, face slapping, light punishment, black nitrile gloves, inspection kink, breast play, pain play, biting, marks, fingering (f), fisting (f), squirting, multiple orgasms (f), dacryphilia, scent/armpit/musk/sweat kinks, one single line of degradation, lots and lots of praise/affirmation/pet names, choking/breath play, piv (unprotected, discussion is implied), creampie

Content: sexual harassment/intimidation, broken wrist

A/N: everyone say a sloppy slutty thank you to @honestlystop for their generous donation to my birthday fundraiser which led to this being completed! and a personal thank you for always being so lovely and supportive

Word Count: 18.3k

Brendon Park’s noticed you at his gym before, of course. It’s hard not to. You always wear pastel pink sets with tiny little tennis skirts that barely cover your ass or those partially sheer pilates outfits with the waist-emphasizing tie. Like most of the guys at the gym, much as he hates to be lumped in with them, Brendon’s eyes drift up when your evening yoga or pilates or barre or pole class gets out, watching the sea of sweaty women in tight outfits flitting past with satisfied giggles.

Unlike an unfortunate number of the other men there, though, Brendon is at the gym to work out, not try to get a girlfriend, so he’s never interacted with you more than the occasional ‘good workout?’ when you’ve passed each other going into the locker rooms at the same time. 

Tonight changes that.

It’s a 24-hour gym, but it’s usually dead this late. Brendon’s used to being one of maybe three guys who always work insane schedules getting in his last arm curls before crashing for eighteen hours straight. For some reason, though, you’re here. It looks like you’ve had a long day – you’re in a cropped baby pink sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, cute but definitely not aiming for sexy the way you usually do – but you’re still committed to your daily gym time the way Brendon is. He has to admit he admires the dedication; it’s not a common trait these days. He gives you one of those hunky smiles on his way past as he goes to the locker room, nodding and wishing you a good night.

But, once he’s showered and changed, beyond ready to go home and flop into bed after downing 12,000 calories of leftovers, he sees you hurriedly trying to collect your things as one of the few other guys in the gym hits on you. And he’s not being casual or subtle. In fact, he’s got one arm lording over you as you bend down to shove things into your bag, completely ignoring him.

The hairs on the back of Brendon’s neck bristle as you push past the guy into the night – and the fucker follows you. Brendon’s moving before he can even think, much less overthink. He’d do the same for anyone. Of course he would. He only has to hear a few words out of the bastard’s mouth – c’mon, baby, you know you want a real man – before he decides he has to get involved.

“Hey, man, leave her alone,” Brendon barks. You whip around with gratitude already written on your features, taking over the fear and annoyance that had been there a split second ago. He grabs the guy’s elbow and tugs him away from you. “How about you head home and then change your gym schedule?”

The asshole rolls his eyes and squares up against Brendon, chest to chest, as you shrink back toward the sidewalk. “What are you, her boyfriend?”

Brendon scoffs back, “Just a guy with a moral compass. Fuck off before I make you.”

Then he tries to maneuver his body between yours and your harasser – but the guy grabs you so that he can’t. His bruising grip wraps around your forearm and he tugs you toward him. You realize for the first time that you can smell liquor on his breath, sharp and aggressive. Had he wandered into the gym from a bar just to get to you? Did he drink so much he’s always drunk? Your mind races around the possibilities as he baits Brendon with a laugh, “You really wanna play knight in shining armor, pretty boy?”

Brendon rolls his shoulders.

The first time he’d been told he had to get his temper under control, he was in the fifth grade. A boy a few grades up from him threw pebbles at his sister on the walk back from the bus after they went to daily summer camp together. His sister told him to leave it alone, but he couldn’t. He managed to simmer on it for three whole days before he broke the kid’s jaw and two of his ribs. The boy was too embarrassed to admit he’d had his ass handed to him by an eleven-year-old, so all Brendon got was a lecture from his mother when his sister ratted him out.

In high school, he joined football and wrestling to get his aggression out. Every time his shoulder collided with someone else, every time he slammed a body on the mat, it let him clear his head of all the frustration and indignation and anxiety and everything. Of course, he still earned a handful of suspensions when he couldn’t keep it under control, the occasional fist knocking into someone’s orbital if they wouldn’t leave his skinnier friend alone or refused to back down when he defended a cheerleader.

Through college and med school, he learned that control was just as good as acting out. Professionally, being at the top of his class gave him the same ego high. He kept his thoughts in line with a rigorous workout schedule and even more demanding academic schedule. Personally, he found kink. The holy catharsis of someone giving themselves over to him completely. Trusting that he could handle them and himself at once. Of course, surgery is the best outlet he’s ever found. Just him, his subordinates, his orders, his hands. The world narrowing into a set of problems with clear, measured solutions that only he knows. He gets to be god in the OR.

But the kid who couldn’t handle watching his sister get hurt? He’s still very much in there.

So, tonight, Brenton launches one of his half-million-dollar hands into the face of the guy who’s just grabbed you, aiming to avoid cracking any of the bones while inflicting maximum pain and shock.

As the guy’s grip falters from staggering backward, you wrench out of his grasp and fall to the ground with a shriek, catching your weight squarely on one palm. Sharp pain cracks through your wrist. It reverberates up your arm and across your entire body. You’re so wrapped up in the pain that you barely register Brendon flagging down the gym’s security guard to come out and take the asshole away, telling him what happened as he shakes out his hand from the punch.

Once it’s just the two of you, Brendon kneels down and reaches out, careful not to scare you, like you’re a rabbit who might dart. “C’mon, let me see that wrist; I’m a doctor.”

With shiny eyes and a sniffly nose, you ask, “You’re a doctor?”

“Trauma surgeon,” he confirms as you gingerly present your swollen wrist, already darkening and swelling around the impact point. He’s so careful as he examines it, but you still wince with every motion. He hates himself for noticing just how pretty you are when you cry. Sighing, he tells you, “This looks like a break to me. You’ll need some imaging done and you’ll probably need a hard cast. Is there someone I can call to come get you?”

Swiping your tears away with your uninjured hand – more fall anyway – you ask with so much hope in your eyes he knows he’s going to fold no matter what, “Can you drive me? You can bring me back to my car after, promise.”

Brendon rewrites his entire night in a split second. What is he doing? His brows furrow. He’s not nice. He’s not helpful. Certainly not to strangers who could be serial killers as far as he knows. But, looking at your wobbly lip and twitching chin, he can’t help nodding and saying, “Yeah, sure. Of course.”

Brendon helps guide you to your feet, one hand on your waist and the other clasping your free hand as you cradle your broken wrist to your chest. His hands are really big. Maybe it’s the adrenaline making you woozy, but he does look a hell of a lot like a knight in shining armor leading you down the street toward his car with one hand on your back and a posture like he’ll kill anyone who approaches.

You’re not much of a car person yourself, but you are a luxury person, so you can spot a Corvette Stingray from a mile away. When you realize that Brendon’s leading you toward a gorgeous cherry red one with the top down that you’d admired before arriving at the gym, your jaw drops. “This is your car?”

“Like I said, I’m a surgeon.” He chuckles as he takes out the keys and unlocks it. “They pay me too much not to drive some sexy sports car, right?”

“Sexy is right,” you whistle, taking a second to admire the sleek Corvette’s cream leather interior as he opens up the passenger side door for you. “You’re a spoiled brat, huh?”

“I only drive her during the summer,” he tells you seriously as he helps you into the front seat, his arm protective around you as you get settled. Your stomach flutters as he reaches across your body and clicks your seatbelt into place, one of those large hands brushing over your bare abdomen and the other bracing his balance on your headrest, his bicep ginormous, still pumped from his workout. It’s painfully mortifying how good his sweat smells. He touches the back of your neck sweetly and checks, “You comfortable? Want the seat warmer on or anything?”

“It’s eighty degrees out.”

“Right.” He closes your door, drums his fingers on the side, and sighs, “Sorry, I’m not used to…”

With a teasing smirk, you suggest as he trails off, “Human interaction?”

“Yeah, that about covers it, actually.” He shakes his head and hops over the driver’s side door like a real asshole before sliding easily behind the wheel. As the quiet engine hums to life, he adds, “I spend eight hours a day in surgery; the only real speaking I do is to give orders.”

“That’s hot.”

Something twitches inside of him. You’re joking, but there’s a shade of truth in it, clearly. Interesting.

“Ow ow ow,” you keen pathetically as he pulls into traffic, the slightest movement jostling your wrist. With tears welling up again, you plead, “Distract me. Tell me about your other car.”

He scoffs, “That’s your ideal distraction? Not my cool job or our shared interests or-” Your adorable mean glare cuts him off. “Okay, okay. Promise you won’t make fun of me first.” You shake your head ‘no’ as tears slip over your cheeks. He laughs and concedes, “Fine, you can make fun of me until your arm’s patched up. It’s a G-Series.”

“God, you’re even worse than I thought,” you force yourself to laugh as you cringe again. “You’ll have to take me for a drive sometime. I’ve never been in one.”

“It drives like a dream,” he replies, giving a concerned glance as he tries to placate you with the distraction. Thank fuck he goes to the gym closest to the hospital. “Do you like actually driving or just going for drives?”

With a grimace as the convertible pulls into a reserved space close to the Emergency Department doors, you tell him, “Definitely a passenger princess. I like sightseeing.”

“I figured,” he teases lightly as he rounds the car again to help you out. “That’s good, though; I like doing the driving. You can focus on enjoying all the features.”

Outright crying now, you ask, “Does it have the heated cupholders for coffee?”

“Yeah, it does,” he half-laughs, “and cooling if you have water or something, too.”

Voice wobbling, you reply weakly, pain radiating through your whole arm, “That’s so luxurious.”

Brendon has to bite back the urge to laugh. You’re painfully cute in this state, fighting hard to stay calm but clearly completely unable to. “It really is. Great car.”

With your pink gym bag over his shoulder, Brendon walks you into the ED, shooting glares at every single one of his coworkers who dares to cut him even a curious glance, much less a surprised one or one laden with gossip. He gets you checked in quickly and efficiently as the space buzzes around him; you get the sense that his presence makes everyone…maybe not nervous, necessarily, but alert. There’s an expectation that he’s going to take charge of every conversation. He always talks first to someone who’s completely prepared to listen and jump at his marching orders.

The whole time, you shrink next to him. You’ve always hated hospitals. The smells, the bright lights, the mix of groans and wails and heavy silence. It makes your skin crawl. Brendon can tell; unconsciously, he rubs your back between your shoulder blades, fingers soothing down your spine, occasionally resting at the small of your back where your skin is bare. He’s not even thinking about it, just following his instincts and letting himself bend to your needs without questioning it.

Once you’re comfortably settled in a room, Brendon oversees the creation of your chart and then bends down to meet your eyes. He brushes your tear-stained cheek with his thumb and starts to explain, “Someone’ll come in and take you up to get an X-ray soon. Do you want me to stay or-”

“Don’t leave,” you whimper, catching his forearm. When you touch him, his heart pounds in a way it hasn’t in a long time. It’s the way those shiny eyes look to him so effortlessly. Needy. You’re so pretty when you cry. Your voice drops to an embarrassed whisper as you admit, “I really, really hate hospitals. I’m scared shitless. Please stay.”

The shame on your face that only he can soothe is too delicious to deny. He holds your unharmed hand and sits down on the stool next to you. Rubbing the back of your hand, he assures you gently, more gently than any of the nurses or doctors here have ever heard, “I’m right here. I’ve got you; I don’t have anywhere to be.”

“Promise? I’m not, like, ruining your whole night or anything?”

Your eyes are so damn wide and innocent. Completely irresistible to a deep, prickly part of his brain. He’s quick to shake his head and assure, “I’m off tomorrow. I was gonna go home and sleep in. I’m a big boy; I can push my bedtime back by a few hours.”

With a soft, teary smile, you squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”

Faster than you can believe, you’re pumped full of painkillers and in for X-Rays, certain that Brendon is pulling strings for you without making a show of it. Once the imaging has confirmed a break, another doctor joins you, tall and gruff with kind eyes and crows’ feet. Very handsome. You glance at his badge as he goes to introduce himself, but he’s taken aback when he sees Brendon behind you. “What’s going on, Park? You’re not on the schedule tonight.”

Brendon attempts to sum up the night: “Ah, no, but this one took a tumble right outside of my gym.”

“Can’t resist a damsel in distress. Got it.” Before Brendon can intervene on that line of thought, the doctor turns to you with a warm smile. “Hi, I’m Dr. Robinavitch, but you can call me Robby. I’m gonna be applying your hard cast, okay?”

Perhaps a tad loopy on the painkillers, you tap on the badge clipped to his chest with your now-chipped manicured nail, amused by the satisfying clicking. “Attending Physician. You seem kinda important to be doing my cast.”

Robby shrugs and chuckles, “The Shark calls, I answer.”

“The Shark?” You grin wide and stare at Brendon. “They call you that here?”

Brendon grimaces. “Ah, yeah. It rhymes.”

“Obviously it rhymes,” you giggle, turning your attention back to Robby, “but why do you guys call him that? Is he super duper scary when he’s at work?”

“Something like that,” Robby snorts as the nurse prepping his station also stifles a laugh. When Brendon absolutely glares, Robby clears his throat and straightens up. “Alright, let’s get down to business about that wrist. I just had a look at your X-Rays and you’ve got what’s called a Colles’ fracture, a minor break that happens when you fall on an outstretched hand. We treat about a million of these a week down here, so you’ll be out of the joint in no time, but you’re looking at six to eight weeks in a hard cast.”

“Shoot,” you sigh. Lip pouted and voice grumpy (so cute Park almost blacks out), you check, “Can I at least get a pink one?”

“Absolutely, you can,” Dr. Robby laughs and opens up the box of fiberglass tape options. “I’ve got Flamingo Fuchsia-” he shows you a classic neon pink cast color, then a paler option “-or Bubblegum Blast.”

You smile and confirm, “Bubblegum, definitely.”

He flashes you a charming smile. “I had a feeling, Barbie.”

Brendon interrupts gruffly, “Keep it in your pants, Michael.”

Heat crawls up your neck at how protective his voice sounds. Dr. Robby’s eyes flick between the two of you, clearly amused at seeing his coworker in a new light. “My apologies; I didn’t know Park the Shark had a girlfriend.”

Voice all teasing and lilting, you reply, “Oh, he’s not my boyfriend, Dr. Robby.”

“Seems like maybe he wants to be,” Robby snorts as he carefully preps your arm. While methodically applying your cast, he tries to distract you from the pain of your wrist being handled breaking through the IV by offering up, “What kind of dog do you have? I can see the hair on your pants.”

You wince anyway, jumping a bit from the pain. Brendon slings his arm around your shoulders and rubs your back gently. With a deep breath, you tell him, “I have a Cane Corso. Big black mastiff. If he’d been with me tonight like he is when I go running, you’d be amputating the other guy’s arm right about now.”

Brendon straightens up with a laugh, imagining your sweet, bubbly, girly self with a giant, mean-looking dog. “Seriously? Don’t those things weigh, like, 100 pounds?”

“Duke weighs 120,” you reply with a sheepish smile. Whenever anyone finds out about your dog, they look at you differently. And it does stop you from focusing on the pain to talk about him, so you explain further, “My big brother used to live in the city and spend lots of time with me. He’s always been really protective, so when he was getting ready to move away, he wanted to make sure I’d be safe. We went on a road trip to get him as a puppy and worked with a trainer here so he’s, like, the perfect protection dog. We’re AWDA certified for bite work and everything.” With your free hand, you take your phone out and click it to life to show off the background photo, you and Duke wearing matching Louis Vuitton fleeces while posing in the snow. Sighing affectionately, you tell them, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s a total softie when I tell him he can trust someone, but he’d rip a guy’s throat out if they tried to attack me.”

“I like him already,” Brendon says as he admires the massive dog on your phone. With his eyes once again locked on your wrist, he sharply chastises, “Watch the angle on that, Robinavitch, you want her arm to heal as crooked as your teeth?”

“I didn’t wear braces for five years to deal with your bullshit, Brendon,” Robby bites back. He leans back and admires his own work, remarking, “Straight as a damn arrow. That’s textbook. What do you think, Barbie, up to your standards?”

You examine it as if you’d even know what to look for, trying to suppress the loopy little giggles that threaten. Being your friendly self, you squeeze Robby’s forearm and tell him, “Thank you so much; it looks really good.”

Something ugly and new tightens up in Brendon’s chest when he sees your hand on Robby’s arm. Not new, actually. Familiar but forgotten.

Robby just smiles and says, “You sat like a champ; it should heal up no problem. You need to sit tight here for about half an hour so it can harden. Someone’ll come in with your discharge paperwork and hopefully this’ll be the last time you have to see my ugly mug.”

“Awww no, stop,” you pout, patting Robby on his scruffy cheek, “you’re so handsome, doctor.”

Brendon nearly growls.

Robby laughs at his obvious displeasure and gives you an earnest smile. “You take care, okay? Sorry in advance that you’re gonna have to deal with Park’s insane physical therapy schedule. I have to imagine he’ll be twice as bad when it comes to his girlfriend.”

You cover your smile as Brendon sets his jaw. “Mike, I’ve already thrown one punch tonight; let’s not make it two.”

As Robby leaves the room, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, you whip toward Brendon with a horrified realization on your face. “I forgot about your hand! Is it okay? Is it bruised? Oh god, you’re a surgeon. Did I ruin your hand? Is someone gonna not get their heart fixed because of me?”

“Woah there,” Brendon laughs, “it’s alright, I promise. I know how to tuck my thumb and everything.” He flexes his fingers in front of you for good measure. There’s some light bruising along his two center knuckles and tears once again brim at your waterline. “I’ll be good as new after some leftovers.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Plus, I mostly do bones, not hearts.” Then he lies that he has to run to the bathroom, assuring that he’ll be right back, and beelines to the hub as he rummages around his pockets. Brendon surreptitiously leans over the counter with his heavy black card dangling from his fingers. Keeping his voice low, he mutters, “I’ll cover the patient in two, alright?”

Perlah narrows her eyes at him. “You’re not her doctor, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

She raises an eyebrow and pulls up your paperwork. “You know she has shit insurance?”

“It’s America.”

“The bill’s over four grand.”

“Like I said, America. And?”

“Alright, then.” Perlah takes the card and runs it, letting out a long breath. “She must be something special.”

“I barely know her.”

“Whatever you say, Shark.”

You watch Brendon through the glass next to the exam room door, knowing exactly what he must be doing. Eyeing him up, you take out your phone and open Tinder, letting it refresh for a second to load new options. Then you go to your settings and switch the distance to the closest possible. After swiping through a couple of faces, you see exactly what you’d been hoping for: A beefy set of biceps in a pair of dark scrubs. No face because of course not.

Park. 35. Private. Dom. Check out my Fet to see if we’re a good match: hammerhead.md

You have to suppress a squeal.

Game, set, match.

It’s a couple of days before Brendon sees you again. Even if it’s not surprising that you skip a few gym sessions with a broken arm, or even if you changed gyms altogether after that guy bothered you, he still finds himself strangely disappointed at the lack of you. So, when you skip into the ED the following Monday morning with a big smile and a fresh manicure, Brendon lets out a sigh of what feels weirdly like relief. He’d chastise himself for already getting attached if he didn’t like seeing you smile so much.

With a quick nod to the hub to check that he can take a minute, Brendon slips away toward you, meeting you in a quiet corner off the main lobby. You’re wrapping him in a hug before his mouth is even open, careful not to knock him in the head with your hard cast as you do. Once you let go – he lets it linger for longer than he probably should – in lieu of a greeting, he furrows his brow and takes your cast in his hands, examining it carefully. “How’s this feeling? Nice and stable but not too tight?”

“Feels totally fine,” you assure him. “You don’t have to kill your doctor friend for me, I promise.”

“You’re only knocking off one of many reasons to kill him, gorgeous.” Not even realizing he’s said it, much less the swooning heart eyes you give him in response, Brendon smiles at your heavily signed cast. With a grin, he says, “I see you’ve got lots of friends on the playground.”

“I teach at a ballet school,” you giggle as you show off the myriad of names in silver Sharpie, most of them haphazard. “I have five- to seven-year-olds now, so they thought the cast was just about the coolest thing in the entire world.”

“You’re welcome, then. I’ll stop feeling so bad about it.”

You nudge him in the shoulder and glare, ultra stern, so cute it makes him sick. “You don’t have anything to feel bad about.”

He sighs sharply as he remembers the sight of you crying on the cement. “If I’d stepped in about ten seconds sooner, or if I hadn’t been so aggressive with the guy, then-”

“Don’t, Bren. Seriously. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t even want to think about what might’ve happened,” you cut him off. You open your large purse, dig around for a moment, and present him with a small box. “Make it up to me by very graciously accepting the gift I got you to say thanks without being a stupid boy about it.”

“I’m actually not allowed to accept gifts from patients.”

Only shoving it further into his grip, you insist, “I’m not a patient; you weren’t doing any doctoring. I’m just your friend from the gym.”

“My friend, huh?”

“Well, yeah, you took such good care of me.” Your choice of phrase makes Brendon’s head spin in that same forgotten way. It’s been a long time since he had someone to take care of properly. When he doesn’t immediately open the box, you nudge, “C’mon, I picked it out special.”

With a sigh and a playful eye roll, he opens the hinged box to reveal a golden-edge watch mounted on a navy leather band with a soft brown interior. He drops his act as he admires the luxurious but understated piece. It suits him. Admiring it, he croons, “Jesus, this is gorgeous. You have a good eye.”

Glittering under the praise – it’s your favorite kind of compliment – you reply, “I’m sure you already have something much fancier to wear when you’re out in the real world with your Corvette and your surgeon money, but you should still have something nice-ish for the gym and work.”

Brendon shakes his head and closes the box simply to resist temptation. “I appreciate the gesture, really, but I can’t accept a gift I know cost an arm and a leg.”

“Well,” you go in, arms crossed over your chest (revealing eye-popping cleavage) to make it clear you have no intentions on taking it back, “the arm alone cost a few thousand dollars and I caught you paying for it already, so you’d better take the leg.” He purses his lips and relents, checking out the pretty piece again with a soft smile. Dropping your voice somewhere tender and secretive, you murmur, “You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs simply. “I wanted to.”

You poke him in the chest. “I have my own money.”

“You teach ballet to toddlers. I don’t mean that disrespectfully at all – in fact, I think that’s awesome; I’ve watched you in pilates and I bet you’re a fantastic dancer too-”

A huge, pink-glossed smile splits across your face. “You’ve watched me in pilates?”

“The studio has a glass wall,” he almost stammers out. His cheeks tinge pink. Caught. Then he swallows hard and redirects, “I just mean that I wouldn't expect you to have four grand to spare lying around.”

With a pout, you tell him, “I could’ve covered it just fine, so keep the watch.”

“How?”

“I have my secrets.”

“Promise me that secret isn’t credit card debt?”

“Promise.” You lift up your pinky, a clear challenge to him: To indulge or not to indulge. Wiggling it as an invitation, you add, “Not a penny of debt to my name.”

Brendon rolls his eyes, checks over his shoulder, and then links his pinky with yours. “Good girl.”

Your breath catches in your throat for a moment before you clear it. Flustered at how those two words go right between your legs and up your spine, you squeak out, “I should get back to the studio. I just, um, wanted to say thank you so much for looking out for me.”

“I’d do it for anyone.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

His eyes bore into yours. There’s a beat of charged silence as he decides how to acknowledge the truth of your observation. There’s a sharpness to your soft, feminine expression that he doesn’t miss. At last, before he can come up with anything to say, he takes his prescription pad from his pocket, scribbles something on it, and hands the note over.

It’s his number. After another moment or two, curiously observing the way you smirk at his digits like you’ve earned them, he says, “Someone needs to teach you to defend yourself when you don’t have Duke around. I box for half my workouts; I’ll show you some moves once your arm’s better.”

Swaying gently, you ask, “Does that mean I have to wait six weeks to see you again?”

He’s studying you so carefully it makes you squirm. It almost feels like an interview, the way he’s looking at you. “Not necessarily.”

You’re head over heels for Brendon by the time the tension between you actually reaches a boiling point. He’s been going on runs with you until you can get back in the gym, both of you talking and joking as you jog around the park across from the hospital early in the morning before each of you heads off to your job. He tells you about his surgeries, his students, his countless responsibilities. You tell him about your students (much cuter and less frustrating), your dog, your passions. All of it comes out during the slower parts of your time together when you catch your breath in the misty fountain closest to the entrance to the hospital.

On the handful of days where you’re both off, the jogs turn into walks around the city. You live in the same neighborhood, you in an okay-enough garden apartment and he in a bona fide luxury penthouse only two blocks down. Your mind always supplies just how convenient it would be if you did go out with each other. Despite the obvious disparity in your lifestyles – his money, his education, his intensity – you never get the sense that Brendon sees you as less than. He doesn’t intimidate you the way he does other people. To you, he’s like Duke, your protection dog. Big and strong and scary but secretly craving good company and a pat on the head.

As soon as your cast is off – Brendon makes a point of personally overseeing the orthopedic resident who removes it – he’s quick to get you back in the gym, specifically in the boxing ring. It’s your third time trying out some self-defense movies with him when the dam finally breaks.

Firstly, all this boxing has resulted in a hell of a lot more touching than Brendon anticipated. Part of him wonders if he’s self-sabotaging, dangling a carrot in front of himself for some unconscious reason he’s not privy to. Secondly, you swish into the gym wearing a skin-tight, tiny baby-pink singlet, yet another one of your outfits designed to drive him insane. Watching you peel off the matching cropped sweater once you’re in the gym has him swallowing hard as he tries to focus on the task ahead of him. It’s the way your nipples nudge the fabric, he thinks, that’s the worst of all. The most torturous. Or maybe it’s the slope of your waist into your hips. Or maybe it’s-

“Bren!” You launch yourself into his arms hard enough to knock half the wind from him. He holds you tight as you tell him, “I have, like, the most amazing news in the history of the world.”

He lets out a laugh as he pretends for his own sake that he can’t feel your tits pressing against his bare chest. Letting his hand linger on your lower back, he checks, “Yeah? What would that be?”

“My class got picked to be the Polichinelles in The Nutcracker for the Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre this winter!” You hug him again, like the excitement is just too much for you to bear, and this time you jump up and down, too. He wants to spin you around and kiss you hard just to taste an ounce of that enthusiasm for himself. You’re still smiley when you go on, “Obviously, a lot of the city’s ballet schools get to send dancers for different performances and everything, but getting picked is a huge honor for me and it’ll be so special for all the girls to get to feel what it’s like to be on a real stage in front of a big audience and it’ll be my first time getting to teach and direct and choreograph at that level and-”

“Take a breath, sweetheart,” Brendon interrupts with a chuckle. He melts under the glow of your smile for a second as you giggle at yourself, fanning your face. He hasn’t been that excited about something in, Jesus, maybe forever. It’s infectious. Inadvertently still cupping your cheek with one hand and holding you with the other, he confirms, “That means your students will be the little kids who come out from under the big lady’s skirt?”

“Yes!” You squeal, “You’ve seen The Nutcracker?!”

“Of course I have; I’m not some uncultured jock,” he scoffs. (In fact, he’d watched it on his laptop for the first time – the one where Macaulay Culkin is the prince – after you told him you were submitting your class for the part in the ballet a few weeks back, hoping he’d be able to impress you with it if it ever came up.) Realizing that he’s standing like he’s about to make out with you, he takes a step back and clears his throat before saying, “That’s really great; congratulations. Hope I can manage to score a ticket.”

You pout out your lower lip as your eyes get watery. “You’d come to my kids’ ballet?”

He looks down at his feet and shrugs modestly. “I’m sure my mother would love to go for Christmas or something.”

“That’s so sweet, Brendon, thank you.” And there’s one more hug. Of course there is. This time, he notices the sweet floral scent of your shimmery body spray, the one you spritz on before morning gym sessions to justify putting off your shower until after the workout. He wants to lean into it, to breathe deeper, to fall into the gentle edges of your life where your biggest news is making little girls’ dreams come true. Everything good in you is everything missing in him. When you pull back, you give him a determined nod and offer, “Ready to get started? Today’s the day I pin you, big boy.”

He grins and lifts the rope for you to step into the ring. “I seriously doubt that.”

But he can’t resist how damn concentrated and serious you look as you jab him with punches, some of them even landing correctly after a few sessions of training. A few times, he gets so distracted with watching you that he forgets to defend himself and you really manage to get him in the ribs. You get this proud expression that’s bright and sweet whenever you do something right. So he maybe, just a little, to indulge himself more than anything, lets you pin him.

When he sees you breathing heavily above him with a big smile, seated on his chest, hands on his shoulders, it’s definitely worth it for the brutal teasing he has to endure the rest of the morning. He touches your waist gently and praises, “Good job. Really great strike – getting me off balance. That was good work.”

You erupt into a fit of self-satisfied giggles as you watch him catch his breath and tease, “You left your tummy wide open.”

He cracks up at that, throwing his arm over his forehead. “My tummy?”

God, his sweat smells good. You’ll go insane if you stay on top of him any longer. You finally stand up, stretch out your arms, and reply, “Occupational hazard of working with kids. It’s all tummies and bottoms and magic toes.”

Brendon does a full kip up back to his feet because he’s an asshole and too sexy to take your eyes off of for even a second. As he stretches himself out, too, he snickers, “Magic toes?”

“Tendu,” you explain, extending your leg out in a neat line, “and glissé.” You glide your pointed bare foot along the boxing mat floor, the delicate gesture out of place and eye-catching compared to Brendon’s bulk and grit. His eyes lock on the extension of your thigh, the flex in your calves, the sleek lines you easily craft after a lifetime of practice. He can’t help imagining how lovely you’d be in your proper ballet attire. Catching him watching a little too closely, you nudge him in the knee with your foot and say, “Those are ‘magic toes.’ Some of the foundations you have to master to do any movements, but they’re a little young to always nail it en français.”

As the two of you exit the ring and grab your waters and towels, he says ever-so-casually, “I’d like to see you dance for real sometime.”

Your heart flutters. “Yeah?”

He nods, drinking from his water as an excuse to avoid elaborating on the truth of how much he loves to watch your body move no matter what you’re doing. His adam’s apple bobs tortuously in his throat. You try not to ogle him too much, but it’s fundamentally unavoidable when he leans back against the wall and lets out a deep breath, his chest and shoulders and abs all moving with his lungs.

“So,” you begin, slow and absent, like you’re about to compare schedules with him, “are you really gonna make me ask you out? Because I think it should be the other way around.”

He chokes on his water and sputters a bit, making you laugh at having caught him off guard. After a second of coughing, all he can muster is, “What?”

You roll your eyes, nudge his pec, and explain, “It’s so obvious we’re supposed to go out with each other, Bren. Hell, we’re practically dating already. I mean, c’mon, the meet-cute where you rescued me from danger, the rising action of you helping to heal my broken arm, the climax of you letting me pin you while we’re both half-naked.”

“I didn’t let you-” At your adorable glare, Brendon lifts his hands in defeat. After letting himself think for long enough to make you nervous, he says, “Alright, alright. I wanted to build your confidence; sue me.” He runs a hand through his sweat-wavy hair. Procrastinating. “Look, I like you a lot – you’re beautiful, you make me laugh, you’re easy to be around – but the thing is,” he sighs, a certain darkness taking over his voice, “I don’t do normal relationships.”

You stare him down just to torture him by dragging it out, not wanting to show your hand too early. You’ve been waiting to play it too long to reveal your cards a moment too soon. As if innocently, you ask him, “What do you mean?”

He chews on the words for a minute before awkwardly deciding on, “I have certain…needs, I guess, that typical relationships don’t satisfy. That sounds stupid. I’m not sure how to say this.”

You give him a ‘just you wait’ look, hustle over to your gym bag, and take your phone out. Then you walk back, open up your photos, and present a screenshot of his own FetLife page – specifically your favorite photo of him sweating through a cut-up tank top after a workout, which you’d saved for…reference. His eyebrows raise, amused and suspicious, as you poke him in the chest and inform him with a self-satisfied sing-song voice, “You’re not as mysterious as you think. So let me be clear here: I think you should take me out.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not surprised, are you?”

“Of course not,” you reply. “Even the first night you stayed with me at the hospital, I could practically smell it on you. The way you barked orders and protected me. Made me feel safe because you knew I was scared.” His gaze has gone intense now. You’d expected him to look caught and embarrassed the way he usually does when you tease him for flirting, but suddenly he’s snapped into his element and it’s making you nervous. You remember what his colleague called him. Shark. He looks like he’s hunting you as you admit quietly, “When you’re like me, it’s easy to notice.”

He takes a step closer and lowers his voice. You’ve got him now and you both know it. “Like you?”

You give him a bashful smile and avert your eyes. “You really couldn’t tell?”

Brendon studies you carefully for a minute. Your fluttery lashes when you’re nervous. Your softly parted lips when you gaze up at him. The way your tears are nothing short of angelic and your smiles nothing short of honeyed perfection. He steps forward, closing the space between you, glances around the empty gym, and lifts his large hand to your neck. No pressure, no grabbing. But you gasp anyway. Your pupils dilate. And he knows. He pushes his hand up your neck until it’s right beneath your jaw, his pinky and his thumb able to encompass the whole width of your throat.

As he releases you, suddenly seeming twice as tall and broad and confident as usual, Brendon offers, “Let’s go out, then. Dinner tonight? So we can talk things through properly.”

Struggling to ignore the throbbing between your legs, you tell him, “I’m done at the studio at four.”

“Text me your address. I’ll pick you up at six.” He checks his watch and shoulders his bag, touching your lower back to guide you toward the locker room, and instructs, “And as soon as you get home this afternoon, send me some options for what you want to wear. I’ll choose for you.”

You’re about due for a cold shower.

you: you didn’t give me a dress code for dinner so i picked out a variety…even some non-pink, non-girly options if you want me to be all sophisticated. let me know what you like 😇 you: and jsyk I treat first dates with potential play partners more like job interviews. too many fake doms out there. too many bad experiences. brendon (hot gym guy): I have nothing but respect for that approach. More than happy to show how seriously I take my sub’s safety and well-being. I hope I can pass all your tests. you: vice versa. you’re too sexy to miss out on. brendon (hot gym guy): Mutual. you: yeah? brendon (hot gym guy): Don’t bait me. you: never. brendon (hot gym guy): Wear the pink. I like how girly you are. you: thank you!! i will 💕💕 you: okay I need to get ready now if I’m gonna be all cute in an hour and a half. see you soon!! don’t be late brendon (hot gym guy): I never am. you: that’s hot.

Getting ready for your first date with Brendon Park is nerve-racking in the best way. The butterflies in your stomach are less a cute fluttery array and more an absolute swarm overtaking the meadow of your consciousness. Even though he picked your gingham-style pastel pink dress, you still have to arrange a pristine makeup look and accessories. You land on fairly simple makeup by your standards – sheer foundation, a delicate lip tint a few shades pinker than your natural lips, soft dewy blush, generous tinted highlighter that brings out your undertones, light glittery shadow packed at your eyes’ inner corners to brighten every smile – wanting to let your features shine without having to excuse yourself to reapply gloss every other bite.

Once you’ve got your makeup set, you style your hair just-a-bit-but-not-too-much fancier than you usually would for ballet class and add a few accessories. A layered pearl necklace that should draw his eye to your chest, matching earrings, and, ugh, shoes. You have no idea which shoes are right.

Feeling perhaps a little mischievous, you decide to ask for Brendon’s input by sending him a couple of pictures. It’s by pure coincidence that you’re still getting ready, wearing only cheeky underwear and a cropped old tee. And it’s simply practical to take the photo over your shoulder in your floor-length mirror so he can get a good view of your ass the heels.

you: which shoes do you like better? brendon (hot gym guy): Fuck. brendon (hot gym guy): Processing. Recalibrating. Remembering language. you: sorry bren i didn’t mean to distract you 😇  brendon (hot gym guy): Like hell you didn’t. brendon (hot gym guy): The ones with the bow. you: you really do like my girly stuff huh? brendon (hot gym guy): Guilty. I like the contrast. you: because you’re such a big mean masculine beefcake? brendon (hot gym guy): 🙄 brendong (hot gym guy): Something like that. you: omg did you just use an emoji you: im already making progress on you brendon (hot gym guy): You’re lucky this is a first date or you’d be getting bent over my knee tonight. you: don’t threaten me with a good time 😘🍑 brendon (hot gym guy): Is the peach supposed to be your ass? you: oh my god. yes grandpa you: you’re so lucky you have me brendon (hot gym guy): I am, actually. brendon (hot gym guy): See you soon, gorgeous.

Brendon picks you up in that ridiculous, gorgeous Corvette exactly when he told you to expect, ringing your doorbell at 5:58. He’s in a suit. Navy blazer and slacks perfectly tailored to his every muscle, no tie to leave the top few buttons of his shirt undone, soft pink check pocket square – to match your dress, you realize dreamily as he extends a hand to guide you out of the doorway. Having only seen him in scrubs and gym clothes, you’re pretty damn impressed.

Right there on your building’s front stoop, he grabs you by the hips and stares you down like he’s already canceled your reservation so he can eat you for dinner instead. He spins you around slowly, devouring every slope of your body hugged by the sweet feminine dress. His hands are on your stomach, your lower back, your hips, as he turns you like you’re a piece of furniture he might buy.

Under his breath, a secret just for you, Brendon murmurs, “You’re beautiful.”

Not ‘you look beautiful.’ No, you are beautiful.

“Thank you.” Toying with his shirt collar, you reply, “You’re not so bad yourself, stud. Can’t believe you clean up so nice.”

He chuckles and shakes his head and threads his fingers with yours. It occurs to you that he might be a little bit nervous; you know he hasn’t been with anyone in a while, so maybe he’s as stupidly giddy as you are, just in that strong, stoic way of his. The two of you are awkward in a sweet first date way on the drive to the restaurant, accidentally interrupting each other and laughing and making too much eye contact. His hand is on your thigh, almost jittery, thumb absently rubbing the fabric like a grounding device.

By the time you arrive at the swanky place in a low-lit brick building, though, Brendon seems to have shaken out his nerves while yours are still a live wire. He’s in his element with eyes on him, hand on your lower back, giving a charming smile to the manager who leads you to a cozy, more private table by the open screen windows that join the patio to the restaurant, a gentle warm breeze uniting the spaces.

Brendon pulls your chair out, his fingers skating between your shoulder blades as you sit down, making you shiver despite the perfect temperature in the restaurant.

Once Brendon’s seated across from you, the manager says, “It’s good to see you again, Dr. Park; I’ll be taking care of you personally tonight.”

Just as he’s about to hand you both menus, Brendon stops him. “I already know what we’ll be having, thank you.”

“Perfect; go right ahead.”

“We’ll start with the heron point crab toast paired with that pinot grigio from Medici. The 2012, if you have it, if not the ‘22.  Add the ossetra, too. Then I’ll do the roasted garlic rack of lamb and she-” he eyes you carefully, savoring the awestruck look on your face “-will have the ahi tuna with the spring onion dashi. And we’ll finish with the pistachio Basque cheesecake.”

The waiter finishes scribbling in his pad and confirms, “Excellent choices, Dr. Park. I’ll be right out with your wine and appetizer.”

The moment you’re alone again, you click your tongue while Brendon looks at you expectantly, his eyes giving you a shit-eating grin even as his lips stay flat. You observe, “You just ordered for me.”

He tilts his head ever so slightly. “Is that a problem?”

After a beat, cheeks burning from the truth, you let yourself admit, “It was really hot, actually. Nobody’s ever done that to me. I always thought it was kinda chauvinistic, but you made it…simple, I guess. Like you’ll do the thinking for me.”

“That’s the idea. It’s a high-risk move,” he replies, all amused and satisfied with himself, “but it was worth it to see you make that face.”

“What face?”

“Your eyes wide and your lips parted,” he muses, running a finger along the condensation on his water glass. Your eyes lock to the easy, tiny gesture. Then he reaches across the table and touches your chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, forcing your gaze upward to meet his as he purrs, “Like you’re about to drop to your knees and sit pretty for me.”

You blink maybe a thousand times as your brain stutters over his words. When did his voice get so sexy? He touches the pad of his thumb to your lower lip, watching with a sadistic kind of glee as you gasp in softly. You both realize at the same moment that you’d suck on his fingers right then and there if he asked you to.

Which means he doesn’t. He’d never abuse the trust you’re already starting to give him in small pieces. Brushing your cheek a moment, just letting himself indulge in the softness of your cheek’s delicate peach fuzz, Brendon pulls back with eyes so warm you’re melting beneath them.

Your appetizer arrives and Brendon takes care to prepare a perfect half for you, spreading the warm crab salad over crisp buttery sourdough and adding dollops of caviar. When you take your first bite, it’s borderline orgasmic. You have to fight to suppress a moan as your eyes roll back, the mix of mild, almost sweet crab alongside something nutty and savory in its sauce, and the salty tang of caviar working together in a harmonious symphony. Brendon sucks in a deep breath as he watches your tongue dart out to chase a bead of sauce at the corner of your mouth. When he doesn’t drop his eyes after your second bite, you tease him, “You’re staring at me.”

Unbothered, Brendon shrugs. He never loses that familiar almost-cocky smirk as he replies, “I am. I like staring at you.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“You’re beautiful and you’re on a date with me. Do I need a better reason?”

“I guess I’ll allow it. You should know, though, that I don’t play on the first date,” you tell him, “so if you’re going out with me to tie someone up and get off for the night, you should leave before the expensive entrees get here.”

“In that case, you’re perfectly safe to stay with me through dessert,” he chuckles fondly, reaching across the table to take your free hand in his. He lowers his voice and meets your eyes sincerely. “I’m not just looking for some plaything. I date to keep. And what I keep, I take care of. That’s why it’s taken me so long to go out with you; I wanted to wait until I was certain.”

You flutter your lashes and tease, “So you must really, really like me.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good. Now that we’ve had a little wine, shall we get down to business?”

He straightens up and grins at just how serious you look while still being so damn cutesy. “Absolutely.”

You reach into your bag and remove a glitter pen and the little pastel purple Moleskine notebook you always carry around. First, you tear out a page and hand it over to him. “That’s a list of my limits. You can look over that on your own time and text me any questions.”

Brendon glances over it, folds and tucks it into his blazer’s interior pocket, and laughs, “Christ, I’ve finally met my Type A match. You just have to keep being perfect, don’t you?”

“Yep,” you answer with a sweet giggle. Pen poised, you prompt him, “I wanna know what you expect from a sub. I know you’re looking for something serious, something that’s not just in the bedroom, so I want all the dirty details.”

Brendon leans back a bit and considers it. Really considers it, as if he hadn’t been rehearsing how to explain himself the whole time he got ready to see you. “I want obedience, first and foremost. Make my life better, not worse. Don’t be another problem for me; I already have too many. I don’t tolerate brattiness. I want my girl to sit pretty and obey and be good.”

Writing some half-sensical notes just to make him sweat, you ask, “And what do I get out of it?”

That one comes easy to him. As your entrees arrive, he thanks the waiter earnestly (hot) and then turns back to you with warmth and honesty all over his expression. “Everything you need and anything you want.”

You slice into your mouthwatering dinner and push, “Details, Brendon.”

“I don’t like to worry about what’s mine,” he explains. The way he cuts his food and eats is pornographic. Is there a sub-genre of porn that’s just well-dressed, attractive men having dinner while communicating about needs and boundaries? You might have to create one. Bringing your attention back to his words, Brendon goes on, “Once you’re certain about me, I’ll ask you to put your rent and all your bills on my accounts. That way you can save your money. Hopefully it goes without saying, but I’d add you to the accounts so it still builds your credit and you maintain financial freedom. I don’t want to trap you; I want you to choose to give yourself over to me completely.”

He expects you to push back, to challenge, to not understand. But you just hum and nod and write it down in your notebook with that damn pink glitter pen with its feathery end. Fuck, he wants to shove his cock down your throat right then and there.

Brendon rolls his shoulders and goes on, “I’ll always make sure you’re taken care of in every way. You’ll be safe and secure, pampered and protected. Your own car, a new place in a better building, designer shopping sprees, meal services or private chefs or- Anything, truly. I have too many resources for one man and they’ll all be yours. What I want in return is eager, complete submission. I want to be a guide, a protector, a leader. The person you look to when you need help or safety or, y’know, orgasm after orgasm after orgasm,” he finishes, lightening his tone as he gets a bit insecure listening to himself and how intense he knows he sounds. So he turns inward, to his own worry that he’s going to blow this, and presses, “Your turn, then. What do you need in a dynamic?”

Breathless and lightheaded because it’s like he’s reading your mind, you take a long pause and whisper, “You, I think.”

He glances down at the table to hide the silly smile that parts his lips, innocent and boyish relative to what you’re discussing. You feel his foot lock with yours beneath the table, a silent reassurance. Then he lifts his gaze and needles, “Details, pretty girl. Details.”

After a few more bites that Brendon intently watches you take, you sip your water and tell him, almost coy about it, “I need a dom who doesn’t just make me feel safe but is safe. I never want to doubt them for a second – and if I do, I want them to be self-aware enough to analyze their behavior and apologize and adjust. All I want is to trust someone enough that I can turn my brain off and not worry about all the stupid things that distract me from being happy and carefree. That means they have to respect me as an equal, too, because my limits and boundaries are sacred to me. I’m not going to let someone push them just because of a title.” Finally, you give him the sweetest flirtatious smile and cheekily add, “And, if I have the right dom, the forever one, I want a very pretty and subtle and expensive day collar.”

“I think we’re on the same page here, then.” Brendon lifts his wine glass and says, “To something new and something real.”

You roll your eyes but clink your glass with his anyway, smiling ear to ear at the idea that you might’ve found what you really want. Brendon’s thinking the same. You’re exactly what he needs: Thorough, disciplined, self-confident. Not some girl in over her head. A woman, sure and steady, who wants to fulfill her role with knowledge of what it truly means. No doubts, just enthusiasm. He won’t have to teach you or turn you the way he has with past partners who never quite clicked. You know your limits and your needs and your wants. You’re certain. That, to Brendon, is the sexiest thing a woman can be.

When he asks to kiss you at the end of the date, you say no. Instead, you press your lips to his cheek and murmur, “If I let myself kiss you now, I’m going to break my own rule about playing on a first date.”

Brendon drags his hand down your neck and then places it on your waist, pressing you against your apartment’s front door, his eyebrows pinched together with want. He presses a slow, soft kiss to your forehead and murmurs, “The second one will be very, very soon if I have anything to do with it.”

The next morning, still high on your date with Brendon, you waltz into the ballet studio – and nearly fall over when you see what’s in front of you. The whole lobby is covered in flowers, bouquets of roses and carnations in whites and pale pinks, each wrapped in sheer lace-patterned paper and secured with a baby pink chinoiserie-style ribbon. There are so many that every flat surface is full.

Georgia, the receptionist, raises her eyebrows suspiciously at you as she explains, “Someone donated a bouquet to every single one of our students for good luck at their recital this weekend.” Toying with a folded white note from the florist, sealed by another pink ribbon, she asks, “Totally unrelated, obviously, how did your date with that uber-rich surgeon go last night?”

You snatch the note from her hand and read it greedily. Thank you for a lovely evening. Be at my place at 5:30. Eat dinner and feed Duke beforehand. The concierge will let you in and give you a key to keep. Make yourself comfortable and I should be home by seven at the latest. B. As a slow grin spreads over your features, heart thundering eagerly in your chest, you tell her, “It went really well.”

She squeals with you, “I figured it was that or he’d royally screwed up and these were apology flowers. Glad it’s the former.”

“No, no, he’s…a prince, apparently.” Then you bite your lip and narrow your eyes as you look over the spectacular display. “You don’t think this is love-bomby, do you?”

“It’s intense,” she concedes, then reasons, “but you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Your frontal lobe is done cooking. And you’ve gotten to know him pretty well, right? Plus, you pursued him first, didn’t you?”

“Yes and yes,” you reply, finally letting the thoughtfulness of the gesture actually take over your body, making you feel loose and sweet and floaty. “God, he’s so good, you have no idea.”

She waves her arms around dramatically. “Clearly I have some idea.”

“Yeah, fair point.” Taking the largest bouquet meant for you, already planning where it’ll go in your apartment once you’re home, you tell her, “Make sure all the parents get a bouquet, alright? I don’t want any of my kids feeling left out.”

“On it, boss.”

“You know I hate it when you call me that.”

She just shrugs, gives you a teasing smile, and, just to be annoying, salutes you before returning to her computer and ringing phone. And you laugh instead of rolling your eyes because you’re too smitten and delighted to pretend to be irritated.

you: most people would’ve texted bren: Did you want ‘most people’? you: definitely not 🥰 this is so sweet. the girls are all gonna be so excited for their first show bouquets. and carnations are my favorite!!! bren: Should I pretend I somehow figured that out in a very romantic way or should I admit it was a lucky guess? you: lucky guess is just as cute. thank you thank you thank you!! bren: I wish I could’ve seen your face when you saw them. you: ill do a really good recreation for you tonight you: I can’t wait to see you 💕💕💕 bren: Me too, beautiful. bren: And don’t bother wearing something fancy. I’m going to take your clothes off as soon as I’m inside. you: that a promise? bren: Yes. you: good. I have to go get changed and get ready for class. thank you again!! bren: Text me when you have lunch. I’ll be in surgery until about two, but I want to know you’re taking care of yourself during the day. you: yes sir bren: Careful. you: rarely 😘

Stepping into the lobby of Brendon’s swanky high-rise, you immediately feel out of place, wishing you’d worn something cute and designer instead of something comfy like Brendon suggested. But you swallow hard, square your shoulders, and approach the concierge’s desk like you belong there – because you do. To be an independent woman is to assert your worth, as your ballet instructor from your teenage years would often say.

“I’m here for Brendon Park,” you tell the woman in a severe black skirt suit behind the desk, swallowing nervously. “Um, he’s in 2600.”

“Of course,” she hums, tapping on her computer and confirming your name. She disappears into the small administrative room behind a frosted glass partition and reemerges with a keyring holding a fob, a delicate enamel ballet slipper keychain, and a pink key. “His assistant dropped these off for you. You’ll need to use the fob in the elevator to access both Dr. Park’s floor and the amenities on the roof level if you’d like to use them while you’re here.”

Turning over the keys in your hand – and processing the idea that Brendon has a personal assistant who knows about you already – you ask, “What sort of amenities are there?”

“There’s an indoor and an outdoor pool, hot tub inside, along with a bar and cafe open 24 hours a day. Full-service gym with fitness classes, wood-burning sauna, game room. You should definitely check it all out for yourself when you have some free time.”

“A full gym?” You chuckle almost to yourself, “We met because we go to the same gym.”

She nods like that makes perfect sense. “Dr. Park is a very private man; he doesn’t do much mingling with the neighbors.”

Another person approaches the desk, then, so you excuse yourself toward the elevators. Inside, you have to press the fob to a small panel, which lights up the button for his floor: 26. The ride up is so fast and high that your ears pop. You’ve always loved luxury and elegance, but it’s always been a treat. You work hard to splurge on the occasional designer piece. Brendon’s life is drowning in details that could only ever be on the periphery of yours. It’s intimidating, to say the least.

The elevator opens directly into his condo, which takes up the entire 26th floor. With the sun slowly setting, the space is genuinely breathtaking. While it’s definitely not your style – you’re soft and cozy and pastel, not black and wood and stone – you can absolutely admire the intentionality that went into the place. It’s easy to imagine Brendon with all his masculine angles and sharp barbs reclining in the oversized suede couch as he reads or leaning against the expansive kitchen island while he sips coffee. You’d bet good money he hired a designer. It’s all sleek and modern, floor-to-ceiling windows ringing the open-concept living space.

You slowly spin around and let out a low whistle. “Jesus fucking Christ, Bren.”

Making your way tentatively into the condo, you realize that lights slowly come on as you move through, following your steps. You manage to resist the urge to snoop more than feels appropriate for being here alone, noticing the details that he chooses to display. Everything is unique and tasteful, hand-crafted, no Ikea crap or mass-produced decor. There’s even a black and white work by Robert Motherwell that you realize with something that blends both horror and glee is an original.

Yeah, you definitely can’t process that kind of money right now.

Deep breaths.

In the kitchen, there’s a curated care package at the center of the island in the form of a large bag from Saks Fifth Avenue. Your throat goes dry when you see your name on a small envelope pinned to it. Inside, there’s a handwritten note. Seriously, make yourself comfortable. I mean it. I’ll be there soon.

Hardly able to breathe, you unpack the bag to find a flat box from Kiki de Montparnasse and a shoebox from Balenciaga alongside a few smaller goodies. Opening the flat box first, you unfold a stunning baby blue silk robe with lace details that would hit on your upper thigh, ultra soft and fluttery. The fabric is as smooth and rich as butter. In the shoe box, you’re greeted with cloud-fluffy slippers in the same color.

Once again, you mutter to yourself, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

The last few things in the bag are clearly a suggestion for how to spend the hour or so before Brendon arrives home: Bergamot bubble bath, L’Occitane almond lotion, and a couple other self-care offerings. You take your haul through the apartment toward what you assume is the primary suite, given the imposing double doors. It’s marginally softer in there, at least. Just as militantly neat and tidy, but there are books laden with tabs sticking out, an oversized plush chair with a permanent Brendon-sized indent, and other signs of life that make it different from a showroom.

In the en suite bathroom, across from a massive walk-in closet (half-full, yearning to be filled with pink designer clothes, you think), there’s a huge tub with a telephone-style faucet built into the floor, literally the size of a jacuzzi. He’s even left a handwritten note explaining how to use the jets on the wall-mounted control panel.

Comfortable, indeed.

One more time: “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You take one of those baths so delicious that you feel like a different person afterwards, losing track of time and space and being until you’re in a happy dreamy fog. Once you’ve dried off and slipped back into your bra and panties, you wrap yourself in the slinky robe, not tying it, and walk into Brendon’s adjacent bedroom. Perched on the end of his bed, you work the divine lotion into your feet and legs until you’re so relaxed you debate flopping down onto the California king and calling it a night.

While you’re tending to your skin, you hear the elevator ding, followed by Brendon’s long, deep sigh as his day starts to simmer off. Then you listen with growing anticipation as his footsteps trail through the kitchen, stopping briefly to notice your presence, and then speed up to the bedroom door. Excited, you realize. You sit up straight on the bed, legs slightly parted, the robe framing out your darling matching bra and panties set, nothing crazy but enough to make you feel sexy.

When Brendon pushes open the bedroom door, his heart nearly stops. His heavy hospital bag falls from his hand and thuds to the floor. Running a hand through his hair, he groans with outright relief, “Yeah, I could definitely get used to coming home to this.” He stalks across the room until he’s right in front of you. But he doesn’t touch you. Not yet. The smell of harsh hospital overtakes the room. While he’s objectively sexy in his scrubs, you can tell he’s beyond ready to get them off. He confirms it by cupping your cheek and telling you, “I’m going to go take the fastest shower in human history and be right back for you, okay? Don’t miss me.”

“Too late.”

Brendon sighs, completely overloaded with desire. Only the sight of your nose wrinkling ever so slightly when the surgical scent hits you convinces him to hold his willpower and clean himself off before he eats you alive. He makes good on his word, at least. In the space of seven minutes, he showers, shaves his face, and does his skincare routine.

And the first words out of his mouth when he emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped low around his waist are, “Give me your panties, baby.” When you don’t immediately move, he snaps his fingers and extends his arm. “You don’t wear any when you’re at my place; I need to be able to have you when I want you.”

Your eyes widen at the total authority in his voice.

You’re in the shark’s den now.

Standing up right away as your brain recalibrates, you step out of your underwear and place them into his outstretched hand, beyond embarrassed at how hot it is that he’s so immediately his dominant self. There’s no small talk, no mask. Just you and Brendon. He lifts your panties to his face, inhales deeply through his nose, eyes rolling back, and then tosses them into his nearby hamper. 

“Much better,” he tuts once he can see your neatly trimmed, inviting bush. He closes the space between you and skims the silky robe off your shoulders. It falls to the floor, a total afterthought. When he realizes that you’ve chosen a front-clasp bra, his eyes burn with lust. He doesn’t waste time teasing; you’re naked in the next breath. As your chest rises and falls quickly, Brendon takes a step back and rakes his eyes all over you, quietly admiring, “Fucking perfect. Every inch of you.”

Eyes trained on your pedicure, you quietly reply, “Thank you.”

Brendon’s having none of it. He takes your jaw in one hand and pushes your face upward, his expression dark and amused. “So coy all of a sudden. Just have to get you naked and all your attitude goes away?”

You give a tiny nod. “Pretty much.”

“Mmm. That works for me.” For a moment, Brendon steps away from you, disappearing into the closet. He returns in a pair of gray sweats presumably designed to send you into cardiac arrest; even soft, even after a shower, you can tell his dick is something to write home about. You stay quiet, but the change in your breathing is obvious and amusing to him. He drags his first two fingers down the center column of your throat, over your sternum between your breasts, and then along your stomach before he settles both hands on your waist. “Tell me your safe words and gestures.”

“Stoplight system for basics,” you answer easily, “and if I can’t talk, I’ll snap once to slow down and twice to stop.”

“That’s right,” he praises with a wolfish smile – a phrase you didn’t fully understand until now. Predatory but confident. Knowing he has the kill in sight. “How are you feeling? Comfortable?”

You almost laugh because, god, can he not read your mind and see that you’re soaked? It certainly feels like he can read your mind with how much he turns you on. “Neon fucking green.”

And he slaps you. It’s light, you can tell, meant to test and not to punish. Not really. But it still makes you gasp as your cheek stings ever so slightly. “Good girls don’t swear. It’s an ugly habit and you’re too pretty to do it.”

Memorizing the new rule immediately, you reply, “Thank you for telling me. I won’t do it again. Promise.”

He kisses your forehead tenderly and praises, “So obedient already. You’re going to make such a good pet, aren’t you?”

You nod eagerly, shifting your weight gently from side to side as you await more attention, more sensation, more. “I’ll always do my best for you.”

“That’s all I can ask.”

And, finally, he kisses you. He’s so soft at first, cradling your cheeks in his hands, letting you learn the way his mouth feels against yours. The moment he hears your breath catch, he deepens it, pressing his hand to your lower back to draw you tight against his body. He touches you without any rush. Every curve of your back and plane of your arms bristle beneath his adoring fingertips until you’ve forgotten how to kiss at all. So you just follow his lead. His tongue claiming yours. His teeth on your lower lip. His breathy, low groan infecting your synapses. You let out a genuinely embarrassingly loud moan when he grips at the nape of your neck, where your scruff would be if you were a kitten, the tiny grab so dominant it weakens your knees.

When he breaks the kiss, Brendon chuckles to himself at your responsiveness and curses under his breath. Despite your opinion, he must not fancy himself pretty enough to keep his vocabulary clean. While you reel from how tingly and perfect your lips still feel, he goes to his hospital bag, rummages around a moment, and removes a pair of black nitrile gloves. He snaps each of them on with tactile precision. At your curious eyes, he smirks and explains, “If I’m going to inspect my new toy, I’m going to do it right.”

You whimper.

He laughs.

Again.

Bastard.

“Lie back on the bed, against the pillows, over toward one side. Arms above your head.”

You maneuver yourself into position, making sure you’re actually comfortable so that you can be fully present with him. Then he manhandles you to be exactly how he wants, arms straighter, wrists crossed over each other, knees bent upward. Your skin burns under his complete, total focus. He lifts his hands as if to touch you but then seems to think better of it. After a moment of thought, he tells you, “This is our first time together, so I promise I won’t do anything that at all pushes your limits or we haven’t talked about you wanting already. I just wanna build trust with you and make you feel good tonight. Same page?”

Breathless and exposed, you agree, “Absolutely.”

So he gets to work.

First, Brendon touches you everywhere – except where you want. It’s not so much sensual as it is clinical, which makes it a thousand times more intimate. Especially with the gloves creating an infuriating, erotic barrier between your bare skin and his, you feel like one of his patients. One of his absolutely drenched, fast-breathing, hot-cheeked patients, yes, but still. He holds your arm in one hand as the other draws along your goosebumps. He kisses each of your fingers, each knuckle, even, and then your palms and wrists for good measure. His tongue plays across your chest, along your collarbone, and he presses a kiss over your pulse.

Then he buries his nose in your armpit and breathes deeply. You squeal out a surprised laugh and squirm a bit, but he’s unfazed by it. He holds you down easily – your wriggling only makes him fantasize about restraining you – and observes, “You don’t shave.”

“I have sensitive skin and I don’t perform anymore,” you reply. “You never noticed?”

He shakes his head. “Too busy staring at your gorgeous tits and ass to think about your armpits.”

As he resumes touching you, now running up and down your waist, you ask, “Is that a problem?”

It’s his turn to laugh. Almost a bark, surprised and bright. “Sweetheart, there is absolutely nothing on your entire body I would categorize as a problem.” He takes your breasts in each of his hands, expression dreamy and warm, and opines, “I wouldn’t be much of a man if I couldn’t handle a grown woman having hair wherever it naturally exists.”

Before your quickly melting brain has to come up with something clever, Brendon slaps one of your tits, testing, and tilts his head to one side when you barely react. So he gives you another, this one much harder, and gets the reward of a sharp gasp and an arched back. When he gets the same on the other side, he murmurs, “There we go. Just gotta learn how much you like to take.” Another set of slaps to each side. Much, much harder. You realize with a zing of delectable fear that he’s nowhere near his full strength even as tears well in your eyes and you let out a completely involuntary shriek. “And how much you’re capable of taking. That’s a good girl.”

After a deep breath, you manage to tell him, “Thank you.”

And you earn a slap across your face. You suck in a breath as he presses seriously, “Thank you what?”

Your eyes glow with fuzzy delight; it’s been way too long since you let someone have you like this. Like you crave down to your core. “Thank you, sir.”

“That’s right. Perfect.” Brendon cups your tits, then, and rubs his thumbs over your nipples in careful circles as he checks, “How about here, though?” He massages gently, all the while studying every single twitch of your face as you dip deeper toward that submissive headspace he yearns to get you to. “More than that, right?” The pressure increases until your toes curl into the sheets. He keeps it there for a minute, precise, controlled, twisting back and forth, pinching side to side. When your brows are pushed together hard, every wrinkle in your forehead tight from pleasure and want, he purrs to himself, “Yeah, that’s about it, I think. That’s your favorite. But I bet you’ll take more if I want you to.”

He lowers his head, holds you down at your hip, and bites on your breast. You cry out as his teeth bully your nipple. On the other side, the tips of his forefinger and thumb come together to match the mean, sharp sensation. Electricity sings from your tits to your core, sparking life between your legs, making your stomach contract, turning your thighs tense.

Right before you know he’ll draw blood if he continues, you break and gasp, “Yellow.”

And he eases up. Immediately. Licks your nipples so fucking gently. Kisses them with a prayerful reverence. He raises his mouth to yours and kisses you. Soft. Sure. You whimper into him and he places small kisses all over your face. Then he breathes cool air onto your swollen nipples to soothe them and affirms, “Good job, kitten. I always want you to use your safe words when you need them. That’s the only way I can make sure I have you right where you really, really love. Do you need a break?”

“No, I’m good,” you assure him. “So, so good. All I need is more.”

Brendon nods and kisses you again. He starts at your lips but gradually drags his mouth away from yours and further down. His tongue lathes along your jaw and throat, chasing a bead of sweat down your sternum. He nibbles along your sides and stomach. Some of the gentle bites turn into mouthfuls, teeth digging in, earning his workplace moniker. But you never call yellow through it and, frankly, he’s fucking impressed by the time he’s ready to spread your legs. He’s left all kinds of nasty bites and bruises over your torso and you’ve moaned through each one, begging for more, an altar for him to feast upon.

Finally joining you on the bed, Brendon pushes your knees apart. A sharp breath parts his lips and you have to avert your eyes because you know exactly what he’s reacting to. You can feel the mess between your thighs like honey, a tangible reveal of precisely how much he’s affecting you no matter how bashful you might act.

“You’re gorgeous, baby.” He bends down and kisses each of your thighs, lazy and open-mouthed, before murmuring, “Just need a little taste of you or I won’t be able to focus the rest of the night.”

Your legs are twitching with anticipation as he nestles between them, bringing your knees over his strong shoulders, and wraps his arms around your hips. He’s got you completely pinned and spread with his broad body. You couldn’t move if you wanted to – and you definitely don’t. He laps up your wine and gets drunk with just one sip. It’s not for your pleasure, really, the way he’s purely and simply tasting you. The fact that he has you trembling and whining is secondary to the way your tangy pussy coats his tongue.

Brendon’s fingers dig into your hips as he pulls away from your cunt. He looks almost on the verge of grief as he resists the part of his mind that just wants to eat you out for the next hour. He laments, “How am I supposed to function knowing this pussy’s all mine? How am I ever gonna get any work done again?”

You cover your eyes and giggle, “I dunno.”

“I’ve already got you stupid,” he chuckles as he straightens up again, sitting between your legs instead of lying. Rubbing your thighs with his thumbs, he sighs happily, “You’re so easy.”

“Just for you.”

“That so?”

“Mhmm.” You grind down toward him, craving anything he’ll give, and admit with a pathetic whimper, “Want you so bad. Wanna be good for you. Be your girl.”

He moves and kisses just beneath your ear, at the hollow of your jaw, and promises, “You’re being so good. I’m gonna see how much this pretty pussy can take now, okay? You just breathe and let me know if it’s too much. Sound good?”

You wiggle playfully and beam, “Sounds so good, sir.”

“God, you’re cute,” he muses as he opens up his bedside table and removes one of several different bottles of lube. “I’m gonna start with two of my fingers and then give you more when I can tell you’re ready. Trust me.”

“I do.”

“Good.” With a kiss to your cheek, he teases, “Usually I’d tie you up for this so you wouldn’t squirm and annoy me, but I’m being gentle tonight.”

Your head spins with how much you want him to tie you up. Still, Brendon’s two gloved fingers are bliss. You’re so slick and aroused that they slide in easily, no resistance at all, and he lets out a shaky groan at the same time as you do. He thrusts them in and out patiently, letting you get acquainted with the way he touches you, and brings his other hand to rest above your clit, thumb just hovering, waiting for the right moment to join. His palm adds pressure to the part of you he’s curling back against, where you feel so full already you can hardly imagine how much more he’s going to give you.

Your body’s overcome with pleasure when he does touch your clit, having already endured so much touch with so little relief. The brilliant agony of thorough foreplay. When he feels you beginning to clench up, your pussy not just adjusted to him but really into it now, he drives in his third finger. That stretch is easily as much as being fucked. Your toes curl into his back and you instinctively grab his forearm – not to push him away or pull him in but just to- to- to have something in your hands. Something to keep you rooted as desire starts to make your body smolder and wind up.

Stupid little sounds escape your lips as he massages right against the perfect spot inside of you. Your eyelids are heavy. Your abs twitch and flutter. Your thighs begin to tremble. And, suddenly, almost out of nowhere, the words are tumbling off your bitten lips before Brendon can even instruct you to say them, “Can I cum, sir? I’m really close but I- I can try to-”

“Already asking for my permission. Good fucking girl. So good, baby.” He slows his fingers to work the orgasm out methodically. You tighten around him, slow and constant, until he orders plainly, sternly, like it’s the only thing tethering him to the planet, “Cum for me. Show me how good it feels.”

Your cunt grabs him hard at the peak of pleasure. You turn from sparks to bonfire in a split second, heat crackling through you. The pressure is enormous, his palm pushing down against you and his thumb insistent on your bud and his fingers unrelenting. While you’re still pulsing and moaning and tensing, Brendon begins to flatten out his fingers instead of holding them together in your stretched cunt. He’s spreading you as wide as you’ve ever been and you whine out, “Bren, it’s so- so much.”

“Don’t complain,” he grunts back. Simple. He’s completely stern, ready to punish. “You can take more; I can tell. She’s nice and wet and relaxed; you’re just in your head.”

Tears prickle at your eyes as you admit, “I don’t- I don’t know if I can. So much.”

He slows down and lifts his thumb from your clit. He reaches up and touches your chin so you’ll look at him. “Do you need to use your safewords, kitten? Being honest is being good.”

You take a second to think, to breathe, and tell him, “I don’t think so.”

“And does it still feel good?”

You whimper pathetically and nod through the tears.

“Then shut the fuck up and take it like a big girl.” He pulls his hand back from your face, takes the lube, and dribbles a few cold droplets onto your hot pussy. You whine at the contrast and he instructs, “Now say sorry for questioning me.”

You sniffle back the tears and blink them away and promise, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“That’s better.” He can’t believe how pretty you are with those wet lashes and tear streaks down your cheeks. He’s never seen something more beautiful and it makes him soften. As he once again flattens his fingers, stretching and scissoring them while toying with your clit, he lowers his voice to a possessive purr and praises, “You’re almost there, kitten, I know you can do it. You’ve already got all four fingers. Just a little more and you’ll have everything I can give you.”

Your eyes find his. You give a wobbly smile when you see how dark his baby blues have gone, almost no color left. He really loves seeing you like this, completely vulnerable and at his mercy. “You really think I can do it?”

“I do,” he confirms with a tender and warm voice. Seeing your need for his words, his affirmations, plain as day, he goes on, “You’re such a good girl. Being so brave. So fucking pretty, too, taking me like this. I know you can do it.”

You sniffle again and nod and, more determined, reply, “Keep going. I’m ready.”

“Poor little thing just needs some more encouragement,” he sighs lovingly. Nudging the very tip of his thumb into your cunt, he urges, “Show me how much you can take. Show me what a good girl you can be. I’m so fucking proud of you, baby, you’re doing it. Gonna take all of me. Nobody’s ever done that before, you know?”

Brendon feels your pussy spasm around his hand at the praise. You sound so damn adorably proud of yourself as you check, “Really? You mean that?”

“Really, princess,” he swears. You imagine him sounding like this in the OR, completely certain, guiding, a teacher who knows everything, including his student’s potential. While he slowly, slowly works his thumb upward with the rest of his fingers, he goes on, “You’re my best girl. So obedient. Listening to me and listening to your body. I can’t believe I’m getting to do this; you’re perfect. You’re gorgeous. I’m gonna make you cum so hard so soon, baby, I promise. It’s gonna be the best thing you’ve ever felt when I finally get you there.”

When you take the first knuckle of his thumb, you let out the dumbest sound he’s ever heard, a crooked high-pitched moan that makes his cock twitch. Brendon ruts against the bed a bit to chase any modicum of relief, sure he’s going to ruin these sweatpants if you keep sounding like that. You don’t stop, every single breath and moan so broken and divine he can hardly stand it.

“There it is,” he croons, clearly proud of himself and you, as your cunt finally lets in the bottom knuckle of his thumb, the widest part of his hand inside of you. “How’s that feeling, baby?”

“So much,” you whimper. Your chin wobbles and your breaths are ragged and your neurons are bright and alive. Struggling to even speak with how good and how much and how perfect it all is, you cry out, “Feel so full.”

“That’s right. You’re fucking stuffed. So goddamn pretty. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He snatches his phone and takes a picture of his four fingers spread in your wide cunt, your juices and the lube making the whole black glove shiny in the bedroom’s low light. Tossing it aside again, he turns all his attention back to you and instructs, “Now, I’m gonna make you cum again, and you’re gonna squirt all over my bed while you do. Got it?”

“I- I’ll try.”

“No.” His voice is lethal. No room for questions. “You’re going to do it. I don’t care how long it takes. You’re not leaving this spot until you cum.” His hand starts to move again, twisting and thrusting, keeping your muscles so taut that it’s like a real workout. Your forehead is dewy with sweat as he goes on, “I can tell it’s gonna be a big one, too, baby. So overstimulated, so aching, so swollen, so much, right? All that pressure building up, needing somewhere to go.”

He presses down on your bladder as his thumb strums your clit and you genuinely, earnestly weep, “Brendon, oh my god, fuck!”

That earns you a cruel slap straight to your already throbbing clit. Pain and pleasure rocket through you in equal parts. A sob rips out of you and you’re trying to squirm away from the intensity, not even intentionally because it does feel so good, but your body just instinctively fights for control while Brendon’s trying to force it to let go.

“No, no, no,” Brendon admonishes like you’re a disobedient dog. His thumb is on your clit, hard, unforgiving, unrelenting. He shoves forward, his muscular torso looking massive, pressing you back against the bed frame. With you on the brink of supernova, he commands like a sergeant, “don’t you dare hold back with me, you useless fucking slut. Never, ever hold back from your dom. Don’t resist it or I’ll make it so much harder for you.”

You’re half-thrashing back and forth, feeling your brain fighting to stop your cunt from simmering and boiling and steaming into pleasure. It’s all so pent up and tight, begging for something to rend it apart and let in some relief. You’re using muscles you’ve never even felt before as Brendon recklessly defuses the bomb of your body. There’s always going to be a version of you that exists before this moment and a version that exists after. It’s the moment when Brendon Park makes you his. When you give over completely, unafraid and unabashed, to his control.

His voice.

The universe narrows into the pinprick of his voice.

“Cum. Now. That’s an order.”

You snap. You’re a live electrical wire in a thunderstorm, struck by lightning, breaking into splinters and whipping out with pure force. You don’t even realize that you’re grabbing his forearm, his shoulders, his hair, literally anything you can, clawing with full force as all your muscles turn from steel to smoke in a matter of seconds. You're barely aware of the uncontrollable gush from your cunt. There’s nothing to see or hear or taste or smell. There’s only him.

When you start to resurface somewhere close to personhood, it’s only because Brendon’s withdrawing his fingers, leaving you gasping and gaping as the muscles that make up your cunt knit back together from being pushed to their limit.

Then his tongue is on your slit, not touching your clit so that you can begin to relax. You’re on fire to the point that his mouth feels cold against your flesh. Satisfied that he's lapped up as much of your release as possible, Brendon mouths at your thighs, nuzzles at your hips, kisses your stomach.

Kicking out of his sweats, Brendon slots himself between your legs. His agonizingly hard cock rests heavy against your lower belly as he strokes your cheek. Your eyes drift lazily up to his. His thumb crosses briefly over your lips and you catch it and suck. His cock throbs as your blissed-out lids close and you swirl your tongue around his skin. Choking on his own words a second because of how damn pretty you are, he murmurs, “You still with me, baby? I know that was a lot.”

With totally empty eyes – empty like a clear blue sky, empty like a blank page full of potential, empty like your mouth when you’ve finished tasting a perfect bite – you lilt, “Feel so good. Just want you, daddy.”

Brendon softens despite himself. It’s not his usual moniker – he’s always seen himself as hard and stern, not soft and guiding, sir and master – but it slips so easily from your lips that it suddenly suits him. He bends forward and kisses you, pressing his forehead to yours as he makes sure, “Color?”

“Green as spring,” you reply sweetly, kissing the pink apple of his cheek. You bury your forehead in the crook of his neck and ask him sheepishly, “Can I have your cock now?”

“Don’t hide from me, princess,” he says, voice low and tender as he turns you to face him again. “Are you just saying that to make me happy or do you really want it? Because it’s okay if you’re done.”

“I know it is,” you reply. Your voice has never sounded so effortless and breathy with him; it’s like he’s seeing the real you for the first time. The self that nobody else gets. You twine your fingers in his damp hair, wrapping a curl around your pointer finger, and tell him softly, truthfully, “I wanna make you feel as good as I feel right now. Show me how you like it. Take me however you need.” You meet his eyes and hope he can see the want in yours. “Please, daddy. Let me be your good girl a little longer.”

“You’re my good girl no matter what,” he murmurs against your ear, “but I’ve been dreaming about that perfect pussy for weeks, so who am I to deny her if that’s what she really wants?”

“All I want,” you reply, eyes shiny with lingering tears that threaten again. Wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, you beg, “Give me your cock, Bren. Need it so bad.”

Brendon’s fully aware that he’s not going to give his best performance the moment he feels how slippery and swollen your entrance is on his tip. If he’s not careful, he’ll cum before he’s even all the way inside of you. Especially with you constantly keening beneath him, acting like every nerve ending is raw, each inch of his cock met with a shudder or a sob. Brendon hangs his head and tries to take a deep breath as he bottoms out inside of you. He grips the headboard like it owes him money as a full-body shiver runs down his spine. “Fuck, baby. Shit. Oh my god.”

Feeling full and floaty, you hum something vaguely like a question.

He bends down and clutches you close, hand on the back of your head, holding your bodies flush against each other. Shaky and rough, he tells you, “Not gonna last, angel, been waiting too long for this.”

“So don’t last,” you reply simply, “just be with me. Just use my pussy to feel good and later you can use it again or take my mouth or whatever the fuck you-”

His hand crashes across your face. The pain feels so good you want more of it. Dropping his hand to your throat, he chastises, “Just because your pussy feels incredible doesn’t mean you can get away with that.”

You totally unapologetically say, “Sorry, daddy.”

Hunger flickers in his eyes. He flexes the hand that had been resting casually on your neck, fingers pressing into your pulse. “Remember what I said about brattiness?”

You shake your head with a smirk on your lips. “Uh-uh.”

“I don’t tolerate it,” he warns. He gives you a sharp thrust that reminds you just how overwhelmed your whole body is and you realize you’re in for it now. He’s got something to think about besides how perfect your cunt is, which means he can drag this out. As he starts to fuck you slowly, he gives you one chance: “You wanna apologize for real now, princess? Or am I gonna have to choke it out of you?”

Biting your lip, mischief takes over your expression and you shake your head again.

His grip tightens around your throat, stealing your ability to breathe. With how amped you’ve been since he started playing with you, it doesn’t take long for your vision to swim and your head to spin. The lack of oxygen goes right to your pleasure centers as your brain pumps in happy chemicals to combat it. Brendon’s cock speeds up, punching through you in a way that would steal your breath if he’d let you have it in the first place. You’re a match burning down toward darkness.

He lets up for a split second, just enough to let you gasp in a breath, and then starts back up again. His other hand goes down to your clit, which cries out for mercy. The ecstasy claiming your entire body won’t let up and it’s become borderline excruciating. Not painful so much as overwhelming and overpowering. Watching your eyes roll back as your back starts to arch and your thighs tremble, Brendon growls, “Ready to sorry yet?”

Still, you shake your head. This game is too fun for you.

But Brendon has the upper hand. He works your clit hard and fast, about to give you one of those brutally not-enough orgasms, edging you all the way to the top of it. Then he releases your neck, lets you breathe, and pinches your clit to kill all the pleasure at once.

He fucks you like he’d fuck a doll, chasing his own high, treating you like a piece of meat, holding your consciousness in the palm of his hand. And you realize you’ve never felt safer with a partner. Because Brendon is studying you every second that he’s choking you. His medical knowledge and his respect for you and his true care all mean he can bring you to the brink of losing vision without you feeling an ounce of true fear. He trusts that you’ll snap to stop him if you need to and you trust that he’ll listen if you do. Which means you don’t have to. You’ve never had such an intense dump of emotion during sex.

So you start to cry. Really cry. The tears break and you try to sob but it comes out choked since he won’t let you get any air in. Your cunt starts to tighten up and he grins at the feeling, knowing it’ll be impossible for you until he lets you breathe.

Holding you tight, he stares you down with sadistic glee in his blown-black eyes. “You can cum if you say you’re sorry. You understand?”

You nod hard as spots dance in your vision.

“If the very first words out of  your mouth are anything but ‘I’m sorry,’ it’s going to get so much worse. Got it?”

You nod again, clawing at his hand and forearm now. Your stomach is turning as your organs spasm with desperation for air.

Brendon circles your clit harder, slower, yanking you up to the plateau of the orgasm he has complete and total control over. “I’m gonna let go now. Be good. Three, two-”

Air rushes into your lungs and you’re weeping and sputtering and cumming and wailing, “I’m sorry! God, oh god, daddy, daddy, please, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m- Ah, ah, thank you, Brendon, thank you, thank you.” And you babble off into sobs as your cunt tenses around his cock, holding on for dear life. He’s licking the salty tears from your cheeks and kissing them back into your mouth as he lets you breathe and breathe and breathe, his cock pounding into you without any attempts at holding off anymore.

In the final few moments after you cum, breaths hard and fast as you cling to him, as you adore him, as you mold to him, Brendon fucks you like aftercare. His hips roll close against you, keeping his cock inside of you, thrusts short, wanting to soak in every millisecond of your pleasure. His orgasm breaks through him in a shudder, reviving something in his soul. His lips lock onto yours and tears bite at his own eyes, too, and he’s never felt that before. Nothing’s ever felt so right as his cum coating you both as he collapses on top of you, spent, trying hard not to crush you under his weight.

Time stretches long and slow. All that exists is your shared breathing. Both of you on your sides. His lips to your forehead, kissing your sweat. Your leg over his hip. His soft cock slipping out of you as your bodies relax. You’re completely without thought. After a lifetime of anxiety, that’s Elysium. To be serene as a sea on a windless day, your body an extension of someone else’s, your minds drifting together.

Brendon whispers something soft and soothing that you half-catch in your ear. Then he stands up and leaves the room for only a few moments, returning with a tall glass of water. He sets it on the bedside table. For a moment, he gently rubs your arm, encouraging you to come back to reality fully. Helping you sit upright, Brendon takes your hand and wraps it around the cup. “Drink half of this. Nice and slow.”

You nod obediently. He has to hold the glass with you because your limbs are so weak and shaky; he does so happily, watching you drink the water the way a hummingbird might, tiny sips coating your now-dry throat. It takes a minute, but you get down as much as he wants you to.

“Good job, baby.” He kisses your cheek as he takes the glass for himself. Brendon finishes the second half in a couple of large gulps. Cupping your cheek in one hand, he soothes, “God, you’re a fucking angel.” When you just burnish your cheek against his hand, not a word on your tongue, he chuckles, “You don’t even know your name right now, do you?”

You give him a lovey-dovey, hazy smile that turns into an innocent giggle. With your chin in his palm, you say like you’re reminding him, “You know it for me.”

“That’s right, baby,” he purrs as he kisses your forehead. “No thoughts for you anymore, huh?”

You shake your head and bury yourself in the crook of his neck, smiley and spent. “Thank you for taking care of me, daddy.”

“That’s my job, princess,” he replies. You’re certain that this is a version of him nobody else sees, blushed and marked and sweet. “Let me get you cleaned up.”

You shake your head and counter, “Cuddle.”

“We’ll cuddle after,” he offers. “I can’t let my girl get a UTI, can I? Not when I’m a doctor; it would just be bad form.”

Nodding reluctantly, you try to stand up but wobble on your legs like a foal. Brendon chuckles as he quickly stands and tugs you to his body. “Hop up here; I’ve got you.”

That perks you up. You stand on your toes and give a tiny jump for him to catch you, arms under your ass, guiding your legs around his hips. This way, you can keep resting on his shoulder as he carries you off to the bathroom. He sets you on the toilet, moving your body around like you weigh nothing, and says, “I’m gonna grab you something of mine for pajamas, okay? I’ll be right back for you.”

A minute later, Brendon returns in a pair of maroon boxers, holding something for you. He dresses you carefully in one of his old college shirts, soft and well-worn. He doesn’t give you anything for underwear and you don’t ask. You’d love for him to wake you up by playing with your pussy, anyway, so there’s no point. Once you’re mostly covered, he tugs you into his arms and kisses your temple over and over.

“You were so good for me, sweetheart,” he coos against your ear. “Was anything too much? Anything hurting more than it should?”

You pull back just enough to kiss him, your eyelids barely cooperating with being awake as you lazily remember his mouth with yours. Into the kiss, you promise, “Everything’s perfect for me; how about you?”

“I’m happier than I’ve been in years,” he says honestly. Nipping a few kisses up your neck, he asks, “Do you need anything to eat? A warmer sweater, fuzzy blanket, anything?”

Leaning against his chest, you sleepily murmur, “Maybe a snack before bed.”

He strokes your back. “Seems like that might not be far off, sleepyhead.”

“Mmm.”

“That’s a really compelling point.” He takes your hand in his and leads you out of the bathroom. “Come on, I’ll make us some tea and something sweet to snack on before bedtime. Then we’ll get your teeth brushed and we can snuggle all you want. That sound good to you?”

“Sounds like a dream to me.” In the kitchen, you lean against the island while he puts on a pot of water and takes out a box of assorted pastries from a local bakery. Right away, you tease, “Did you get these just for me?”

“I stop by the bakery before my shifts in the morning anyway. I like to get a box of something for the night shift,” he explains with a shrug, presenting a handful of goodies arranged on a nice plate. “Figured I should have something to eat here if I was going to fuck you to the point of needing replenishment.”

You laugh as your stomach rumbles as if on command, your body finally normal enough to feel its hunger cues, “You definitely did.”

After nabbing a cheese danish and taking a few borderline ravenous bites, you stretch your arms above your head to loosen the muscles. Brendon’s tee rides up enough to show the soft curve of your stomach, where he catches a glimpse of some dark spots the shape of his mouth.

“You look good in my clothes,” he observes with a warm smile that he can’t contain. “Really, really good.”

“Yeah?” You do a half-teasing little spin for him, letting him admire the pretty curve of your ass and your supple thighs. “I might steal this shirt; it’s extremely comfy.”

“It’s yours if you want it.”

“You did say ‘anything I want,’ didn’t you?”

“And I meant it.”

When you smile, he swears he could look at you forever.

In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund

[mast3rbait3r]

the weird and the unusual masterlist

andrew "pope" cody x fem! reader

summary: summary: everyone always saw him as the weird cody brother, the guy who stared a few seconds too long at people nearby. but what happens when he meets a woman that is just as much of a looker as himself, maybe even more so? does he like the taste of his own medicine, or will he do everything in his power to avoid the one woman that actually makes him feel something other than lonely?

general tags: slow burn(ish), eventual smut, eventual romance, forced proximity, fluff and hurt/comfort, mutual pining, developing relationship, OCD (pope), protective pope cody, age gap/age difference (reader is 25, pope is 40), violence, gun violence, mentions of murder, near death experiences, implied character death

chapter 1 - first meeting

chapter 2 - spatial awareness

chapter 3 - late night watching

chapter 4 - hot and cold

chapter 5 - whatever it takes

chapter 6 - her man, his woman

chapter 7 - 2009 silver dodge ram

chapter 8 - weighted blanket

chapter 9 - tension and betrayal

chapter 10 - a trip down memory lane

chapter 11 - since day one

chapter 12 - redemption

chapter 13 - groaning and groveling

chapter 14 - the new normal

chapter 15 - midnight moments

chapter 16 - family feud

chapter 17 - uncertainty

chapter 18 - deliberation

chapter 19 - reunion

chapter 20 - peace and quiet (kind of)

[ilovepopeycody]

Poker Night

❤︎⁠ Summary : You and your dad’s best friend Jack have been secretly hooking up for the past few months. During the weekly poker night your dad hosts, you see Jack for the first time in weeks and you let your needs get the best of you when you find out that he’s going to be sleeping in your room tonight.

❤︎⁠ Content Warning : NSFW!! MDNI!! jack abbot x fem! afab! reader. no reader description. jack is your dads best friend. jack is in his 50s and reader is college graduate age (21+). jack is lowkey icky. he calls himself “uncle” and him and reader refers to him as “daddy” during sex even though the reader and Jack aren’t related in any way (could possibly be considered fauxcest or daddy kink) secret relationship. jack calls reader “a desperate whore”. SMUT. no p in v penetration. oral (f and m receiving). jack finished once and reader finishes twice. cum swallowing (reader). fingering (f receiving). jack slaps reader twice, but she’s a freak and likes it. overstimulation (for reader) very brief mention of sub drop. brief mention of bruising. aftercare for reader. lmk if i forgot anything!!

❤︎⁠ Word Count : 3.3k

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It was another one of your dad’s poker nights.

All of his military buddies pile into your garage and play poker till the wee hours of the morning.

You dread these nights because of how loud they got. You get woken up by the sounds of yelling at the TV, music blaring,or the slamming of doors. It wouldn’t be that big of a problem if your room wasn’t right down the hall from the garage.

Ever since you moved back home from college, these nights have become a weekly occurrence. These happened here and there when you were in high school, but now it’s every Friday night at 6:00 PM.

You don’t look forward to these nights at all. But, you do look forward to seeing your dads best friend, Jack Abbot.

Your dad and Jack have been best friends for what seemed like forever. They met in the military way back when and have remained friends since. Jack has been there for every birthday, holiday,graduation — he’s practically family at this point. Which is why you feel so gross about having a crush on your “uncle”.

Yes you aren’t related at all, but still. He has literally watched you grow up. But, you can’t help it. You’ve always thought he was handsome, but ever since his hair started greying, it was game over for you.

While in college, Jack would text you here and there to check up on you. But one night, one thing led to another and he ended up driving 5 hours to your apartment in Philadelphia.

That became a thing where every once in a while, he would take the weekend off work to “take care of family stuff”. By taking care of family stuff, it meant him fucking you into oblivion every hour of every day he was there.

It’s now 9 PM, and it’s fairly calm. You decided to stay out in the living room because you had the TV to drown out the inevitable yelling that will come when they get drunker as the night progresses. But, that is not the only reason you're out there. Jack’s here tonight and you want to see him.

As you're staring off into space thinking about the last time you saw him, naked in the guest bedroom after your families fourth of july party, you hear the garage door open. You peer over the couch cushions to see that it's Jack.

He’s wearing a form fitting, black tee shirt—where you could see the outline of every muscle—and some jeans that fit him a little too well. You don’t. know if he started doing something different to his hair, but it looks amazing. Overall, he looks incredible.

“Hey, baby. What are you doing out here?” he asks.

“Baby”. A nickname you received after the first night you two slept together. Your family thought it was an endearing nickname from your Uncle Jackie, but that’s what he called you when we’re on your knees swallowing every last drop of his cum. Whenever he calls you that out in the wild, your brain becomes fuzzy and the wet spot on your panties worsens.

“Hi Jackie. I’m just watching a movie. It gets too loud when I'm in my room.” you shrug.

“Oh I’m sorry, baby. I’ll tell them to quiet down so you can relax ok?” he says, making his way over to the couch. “Now that you mention it, it is a little loud out there. Do you mind if I sit here with you for a second?”

Oh God. He looks even better up close.

He takes a seat right next to you and the two of you sit in silence. You're trying to focus on the movie and not Jack staring daggers into you.

Ever since he lost his wife, it’s been hard to find partners. No one could really satisfy him. But that one night where you were telling him that you haven’t come in months, which knew he should’ve shut down that conversation as soon as it started, he knew he had to fix that.

He felt guilty about sleeping with his best friend's daughter. That’s why he hasn’t been around much since you moved home. Yes, he is an ER physician and a SWAT field medic — which both take up a lot of his time — he doesn’t want to lose control when he sees you and potentially out you two in the process.

“I’ve missed you, baby” he says, putting his arm around you. “Sorry I haven’t been around much. I’ve been busy with work.”

“I’ve missed you too, Jackie” you whisper as you rest your head on his chest. “I know you work hard. I just wish you would talk to me more”

His hands make their way down your arm to your thigh, rubbing small circles. “I know, honey. If I could spend each and every day talking to you I would”.

You look up at him, and his face is nearly centimeters away from yours, your nose is practically brushing his.

“You’re so beautiful, baby” he whispers, closing the gap with a light kiss.But nothing is every light between the two of you and the kiss gets hotter and hotter as the seconds go by.

You move to straddle his lap, but he stops you. “Baby. We can’t do this right now. I can’t go back out to your dad with a hard on” he chuckles.

You whine at his statement. All you wanted to do was kiss him after what felt like months of not seeing him.

“Oh, honey. I know. There’s no need whine. I’m going to stay over in the guest room tonight and you can kiss me all you want, ok?” he croons, swiping his thumb over your now swollen lips.

“Ok, Jackie” you huff.

“Here. Give me one more kiss before I have to go back out there.” You oblige and give him one more deep kiss before he stands up and walks back out to the garage to where your father is.

You're wet. So wet. It’s like you have the Atlantic Ocean in your panties.You don’t know if it’s Jack himself, the kiss, or the fact that you two may get caught. Honestly, sneaking around makes everything hotter. But, you keep telling yourself that Jack can help you with the problem in your panties later. He doesn’t like you touching yourself anyway.

🂱 🂲 🂳 🂴 🂵 🂶 🂷 🂸 🂹 🂺

The time goes by agonizingly slowly and you're horny. Every time you hear the door open, it’s just your dad or another one of his buddies. Sick of the anticipation, you move from the couch to your bed.

Jack texts you here and there to check on you and see if they need to keep it down. At first you say you're fine and that there’s no need to keep it down. But, your neediness gets the best of you.

Jack is sitting on the couch in your garage. One of his buddies is attempting to tell a story about the crazy shift he had the other night, but the “story” is just incoherent sentences and slurred words, when he hears his phone buzz.

He knows it’s you, but what he doesn’t know is that you sent him the most filthy message he’s ever seen.

“Daddy. I need your fat cock in my tight pussy. I’m trying to use my toys but they just don’t compare to you! I need you!”

He reads it and immediately turns his phone off and puts his face down on the arm of the couch. His face is so red he might as well have a damn sunburn and his cock is so hard it might as well be made out of stone. Thank God no one was paying attention to him or too drunk to care because he did not want to explain that his best friend's daughter just asked him to put his cock in her.

While waiting for a reply, your dad barges into your room.

“Dad! What the fuck?” you yell, putting your phone face down on your bed.

“I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to barge in like that. All of the guys got super wasted and need to stay over tonight. But, since the guest room and couches will be full, is it ok if Jack sleeps in your room tonight?”

“Yeah. I don’t mind” you say, trying to suppress the big smile on your face.

“Thank you so much, honey. He said he’s getting tired so he may come in a few.” your dad says as he shuts the door.

It's like your dreams have come true. You get Jack all to yourself and you don’t have to sneak into the guest room to see him. It’s not as hot, but you’ll take what you can get.

You swiftly get out of bed to touch up a little. You put on a little mascara because he likes to see it run down your face when he’s done with you. You put on the lingerie he got you as a “secret birthday gift” and his favorite perfume.

Right as you're finishing up putting in a pair of hoop earrings, you hear a knock on your door.

“Who is it?” you question, even though you know it’s Jack.

“Who do you think it is?” you hear the gruff voice say on the other end. He seems pissed.

“I’m coming!”

You make your way to the door in the lame excuse for a bra and underwear and open it.

“Hi, daddy! I’ve missed you.” you tease.

He immediately steps into your room and slams the door shut.

“What the fuck is wrong with you!” he hissed

“What do you mean, daddy?” You know what he is talking about, but you loved the way he looked when he was mad.

“Don’t act fucking stupid. You know what the fuck you were doing by texting me that shit when your dad was right there!” His voice is now becoming louder as he closes the already minuscule gap between the two of you.

“You asked me if I needed anything and I told you the truth. Is that so bad?” jutting out your lip as you wrap arms around his neck. “I’m a slut for your cock, daddy.”

That was the boiling point. All of the teasing you've been doing, the constant nudes you've been “accidentally sending him” while he’s at work, the sexual frustration Jack has been experiencing is all released when you made that stupid remark.

“Get on your knees, right now” he growls, to which you immediately acquiesce.“And to think I was going to have a nice night with you and then you pull this bullshit.”

“‘M sorry, daddy” you pout with those big, stupid puppy dog eyes that he can’t stand lookin up at him.

“Don’t “daddy” me right now. I’m not in the fucking mood. Daddy is what you call me when you’ve been a nice, sweet girl.” he says as he unbuttons his jeans, and pulls down the fly. “You were so nice earlier, and then you started thinking with your cunt and now you’re acting like a desperate whore.”

You honestly don’t think you could get any wetter than you were right now. He’s never been like this with you before and you can’t believe you haven’t tried to make him this angry sooner.

“Yes, sir. I’m a desperate whore” you mumble as you paw at his erection.

“What are you waiting for, hm? Take my cock out and get to fucking work.” he snarls.

You pull down his jeans and his boxers in one swift motion as his rock hard cock sprung out and hits his stomach.

You’re ogling at the sight when he grabs a fist full of your hair and forces your face into it, “I’m not going to tell you again.”

You immediately take him into your mouth, which earns you a moan from Jack. “Fuck, baby. See I knew you could be a good girl. You just needed daddy to be rough with you, huh?” he patronizes. All you do is nod.

Spit is spilling out of the corners of your mouth, your jaw is aching, and the tears are already running down your cheeks. You're in heaven.

“Come on, baby. I know you can take me deeper than that.” he says as he pushes his full length into your mouth, which makes you gag. “That's it, baby. Take all of it”

You’re not even sucking his cock anymore, he’s just fucking your face. Your gags and gargles fill the room as he thrusts deeper and deeper into your throat. “Using your pretty throat like it’s your pussy. Fucking pathetic letting your uncle do this to you.”

That obscenity makes you moan around his cock as your fingers travel down from resting on his thighs to your throbbing clit.

“Dirty fucking girl. Gonna touch yourself while an old man fucks your face. I bet you’re soaked right now” he says through gritted teeth. He’s right though, you are in fact so soaked that you can feel the wet spot on the carpet beneath you.

He continues thrusting his thick cock into your throat as you rub your clit here and there. You don’t want to come just yet, but you want to try and relieve the ache that’s going on down there. Your mind starts to wander, which makes your eyes look away for a split second.

You’re snapped out of it when he slaps your face. “I didn’t tell you to look away did I?” An even harder slap cracks across your cheek. “Answer me!” he growls.

“No” you manage to whimper with your mouth full.

“Do that shit again and I’m doing much worse than slapping you” he says as he fucks your face even faster.

Now it’s getting to be a little much. Your throat is on fire and your jaw feels like it’s going to break off of your face.

“Fuck I’m so close, baby. Gonna let daddy come down your throat?” he coaxes as you lazily nod.

He does one seemingly impossible deep thrust to which you gag. He does another one even deeper, to which you gag again.

“Oh god. I’m —fuck— i’m coming, baby” he whines as he dumps his load down your esophagus.

At this point, you're completely out of it ; eyes are half lidded, pupils blown wide, your mascara stains your cheeks. But, you still manage to swallow it all.

“Good girl, baby” he says as he guides you up onto your feet, to which you stumble a little. “ I'm right here, baby. I’ve got you” he chuckles.

You flop onto your bed like you're made out of jello. Everything he is saying is incoherent. “Did you cum, baby?” he asks. You faintly hear him, to which you shake your head no. “Here, baby. Let me help you” he coos as he parts your thighs.

You don’t even notice that he gets on his knees, takes your panties off, and starts to gently suck on your throbbing clit. “Oh” you gasp.

“Yeah, baby. Daddy making you feel good?” he croons.

“Mhm” you mumble as he starts sucking faster.

“Use your words, baby. I know you can” he says as he shoves two fingers into your hole.

“Y-yes daddy. Making me—fuck!—making me feel s’good” you gasp out as he adds a third finger and resumes sucking your clit at a rapid pace.

He continues suck and lap at your clit while his fingers hit that spongy spot, making you moan.“‘M close” you whine, bucking your hip up into his face.

“I know, baby. I can feel your pussy squeezing my fingers like a fucking vice” he grunts. “Cum for me. Cum for Jackie, baby.”

You come the hardest you’ve ever come before. Whimpers and moans fill the room as your vision completely goes white as your body convulses. You thought you were out of it before, now you're even more out of it. It honestly felt like you were having an out of body experience.

“There we go, baby.” he says as he continues to pump his three fingers in and out of your fluttering hole, trying to help you ride out your high.

“Stop! ‘S too much! ” You scream trying to squirm away, but he puts his free hand on your hip to keep you in place.

“Shh. I know it is, baby. But you can take it. I know you can” he coos as he pumps his fingers even faster.

You come for a second time in a matter of seconds. Your back painfully arches off the bed as you mewl at an ear piercing pitch.

“There’s my girl” he says proudly as he finally pulls his fingers out.

He sees your current state, and he knows he took it a little too far.

“Shh, baby. It’s ok. You’re ok. It’s over. It’s all over” he coos as he makes his way onto the bed, moving your limp body into his chest.

“‘M sorry!” you sob.

“Oh, honey. There’s no need to be sorry. Daddy is so proud of you” he whispers, wiping the tears falling uncontrollably out of your bloodshot eyes.

He just holds you as you slowly start to calm down. You’ve never dropped this hard before.

“I’m so proud of you” he repeats like a mantra. He’s not saying it to make you feel better, he’s saying it because he genuinely is proud of you. He’s never been this rough with you, and you took it like a champ.

“‘M gonna clean you up ok. I’ll be right back” he croons. You whine at the loss of contact.

“Hey. Hey. I’ll be right back, I promise” he says as he cups your cheek. Jack may do a lot of things, but the one thing he does not do is break a promise.

He comes back seconds later with a wet cloth and a cup of water.

“Open up, baby. I need to clean you up, ok?” To which you open your legs as he ever so gently cleans you up.

You wince as he lightly goes over your still swollen clit. “Shh. I know, baby. You’re ok. Such a strong girl.”

Once he finishes cleaning you off, he hands you the glass of water. “Here, baby. I want you to drink this whole cup as I start your bath, ok?”

“Ok” you rasp. Your throat feels like it’s on fire from Jack shoving his entire cock down your throat and all the screams you let out as he was bullying your cunt.

“That’s my girl,” he says with a big smile on his face.

You finish the water as he comes back to get you from your bath. Thank goodness you don’t have to walk too far because your bathroom is connected to your room.

He sets you in the bath as he washes your hair and body. He notices the slight bruise you have on your cheek, which makes his heart shatter.

“Oh, honey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you that hard” he whispers, running his finger lightly over the blossoming purple bruise on your cheek.

“It’s ok, daddy. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me” you say. “I actually liked it.”

“Fuck me” he laughs.

He finishes washing your body. You’ve honestly never felt so clean in your life. He picks you up, as he lathers you up with that lotion he likes and puts you in your pajamas.

He carries you bridal style to your bed as he tucks you in.

“Good night sweet pea, I love you” he says, kissing the top of your head as you snuggle into him.

“Good night Jackie. I love you, too” you yawn as you drift off to sleep.

You know that there is a possibility that everyone in the house probably heard you two because neither of you bothered to be quiet and you dad may even barge into your room at any moment but you don’t care right now. All you care about is that you're finally back in Jack’s arms where you belong.

౨ৎ

hi guys! sorry i’ve been lowkey MIA, i’ve had terrible writers block and have not felt motivated to write anything. this is my first time writing this type of stuff and also my first Jack Abbot fic, so i hope you guys enjoy! much love! ♥️