Contains : SMAU, fem!reader, reader acts like an old lady, innocent!reader, naive!reader, reader is actually deeply traumatised, bsf!deran, bit of a stalker Pope, reader owns a bakery/craft store, reader has no direct physical description but images of white women may be used, age gap, reader has a cottagecore/grandmacore style, characters may be OOC
When you finally manage to get to the back door to let Deran in your eyes widen in surprise. Staring at the unfamiliar man next to him.
“Dee, who’s this?”
Deran follows your gaze to Pope. Who he had brought along for no particular reason than the fact he liked to clean. While it had been several months since Pope had gotten out of Folsom, you’d yet to have met him. Your friendship with Deran having started while Pope was in prison and you didn’t go around the Cody house a lot. Whenever you covered shifts at Deran’s bar you stayed in the kitchen, so you’d never come across him there either.
“This- He’s my older brother”
Deran’s voice is strained and awkward. Not wanting to drag you into the criminal part of his life. You were one person that was normal, normal as you could be considering who you hung around.
“I thought that was Baz?”
Saying Baz’s name left a bad taste on your tongue. You’d met him several times before and could do without thinking about the man.
“No uh- older, well eldest brother”
Deran chuckles. Gesturing towards Pope, whose gaze pierced through you. The older man assessed you carefully, eyeing your apron covered in flour.
“Messy”
Pope’s voice is gravelly as he speaks. You swear you can see Deran roll his eyes as he does.
“She’s a baker, she’s gonna be messy”
Deran hisses quietly at Pope. Dragging his older brother inside. Carefully you guide them into the kitchen. A porcelain tray shattered on the floor. Without even being asked Pope searches for a dustpan and broom. Beginning to sweep up the broken pieces.
“Oh you don’t have to-“
You start but Deran stops you. Tugging you back by your apron. Steering you towards the cookie dough on a steel bench.
“Just let him, he does the same thing at the bar”
He murmurs to you. Keeping an eye on Pope in his peripheral. Humming softly you move to wash your hands. Scrubbing carefully which Pope catches an eyeful of, his lips carefully quirking into the semblance of a smile before he looks back down.
After you’re content with the cleanliness of your hands you return to the counter. Grabbing a rolling pin and flattening the cookie dough.
“Hearts or flowers?”
The question is asked to no one in particular. Deran’s moved to reading through recipes and turning ovens on, a routine he’s become used to since knowing you. Pope’s head lifts at the query. Blinking at you slowly like he’s confused.
In your rear view you catch the confusion. An airy giggle escaping your lips.
“Cookie shapes, hearts or flowers?”
Even the clarification leaves Pope confused. His mind racing, unable to understand why anyone would want a cookie in anything but a circle. That’s how things work.
“Cookies are circles”
Pope’s tone is reminiscent of a child. It causes a chuckle from Deran and your heart almost breaks at the sight.
“They can be circles today”
Your lips move upwards into a warm smile and Pope just nods gently. Going back to sweeping and muttering under his breath.
pairing: benjamin poindexter x fem!reader ( no use of y/n )
summary: dex teaches you how to throw knives.
content warnings: established relationship, throwing knives, reader's terrified of knives, height difference
a/n: my first little dex fic. sooooo very nervous to post this, but i hope you like it!! <3 also, thank you to my lovely oomf who proofread this for me <3 ily
wc: 2.5k
You had no idea why you even agreed to this.
If your past self, could see you now, standing in the middle of a freezing cold warehouse in nothing but an oversized sweater and your oldest pair of jeans, that version of you would have laughed. Then screamed. Then probably called the police.
But desperation did strange things to a person. Specifically, the kind of desperation that came from having the most heart consuming crush on a man who could scare off anyone with a single glance.
And well, here you were.
The warehouse was exactly as charming as it sounded and so cold you were fairly certain your toes had already turned to ice cubes inside your sneakers.
Dex had promised it would be safe. You didn't want to know what had led up to the point for Dex to deem a place as 'safe'. You had learned over the course of your relationship, that some questions were better left unasked.
Dex was across the room, laying out his knives, even from here, you could see the way the metal gleamed. But you couldn't deny him anything, that was the real problem. The moment he asked you with that little smile on his face, you knew you were going to spend your night throwing knives.
"You ready?" He had turned around now, and in his right hand, he was casually flipping a knife. He didn't even look at it, his eyes on you.
"No," you muttered. You looked away from the knife, because looking at it for too long made your brain start screaming warning sirens.
Dex shook his head, but there was no actual frustration in it. He walked toward you, while his knife kept spinning. You kept not looking at it.
"Come here," he said.
And you went, because of course you did. You stopped a few inches away from him, close enough to feel the faint warmth radiating off his body.
"Stand here," he said, gesturing to the spot directly in front of him. You positioned yourself where he indicated, feeling utterly out of your depth.
He held the knife by the back of the blade, angling it away from you, then his free hand found your waist, his fingers pressing gently through the thickness of your sweater, and he turned you just slightly. He adjusted your stance until you were facing the target across the room, an old wooden sign with faded paint.
Then your back hit his chest, well, your shoulders did. He was so much taller than you that his chin nearly cleared the top of your head, and you had to tilt your face upward just to catch a glimpse of his jaw.
"Feet apart," he mumbled above you, his breath warm against your hair. Before you could move, he planted one foot between your legs, nudging yours apart. He used the toe of his boot to kick one of your feet wider, then the other. "There," he said quietly. "That's good."
You weren't sure what was good about standing in a cold warehouse with your feet too far apart and a man, who was holding a knife, pressed against your back, but you weren't about to argue.
"Okay," he said, finally stepping back just enough to give you room. His hand dropped from your waist, and you immediately mourned the loss. "Now take the knife."
You reached for it slowly, your fingers hovering over the handle. The blade was longer than you'd realized, and sharper. You could see your own reflection in the metal and your fear just grew.
What if you threw it wrong and it bounced back? What if you dropped it and it landed on your foot? What if you accidentally stabbed yourself? What if you accidentally stabbed him? What if you threw it so badly that it flew off in some random direction and hit something important? What if—
Dex sighed and closed his big hand around yours. He planted the knife in your grip, wrapping your fingers around the handle one by one, adjusting your hold until it was right.
"Nothing bad is going to happen," he mumbled, his voice close to your ear. "I'm here."
Finally, you gripped the knife the way he'd shown you. The handle felt weird in your hand. You were not a person who held knives, but Dex's hand was still over yours and somehow that made it okay for now.
"So I just throw it?" you asked, your voice coming out smaller than you intended.
"Yes and no," Dex replied. He moved to stand behind you again, and his chest pressed against your back. His fingers slid over yours on the knife, correcting the angle of your wrist by just a few degrees. "Hold it like this," he mumbled beside your ear. "Not too tight."
You adjusted your grip, and he hummed in approval. Your lips curved into a small smile without your permission. You couldn't help it, his attention was entirely on you and there was something about being the center of Dex's attention that made you just unable to not display your happiness.
You felt him pause for just a fraction of a second and when you tilted your head just slightly to glance up at him, you saw his small smile.
"You need to throw it fast, yeah?" he asked, after finally stepping back to look at your grip one last time. His eyes ran over your stance one last time. "Not slow. Not careful. Fast. The knife doesn't work if you're gentle with it."
You nodded like you understood, even though you didn't really understand. How was something this sharp supposed to be thrown fast? Wouldn't that just make it more dangerous? Wouldn't that increase the chances of it going somewhere it wasn't supposed to go?
"And then I just—" you started, holding your arm out over your shoulder in what you thought was a throwing position. You looked back at him for confirmation, eyebrows raised.
He shook his head before you could even finish the sentence. "Like this," he said, stepping close again.
He pulled your arm back further and tilted your elbow just a few degrees higher. His palm pressed flat against your shoulder blade, pushing it down slightly to correct your posture. Then he guided your arm forward, showing you the path the knife was supposed to take.
You watched his hands move yours, tried to memorize the feeling of the motion. It felt strange, but Dex seemed satisfied, because after guiding you through it three more times, he finally let go and stepped back.
"There," he said. "You have it."
You did not feel like you had it.
You stared at him for a long moment, hoping he might change his mind. Hoping he might say "actually, this was a terrible idea, let's go get milkshakes instead."
He did not say that.
You finally glanced back at the target across the room. It was impossibly far away. "Okay," you mumbled, more to yourself than to him.
Dex stepped back further, arms crossed. He looked like he had absolutely no doubt that this was going to go perfectly.
You were about to prove him very, very wrong.
The knife left your hand. It sailed wildly to the left, completely missing the target, and clattered against the concrete floor with a sad noise. It didn't even go far, halfway towards the target.
Even Dex's eyebrows shot up at that.
You sighed loudly. "See?" you said, throwing your hands up. "I tried. That was me trying. That was me giving it my absolute best effort and you saw what happened. Can we please go home now, Dex? Please? I'm cold and I'm bad at this and I want to sit on a couch."
Of course, he didn't let you go home. Why would he? Apparently throwing knives was so very important for a girl like you.
He just shook his head, bent down and plucked the knife from the concrete. He walked back to you, the knife held loosely at his side.
"Again," he said.
You let out a big sigh, hoping it conveyed just how deeply you did not want to do this again.
But he just waited and so you reluctantly turned back to face the target. You got back into position and turned back to face the target, but before you threw, you glanced at him one more time and he gave you a soft smile.
You quickly turned back to the target, supressing a smile of your own, and threw the knife.
It wasn't good, but it was better than the first one. The knife actually flew in the general direction of the target this time, and it didn't immediately die on the floor.
You grinned, spinning around to face him. "Did you see that? It actually went somewhere!"
He walked over to retrieve the knife, but he was smiling too. "Progress," he replied, sounding just a tad bit proud.
This went on for what felt like forever, even the cold stopped bothering you ( or maybe you just stopped noticing it. )
After a while, you started sighing and groaning with every throw, absolutely exhausted. Your arm hurt, your shoulders ached and so did your feet.
"One more," Dex said, after what might have been the thirtieth throw or the fiftieth, you'd lost count.
"No," you said, dropping your arm.
"One more."
"I said no." You walked over to the nearest wall and slid down until you were sitting on the floor. Your legs stretched out in front of you, your head tipped back against the cold concrete. You were well aware that he might just drag you up again, not quite fond of being told no, but then again it was you. And you were an exception to all his rules.
Dex just looked at you for a moment, then he shrugged, picked up another knife from his collection, and turned to face the target.
"Fine," he said. "Watch." and started throwing.
You watched him contentedly. His biceps tightened against his zip up jacket with every throw. His face was completely focused and calm. Knife after knife left his hand and every single one, as expected, hit the target. He threw faster than you could follow. You watched him grab five knives at some point, fan them out between his fingers, and throw them in. All five were exactly where he wanted them to be.
You could have watched him forever.
After a while, he came back to you. He stopped in front of you, looking down with those half lidded eyes that always made your stomach flip. He reached down, offering you his hand. "One more time," he said. "Then we can go."
You sighed, but took his hand anyway. His fingers closed around yours and he pulled you to your feet with such little effort it reminded you just how much stronger he was than you.
He guided you back to your spot in front of the target, his hand resting on the small of your back. You could feel the warmth of his palm through your sweater and it was distracting. Everything about him was distracting right now.
Because god, he'd looked good throwing knives like that.
You were supposed to be getting into position, but instead, you were staring at him.
He had just opened his mouth to ask if you were paying attention, which you absolutely were not, when you crashed your lips into his.
You grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him down toward you because he was too tall and you were too eager.
For a second, he went still, then his hand came up to cup your face. His palm was warm against your cheek, his fingers threading into your hair, and he kissed you back. You melted into him, your fingers curling tighter into his jacket. His thumb traced along your cheekbone and you thought you might actually die from how good it felt.
The kiss barely lasted, because as soon as you felt something cold and sharp press against your cheek, you startled back. Your eyes flew open and you stumbled back a step, just enough to see what had touched your face.
He was still holding the knife and the flat of the blade had been pressed against your cheek.
"Dex!" you practically yelped. "You could've slashed my cheek with that."
Dex just stared at you, his eyes half lidded the way they always were after kissing you and his lips were still slightly parted from the kiss.
"I know what I'm doing," he chuckled, shaking his head slowly.
He pulled you back in by your waist before you could protest, his arm drawing you against his chest, while his other hand he kept carefully angled away from you, the blade pointing safely toward the floor. And then he pressed another kiss to your lips. His lips lingered on yours for a long moment before he finally pulled back, just far enough to look at you.
"See?" he murmured against your mouth. "Still in one piece."
You wanted to argue and you wanted to point out that he absolutely should not kiss people while holding knives, that this was basic common sense, that you were going to have a heart attack before you were thirty if he kept doing things like this.
But his lips were still so close, and his hand was still warm on your waist, so instead of arguing, you just sighed. "You're impossible," you told him.
He just shrugged already aware of it. "One more time," Dex said, guiding your hand into the correct position as he handed you the knife. "Then we go home."
"One more time," you repeated. "One more time and then we go home."
"Mhmm," he hummed against your ear.
And before you knew it, you were back to it. Every time you got a little less terrible at this ridiculous skill you had absolutely no reason to learn.
Your arm hurt and so did your feet, but you kept going, because Dex' eyes lit up just a little bit more, every time you hit closer to the target.
And then it happened, you threw the knife and it hit the target.
"You hit it," Dex said, sounding both surprised and proud. "You actually hit it."
You spun around to face him, your mouth hanging open. "I hit it!"
"You hit it."
"I hit the target, Dex!" You let out a happy sound as you glanced back at the target, shocked that you’d actually hit it that well, not noticing the way Dex followed your movements with such soft eyes, had you been looking you'd have melted on the spot.
He smiled as he walked up to you, putting one hand on your shoulder, before pressing a kiss to your temple. "Told you you'd get it," he murmured.
You finally looked up at him properly and immediately wished you hadn't, because the look in his eyes nearly melted you into the concrete floor.
It was unfair that someone who looked that dangerous could look at you like that.
Your hands curled into the front of his jacket. "Can we go home now?" you asked quietly. "Please? My arm feels like it's going to fall off."
That got a low laugh out of him. "Yeah," he said. "We can go home."
°˖𖣠⋆˚࿔ Summary: You have been shunned out your entire life because of your enhanced abilities and the need to feed on other beings to keep your power. Forced to hide in the shadows and act like a regular citizen. What if you find someone who is just as in need to break free from their societal expectations? What if that person was your next-door neighbor?
Or; a multi-part series that follow the reader and Dex understanding each other through their psychological and mental illnesses.
✧ ₊˚ - "Love us together / An eater, I need her / I'll feed her, I'll keep her." ~ "An Eater" by Matt Martians ✧ ₊˚
✧ ₊˚ - "Oh-oh, here she comes / Watch out, boy, she'll chew you up / oh-oh, here she comes / She's a maneater" ~ "Maneater" by Daryl Hall and John Oates ✧ ₊˚
✧ ₊˚ - "I could eat that girl for lunch / Yeah, she dances on my tongue / Tastes like she might be the one" ~ "LUNCH" by Billie Eilish ✧ ₊˚
✧ ₊˚ - "Don't be scared / I've done this before / Show me your teeth" ~ "Teeth" by Lady Gaga ✧ ₊˚
You’ll all be in the pool on one of the rare days everyone’s together, Craig and Deran are fighting over the basketball, Niki and J are relaxing on some chairs, but you and pope are in your own little corner. His big forearms wrapped around the front of you from behind. His chest against your back as you kick your feet to keep you up out of the water (even tho he’s basically holding you up) you’re splashing around all giggling and a little tipsy, talking to Niki who’s outside of the pool. You’re having a full blown conversation with her and he’s just pulling you back into him more, kissing your shoulder bashfully cause he just can’t help himself, and you pay him no mind cause it’s normal.
Or the time you’re all on the couch for movie night at the Cody’s and he’s got your legs draped over his lap, hands working your pretty feet and calves. When everyone goes to bed and it’s just you two left you’re shoving popcorn into your mouth and he’s shifting, nudging your legs apart to lay between them, laying his whole body on yours, his head resting on your stomach. You’re just smiling, eating popcorn and going back to the movie, maybe running your hands through his hair. He’s humming at that, lifting your shirt so he can be skin to skin with you, placing little kisses to your tummy.
During sex? That’s when he’s the most clingy!!!!! He’s got you layed on your back, completely blissed out from his thick cock so you’re shuddering into the bed so he has to practically pry his arms behind your back, dropping his body into you. He’s burying himself inside you, pounding into you, grunting and groaning against your neck, big hands squeezing at your ass. Or you’ll be riding him and he’ll have you glued to his chest, skin to skin as you bounce. He’s looking up at you with an open mouth and nodding, arms squeezing you into him.
Summary: It’s not unusual that Pope can’t sleep, so he goes to the ocean, but when he finds a little reminder of you in the sand, he can’t stop himself from seeing you.
—————
There’s a certain solace one finds in the night. It drapes bare skin in gooseflesh and clears the mind of its troubles.
Accompanied by the moon, slumber comes easy; the phenomenon of being so at ease that you can’t help but slip unconscious.
Despite this, however, the night terrors and complete noise that plague Andrew “Pope” Cody’s mind could never be eased by the sounds of crickets or a lunar glow. He’s endured, seen, and done too much to truly lay down and just…sleep. Of course there are better moments, but there also times where his body can’t take anymore so he has no choice but to surrender.
Luckily, he hasn’t reached that state yet, but still, now, on a relatively cool, breezy night, Pope struggles to immerse himself in the quiet, which is something he usually thrives in.
Sea foam kisses the tip of his boots, sand collecting within his soles while his hands are stuffed in his pockets. It’s the fourth night in a row he’s gone to the beach in search of some type of familiarity—or comfort, rather. He always does this before a job, finding it easier to separate from his family if he tells himself it’s to keep focus. This separation, however, includes you as well, and he tries to rationalize the distance with the same reasoning.
He can’t, though, that’s the thing.
Andrew wants nothing more than to be laying beside you right now, gazing at your beautiful face as you dream your day away.
It’s all he craves, all he needs to calm his mind, but at the same time, he can’t think straight when he’s around you either. He gets even more stiff and quiet than his norm, which indicates he’s not at his best to perform. He can’t have that, especially when he’s always heckling Craig and Deran about being airheads, or calling out Baz for being too ballsy at times. He’s even called out Smurf for her utter audacity, so to be called hypocritical for his own slip in judgement all because he’s worried about the sun-kissed skin of his lover getting hurt while he’s gone is not what he wants.
With a deep breath to shake away the thoughts, Pope finds himself taking a glance around, and finds a seashell a foot away.
You like seashells, always collecting them how he collects scars: openly, no hesitation.
Pope, even if his own face doesn’t reflect it, enjoys watching your face change to an excited smile when you find a particularly interesting one. It could be sharp at one end, or really smooth at another, or it could have just been some sandstone that happened to catch your eye, but every time, you light up, sometimes making him hold them while you search for more. He'd tease or grunt or just stare at them, but each time he'd hold them as he followed your footsteps without question.
He feels like he’s following them now as sand greets his rough hands, granules finding home between his fingers as he scoops up the shell and simply observes it. It’s a good size, about the size of his palm, and a pearly white color, similar to most of the shells that wash up.
Before he realizes, a smile worms its way onto his lips. He wants to take it home to you, watch you inspect it in that delicate way you do. He wants to hear your thoughts about it, hear how old you think it is, watch your eyes dart between each crevice and groove as you study it with open interest.
He looks down at it, imagining the feel of your hands as you gently take the oceanic treasure from him, nimble fingers brushing his thick ones.
Christ above, he feels so raw. This need for you, your hands, your lips, your heartbeat under his fingertips—any scrap of affection you'd offer him, he craves more than Craig craves coke, and that’s saying something.
Before he knows it, Pope’s eyes are closed, imagining how you'd softly cradle his cheek as you kiss him. How, in an instant, he’d bring your hand to his chest so you'd feel how rapidly his heart beats for you. How you, and only you, could make the one and only Pope eager and compliant should you sigh into his lips.
Even now he can feel it, the way your hands would feel on his chest as you chase your release atop him. How you'd bring his face to your breasts, inviting him to kiss and bite and lick as he pleases while you just take.
A wave crashes in front of him, tearing him from his imagination, because…because that’s all it is.
A fantasy.
You don’t belong to him in any way, shape, or form. No matter how many times he walks you home or you come swimming at Smurf’s, the fact remains the same: you’re not his no matter how much he wants to be yours.
He’s never experienced these feelings before, not even with Catharine, which makes them so much more substantial because he doesn’t know how to navigate them.
He recognizes the desire, the compulsion to be near you, the instinct to protect, but there’s something deeper he can’t pin point, something that has him making his way to your house as he desperately clings onto the seashell in his hand.
He knows it's wrong, breaking and entering. He’s done it so many times it comes as a second nature, but this time he feels shaky and hesitant.
This is him picking the lock to your front door and creeping inside with silent steps, not robbing some unsuspecting rich people.
He feels like a live wire as he steps inside.
Immediately, the smell of an extinguished candle meets his nose. It’s a light fragrance, not an assaulting scent like one of Craig’s cheap body sprays. If anything, it coaxes him further inside, inviting him into your kitchen where he sees some plates and forks and what not in the sink.
You’ve had company over. Dinner and wine—if the open bottle of red was any indication. There was also the lingering smell of chicken parm and…ravioli?
Either way, at least the stove and oven were off, along with the lights—he knew how you felt about burning unnecessary power, “save energy, save the planet” was always what you said.
He’d overheard you telling Lena to turn off the tap while brushing her teeth once, and despite himself, he swears he fell in love at that moment.
Ever since then, whenever you took Lena to babysit, Pope had to resist the urge to follow you just to make sure both of you were safe.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
A fuzzy little appendage curls around his leg, then an even fuzzier body r follows the motion.
Whiskers, your tabby cat, has somehow managed to not claw Pope’s eyes out despite his dubious arrival. If anything, Pope thinks that if he were anyone else, the animal would’ve attacked him, and he doesn’t know what to do with that thought.
Whiskers, now rubbing his face against Pope’s shin, offers a meow or two before looking up at Andrew with eyes too cute to ignore.
“Are you hungry?” Pope asks the kitty politely, reaching down to scratch behind an ear. However, he quickly trashes that idea when Whiskers walks away towards the living room.
Andrew follows that cat without hesitation, concluding he’s being led towards the pantry to find some food, but when Whiskers stops in front of the sofa, Andrew’s eyes attach to the sleeping being on the couch.
Your chest rises and falls softly with each breath, your hands close to your chest as you dream.
Pope feels his hands begin to shake, he itches to stroke your cheek, run a rough finger over those plush lips. The lamp on the end table casts a gentle light in the room, further accentuating the calm on your face, further luring him to touch.
You're wearing a tank and some shorts; the wine would’ve had you feeling warm, so that was no surprise.
What is surprising though, is how the tabby cat jumps up on an arm of the couch and noses at your hair. He then looks back at Andrew, as if he’s asking the man to do something. When no movement comes, Whiskers meows to drive the point home.
Pope hesitates, it doesn’t take a cat whisperer to understand what said cat wants, but it feels wrong to touch you when you’re not awake and don’t even know he’s here, in your house, watching you like you’re God’s gift to Earth.
Meow.
He snaps out of his daze, it seems Whiskers is getting irritated with Andrew’s immobility.
He has to admit, you’re dead asleep, but the slight scrunch in your brow tells him it’s not exactly the best position to sleep in. Hell, he knows for a fact that, if you stayed there any longer, you'd wake up restless with a pain in your neck.
Pope doesn’t want you to have a pain in your neck.
Pope doesn’t want you in pain.
Before he can talk himself out of it, he saunters around the couch and scoops you up. He’s careful not to jostle you too much lest you wake up and scream at the fact that not only is the scariest Cody currently in your house, but he also has you within his grasp and has somehow made friends with your cat.
Luckily, you just huff out when he picks you. He feels just how warm you are and resists the urge to just sit down and hold you. It doesn’t help that you’ve nestled into his chest before letting out a little happy sigh. Andrew feels like he’s about to combust, he’s never been this close to you before.
Anytime he was with you, it was always in the prescience of some other person.
On the beach collecting shells? You, him, and Lena.
Swimming at Smurf’s? His insufferable mother, idiot brothers, and J accompany you.
Hell, even when he'd show up to the cafe to “get a snack for Lena”, there was always some impatient customer in the way of him having a conversation with you—if him staring and saying two words at you counted as a conversation, anyway.
Now, though, as he quietly carried you to your bedroom, he felt selfish, greedy.
He had you all to himself, and he just wanted to bask in it.
The feel of your soft skin against his, it was driving him insane. The smell of your hair, the rhythm of your breathing, all of it made him want to keep you close to him.
He felt like an animal wanting to tear into supple flesh. He felt hungry and ravenous for you.
He felt like a gourmand with its favorite meal in front of him, but he’s unable to taste.
It was pathetic, really, Andrew was willing to admit that, but it was his truth, so there was no means to deny it.
Pope toes open your bedroom door, careful not to bump even an inch of you on the threshold.
Your bed is unmade, half of the comforter revealing the dark sheets underneath. He wants to be disappointed in you for not making your bed; he knows that if he was with you, if you'd grant him such a treasure, that he'd make sure your house was never unkept—not that he thought you were unkept, for all he knows you could’ve taken a nap earlier and forgot to fix the bed, or you could’ve been in a rush this morning and forgot.
Either way, Pope would take care of you. He would make sure you had everything you needed. He'd make sure Whiskers was happy and fed, make sure the laundry was always done, make sure you would never have to worry about making a bed or doing the dishes.
He'd do anything you needed, anything you wanted.
After placing you gingerly onto your sheets, Pope’s mind circles back to the dishes and messy kitchen. He decides to clean up the mess for you, after all, dirty dishes attract bugs, you don’t need bugs.
When you met the sheets, you turn and adjust yourself, as if your body recognized you the comfort of your bed even while unconscious.
He’s not exactly a love bug, but the sight of you so utter content makes Andrew’s chest warm and his ears hot.
He wants to kiss your cheek and tell you good night, but he won’t, because he has no permission to.
One could argue that he had no permission to literally break into your house, but Pope chalks that up to something that could be explained by his…Pope-ness so to speak, so he doesn’t really give it much thought.
Before he loses himself completely to your entrancing peace, he turns around and heads to the kitchen, figuring it best to clean now before you wake up and throw a hammer at his head or something.
Pope works quietly and efficiently, somehow not marking a peep despite all the glass and silverware. When he’s done washing them, he dries them just as quietly and effectively as he did everything else.
Placing the object back where they belong, he then wipes the counters and sweeps the floor, knowing that he’d most definitely tracked some sand inside no matter how hard he’d wiped his shoes before entering.
When he’s completely finished, he turns off all the lights, then he walks back into your room to find Whiskers sound asleep next to you, the covers now over your waist as you continue to sleep. You must've gotten cold, and by the looks of it, Whiskers just wanted enough space to lay beside you, which, Pope can't blame the cat, honestly.
But if he’s being completely thorough, he’s a bit jealous, all he can do is sit on your comfy chair and stare. It feels oddly like a cuck chair, but Andrew refuses to acknowledge that at the moment. Instead he continues to watch your breaths, even catching the way your eyes move beneath your eyelids.
In that moment, in the stillness of your bedroom, for the first time in four whole days, Andrew can immerse himself in the quiet. His mind is still running him ragged, but it’s more manageable for now. He doesn’t feel like he’s drowning in his own head, or that he’s one bad day away from completely flying off the hinges. He feels…ok.
Something he rarely feels nowadays.
He selfishly gives himself an hour or two to just be in presence, and when that time is up, he goes to stand.
Just then, a sudden prod at his leg catches his attention, and Pope then remembers the seashell in his pocket.
When he first picked it up, he planned to give it to you when he saw it in the morning, but what better time than the present?
Andrew slips the sandy thing from his pocket, cringing at the speckles of sand that surely live in his front pocket now, and he places it on your bedside table.
He nearly backs out of the gesture, convincing himself that you'd find out it was him who had left it, him, who had broke into your house and…and cleaned your kitchen…
Whatever, the chances of you figuring out it was him was slim, unless he or Whiskers told you. He doubted the latter would happen, but that cat is pretty smart. Either way, he leaves, cracking your bedroom door before carefully exiting through the front door.
There’s a mix of shame and accomplishment coursing through Pope at the moment, but he pushes the odd cocktail away.
As he walks back to his own house, he begins to feel the tug of drowsiness, and when he finally makes it home, he nearly collapses into his bed.
Finally, he is able to at least sleep more than an hour, and subsequently, he dreams of you waking up and seeing the gift he left you. The best part being the kiss you grant him as you thank him over and over.
When Deran and Craig show up to Pope’s house because he’s not answering his cell, they find their brother sound asleep on his back, arms crossed with…with a slight smile on his face.
hi!!! long time fan!!! was wondering if i could make a request with jack abbot. i've had this idea brewing of him overhearing/finding out his gf faked an orgasm because she was too tired and he wants to "deal" with that 🤭 thank you so much!
💞Tags/Warnings💞: fluff, brief mentions of age insecurity ( so.. hurt/comfort ), mentions of sexual acts/activities ( past tense ), hints of sexual acts/activities (present tense ), age gap relationship, very brief mentions of past toxic relationships, Attentive!Jack Abbot
💞Plot💞: Two years are a special accomplishment, but after making one major decision, Y/N begins to panic over the state of her relationship. Luckily, she’s not dating a loser..
💞Characters💞: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader
💞Title💞: Want some excitement?
💞A/N💞: This is a great idea! Lol! Also, thank you for liking my stuff🥹. A little short, but I really hope you like it!!
((Requests are ALWAYS open))
Masterlist
“Hey, Mrs. Lover-Girl. Look at you up and moving..” Santos jokes the second you’re in her line of sight and off the elevator.
“Follow. Now.” You grumble, desperate for a girl’s only confession. She pauses but shares a look with Javadi before quickly following you to an empty hospital room.
“What’s all this about?” Santos asks as Y/N practically yanks her insides the private room.
“I did the unthinkable..” Y/N mutters bluntly as she begins to pace.
“Ew. I don’t need to hear about whatever crazy sex thing you did to celebrate-“ Y/N quickly cuts Santos off.
“That’s just it! It wasn’t crazy!” Y/N hisses. Santos pauses at that, eyeing her closely.
“So it was like… Mild stuff?” She asks as she eyes her fellow resident.
“What?! No! Santos…” Y/N sighs heavily before wringing her hands together nervously. She looks around the empty hospital room, guilt coming on to her flushed face.
“I faked it.”
The words leave her mouth quietly. Like if she says them too loud, she’ll die. It’s quiet for too long. Too long for Y/N’s liking. Then finally, Santos speaks.
“You what?!” She asks, trying not to laugh.
“This isn’t funny! I swore when I got into this relationship, I’d never fake one ever again. I spent too much time in college doing that. Jack has always been attentive. I thought my faking days were over!” Y/N openly complains now, letting it all flood out. Santos shakes her head in disbelief.
“Then what the hell happened?!” She asks.
“A 12-hour shift and an entire bottle of wine at dinner, plus dancing! That’s what happened..” Y/N practically stomps a foot.
“Okay, okay. Just.. Breathe. Start from the beginning..” She urges as she moves closer to comfort Y/N. She’s been her best friend since those said ‘college days’. She’s seen the pieces of work Y/N has given a chance to, and yes, Jack was the best of them all.
“Trin, it was perfect. The dinner, the dancing, the food. The wine! Then we got home, and.. I felt so comfortable in the bed. He started kissing up on me, I thought I could fight through it, but…” She hesitates.
“But what?” Santos shakes her head.
“He loves taking his.. Time.” Y/N mutters before looking down at her own body to silently inform Santos of Jack’s little… Habit.
He really enjoyed ‘playing with his food’…
“Oh no..” Santos laughs quietly.
“Don’t laugh! I.. Usually I find it endearing. But last night, I.. I just couldn’t. So I.. Faked one, and told him I was too sensitive to keep going..” Y/N pouts.
“Hey, I’m sure you’re forgiven in the eyes of the relationship god.” Santos assures, a bit sarcastic for Y/N’s liking.
“It’s been two years to the dot, Trin. Is this our relationship now? We used to go all night. I’d have to call off for half the morning to sleep in!” Y/N points out.
“Yeah, I remember..” Santos sighs. “Welp! At least I don’t have to cover your shift anymore!” She smiles.
“Trinity!”
“Hey! You’re spiraling! You faked it one time. Your relationship isn’t doomed or stale. You’re just maturing together..” She finally shrugs.
Neither girl seems to notice the hospital room door open an inch or so. Jack had just gotten into work and was told Y/N was already in one of the rooms.
He’d felt a little off about last night, and.. A part of him had hoped to talk to her about it before her shift officially started. He couldn’t wait for their shared lunch time on the roof.
He pauses though when he hears her tense voice.
“Trinity. I faked an orgasm so I could sleep.”
Those words make his stomach drop.
The burning hand of embarrassment makes its presence known on his tight shoulders.
No.
No…
Jack knew there was something off about the way she’d moaned last night. He knew her body like the back of his hand. He’s 50, sure, but Jack Abbot took the act of intimacy extremely seriously.
But he also knew that deep down… The fear only his therapist knew he held on to, was coming true in this very moment. Y/N, in all her youth, had grown bored of him.
He was tasting her, and she was better off just going to sleep.
He felt so small in this moment as Y/N continues her conversation.
“Two years. Yesterday marked two years, and I did the one thing I swore I’d never do in this relationship!” She sniffles. Jack backs out of the room quietly.
He’d let her down. And he was gonna make things right…
“Hey. Y/N..” Santos whispers, all playfulness leaving her face now as she steps closer.
“I don’t.. I don’t want it becoming a habit..” Y/N worries quietly as Santos sighs heavily, hugging Y/N.
“It won’t. You won’t let it..” She assures her simply.
*
*
*
Y/N usually squeezed by on three power bars and a ton of water and coffee throughout her morning shift.
It was mostly so by 6:30pm, she could sneak off with Jack before his shift officially began. The two would grab something together, and it would count as their ‘lunchtime date’. Y/N looked forward to it everyday. Same time, same meet up location by the stairs.
But today, more than ever, she was really eager to see Jack. She hadn’t spotted him around at all. That was rare. Usually, Jack would show up early-ish, so he could help out where it was needed before going to nap upstairs on the sixth floor. No ED member was technically allowed up there, but.. Jack had made nice with all the nurses years ago. So they all turned the other way when he’d sneak upstairs to nap in an empty hospital room.
Y/N paces by the stairs as she waits to see him. She’d made up her mind that she’d just take what happened last night to her grave. And she’d never pull something like that again.
But after the ten minute mark, she begins to worry. Pulling out her phone, she texts Jack.
‘Where are you? I’m starving! 😭’
Not even a full minute passes when she gets her response.
‘Roof’
She stares down at the simple one worded text message, blinking slowly as she tries to figure out what that’s all about. Jack only texted that shortly if he was busy or upset.
With concern clear as day on her face, Y/N heads up the stairs and towards the rooftop of the hospital. The second she opens the metal door, she’s being grabbed by the waist.
“Oh!” She gasps as she’s yanked into Jack’s chest, his head finding the cork of her neck almost automatically. His stubble grazes her skin as he kisses her pulse point. She shivers involuntarily.
“Jack!” She breathes out as she pulls away a bit.
“I wanna fuck you, baby..” Jack whispers hungrily as he picks her up. She squeals at the suddenness of it all. “Right here. On the rooftop..” He continues as he catches her lips. She barely has time to kiss back.
“Mm.. Jack!” She pants a bit, head spinning as she tries to catch her breath. “Have you lost your mind?!” She whispers as he carries her to the railing.
“Look at the city, baby..” He urges as he moves back to her neck, kissing and licking her skin as he groans softly. She momentarily melts against the assault on her neck, moaning quietly before reality kicks back in.
Her boyfriend is trying to get busy with her on the hospital rooftop!
“Jack! What the hell has gotten into you?!” Y/N finally squeaks as she puts her hands on his shoulders to push him back slightly. His arms around her waist are the only thing making her feel secure as she sits on the metal railing.
He pauses at the confusion and seriousness of her voice. “I… I’m trying to be.. More exciting.” He says slowly, his tone sounding lost. Like he’d assumed this is what she wanted.
“More exciting?!” Y/N laughs. She can’t help it. Jack Abbot is the most exciting man she’s ever met!
“Yeah. I.. You’re getting bored.” Jack frowns a bit. Y/N stiffens slightly.
“Who.. Who said that?” She asks in shock. “Jack. I.. Every time we do it, it is more exciting than the last. I’d never get bored of you.” She assures as she touches his cheek tenderly. He looks down, jaw clenching slightly.
“Then why did you fake it..?” He whispers, voice coming out extremely quiet and raw. There’s this shame on his face that should be on Y/N’s. The guilt could swallow her whole just from looking at how sad her lover truly is.
“You.. How did you..?” She stammers softly.
“Does it matter? Were you ever gonna tell me?” He asks.
“Jack. Look at me..” Y/N frowns. Jack hesitates at first, but then he looks over at the only person who could ever hold the power to make him feel so small..
“I didn’t fake it because I was bored of you. I…” Y/N’s face grows hotter with embarrassment. “I faked it because I wasn’t able to keep up with you.” She admits.
“Y/N..” Jack sighs, thinking she’s just saying that.
“Jack, it’s true.” She assures, finally with her full chest. “You love going all night, and.. I.. Last night, I was really tired. So.. I faked it.” She mumbles sheepishly as Jack watches her closely, shoulders slumping as he realizes she’s telling the truth.
“You… Why didn’t you just tell me?!” Jack immediately fusses.
“You were in the middle of…” She trails off. “I didn’t wanna kill your mood.” She says softly.
“Baby.” Jack says firmly as he makes her look at him. “I’d rather you be all in it, than think you have to fake something like that.” He says simply as he looks her in the eyes. Y/N pouts slightly as she nods, letting his words assure her.
Once again, she’s reminded that even though she’s dated losers.. Jack Abbot is not one of them.
“I’m sorry you thought you had to go bigger to keep me. You have me, baby. And I’m enjoying the ride..” Y/N says sweetly, leaning in to peck his nose and lips softly in order to show she does find this man completely capable of rocking her world. Age difference and all..
“Mm.. I’m sorry I got crazy.” He chuckles. “Doing it on a roof? That’s…” He trails off as he eyes her, a sly glint growing in his eyes.
“Jack!” Y/N squeals bashfully as she realizes he’s still considering it.
“What?!” Jack defends with an innocent shrug. He eyes her, a smirk playing on his face as he steps closer, arms firmly around her waist.
“I’m still owed a big one.” He continues playfully as he looks her in the eyes, one of his hands moving between them and slowly slipping into her scrub bottoms.
“Jack! We have a 15-minute lunch break, we’re on a roof! Someone could se…” Her voice breaks slowly as she feels his magical fingers. Shakily, she grips his shoulders, panting softly as he watches with a cocky expression, loving the power he has over her.
“There you go.. Atta girl..” Jack whispers tauntingly against her mouth that slowly hangs open in silent pleasure. “You just look at the pretty city. I’ll take it from here..” He whispers before slowly dropping to his knees in front of her while she quickly grips on to the railing she’s still sat on.
you settled into bed with your book propped on your knees. the sheets were cool and soft. pope slid in right behind you, pressing his chest to your back and shifting until his cheek was flush against yours. his face nestled there, eyes scanning the same page you were on, breath tickling your skin. you turned the page slowly and he adjusted without a word, arms looped loosely around your middle, fingers resting still on your stomach.
the room was quiet except for the faint rustle of paper and the shared rhythm of your breathing. you kept reading, focused on the story, while his warmth seeped into you and his lashes brushed your cheek every so often when he blinked.
later at lunch you carried your plate to the table but pope was already seated, patting his thigh once. you slid onto his lap without comment, settling comfortably as his arms wrapped fully around your waist, hands clasped over your belly. he held you close, chin resting on your shoulder while you ate, fork moving steadily from plate to mouth.
his hold stayed firm but gentle, thumbs occasionally stroking small arcs over your shirt, never interrupting. you focused on each bite, chewing thoughtfully, the weight of him grounding and familiar behind you. he said nothing, just breathed evenly, content to keep you anchored there until the plate was empty.
afterward you moved to the living room for laundry. the couch was piled with clean clothes. you stood sorting and folding while pope sat on the edge of the cushion right behind you. his arms circled your body, hugging your hips, and he leaned forward until his head rested on the curve of your ass, cheek pressed softly against the fabric of your pants. you kept working, hands smoothing shirts and pairing socks with the practiced motions from you.
the ironing board was set up nearby and you shifted slightly to reach it, pressing wrinkles out of a blouse with steady sweeps of the iron. pope moved with you, arms never loosening, his head staying nestled there like it belonged, quiet and heavy in the best way. the scent of fresh laundry filled the air and the low hum of the iron was the only sound besides your occasional soft exhale.
he clung without speaking, simply holding on as you finished each piece, his presence warm and constant through every fold and press. and the whole afternoon passed like that, easy and close to you, his silent attachment making every ordinary task feel completely wrapped in him.
Summary : Dex has to learn that you can have bad days, too.
Pairing : Benjamin Poindexter x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : established relationship, hurt/comfort, sensory overload, overstimulation, emotional, traffic light system, safeword use, mentioned free use arrangement, aftercare?, soft ending, dark romance elements, obsessive Dex, protective Dex. DDBA! Dex I think. :)
Word Count : 6k
Requested by : Ko-fi request <3
Notes : Hey ya’ll! If you wanna be tagged, please send me a message! Comments get lost sometimes. Enjoy!
You hadn’t had the best day and it started with the coffee machine not working.
That was entirely your fault. You had cleaned it the night before, rinsed everything carefully, set it back in place, and then just… not set it up properly again. Usually, you would have found it funny. You would have sent Dex a picture of the dead display and made him promise to bring you coffee later.
Instead, you stood barefoot in the kitchen at seven in the morning, pressing the button over and over like one of the attempts might change the result, and felt tears sting your eyes.
Dex was asleep down the hall, face buried in your pillow, one arm stretched across your side of the bed as if he had gone looking for you in his sleep. You considered waking him, and you nearly did, standing in the bedroom doorway with your bag hanging off one shoulder, watching the rise and fall of his back, and thought about crawling under the covers again.
But he had been out all night.
He needed sleep, and you needed to leave.
So you found instant coffee in the back of the cupboard and made it too strong because you were already running late. You burned your tongue, while the clasp on your necklace got caught in your hair. Your tights had a ladder in them, a thin line running up the back of your calf that no one else would probably notice but that you could feel all day like a crack in glass.
You changed twice and hated both outfits.
The third one was acceptable until you got outside and realized the waistband sat weird when you walked. It pinched at one side and shifted at the other. You kept trying to fix it discreetly beneath your coat while waiting for the train, which only made it twist more.
Then the train was delayed.
You kinda wished it would’ve been canceled; it would at least have given you something to be angry about. It was delayed by six minutes, then nine, then twelve, with the announcement changing every time you looked up. The platform filled around you as a lady stood close enough behind you that her bag pressed against your back every time they moved. A man near the stairs was watching videos without headphones, and two women beside you were having an argument in furious whispers.
Your phone buzzed in your hand.
Dex. Coffee machine dead?
You stared at the message for too long.
Normally, you would have answered with something dry and funny immediately. Instead, you typed three different replies and deleted all of them because every version sounded irritated, and you were irritated, but not with him.
You sent a heart.
He replied with three.
That nearly made you cry again.
Work was not terrible enough to justify how terrible it felt.
Nobody screamed at you and nothing caught fire. You didn’t get fired or humiliated, but it was just a constant fucking drag.
An intern, a fresh graduate called Grace, stopped you before you had taken off your coat because they needed help with something they had known about since yesterday. Your computer decided to update while going to the double-booked meeting room, so everyone stood in the corridor pretending not to be annoyed while Brad from HR insisted he had reserved it first. When you finally got inside, the projector would not connect.
Then your manager, Amy said, “This should only take five minutes,” and it took forty-three.
At some point, your coworker Jack, put a hand on your shoulder from behind to get your attention.
You nearly snapped. They apologized. You apologized for reacting. Then you spent the next ten minutes thinking about whether your apology had sounded strange.
That was when you had to go to the bathroom and cry.
You sat in the last stall with the lid down, both feet planted on the floor, trying to breathe quietly so that no one would hear you. You hated crying at work and the bathroom lighting and the thin toilet paper scraping under your eyes. You hated that there was no single problem you could point to and say, there, that’s why I can’t do this today!
Your phone buzzed again.
Dex had sent you a message about going out because task force was spotted in droves on the other side of the city, and that he was going out to get them.
Then cried harder because you missed him, even though he lived with you and you had technically seen him that morning.
You washed your face, went back to your desk, and tried to finish the day.
At four, Dex texted that he would probably be home late.
You stared at that one until the words blurred.
It was reasonable and normal, by your standards. He worked strange hours and disappeared with even stranger explanations. You were used to eating without him. You were used to waking up with him suddenly in bed beside you, one hand finding your waist beneath the blanket.
But you had spent the whole day thinking about going home to him.
You didn’t even want to talk to him. You wanted to walk through the door and see him standing in the kitchen. You wanted him to take your bag without asking and tell you to change into a soft cotton shirt so as not to trigger your sensory issues. You wanted to sit between his knees on the sofa while he rubbed slow circles into your thighs.
Instead, you sent. Okay. Be safe.
He reacted with a heart.
You put your phone facedown and finished the last hour.
The train home was worse than the train in.
You had to stand while a wet umbrella kept brushing your ankle, even though you didn’t realise it had been raining. A man across the carriage kept coughing into his fist and then touching the pole. Every time the train stopped, more people got on and nobody got off.
By the time you reached your building, your shoulders ached from holding them up around your ears. You dropped your keys in the hallway, and the sound of them hitting the floor was so annoying that you just stood there staring at them for several seconds before bending down.
The apartment was dark when you opened the door.
You turned on the lamp instead of the main light and you took off your coat and immediately felt colder. You put it back on. Took it off again because the lining felt horrible against your skin. You stood in the living room holding it, suddenly unable to decide what to do with it even though there was a hook three feet away.
You dropped it on the floor.
Then you felt guilty because Dex liked things clean and in their place.
Fuck.
You sat down beside it and cried with one shoe still on and one shoe off, louder than you cried in the office bathroom. You cried because the apartment smelled faintly like Dex, but he wasn’t there. You cried because you had spent the whole day being reasonable, and now there was nobody in front of you to be reasonable for.
Afterward, you felt stupid and sticky-faced, which just made the sensations worse.
You picked up the coat and put your shoes away. You sent Dex a message asking when he would be home, then deleted it before sending because you didn’t want him distracted while he was out doing very dangerous Bullseye things.
You showered instead, and the water was too hot at first, but you didn’t fix it quickly enough, so your skin felt like it was boiling across your chest and shoulders. You washed your hair. Then the wet texture clung to your back and made you angry, so you wrapped them in one of Dex’s old shirts instead of a towel because it was softer.
You put on your sleep shorts and the gray shirt of his you always stole.
It smelled like the detergent you both used now, not specifically like him, which made you strangely sad.
You tried to eat.
There were pasta leftovers in the fridge. Dex had labelled the container DO NOT EAT in black marker, then added unless you are my girlfriend beneath it in smaller writing because you had told him one you liked one of those cheesy jokes, and Dex being Dex, listened and manufactured it into his life even though he got no real enjoyment out of it. You heated it up, took three bites, and put them back because the tomato sauce was chunky, and it felt weird on your tongue even though technically, there was nothing wrong with it. .
So you made tea and forgot the bag until it went bitter.
You turned on the television, then muted it because the voice of the newscaster irritated you. The silence irritated you too, so you turned it back on quietly with subtitles.
At some point, you checked the locks twice.
You knew Dex would not use the door when he came back. He would use the fire escape.
On most nights, the thought made you smile. Tonight, you wanted him to use his key like a normal person.
You wanted to hear it turn in the lock like a warning. You wanted him to call your name from the entrance so you had time to prepare for being touched.
But whatever. He probably didn't even bring his keys.
You climbed into bed with the lamp on.
Usually, you liked Dex coming home with that focus still in his eyes. You even loved the way he sometimes stood at the foot of the bed and looked at you as if he had followed you there. You liked the games he played to rile you up, because Dex knew exactly how to frighten you without making you unsafe. You liked restraints because he checked every knot, every buckle, every inch of space between your skin and whatever held you down.
You liked being helpless when it was Dex.
Usually.
But tonight, you just wanted him.
You wanted to press your face into his chest and let him complain that your wet hair was soaking his shirt. You wanted him to ask what happened, accept “nothing” as the answer, and hold you still.
The fire escape groaned outside the window.
Then the living room window slid open, and Dex climbed in with blood on his sleeve, still.
You were in that half-sleep state where your body had gone heavy but your mind was still floating somewhere above it, listening to the hum of the television you had left on in the living room and the old pipe knocking faintly in the wall. You were even still aware of your breathing, too shallow to be restful.
You knew what Dex was like after a long night. You knew the way adrenaline ran in his body like a live wire, making him hungry and a little fucking insane. Usually, you were more than happy to let him spend the rest of it on you.
That was the arrangement, after all.
The free use thing had happened over weeks of conversations, some serious, some filthy, some with you sitting cross-legged on the bed while Dex sat on the floor taking it all in like he was memorising a mission brief. What was okay, what was not. It was discussed and re-discussed, picked apart in daylight until even Dex’s paranoid brain had nothing left to gnaw on.
You had said it first half as a joke, grinning over your mug while Dex sat opposite you at the kitchen table looking like you had just handed him a loaded gun.
“What, you don’t like the idea?” you had teased.
His eyes had gone dark in a way that made your thighs press together beneath the table. “I like it too much.”
That had been the problem, Dex had always liked you too much, wanted you too much, so you made rules.
You told him what he could do if you were half-asleep, and what he could do if you were pretending to be asleep, which was different, because sometimes you liked lying there smug while Dex tried to kiss you patiently. You knew what he could do if he came home needy.
Most days, you loved Dex coming into the bedroom while you were still sleepy, his hands sliding under your shirt like he owned every inch of skin he found there. You loved the first drag of his mouth against your shoulder and the rough sound he made when you pressed back into him without opening your eyes. You loved pretending to be annoyed while he kissed down your spine and told you that he knew you were awake because your thighs were already sticky for him.
You loved being wanted like that, loved Dex murmuring filthy nonsense against your skin about how pretty you were, how good you were for him even when you were barely awake. You loved the way he could make free use feel less like being used and more like being worshipped.
Sometimes he was sweet about it, climbing into the bed clean and careful, gathering you back against his chest, and kissing you awake inch by inch like he had all the time in the world. He would slide one hand over your stomach and whisper your name until you made that cute complaining sound he loved, and then he would laugh like you were the best thing that had ever happened to him.
Sometimes he was not sweet, still shaking with adrenaline and put a hand over your mouth before you could say something naughty, only to kiss your temple immediately. Sometimes he pinned your wrists because you liked to fight him for show, and he liked pretending not to know you were letting him win. Sometimes he found you half-asleep and still managed to fuck you awake so thoroughly that by the time you could think again, your face was hot, your hair was a mess, and Dex was in your ear telling you how good you were for letting him have you.
You liked that.
But tonight, your body had already been handled by the entire fucking day. Your nerves had been touched and touched and touched until touch did not feel like touch anymore. It felt more like threat.
You knew that, but then Dex came home and your first thought was still I want him.
You then heard the movement of him walking around the apartment, and not like a direct line to the bathroom, or the kitchen. Not even to check the lock, which he always did even when he had just broken into his own home like a lunatic.
Instead, he was coming to you.
The bedroom door was half-open, and you kept your eyes closed.
You told yourself it was because you were too tired to move, but part of you liked the game. Part of you wanted to be found like this, buried in the middle of the bed in his shirt and your sleep shorts, pretending you hadn’t been waiting all night, helping you forget the day, forget the job, forget everything except getting his hands on the one thing in the world that belonged to him.
He stopped in the doorway, and before you knew it, the mattress dipped.
Dex was always careful at first, even when he was feral. He put a hand beside your hip, not touching yet. His breathing was slow, but not steady. You could hear the way he held himself back for the sake of a rule he wanted to break only because you had once told him breaking it in the right way turned you into putty.
His fingers touched your ankle beneath the blanket, almost testing.
Your body gave a tiny shiver.
Dex went still, before his hand slid higher, possessive enough to make heat flicker through the exhaustion. His palm travelled up the back of your calf, over the bend of your knee, over your thigh. You heard him exhale, and the sound was so hungry it made your stomach flip despite everything.
“Pretty girl,” he whispered.
Your face warmed.
Stupid body. Stupid, fucking traitorous body.
He leaned over you, and his mouth brushed the back of your shoulder where his shirt had slipped wide at the collar. He started with one kiss, quickly followed by another. It became open-mouthed and filthy, like he was trying to be gentle and got overwhelmed. His hand found your waist beneath the shirt, fingers spreading against your skin.
For one second, it worked.
Your violent, devoted, half-mad Dex came home through windows and touched you like you were the only object of desire in the universe, who could make you feel filthy and adored at the same time, who could make being half-asleep feel like the dirtiest kind of safety.
His mouth moved to your neck, hand tightened at your waist.
“Missed you,” he breathed, rough against your skin. “Been thinking about you all night.”
Your thighs pressed together beneath the blanket before you could stop them.
Dex noticed and made a small sound against your throat, almost broken with relief, and shifted closer until his body was against your back. His hand slid over your hip, tugging you back into him.
For one second, you really wanted it.
Your body remembered him before it remembered itself. It remembered all the other nights he had come home ruined and desperate and crawled into bed like your body was the only place he knew where to put the violence. It remembered waking up already breathless to his greedy hands, his mouth saying filthy, adoring things against your skin until you went undone beneath him.
For one second, you wanted to be that girl again.
Dex’s hand tightened on your hip, and your breath broke in a way that sounded enough like pleasure to confuse both of you. He pressed his face into your neck and inhaled like he was trying to crawl inside your veins.
“Color?” he asked, it was rough, but still good of him.
You meant to say yellow.
The word was right there, sitting behind your tongue. Yellow meant slow down, meant you wanted him, but you needed him kinder. It would mean this was good, but also too much. But Dex’s mouth was on your throat, and his hand was warm under your shirt, and you had missed him so badly all day that admitting you needed less felt like losing him for a stupid reason.
So you said, “Green.”
Dex exhaled against your skin. “Yeah?” he murmured.
You nodded, eyes still closed.
You should have said yellow again then. You should have corrected yourself because there was still a good amount of space to do it, while his hand was only at your waist and his mouth was only at your neck, but your mind was gone and your body had betrayed you with that little shiver, and Dex had never been the best at reading the small things. He was more a flashing lights kinda guy.
Feelings had to be handed to him with both hands. It had had to be said plainly, right in front of his face, with no riddles and no hoping he would guess. Dex, through no fault of his own other than his upbringing, didn’t always know the difference between you trembling because you were turned on and you trembling because your nerves were fraying apart unless you told him.
He caught your hip and flipped you onto your back in one rough movement, fast enough that the mattress jolted under you and your breath left in a startled little sound. Dex was above you immediately, one knee between your thighs, one hand braced beside your head, his eyes blown wide with whatever the night had left in him. There was blood at the edge of his collar, and a smear of it near his wrist. His hair was damp from the rain, falling over his forehead in a way that made him look more unhinged at the same time.
“Missed you,” he said, voice wrecked.
Your stomach flipped.
Fuck, he was beautiful like this. Even terrifying, he was beautiful, and you had built so much of your wanting around those two things. Dex looked down at you like he wanted to ruin you and worship whatever was left.
His hand slid to your chin, possessive.
Your thighs pressed together on instincts held apart by his leg between them.
“Mmm ,” he whispered. “My pretty girl.”
Heat curled in you, slick and stupid, even as your skin prickled at the edges. Your bad day had not killed the part of you that loved being grabbed by him, turned by him, handled by him. You loved Dex rough because Dex rough still meant Dex focused, Dex obsessed, Dex so fucking hungry for you that the rest of the world could plunge itself into a void and he wouldn’t give two shits.
His mouth was on yours before you could think. The kiss was hard enough to make your head press back into the pillow. His hand stayed at your chin, holding you there while he took your mouth in a way that made your body go loose for him out of habit. You kissed him back, finger catching the front of his shirt, and when you pulled, Dex made a groan against your lips Then his hand went to the hem of your shirt.
His shirt, technically. He dragged it up your body impatiently, and the cool air hit your skin. You lifted your arms for him before you remembered you were tired.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
Your face went hot.
He threw the shirt behind him.
Usually, you would have laughed and he would have said something deadpan and filthy enough to shut you up. Tonight, the loss of the shirt made you feel exposed too quickly, like your body had not agreed to be perceived that much even if your mind wanted to.
But then Dex kissed down your throat, and you forgot for a second.
His hands were everywhere, greedy at your waist, your ribs, your thighs, reminding himself you were real, coaxing himself out of whatever horror he had done.
You arched under him, and that was honest too.
Your back lifted as your hands found his shoulders. He caught both your wrists in one hand and pressed them above your head, pinning them there against the pillow.
His eyes lifted to yours, fever-bright. “Yeah?”
You swallowed, and this time, no color came out.
Dex took it for yes because it did feel like a yes to you. Usually, you liked being held down. Tonight, you were too tired to know the difference.
Dex reached for the drawer beside the bed.
Your heart jumped, not in fear at first, but in anticipation.
You knew that drawer and what was in it. The rope came out in his hand.
Your breath caught.
“Still green?” he asked.
Say yellow.
Say yellow.
Say yellow.
You looked up at him, at the way his chest rose and fell. You thought about the whole day: the train, office, light, the way you had cried on the hallway floor because your coat had fallen.
You thought, I can take it.
So you said, “Green.”
Dex looked relieved and hungry and dangerously grateful, like he had been waiting all night for permission to stop being human in exactly the way you usually loved.
He tied your wrists to the headboard, roughly, because he was Dex.
He checked the space between rope and skin automatically, two fingers, always. Your wrists went up as the expensive silken rope was bound to the bedframe.
Your body went liquid for one dizzy second.
You loved the helplessness that made your brain melt in a good way. It was a dirty drop of the heart, knowing you couldn’t reach for him now unless he let you. You loved how Dex looked at you when you were restrained, like your trust was the most intimate thing you had ever given him.
“Look at you,” he whispered.
You looked at him looking at you, and for a moment, it was perfect.
Then the rope shifted just slightly. The knot didn’t tighten or hurt. Still, it felt wrong.
The texture scraped your skin in a way it never had before. You could feel every fiber, every point of contact. Your skin pressing against the rope seemed to get louder than everything else in the room somehow, louder than Dex’s breathing, louder than your own heartbeat.
Your fingers flexed, and the rope moved again.
Your stomach dropped.
No.
You tried to breathe through it.
You tried to get the good feeling back. You tried to look at Dex, at his face, at the hunger you usually loved so much. You tried to remind your body that this was chosen and safe and that Dex had checked. That you had said green twice. That you loved this. You loved this. You loved this!
But the rope kept touching you and it felt like pure, crawling wrongness. The feeling started at your wrists and travelled up your arms until your shoulders froze and your chest went tight. The knot might as well have been around your throat for how quickly your breathing changed.
Dex lowered his mouth to your chest, still murmuring something against your skin,filthy and half-mad.
You barely heard it as your eyes filled.
At first, you did not even know you were crying. Then a tear slipped sideways into your hair, then another.
Dex felt you go still, and this time, he noticed immediately.
His head lifted. “Hey,” he said.
You blinked hard, but the tears came faster.
Dex froze above you, that predatory stance gone now.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, panic filling the back of his eyes, unable to read your thoughts.
You couldn’t answer.
His eyes moved over your face, your mouth, your chest, your wrists. He looked almost frantic trying to identify the injury. Was it blood? Bruises, pulled shoulder? Dex was good at identifying wounds.
Emotions made him useless unless you labelled them for him, but this was blatant enough that even Dex understood something was wrong.
“Baby,” he said, voice suddenly stripped bare. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
Your breath caught as the rope brushed your wrist again when you moved.
You made a horrible little sound, unable to speak.
Dex’s eyes snapped to your hands.
“What?” he said, reaching up but not touching yet. “The rope?”
You nodded once, almost ashamed.
He nodded grimly. “What about the rope?”
“I-It feels wrong,” you choked.
Dex went white.
Your fingers flexed again, and the texture dragged at your skin, and suddenly you couldn't bear it for one more second. Not even half of one. Your whole body reacted around the rejection, and the word whispered out of you before you had decided to say it. “Red.”
Dex moved instantly.
His hand went to his belt and to his weapons, and for one horrifying second your body thought knife and almost spiralled further under, but Dex was not looking at you like that anymore.
He pulled the blade free with the same face he wore disarming a bomb.
“Don’t move,” he said, practical.
He didn’t untie the rope, because untying took time.
Dex cut it, a clean slice through the first binding, then the second. The rope fell away from your wrists in loose pieces, useless on the pillow, and Dex threw the knife across the room like he couldn’t stand to have it near you a second longer.
Your arms dropped free, and he was already backing away.
Dex had stopped being a man and become an emergency response. His shoulder hit the dresser, hands lifted, palms open.
You were crying, that was all he saw.
Because of me, he thought.
“I’m away,” he said, a little too loudly and too quickly. “I’m away. I’m not touching you.”
His voice was flat. Dex had never been truly calm a day in his life, so was just forcing panic into a box in his mind that was labeled “procedure.”
You tried to say his name, but it came out broken, and it made him worse.
“I’ll go,” he said. “I can go. I should go. You need space. You need me out. I’ll go to the living room. No, not the living room, that’s not far enough. I’ll go downstairs. Outside. I can wait outside. I won’t come back until you tell me. I won’t touch you, I won’t—”
“Dex—”
“I hurt you.”
You wiped at the tears from your eyes now. “Y-you didn’t.”
He wasn’t listening.
His eyes kept dropping to your wrists. His mouth had gone pale and his hands were still up, still shaking slightly like he didn’t trust them anywhere near you.
You said red and you’re crying, was all he could think of.
“I hurt you.” he said, words coming faster now. “I scared you. I tied you down and you cried. I had a knife in my hand. I shouldn’t have had the knife, I knew I was—”
“Dex.”
“I’ll go.”
You tried to get back up, but even the sheets were starting to crawl as you were getting more and more overwhelmed. “N-No.”
“I need to go.”
“Dex,” it came out breathy.
“I need to not be near you right now.”
“Nuh-uh. Dex—”
“I can’t be the reason you’re looking at me like that.”
You were crying harder now because he was spiralling, and you were spiralling, and the two of you were dragging each other down in opposite directions. Dex kept retreating. You kept trying to pull him back with a voice that was too fragile to reach him.
He turned toward the door, and you finally snapped.
“I need you!”
He froze.
The shout tore out of you raw, loud enough to hurt your throat. Dex stopped like you had fired a warning shot.
You shoved yourself upright, blanket slipping around your waist, cheeks wet, chest heaving.
“Stop,” you sobbed. “Don’t you dare fucking leave while I’m-I’m l-like this.”
His face fell, panic still prevalent. “I’m trying not to make it worse.”
You choked on a breath. “You are making it worse!”
Dex went still.
You pointed at the floor like you could physically pin him there with the gesture. “You are standing over there looking at me like you’re a monster and you keep talking about leaving and I can’t— I can’t do this too, okay? I can’t comfort you while you’re trying to punish yourself. I need you.”
He looked devastated, and maybe that meant he was finally listening.
“I just—” Your voice broke, and the next words came out almost screamed, because gentleness wasn’t cutting it anymore. “I just need you to hold me, you fucking idiot!”
Dex stared at you, looking completely lost.
Every terrible conclusion he had been building in his head had slammed into that sentence like a shield and shattered at his feet.
“You want me to hold you?” he asked, barely audible.
“Yes,” you cried. “Jesus Christ, yes.”
His hands lowered by an inch.
“But I scared you.”
“Because I was already scared of everything,” you managed through gritted teeth.
“You said red.”
“And you stopped!”
You could see it finally go through to him. His eyes flicked to the cut rope, then to your wrists, then back to your face. He was still terrified of himself, but he stopped backing away.
“I need you clean,” you said, voice shaking. “Then I need you here.”
He moved immediately.
Thank God.
Giving him an instruction helped him. Dex disappeared into the bathroom with stiff purpose, and you heard water slam on. As he scrubbed his hands too hard. You heard him almost losing it over the sink and forcing himself not to because you had not asked for that.
When he came back, the blood was gone.
His shirt was gone too, replaced with the white sleeveless one you liked, because it made him look less like he had crawled out of an alley and more like the man who lived here. Your man, who slept with one hand searching for you.
He stopped by the bed, still afraid to presume after what happened.
You opened your arms.
He climbed onto the bed slowly, gave you every second to change your mind, and only closed his arms around you when you grabbed the front of his shirt and dragged him in.
Then he was truly in, and you folded into him.
You cried into his chest with both fists clenched in his shirt, and Dex held you like he was learning how to touch you all over again.
“Tighter,” you sobbed.
His arms tightened.
“More.”
He held you properly then, careful but not distant. His chin tucked over your head, one hand spread between your shoulder blades, the other on your back, keeping you against him without trapping you. You could feel his heartbeat racing under your cheek, and still, yours was worse.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
Words had been too much all day. Everything had been too much all day. So this was good.
Dex pressed his mouth to your hair.
“I just had a bad day,” you whispered into his chest.
His arms tightened again.
You felt him inhale. “All day?” he asked.
You nodded.
His hand flexed against your back.
He wanted to ask, you could feel it. He wanted names, causes, targets, so he could follow them home and put them through a wall for making you feel like this. But for once, he held it in.
You cried harder, because he was warm and clean and finally close enough. “I meant to say yellow,” you whispered.
His chest stopped moving for a second.
“I know,” you added, before he could spiral again. “I know I said green. I know. I just wanted to be okay. I wanted it to be like usual.”
Dex didn’t speak for a long moment.
Then he held you a little closer and pressed his cheek to the top of your head. “Okay,” he said roughly.
It sounded like he was swallowing glass.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was serious, jaw tight, laying in bed with the woman he loved crying all over his shirt, trying to work out how to shoot a bad day.
And then, with absolute sincerity, he asked, “Do you want me to kill anyone?”
You stared at him.
He meant it.
Fuck.
It was so shocking, so cathartic, that a sudden laugh burst out of you, half-strangled against his chest. You tried to stop it, but the look on his face only made it worse. He frowned slightly, earnest, still holding you like he would rather die than move wrong.
“I’m serious,” he said.
You laughed harder. “Dex.”
“What?”
“You can’t kill someone because I had a bad day.”
His brow furrowed. “Why not?”
“Oh my God.”
“If there’s a person responsible—”
“There isn’t.”
“There’s usually a person responsible.”
“There was Brad from HR.”
You blinked at him. “How do you know about Brad from HR?”
“You texted me about him once.”
“That was, like, six months ago.”
“I remember things.”
Despite yourself, you laughed again.
You buried your face against him again, laughing and crying at the same time until you could barely breathe. Dex still looked confused, but his arms settled securely around you. He understood this much, at least, when you pressed closer instead of pushing him away.
“I don’t need you to kill anyone,” you murmured once the laughter faded.
“Okay.”
“I just need you to hold me.”
His mouth pressed to your hair again. “That I can do,” he said.
And he did, held you until your breathing slowed, until the room stopped feeling like it was on fire.
After a while, very quietly, he added, “I would, though.”
You huffed a tired laugh into his shirt. “I know, honey.”
His arms tightened carefully around you.
“Just checking,” he said.
And because it was him, because he meant it with his whole heart, because the day had been awful and you were safe now, you laughed one last tiny laugh into the dark.
I saw you were taking requests I would love to request . You are an amazing writer
Can I request where Reader is Epileptic and her and Jack are at work. Reader has a seizure and maybe gets hurt or something. He takes care of reader through their seizure.
I will definitely request more if that’s okay 🥰
💞Tags/Warnings💞: slight age gap relationship, secret relationship, hurt/comfort, worried!Jack Abbot, fluff, ( brief ) mentions/descriptions of Tonic Seizures ( pls read at your own risk ), AttentiveBoyfriend!Jack Abbot
💞Plot💞: No one at the Pitt knows Dr. Y/N is taken. No one at the Pitt knows Jack Abbot is taken. They’re all about to find out..
💞Characters💞: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader
💞Title💞: I’ve Got You, Baby
💞A/N💞: omg, you’re so sweet. Of course it’s okay to request more, pls do! 🤭 I really hope you like it!!
((Requests are ALWAYS open))
Masterlist
“I think you should clock out..” Jack whispers in Y/N’s ear, standing close to her desk to speak low enough for only her to hear, his eyes scanning the busy ED around them to make sure no one is watching this intimate moment too closely.
“Am I doing that bad?” She tries to joke back playfully as she focuses on charting.
“Y/N..” Jack says. She pauses at the tone of his voice. Jack Abbot not wanting to banter? This was serious...
“You haven’t been resting. I told you to take today off-“ She cuts him off before he can spark up the same argument they’ve have been having since yesterday.
“I am fine..” She argues simply as she backs away from him now to show she’s done with the conversation.
Jack and Y/N had managed to keep their relationship a secret for about a year and some change. But now, things were getting serious. Well.. Way more serious than they already were.
Y/N had officially moved into Jack’s apartment.
They’d done the move in one weekend. Jack was stubborn enough, and prideful enough, to do all the heavy lifting himself. Most furniture went to a storage unit, but the majority of her stuff was in Jack’s condo right now. And just as Jack had done, Y/N had stubbornly, and pridefully, spent the entire weekend putting everything in its specific space.
Meaning right now, on Monday morning, her sleep schedule was all out of whack, and caused Jack concern…
“You’ve had a full weekend of broken sleep, you just finished moving so your stress levels must be high, and last night we killed an entire bottle of white wine.” Jack lists his worries as he follows Y/N down the hallway..
“Ugh. Don’t remind me..” Y/N mutters playfully as she rubs her temple as if regretting that decision.
“Not funny.” Jack states quietly. He didn’t want to bicker with her at work, but he also was worried. She was sluggish all morning and surviving strictly on energy drinks. Jack had counted two of them in her trash bin already.
“I bet you haven’t had anything for your sugars, have you.” He accuses gently. “Or water.” He adds. Y/N raises an eyebrow at that and makes a big show of stopping at a water fountain to drink from before giving him a ‘there’ glance. He crosses his arms at that, unamused..
“Jack.” Y/N sighs. “I’m a big girl. I’ve been dealing with this for a good part of my life. I think I can handle today..” She says simply. Jack opens his mouth to argue more just as Santos walks over to them.
“Need an attending. Old patient. Came in through ambulance. She’s gonna need stitches..” She says with a heavy sigh that shows her own midday exhaustion.
“I’ll take it. Dr. Y/N was just clocking out..” Jack says. Y/N gives him a look.
“You’re so kind, Dr. Abbot. But I’ve got it.” She says shortly before nodding for Santos to follow her, much to Jack’s dismay..
“You know…” A voice comes from behind Jack, making him breathe out. “When you and Dr. Y/N first reported your relationship, I gave Gloria my word you two would rarely associate at work..” Robby states as he walks right over to stand at Jack’s side.
“Robby…” Jack mutters, as if warning that he’s not in the mood.
“‘No, Gloria. No one needs to move stations. I trust my doctors to be casual in the workplace. This is an ED, not love island..’..” Robby mocks anyways. Jack raise an eyebrow as he eyes his friend now.
“Love island?” He asks.
“Not the point.” Robby states with a firm shake of his head, as if not wanting to get into that right now.
“I’m behaving. For now..” Jack mutters. “Just… Worried..” He says softly.
Robby’s teasing presence cuts short at that, gently squeezing Jack’s shoulder in silent assurance…
*
*
*
“My father used to worry about her all the time..” The young college girl mutters as she steps outside of the hospital room with Y/N so Santos can handle the stitches her mother now needed.
“I’m sure.” Y/N says, voice calm. “According to her charts, she’s… Epileptic…” Y/N begins softly. The young girl shakes her head at that. Not to denounce the fact, but to show she’s lost as to how to handle all of this.
“Yeah. She’s… On medication, but.. I.. I don’t know..” The girl mutters, stressed as she holds herself.
Y/N opens her mouth to question that, but slows her roll. “I’m sorry, let me fully introduce myself. My name is Dr. Y/N Y/L/N..” Y/N says instead, wanting to come off as compassionate..
“Sasha.” The girl mutters, shaking Y/N’s hand. “Is she gonna be okay?” Sasha asks before Y/N can speak further. Y/N hesitates at answering that.
“She’s… Lucky all she did was cut her chin on the way down.” Y/N finally lands on. “And that your little brother was home.” She adds on as both women turn to eye the 12-year old boy who had called 911 when he’d first heard the bang from the bathroom.
“You said she’s on medication?” Y/N continues.
“Yeah. But.. My dad always made sure she stuck to it. And her doctor appointments. He was on top of everything..” Sasha mutters.
“Was?” Y/N asks as she can’t help but picture Jack in the back of her mind..
“He passed. Almost a month ago. And… Now it’s just.. Her and my brother in that house. I live on campus..” Sasha sighs as she rubs her forehead.
Y/N opens her mouth to speak when she feels it. Building..
Oh no..
The nausea has hit her. She knew exactly what was coming next, so she’s able to stiffen the look of disgust on her face when she feels it. A metallic taste filling her mouth. She usually sits down at this point because the dizziness will start up soon enough. She knows soon the feeling in the pit of her stomach will change from a butterfly flutter to a twisting and turning.
But she’s at her job.
She’s with a patient.
And she can’t lay down…
‘Not here. Not now..’ Is all she can think before the dots begin to flood her vision. She can no longer hear Sasha anymore.
Fuck.
“Are you… Okay?” Sasha asks slowly, noting how pale Y/N seemed to be getting.
“One…” Y/N manages to breathe out before she turns fast, rushing to the nurse’s station, hoping she can get there in time. Hoping she can at least sit down.
Jack is in the middle of talking with Dana when he sees Y/N from the corner of his eye. She practically stumbles against the countertop, gripping it tightly, breathing uneven. He sees the fear in her eyes, her uneven breathing, and instantly knows what comes next. “Shit.” He says, moving away from Dana as fast as he can.
Javadi, who’d been at the nurse’s station to read the patient logs, pauses as she notices Y/N too. “Dr. Y/N?” She asks as she moves closer to check on her.
It all happens so fast…
“Catch her!” Jack shouts as he watches Y/N’s shoulders tense and her legs stiffen. She starts to fall and Javadi is so startled that she doesn’t reach out to grab her till Y/N has already hit the floor, landing on her left arm.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?! I said catch her!” Jack snaps at Javadi, not thinking straight anymore.
“I didn’t… I don’t…” She stammers a bit as Jack gets on his knees beside Y/N. He carefully wraps an arm around her upper, moving to sit on the floor with her in his lap. She’s as stiff as a board, muscles twitching and jaw tight.
“I got you, baby. I got you…” He whispers to her, seeing the fear in her as he holds her face with his right hand, his left arm still wrapped around her tense shoulders, holding her across his lap. As Dana curses quietly. Javadi watches in shock and a few other hospital staff try getting closer to see what’s really going on.
“Give her some room!” Dana begins to shout orders as Jack focuses only on Y/N.
He keeps his face neutral and calm. He needs to be her rock right now. He needs to hide the fact that this is breaking him to his very core.
That it’s hurting his heart to see her look so terrified and out of control. He whispers repeatedly that he’s got her now. That it’s gonna be okay. His voice cracks a bit when he watches the way her eyes gloss over for a moment…
Jack braces himself, tears in his eyes as he watches her head go back. Like it’s being forced back. Choked air wheezes from her, air that’s being forced out of rigid chest muscles. It causes her to let out a sudden groan as she goes completely ridged.
He holds her through it. Forcing himself to focus on how long she’s out for. He counts the seconds before her head jolts back up. She’s back to reality, gasping for the air her lungs were forced to squeeze out.
10 seconds.
The longest 10 seconds of his life…
*
*
*
Her head is fuzzy.
That’s to be expected in this moment though.
She sits in the hospital bed with water and orange juice both in front of her. And a cookie that Dana had snuck in. Jack hasn’t moved his forehead off of her hand yet. She hasn’t spoken yet. She doesn’t even know if Jack knows that she’s awake yet.
She opens her mouth to speak, but she doesn’t know what to truly say. Maybe a sorry? Maybe a hi? Maybe an assurance that she’s okay now?
“If you wanna be mad at me…” She finally settles on, her voice a bit hoarse. “Just… Keep in mind I have a hurt shoulder now..” She says gently. Jack doesn’t move.
“Like… Really hurt.” She tries sheepishly. Still no response. “Like, it might need to be kissed better, kind of hurt..” She says gently, trying to lighten the mood in the hospital room they were alone in.
“Y/N…” Jack breathes out finally.
“I’m sorry.” The two words slip out automatically. It was better than the alternative of Jack being pissed at her.
He looks up at her finally, his eyes showing just how concerned he was. His dark brown eyes were as somber as oak wood in the dead of winter.
It makes Y/N frown..
“What am I gonna do with you?” He finally whispers.
“Love me anyways?” Y/N asks hopefully, voice slightly timid as Jack sighs, looking down at the hospital bed she lays in.
“I should’ve been more on top of myself. I’m so sorry I put you through that again..” She mutters after another beat of silence.
The first, and only other, time Jack had seen Y/N like that was before they even started dating.
An eight car pile up at happened on the local freeway, and Y/N felt it coming on, so she ran straight to the break room. Jack had followed her in and caught her before she could hit the ground because she wasn’t fast enough to get to the chair.
That was the first time Y/N got a real good look at his eyes.
Jack watches her for a moment longer before he breaks, moving over slowly to cup her face. He kisses her tenderly and she tries to kiss back, but she can feel a headache forming. He pulls back a bit, stroking her hair. “I…” He begins quietly as he holds her face carefully. She bites her lip at his tone of voice.
“Am going to keep an eye on your levels..” He says ever so softly, watching her face closely. “And when they’re balanced… I’m gonna take you home. And when we get home, I’m going to run you a hot bubble bath with epsom salt for your shoulder. And then you will stay in bed, resting, while I worry about dinner tonight. And you’re not going to fight me… On any of this…” He says as he looks at her. Y/N presses her lips together at the plan, knowing she truly has no say right now.
“Okay…” She whispers. He pecks her lips tenderly and mumbles for her to drink her juice and water. He stands up and she settles in the bed again, looking down at her hands.
“Before I fainted…” Y/N begins when Jack is about to leave. He pauses and turns to her. “My patient… Her husband used to take care of her. And now she’s on her own. And I think… It just got me thinking about…” She trails off as she sheepishly messes with the hospital sheets. Jack slowly walks back over to her.
“I bet… He lived his life happily caring for her. Because having her in his life… Was worth it all..” Jack states confidently as he cradles the back of her head carefully as he watches her. “Every moment was a fair trade..” He whispers before kissing her forehead, making her blush a bit. He slowly steps back from the bed again.
“Even the moments where she was a stubborn pain in his ass.” He adds with a small smirk. Y/N playfully glares. He walks back over to the door and Y/N grabs the orange juice and pauses a bit.
“Where are you going?” She finally asks.
“Gonna go give a still very frightened med student a sincere apology..” He mutters sheepishly, recalling his blow up at Javadi.
“Oh god.” Y/N mumbles. “Jack! What did you do?!” She fusses softly as Jack quickly exits the room.
• Safe Space: Pope Cody has a routine. Everyday at 6pm, he turns off his phone, and drives away. Where to? Nobody knows…
🌿 🌿 🌿 🌿 🌿 🌿
• Sick Days: Lena’s feelin sick, Pope needs Y/N’s help…
🌿 🌿 🌿 🌿 🌿 🌿
• Hi…: Y/N knows the Cody Family is nothing to mess with. But they haven’t learned that neither is she. When she shows up at their front door, demanding custody of J, Pope gets a blast from the past. And so does she..
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• Stay the Night: Y/N has made a friend of Pope Cody. And that comes with lots of protection..
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• Wanna Be Yours: Pope Cody is a man of routine. Y/N is a new face, and a whole new feeling for him..
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• Pope’s Girl: Pope just wants to see his girl dance..
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• Happy Birthday, Pope: Pope Cody assumed his mind going blank in his last minute of life was a mercy from the universe. Who knew the universe had more to give a man like him…
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• Slow: Y/N has taught Pope what a first date should feel like, first kiss, and now.. She’s gonna show him how much pleasure there is to go slow..
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• My Girlfriend is a Witch: After a job leads to Pope hiding out in a random crystal shop, the family’s confused on what the hell the owner sees in Pope. Turns out, he’s not the scarier of the two..
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• Beso..: Just Pope being in love with his girlfriend and her culture.
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• Soft: Pope is used to wearing his emotions on his sleeve. It doesn’t matter, because no one has ever noticed. But Y/N notices..
🍃Plot🍃: Y/N has made a friend of Pope Cody. And that comes with lots of protection..
🍃Characters🍃: Pope Cody x Fem!Reader
🍃Title🍃: Stay the Night
🍃A/N🍃: I really hope you like it, babes!
((Requests are ALWAYS open))
Masterlist
“Should I even question this?”
The question is playful. Mostly just to break the silence as Y/N works on the small cuts all over Pope’s forearm. He sits at her kitchen table with his back straight and shoulders squared, his eyes zeroed in on the way she works on him.
“I wouldn’t…” He mutters. It’s not a threat or a warning. Just a casual two words that leave his lips and make Y/N smile a bit.
“Noted..” She whispers as she picks out the last piece of glass from his forearm. She then looks up at him. “All done. You deserve a lollipop..” She teases a bit as she uses gauze to now wrap his forearm up.
Pope shifts slightly in his chair as he watches Y/N, eyebrows raised. “Really?” He asks quietly.
“Mm-Hm. If only I had some.” She shrugs, smiling a bit more as she finishes the wrapping, leaning back in her chair now. “Would you settle for coffee instead? Maybe some dinner?” She offers.
“I like dinner.” Pope nods before mentally kicking himself.
What kind of response was that?!
“I’m more of a breakfast girlie..” Y/N says playfully, unfazed by his natural awkwardness. It’s why he liked her. Why he liked being here.
Pope never felt exhausted until he was here in Y/N’s one bedroom apartment with her. It was as if his body could drop down its guard. It’s act. His ‘I’m normal’ mask wasn’t on in this moment, and it seemed like Y/N wasn’t put off by what she saw underneath it all.
She didn’t see ‘Pope Cody’, the muscle of the Cody crime family. She saw Andrew. The guy who showed up every first of the month to collect rent, and sit with her for hours afterwards to just talk and eat.
“I made pasta..” She trails off to think about it. “Yesterday.” She states when she settles on the timeline. She’s felt up in the air these past two months, and the days all blended together for her..
As she packs up her first aid kit, she notices Pope shift a bit in his seat at the mention of pasta, looking down at his hands as he rubs his palms against his jeans.
Y/N takes note of his silence. Pope is a silent man by nature, but whenever a topic comes up that he dislikes, the silence turns more.. Tense. Y/N has come to understand his different types of silence.
He doesn’t like pasta.
Y/N had a hunch he suffers heavily from ARFID, and if so, his silence right now made sense. “Or we can go out.” She shrugs, acting casual about it. “The Moonlight Diner? They’re still having that pancake deal..” She points out.
“You want pancakes?” Pope asks carefully now, voice soft as he eyes Y/N. She chuckles at his undertone. He’d only agree if it wasn’t a bother to her.
“I could go for a short stack.” She nods as she puts the first aid kit away in her hallway bathroom.
It was 10:23pm, and Pope knew deep down that his business here should end now that he’s all cleaned up. But that would mean being alone. Alone in a silence that wasn’t as beautiful as the one Y/N brought with her.
Elbowing through a car window earlier this morning had gotten him some props, mostly from Craig, but it had cut up his arm pretty good. And there was only one person he trusted to make it better.
Y/N walks out of the bathroom and over to the front door rack to grab her jacket. Pope sits there, still at the kitchen table, still in his head as he watches her move.
Pope got by on people watching. Mostly to study how they’d move. Usually, it was with judgment. Rarely did he watch them with… The same feeling that had settled in his chest when he was six years old, watching ducks swim in a pond after he’d been left at the local park for about three hours one afternoon.
That’s how Y/N moved..
“You ready?” She asks as she slips the jacket on. Only then does Pope get up from the kitchen table, walking out with her on to the street in front of the apartment complex he’s become grateful Baz talked Smurf into getting.
The walk to the 24 hour diner a few blocks away is quiet. Peaceful. Pope keeps his hands in his front pockets because if they aren’t, he might brush his hand against Y/N’s.
And he doesn’t want to startle her..
“The stars are real bright tonight..” Y/N says after a moment. Pope hums softly. He’s had people in the past try and break the silence he brings with him just to get out of how awkward it all felt. He’s also had people use his presence as just a humanoid journal of sorts. Talking at him instead of to him.
But whenever Y/N spoke, it just felt natural. Pope assumed this was what it felt to be… Normal. He liked it. “Yeah. Real nice..” He says, not looking though. They couldn’t be as pretty as her.
“Humor me…” Y/N giggles, lightly nudging his arm with hers. Pope takes note of that. He takes note of everything. Files it away to think about later…
Y/N gets in front of him, stopping him from walking. He almost bumps into her. She looks up at him with a soft chuckle, pointing towards the sky for him to actually look. Pope slowly follows her finger, staring up at the vast night sky. It makes him feel… Small. Which is odd, because Pope hasn’t felt small since.. Well, since he was small. But it doesn’t scare him.
“I bet it’d take an entire lifetime to count them all..” Y/N notes quietly as she looks up at them too. With Pope, she could usually just say the first random thing that popped into her mind, and know she’ll be met with genuine acknowledgment instead of… A look of judgment.
It felt nice.
Pope watches her face as she continues gazing up at the starry sky. It’s at that moment that he realizes if he could do anything in life, he’d keep the sun down for as long as possible, until Y/N counted every single star. Looking back towards him, she smiles a bit at how he’s already looking at her.
“What?” She asks.
“Nothing…” He says slowly. She hums and backs away before nodding at him.
“Come on…” She says gently. He falls back into step with her…
*
*
*
The pancakes were burnt at the edges. The coffee a bit watery. The red and white color scheme of the diner was outdated by a few decades, but Pope isn’t here for any of that. The company is what keeps him in the leather booth.
The conversation carries him from his own mind. The playful debate on which topping is better for pancakes, syrup or whip cream, puts a soft grin on his face that seems to only be common whenever Y/N is around.
After the late night breakfast, the two begin walking back to the apartment. Pope feels clean as he listens to Y/N talk more..
Being around Y/N made him feel clean..
Her steps pause right as they turn the corner to her apartment complex though, voice cutting out and eyes going to a specific car parked out front. She slowly holds herself.
“What?” Pope asks, telling instantly that she’s no longer happy.
“Nothing. Just… Wanna head inside..” She mutters. His eyes go straight to the car. A black Toyota.
“Who’s that?” He asks bluntly, not beating around the bush. That car has ruined Y/N’s mood. And Pope can’t have that.
Y/N sighs as if that’s a loaded question. “That’s… It’s no one..” She assures. Pope eyes her longer before turning back to the car. He starts to walk towards it, and Y/N freezes a bit at his stride towards the vehicle.
“Andrew!” She tries. The car starts up in that moment, peeling out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell. Pope watches it speed off.
When he turns back to face Y/N again, she looks nervous. Scared
Fuck.
He scared her…
He opens his mouth, as if wanting to say something, but what can he say?
“I’ll be back next week.” He settles on, gruffly before turning back to his car. Might as well close that door before Y/N can..
“Andrew.” Y/N calls out to him, but he keeps walking…
That night, Pope lays in his bed. He’s trapped with his two worst enemies. His thoughts and the silence. Subtly, he begins to rub his left thumb as he thinks about Y/N. There’s a mark there. Faint, but a reminder.
It makes him think back to when he was six. Left at that park all alone for three hours with nothing but ducks to watch. And something about how they glided along the pond water kept him seated.
He remembers seeing an old lady toss bread into the water for the ducks to feast on. He remembers the lady noticing him and giving him the rest of her bread. She told him to only give them small pieces. Too much would hurt them. Pope took that advice seriously. Only tiny pieces.
He’d gotten an idea though. He wanted to hold one. So he made a trail from the pond to where he would sit and wait. A young looking duck would follow the trail, much to his excitement.
Pope lays in bed, remembering how fast he’d reached for the duck, wanting to cradle it, wanting to take it home. Only for the duck to freak out. It bit him and ran away.
With a soft frown, he remembers when Smurf finally got back to the park and found him cradling his bleeding finger. With held back tears, he tried explaining what happened to his mother.
She shook her head at him. ‘What made you think that would work out, hm?’ She’d asked with a held back laugh.
‘They were just pretty..’ He had tried to defend.
‘That’ll teach you. Don’t bother pretty things.’
Those words.
He should’ve kept them in mind when he first met Y/N. When his brain first made the connection between her and those damn ducks. And now he lays here, rubbing the small scar at the base of his thumb.
That’ll teach him…
*
*
*
Y/N stares at herself in the mirror. This was her fifth hairstyle idea, and it didn’t feel right. She wanted something that looked casual but still… Might get Pope’s attention.
He’d be over soon for the rent, and she hoped that he’d stay a little longer. Maybe give her a chance to explain all she’d been juggling with.
She sighs when she hears a knock on her front door.
Here goes nothing…
Walking over to the door, she opens without checking.
So stupid…
Nick smirks at her, making her stiffen.
Fuck.
“No.” Leaves her mouth without her even having to think about it. It’s like an automated response. She tries to close the door only to have his foot get in the way.
“What? What’s the rush? You got company still?” Nick snarls as he shoves the door open again, making Y/N stumble back a bit.
“I’ll call the cops! You know you’re not supposed to be here!” Y/N threatens keeping her voice strong. She doesn’t wanna give this weirdo the pleasure of knowing she’s scared.
But, god, is she scared…
“I wanna talk. Why are you being so goddamn difficult?!” He snaps as he stands in her doorway now. She’s in a studio apartment where the only door that locks is the bathroom, and the only room with a window is her bedroom.
Plus, she’s on the second floor. Still, she debates if she can make it to the room and out the window before he can grab her.
Nick was the reason these past two months have felt like walking through clouds! He was a coworker of hers at the hospital who’d grown unhealthily attached to her. He’d gone from being a ‘nice guy’ who she should ‘give a chance to’, to being a damn nightmare.
What started as a constant nagging at work, quickly turned into him just showing up to places she was at. Stores, parties, restaurants. When she realized he was starting to stake out her apartment at night, she finally let the cops in on this mess only to be told that they technically couldn’t do anything.
Even at work, her boss had just simply moved Nick from the ED to triage. But no other stops were put into place.
“Get the hell out of here!” Y/N snaps. No one was gonna be strong for her. It was just another thing in life that she’d have to do for herself.
“You said you had no time to date..” Nick points out, tone smug like he’d caught her in some lie. She stares at him like he’s crazy.
Because he is!
He’d completely bypassed her original statement because he just loved hearing himself talk..
“What?!” Y/N asks in astonishment.
“You said you didn’t have time to date. That’s why you couldn’t date me. But you have time to go eat at the diner with some guy?!” Nick accuses, as if he’d caught her cheating. Y/N is shocked at his delusion.
“And?!” She practically screams before steeling her nerves. “Leave! Now, Nick!” She orders as she steps closer, thinking she can probably intimidate him. He glares hard at her, moving to lunge for her. She screams, flinching away with her arms out when she hears a thud.
For a second, she doesn’t know what’s happening until she fully takes in the scene before her. Nick groans as he leans over her couch’s arm, trying to get his bearing together again after having been punched on the side of his head by Pope.
She blinks away the tears, adrenaline still bumping and making her heart race as Pope walks over and grabs up Nick by his collar before he can fully get up.
“You didn’t hear her?” Pope growls as Y/N shakes a bit, watching this all unfold. Nick tries fighting against Pope’s grip, but it’s like iron.
“Hm?! You didn’t hear?!” Pope shouts as he grabs Nick up fully. Y/N jumps a bit. She’s never seen eyes get that dark.
They’re almost black...
Nick struggles against him, trying to yell for him to let go, that he’ll leave, but that’s not good enough for Pope. “I’ll make sure you fucking hear her..” He mutters darkly as he drags Nick outside. Nick’s feet drag a bit. He can barely keep his footing, but it doesn’t halt Pope in any way.
Y/N rushes to the doorway of her apartment, covering her mouth in horror when she sees Pope lift Nick up effortlessly to dangle his upper half off the edge of the railing. They were a good 12 or so feet from the ground, and Nick begins kicking his feet, hands gripping Pope’s wrists as he starts to beg and plead with him.
“I’m leaving! I’m leaving!” He tries urgently between wheezes of fear, and Y/N has a split second where she realizes just how.. Small the man who’s been terrorizing for two months straight actually looks…
“Andrew!” She says as she comes back to the reality at hand. Pope’s expression is calm. Unreadable. He’s staring right into Nick’s eyes, right into his panic…
“Andrew..” She pants, feeling her stomach twist and her heart leap when she sees just how close Nick is to getting dropped over the railing.
She grabs his tense shoulders, trying to break him from this. “Andrew, let go..” She whispers nervously. The corner of Pope’s lips twitch into a sick smirk as he starts to loosen his grip.
“No! No, no, no!” Nick screams. “Different words! Fuck! Y/N, Different words!” Nick practically screeches in alarm. Y/N bites back a scream of her own, grabbing Pope’s face and making him look at her instead.
“I’m safe.” She says without thinking. She doesn’t know if that’ll work. If those two words will register to Pope right now, but she has to try something. He blinks slowly as Y/N sniffles.
“You hear me? Hm? I’m safe..” She rambles out fast as she holds his face firmer. “Let him leave.” She begs quietly. Pope clenches his jaw, but slowly, he begins pulling Nick back on to the solid second floor landing. Nick’s legs almost give out when Pope lets go of him, but he pushes himself to start scrambling for the stairs so he can leave.
Pope watches on with no expression on his face before he whistles lowly. Nick looks over at him, tears still rolling down his cheeks as he swallows.
“The next time I see your face…” Pope begins quietly, voice rough. “They won’t find your body..” He mutters as he watches the man tremble slightly. He turns and runs, leaving Y/N and Pope behind…
Y/N stares in shock as Nick gets back in his car and speeds away. Was that it? Was it over? She shakes slightly as she lets her eyes wonder all around, as if trying to figure out what to do with herself now.
That’s when she notices the blood.
Nick must’ve scratched the hell out of Pope’s hands and wrists in the midst of his panic. Y/N doesn’t think twice. She gently leads Pope into her apartment…
*
*
*
This was Deja vu at its finest.
The silence between the two is thick, sure, but… Not ‘off’. Just.. Raw. Tender.
“All done..” Y/N whispers as she sits back from cleaning and bandaging the really bad cuts on Pope’s hands. “You… Deserve a lollipop..” She mumbles quietly, halfheartedly trying to joke. If anything, it was to show Pope that even after all of this.. She still didn’t see him as.. A threat.
She wasn’t dense. She knew who owned this building. She knew the reason why no one came out of their apartments earlier to see what all the screaming was about. She knew who really sat in her kitchen.
But it wasn’t the same man who looked back at her right now..
“Really?” Pope whispers back after a moment of just watching her with shamed eyes.
“Mm-Hm. But… I still don’t have any..” She mutters, giving him a playful sheepish look back. He cracks a little grin. She gets up and packs away the first aid supplies, walking it over to its usual spot.
She then walks to the bedroom afterwards and grabs the envelope of rent money that’s in her nightstand drawer. Walking back out to the kitchen, she sees Pope still sat. Still looking down.
She silently sets down the envelope. “Thank you..” She says gently. Pope doesn’t look at her. She slowly steps back and watches as he doesn’t seem to react to the money being right in front of him either. She softly holds herself as he looks at his hands. Specially, at his left thumb..
“Can I stay?” He whispers finally. Y/N pauses. His voice is so faint she almost can’t make out what he said..
“What?” She asks. He finally looks up at her.
“If I promise to protect you…” He trails off, looking her in the eyes. His brown orbs resemble a stray dog. “Can I stay?” He whispers.
Y/N blinks in surprise. She opens her mouth, but he shakes his head. “Because… I..” His voice cracks a bit.
“Andrew..” She begins quietly, but he quickly finds his voice again.
“I can be good. I can be good..” He repeats quietly as he leans closer, looking at her as his hands find her hips. The way he looks up at her mirrors worship.
“Andrew..” She whispers. “You are good-“ He cuts her off before she can assure him.
“I can be useful. If you let me stay, I can.. I’ll be good-“ She finally cups his face with both hands so he has no choice but to focus on her.
“You can stay…” She whispers with a nod. “You can stay…” She repeats quietly as he slowly stands up now, looking down at her instead. She doesn’t know which she liked better…
“You can stay…” She mutters quietly as she pulls his face close to finally do the thing she’s been dying to do these past four months…
His grip tightens, yanking her close as he gets lost in a kiss she leads before he picks her up effortlessly.
“I’ll be good…” He mumbles against her lips, voice desperate to please as she shivers, wrapping her legs around him so he can carry her straight to that bedroom…
🍃Tags/Warnings🍃: fluff, Worried!Pope, Lena and Pope cuteness ( do not separate🥹 ), AU where Pope has full custody of Lena ( and nothing bad happens ever… ), not just friends/not yet lovers trope
🍃Plot🍃: Lena’s feelin sick, Pope needs Y/N’s help…
🍃Characters🍃: Andrew “Pope” Cody x Fem!Reader
🍃Title🍃: Sick Days
🍃A/N🍃: based off of this request -> “I love Pope with Lena, there aren't many fics with them. ( only if their dynamic is something you want to write about) can do x reader too” oh honey, Pope and Lena are on my mind 24/7 lol! Hope you like it!
((Requests are ALWAYS open))
Masterlist
Pope stands in the office looking as out of place as a preschooler at a bar. His sunglasses stay on, head held high, and ignoring the glances he keeps getting from the lady running the front desk.
The buzzer to the main entrance rings out, and Pope’s shoulders slouch as Lena walks over with a school nurse following.
“What happened?” Pope asks the seven year old girl who sheepishly looks down.
“I felt sick in class..” She mutters quietly, not looking at her uncle. He frowns and glances at the nurse who looks just as lost as he is.
“Did you eat something?” Pope asks.
Lena mutters something that he can’t make out. He frowns, dropping the interrogation for now. “Let’s get you home..” He sighs, already grabbing at her bookbag so she knows to give it to him. She shrugs off the bag and follows him out to his car.
The ride home is silent and for once, the quiet worries Pope. He steals glances at Lena in the backseat of his car, watching with hands gripping the steering wheel as the little girl keeps her big brown eyes glued to the passing scenery outside her window.
As soon as they’re pulled into Pope’s driveway, he’s already making his mind up over who to call.
Y/N.
She was a newly hired medic at the underground center he fought at. Something about their first ever meeting had stuck with him. Now, he only trusted her to patch him up. And.. He definitely trusted her around Lena. He moves around the car, getting Lena out and carrying her inside as he practices in his head how he’s going to call Y/N.
“Can I lay on the couch?” Lena asks, voice soft. Pope pauses. He’s no expert, but he’d been on his way to instantly put Lena in bed, assuming she’d rather her comfortable mattress instead. But he doesn’t argue with her. He sets her on the couch and instantly grabs a throw blanket for her and tucks her in, wanting her completely snugged.
“Can I watch tv?” Lena asks innocently, looking up at Pope. He hums and hands over the remote.
“Nothing inappropriate..” He says. She nods certainly, smiling a bit as she gets comfortable. He watches her worriedly as he backs away outside into the backyard so he can openly make his phone call.
The phone rings a good two to three times before it stops. Shuffling is heard on the other end. “Andrew?” Y/N asks gently. Pope sighs shakily at hearing her voice. He doesn’t speak for a moment.
Crap, he forgot the script he’d planned out in his head…
“I need…” He pauses and clears his throat roughly. There’s a long pause. As if he’s rethinking his sentence.
Rethinking this call.
Last time he spoke to Y/N, she made it very clear that she liked him. Had kissed him good luck before his fight that night. And that kiss… His brain had damn near short circuited because of that kiss.
He didn’t know kissing could be so… Intimate.
“Need what, Andrew?” Y/N asks slower now, wanting him to remember how she’d told him multiple times before, him reaching out wasn’t a bother.
“It’s Lena.” He finally says. “She’s..” He paces his backyard a bit. “Sick.” He says. “I… I need you to.. I need you to fix her.” He finally mutters.
Y/N smiles a bit at the terminology used but.. He was getting the hang of it, at least. “I’ll be there in 15..” She assures certainly.
*
*
*
“Stick out your tongue. Say ‘ahh’…” Y/N smiles as Lena sheepishly does just that. The young girl had been so excited to see Y/N when she first got here, but when she saw the med duffle bag on her shoulder, she’d instantly grown quiet again.
“Hm..” Y/N mumbles softly as she turns the flashlight off. Pope paces the area behind the couch. “What was hurting again?” She asks gently. She’s only known Lena for maybe two weeks now. Hell, she’s only known Pope for about a month, but she was instantly getting the gist of what was actually going on here..
“My stomach…” Lena mumbles, her voice so soft and quiet it actually melts Y/N’s heart. She nods for the young girl to continue. “And… My head.” She says slower.
“Anything else?” Y/N asks curiously.
“My… Throat.” Lena says, watching Y/N closely. It was almost like Lena was hoping to see if Y/N was buying this or not. “And my… Uh…” Lena shifts a bit.
“You think maybe your fingers too?” Y/N suggests, scrunching her nose a bit as if understanding the pain. It was a trap though. And when Lena nods fast, she knows she’s got her.
“Okay. I’m gonna talk to your uncle real quick, honey. You rest.” Y/N says. Lena nods and settles back down on the couch.
Y/N steps outside with Pope following close behind. “What’s the plan? Hospital?” He asks instantly after shutting the sliding glass door. Y/N presses her lips together as she turns to face him fully.
“I… Andrew, I don’t think Lena is sick..” Y/N begins softly.
“What? Of course she’s sick, she said she’s sick.” Pope says as if that’s the only evidence needed.
“Yeah. She said she’s sick, but.. She has no temperature, no flushed cheeks, no irritability..-” Y/N lists gently.
“My niece is not a liar.” Pope says quickly, instantly getting defensive. Y/N doesn’t even blink. Most would shudder at his tone of voice. His dark eyes.
She didn’t.
Because she knew who was standing in front of her right now. And it wasn’t Pope. It was Andrew.
Y/N knew only two things about ‘Pope Cody’. It was rare she got to see him outside of the cage. He could be dangerous, and he was quick to anger.
But she also knew a lot about ‘Andrew Cody’. The main two things being he’s a good man.
And he’d never even dream of hurting her.
She softly steps closer, placing a hand hovered above his chest as he reels himself back in. “I’m sorry.” He mutters. She gently touches his chest only when he gives a very slight nod to do so.
“I’m not calling Lena a liar.” She assures softly. “But… I am saying her symptoms are making no sense. And that maybe she wanted to come home for a different reason.” Y/N says simply.
“Like what?” He asks, completely lost now.
“Well… Why don’t you ask..?” Y/N suggests gently. Pope hesitates for a second before nodding. He steps back inside, finding Lena engrossed in her cartoons.
“So… Good news is it’s not bad. What you have..” Pope begins. Lena looks over at her uncle and her eyes narrow slightly.
“That’s good..” She says quietly, hands kneading at the blanket on her. Pope walks over to sit on the edge of the couch by her.
“Bad news is… You aren’t sick.” He says gently. “Are you..” He whispers as he watches her face. She opens her mouth fast to defend herself before just giving up on the lie now, her bottom lip trembles. Pope wants to end the conversation right here. Apologize for upsetting her, assure her that he believes her. But he stays strong.
“I’m sorry I lied..” She gives in. Lena was a good kid. Pope knew this was probably crushing her to lie.
“Why? What happened?” Pope asks quietly. “I… Roo…” He seems at a loss of words honestly. She sits up more, staring down at her hands.
“I…” She sighs. “I had a quiz...” Lena finally admits and Pope blinks a bit, shoulders slumping in relief that it wasn’t anything like a bully situation. He didn’t wanna have to attack a kid..
“A quiz?” He asks. She nods fast.
“Science.” She sighs. “I wasn’t ready, so I… Said I was feeling sick. I’m so sorry, Uncle Andrew..” She says as she finally looks up at him with her brown eyes already glossy with tears. She always resembled a puppy when she did that. And it always melted Pope to bits.
“Why didn’t you just tell me the truth?” He asks.
“I thought you’d make me go back into school..” She admits sheepishly. He chuckles at that.
“Roo… I am the last person to force someone into school.” He snorts, remembering his childhood before shaking his head. “I mean… You are smart. You can, and will, handle school.” He quickly corrects as she looks down with a soft frown.
“But..” He continues as she looks up at him again. “Everyone deserves at least one sick day.” He nods, letting her know she’s not in trouble. She sighs in relief and quickly wraps her arms around his neck to hug him. He smiles slightly as he holds her close.
“But you will be studying for that quiz. And I’ll help you.” Pope adds. She groans at that, tossing her head back. “You thought those eyes were gonna make me forget? Nope. Go get the text book.” He smirks as she playfully pouts getting up from the couch.
She pauses though. “Can Y/N stay? To help me study?” She asks hopefully. Pope pauses and looks towards the glass sliding door at Y/N.
She’s standing by the pool, arms around herself as she gives them the space needed to work this out. He smiles a bit. The last time they saw each other, they spent the entire night just kissing. It was the best Pope has felt since… Well, since first getting custody of Lena..
Lena smiles as she watches her uncle watch Y/N. He notices and chuckles a bit. “I’ll ask. You go get your bag.” He says. She giggles and runs off to her room.
Pope walks over and opens the sliding glass door. Y/N looks over. “All good?” She asks.
“It was a quiz. She was nervous to take it. Tried to get out of it..” Pope explains softly as Y/N walks over to him, chuckling softly.
“Classic move.” She nods, understanding.
“It is?” Pope asks.
“Yeah. You never acted sick as a kid to get out of something?” She asks and he shifts a bit on his feet before simply shaking his head. She hums softly.
“I told her I’d help her study.” He explains. Y/N nods at that, assuming that’s her cue to leave until he continues. “If you…” He looks down. “If you wanna stay, you can.. Help us both. It’s science.” He admits. She chuckles softly at that and bites her lip as she moves a bit closer to him.
“I can happily help teach you and Lena science.” She teases softly as he smiles sheepishly. She eyes him as she slowly wraps her arms around his neck. He instantly grips her waist. It’s second nature to him at this point.
“You know,” She begins. “All these favors, and I’m still waiting for an actual date..” She points out playfully.
Pope smiles slightly at that as he somewhat looks away. “Think you can… Take a sick day tomorrow, then?” He finally asks softly.
Y/N paused for a split second before she giggles softly. “You know… Now that you mention it..” She trails off as she looks up at him and makes a show of timidly covering her mouth. She begins to fake cough before over-dramatically batting her eyelashes at him. “I might be coming down with something.” She whispers.
Pope smiles, completely smitten as he leans in close to kiss her. Y/N gladly kisses back, just as tender as that first night.
Lena watches from the doorway of her bedroom, covering her mouth as she smiles at her uncle’s happiness before slyly and silently shutting her bedroom door…
But… 😏 not until I get this out of my system. Okay? Okay! 🤪
Here is every Shawn Hatosy character’s (that I know about so far) reaction to being told reader wants them to sleep in separate beds 🤭
(Note: idea came from seeing a Sammy/Pope/Jack post on my FYP of them finding out reader is pregnant. I just had to jump on this real quick lol! Lemme know if you like it..)
Jack Abbot:
“You know,” You begin, voice soft enough to break the early morning peace. Jack grumbles softly to show that even though his eyes are closed, he’s listening.
It makes you smile.
This poor man has just stumbled in from his night shift, but you can’t help but wanna see if he’ll react the same way you’ve seen other husbands do on TikTok.
“I saw somewhere that.. Couples last longer if they sleep in separate beds.” You point out as you lay with your head on his chest. You feel his body slightly stiffen, and you hold back a chuckle.
“That’s good for those couples..” He mutters after a moment, voice still thick with exhaustion and coming out gruff.
“We should-“ He cuts you off.
“Nope.”
“Jack!”
“Going to sleep.” Jack announces casually, showing he won’t even entertain the idea.
“Jack!” You can’t help but giggle as he moves so he’s basically laying on top of you.
“Shh. Sleeping.” He smirks as you laugh softly, deciding to just give in..
Andrew “Pope” Cody:
You eye Pope from across the kitchen as he dries the dishes you finish scrubbing. Chores with him always went by faster, and were usually done in a comfortable silence.
You two kept your house in order. You understood why that was so important to someone like Pope. His entire life was usually is disarray. What he could control, he’d always put in order.
Your mind wonders back to the girl talk from yesterday at the hair salon. How some of the girls had tested their partners to see how they’d react to sleeping alone. You were never one to do this, but.. A part of you had grown curious.
How would Pope react?
“Andy?” You finally say. His attention snaps straight to you. Almost immediately. It was once scary to witness. How automatic grabbing his attention was when it came to you. But you’d grown used to it quickly.
Now, you actually found it to be a bit of an ego boost..
“I read an article about couples yesterday..” You state. “They said that.. Couples who sleep in separate beds last longer..” You start softly.
“No.”
The word comes out without much hesitation or pause. His face remains neutral though. Calm. It usually always is. You falter a bit since you’d opened your mouth to continue speaking but had been cut off by him. You can’t help but chuckle a bit in surprise over how quick that response was..
“No?” You ask playfully.
“Yes.” He nods. “You want two beds, we’ll get two beds. Switch between them every night.” He says, voice soft, but slightly gravelly as he shrugs. You eye him softly as he finds ‘common ground’ with you. “But we will share a bed. Every night.” He continues, voice curt. Like that’s the final point of this discussion.
You blush softly, walking around the kitchen counter to gently grab his face with both hands. His hands instinctively go to your elbows to hold you too.
“Okay, Andy. We share a bed, every night..” You assure gently.
Sammy Bryant:
“And he rises..” You tease as Sammy stumbles into the kitchen, half asleep, half dressed, and half ready for the day.
“Always do.” Sammy plays it off as he hurriedly buttons his shirt while you decide to be nice to your husband and pour him a cup of coffee.
“Where’s Trouble?” He asks, hair still wet from his shower, a sad attempt at getting himself together. It almost makes you laugh as you walk over to hand him his mug.
“Catching up on sleep..” You inform. “That thing she didn’t let her daddy get last night..” You note gently, voice playful as you nod to the baby monitor on the kitchen counter. Sammy playfully grumbles into his coffee.
“She’s teething. It happens..” He sighs. You smile at the man before you. The man who has taken fatherhood in stride. The man who started out soft only to be turned cold by an ex-wife, now stands in front of you, just as tender as you knew he could be.
“You were barely in bed last night..” You point out. You had tried getting up to help, but Sammy would assure you that he could handle your fussy bundle of joy on his own. You knew it’s the smaller things he liked to do. To be a comfort. You knew it was best to just let him.
“You sure you can be on your game today?” You ask.
“I’m on my game every day..” He smirks at you, eyes showing his tiredness though. It makes you chuckle.
That smirk is what worked on you, always..
“You’re also.. 10 minutes from being late.” You point out. His eyes widen a bit as he looks at the clock.
“Shit.” He says and quickly moves to the kitchen counter to pack up a lunch and indulge in the breakfast you’d made.
“I’ve been thinking..” You say after a moment of watching your husband rush around the kitchen. Sammy quickly puts toast in his mouth so he could run out for the day. You had been wanting to see his reaction to this ever since it came up on some early morning talk show..
“Mm-Hm..” He hums, mouth full as he moves to grab his things.
“What if we have two separate beds?” You ask. Sammy swallows the rest of his coffee as he nods fast.
“Whatever works for you, baby.” He assures, panting softly from chugging a hot liquid. He walks back over to you, pecking your lips lazily. “I gotta go. I’ll call.” He states as he grabs at his things.
“Love you! Tell Trouble daddy loves her!” He calls from over his shoulder as he runs out of the kitchen. You hum a bit and shake your head in amusement, deciding to just let it go.
You hear Sammy leave through the front door, but a second later, he comes walking back in, face showing concern.
“Hey, baby, what-“ He cuts you off.
“You said separate beds?” He asks to clarify.
You can’t help but chuckle at how long it’d taken for that to sink in. “I mean… Yeah, it’s good for some couples..” You continue. Might as well.
“Is it me?” Sammy asks as he moves closer.
“No! Of course not. I like snuggling up to my man..” You assure fast when you see there’s genuine worry in those brown eyes of his. It hurts your heart, you can’t keep it up.
“Then no separate beds, yeah?” He asks softly, voice tender as you quickly nod.
“Yeah. Yes. It’s a dumb idea, baby. I’m sorry..” You assure fast as you move to hug him close. He sighs in relief, this time actually kissing you.
“I love you.” He says against your lips as you smile brightly, wrapping your arms around his neck.
“I love you.” You mumble back, kissing him again.
Brett Richards:
“There you are!”
You sigh as step into the garage where your boyfriend of two years is deep in elbow grease, trying to bring life back into his old pick up truck. Brett looks over at you with soft eyes, smiling warmly at the sight of you still half asleep and in his shirt.
“Morning, gorgeous..” He says as he walks over to turn off the music he had playing for background noise.
“I thought a lazy Sunday meant staying in bed. The cats are in bed, I am in bed..” You point out as he walks over to kiss your forehead as a proper good morning greeting.
“What’s the issue?” He asks. You give him a look.
“You aren’t.” You point out with crossed arms.
“I will be. I swear. Just.. Wanna finish this.” He assures as he leads you to sit in the truck so you’re not standing around while he works. You hum at that.
“You know.. This wouldn’t be an issue if we had separate beds..” You point out after a moment of silence.
Brett slows his movements to look over at you. He raises an eyebrow. “Separate beds?” He asks, to make sure he heard you right. You nod.
“Read an article about it yesterday morning. Most couples swear by it..” You shrug, mostly messing with the older man, but you could already see the wheels turning in his head.
“Separate beds..” He mutters. “What would that do?” He asks as he starts to give it more thought. You feel your shoulders stiffen slightly.
Was he actually considering this?!
“It’d give us better sleep quality. Mm.. More personal comforts. Might enhance our.. Intimacy..” Brett lists off the top of his head.
“What are you doing?!” You ask finally.
“Making the pros and cons in my head.” He says gently. You frown at him. Brett has always been a problem solver. Always thinking more logically than emotionally. Most would call him a jerk, but underneath it all was just someone who cared. He cared for his family, for his job, for his cats, and for his friends.
He also cared for you.
He just had a way of doing so that could come off as odd to some.
You pout a bit as you cross your arms. “What’s the cons?” You ask finally. Brett smiles softly at your expression.
“I won’t get to hold you as much..” He starts off simply. You try to keep the same expression, but you can’t help but melt when he pulls you closer, hands on your hips.
“That outweighs the pros?” You grumble softly as he chuckles warmly.
“Always.” He says sweetly, voice soft. You smile as the country air blows a warm breeze into the garage’s open door.
“Good.” You say in slight relief, leaning in.
“Then again, the sleep quality..” Brett trails off jokingly against your lips before you can kiss.
You pull away fast. “I’m going back to bed. With the cats!” You fuss as he laughs, trying to pull you back and assure you that he was just messing around..
Terry McCandless:
“I’ve been thinking.” You sigh as you set the last box down from moving. You’d officially leashed the dog. This was ‘popping champagne’ levels of celebration, if you asked anyone who knew Terry. That man could be a menace.
Terry McCandless and monogamy just didn’t go together, but in order to keep you around, he was more than willing to try.
And try he has. One year and today you’re officially moved in together.
“What’s on your mind, baby?” Terry asks, southern accent as charming as the day it was when you first met him.
“It’d be smart to get separate beds..” You say, trying not to laugh. Terry slows his unpacking to eye you closely, lips twitching into a smirk as you continue unloading, pretending to look innocent in this whole thing.
“Okay..” He says. That makes you stop your movements.
“Okay?!” You ask as you turn to face him fast.
“Yeah..” He shrugs. “But the second you miss me, you’re gonna have to say please before you can get in my bed..” He adds on with a wider, sly smirk that matches one of a wolf. You ignore the look and cross your arms over your chest.
“Hmm…” You softly humph. “Well, same goes for you then.” You state as you eye him up and down. He chuckles and steps a bit closer.
“Oh, darlin..” He starts slowly. “We both know I won’t have to beg that much..” He taunts as he gets right in front of you. His hands slide to your waist as you look anywhere but him..
“Matter of fact..” Terry gently grabs your chin, turning you back to face him. “Lemme see your beggin face..” He mumbles.
“Terry! The rest of the boxes!” You try to remind, mostly just to get out of this, but you feel your cheeks getting warmer.
“Say ‘please, Terry. Let me lay here’..” He whispers as his thumb lazily touches your bottom lip to make you pout. You push down a shiver as you eye him, considering it before shaking your head.
“Stop!” You giggle quietly as you lightly push at him. He smirks as he grabs you by the waist to yank you closer. You grumble, realizing you won’t get out of this..
“Please, Terry.. Let me lay here..” You give in, your voice a soft mumble as he leans in closer.
He groans softly, using one hand to playfully clutch at his chest like he’s melting from the inside out. “I can’t say no to you..” He smirks before kissing you deeply..
Titus Danforth:
The only sound in the dining room is silverware against fine china. Breakfast is laid out in a spread along the long dining room table. The servants move among you and Titus, heads casted downwards because they know better.
“I’ve been thinking..” You say, breaking the silence. His eyes slip up from his paper to look at you. His movements are usually slow. It gives people a false sense of security.
“With the wedding getting closer… We should consider sleeping in separate beds.” You say. The minute the sentence leaves your lips, it’s as if time itself has stood still, afraid of the reaction from the man seated across from you.
The ticking of the grandfather clock off to the side hallway of this grand mansion is your only sign that maybe, possibly, time doesn’t care.
But the servants sure do…
They all slow their movements, but don’t dare to stop. Or show any outward reaction. Titus carefully wipes his mouth as you poke at the fruit on your plate.
“What?”
It’s his voice. His voice makes everything in the room deadly still. Everyone.
You don’t look up from your plate. Your heart is racing as you feel his eyes burn holes into your skin.
“Out.” He orders after a few seconds of silence. The servants don’t need to be told twice. They all quickly scatter away, leaving you two alone.
Another beat of silence…
“Why?” He asks, voice low and restrained. As if he’s holding himself back. It makes you hide your smirk as you finally look up at him.
“I’ve just been thinking-“ He cuts you off.
“Why are you thinking that?” He asks, tone tense and rough.
“It was just a suggestion..” You calmly shrug.
“A stupid one.” He says, voice as dark as his eyes.
“I didn’t know you wanted me in your bed so badly..” You note. He watches you for a moment longer before he gets up from his chair and walks over to where you’re sat.
“You really think..” He begins slowly as he gets in front of you, standing over you. His hand finds your chin. “There’s a bed you can rest your pretty little head on that I won’t crawl my way in to?” He whispers as you try turning your face from his grasp only to have him tighten and yank your face back to look up at him.
“Hm?” He whispers roughly, grip on your chin not loosening as he watches you closely. You ignore the excitement you get in your chest as he leans down now to be eye level with you.
“You’re such a romantic..” You whisper when his lips get close enough to yours..
I had the idea to add Stan Rosado and Grant Reilly too, but.. idk.. 😅 lol! Hope you liked it tho!!! 😘
…thinking about licking the blood off of pope’s pretty face…
cw: 18+, sexual themes, making out, and well…i feel like blood and licking said blood is obvious…i’m a freak for pope i’m sorry.
holding his face still with a hand on his jaw you peck at his nose and lips softly to “kiss away the pain” like he asked. even if it was only a bloody nose from baz giving him an elbow to the face. pope is never one to ever deny a kiss from you.
his breathe hitched when you pull away and his eyes catch on his blood staining your pout. he should grab a tissue or a towel to just wipe his face and your mouth. but before he can move away to act and find one, you lick at your lips to clean them off. “baby…” he pants out.
the rest of his sentence is lost however when another drop of blood falls from his nose and your tongue pokes out to lap at it. you continue to lap at his face, cleaning the carnage of crimson from under his nose and his mouth.
a small strangled moan is pulled from him when your warm tongue flicks over his lips. his hands slide up under your shirt bunching it up as they find your waist. he squeezes your sides as he feels his cock swelling in his swim trunks. strings of his little gasps filling your ears, he’s not surprised much by your action so much as how much he likes it.
cats lick each others wounds especially when they are mates, so why is this any different.
he whines a bit when you let go of his face and pull away, blood still staining your parted lips. staring at you, his pupils blown darkening his eyes while you ask “all better andy?”
he nods a bit too eagerly, pulling you in closer. you smile a bit when his bulge presses to your front. “mhm…thank you baby, all clean now” he mumbles out, you beam up at him.
“you’re welcome handsome” you coo as his tongue pokes through the side of his cheek for a second as if he’s thinking.
it pops back out however to lick at your mouth before his lips crash against yours with fever. he slips it between your parted lips when you gasp softly. coating his tounge in the taste of nickel from his own blood.
you hum in content as you wrap your arms around his neck, fingers running through his wet short hair. he groans lowly at your nails scratching his scalp and kisses you harder.
“s’ good to me baby, licking my wounds” he grumbles out as his hands trail up your body under the t-shirt. palms caressing your upper torso as his thumbs brush the underside of your breasts.
first version of this i wrote didn’t save so i had to rewrite it and im mad i lowkey liked the other better idk. anyway im sorry… AND TUMBLR WOULDN’T LET ME POST THIS WITH THE GIF OF HIM WET W/ BLOOD ON HIS FACE.
Pleas of Devotion
synopsis: You see a new side of your boyfriend after an argument
Warnings: Nothing, I think!
word count: around 640
Gemma says, Wow who would've thought that I'm posting again!! First fic back so I apologise for me being rusty and the fact I actually haven't written for Dex before. :)
Dex has seen you angry, whether that be at others or even an anger directed towards him. Regardless, he’s seen you angry, and he’s talked you out of it.
This time though, it was different. It was an anger that was scaring him because it was an anger that was ignoring him.
The screaming match you two recently had died down, and you stayed silent, a glare still residing on your face as you changed out of your work clothes and began getting ready for bed. Truth be told, you probably couldn't pinpoint exactly what started this fight between you two; maybe some poorly timed passing comment, or perhaps it was just a fight that needed to be had.
Tension still was palpable throughout your apartment as you tried to avoid Dex as you began to settle down for the night. You seemed calm for the most part despite the anger lingering in your expression; Dex, on the other hand, was not calm. His body was trembling as he followed you around, reaching his hand out to try to hold your T-shirt but always bringing his arm back to his side at the last moment – itching for some sort of contact to show that you still want him – that you still need him.
Dex’s presence behind you was undeniable as he kept trying to stay annoyingly close to you. You almost wanted to scream at him to leave you alone, but even in your anger you know just how much that would hurt him. He tried to speak to you, but he couldn't even hear his own thoughts through the silence you're giving him, so he just trailed behind you like some pathetic puppy.
You sighed as you sat on your side of the bed, and it clicked something in Dex’s mind. This is it; she's about to tell you she's leaving you.
Before you knew it Dex was breaking down as tears ran down his cheeks, highlighting his scarred skin. He fell to his knees at your side, gripping the mattress as he tried to choke out anything to make you stay. “Please don't –” he sobbed. "Please don’t leave me,” he begged, hiccuping out a cry of desperation.
You were taken aback to say the least; you watched Dex claw his way closer to grip your thighs as his back muscles arched and tensed while sobs wracked through his body. He had never done something like this after a fight; he’d apologised and begged for his forgiveness in a civil manner before but never to this extent. “You can’t leave me; I need you,” he begs as if you were talking back to him, the grip on your thighs only tightens as he leans further against the bed from his spot begging on the floor.
Finally, you found something to say as you reached out and rubbed his back. He jolted under your touch, bringing his head up to finally look at you. His big hazel eyes were glassy and bloodshot, and his face was tear-stained. You watched him continue crying as he gave you pleas of devotion. "Dex", you said simply, trying to snap him out of this trance, but it was no use. “Dex, baby, I’m not leaving you,” you tried again, your voice a little louder this time. It worked and it only encouraged him to finally crawl into bed with you.
You have no choice but to accommodate his big frame atop your own as you let him lay on your chest. His tears soak through your shirt as Dex still clings onto you, nuzzling his head right under your chin as his arms coil around your body. “You still need me, right?” he asks weakly, peppering kisses to wherever he can on your neck. “I’ll do anything for you,” he tells you weakly. He needs to be needed by you, because then you have a reason to stay with him. In Dex’s mind the moment you don’t need him for anything is the day you don’t want him and the day you leave.
"Yeah, Dex, ‘course I need you,” you say light-heartedly, still lightly scratching his back and kissing his head.
It satisfies something deep in his mind, but yet it’s not fully satisfied. “I’m still yours and you still love me,” he practically whimpers into you like it’s some mantra.
“Yeah, Dex, I still love you with all my heart and I still want you,” you reassure gently, trying to calm him down just that little bit more as his body stops trembling like he is in fight-or-flight mode. You keep reassuring him and keeping him calm, reminding him that you're still here and not going anywhere.
His cries and pleas become fewer and fewer as the sound of your heartbeat against his body drowns out the other noises in his mind. “I’ll still be here when you wake up,” you croon, moving your fingers through the hair on the nape of his neck. You hear him mumble something, but it's muffled by your skin, so just let him fall asleep on you.
As his body falls heavier on yours and his soft snores tickle your exposed skin, your mind wanders as you begin to think there's something deeper going on in your boyfriend's mind.
Maybe you’ll ask him tomorrow after all; he said he’d do anything for you.
Hey babe! Hope you're doing well!! I was wondering if you could write more about the "pope losing steam thinking you stopped listening/don't care" but we actually do listen and pay attention, that was sooooo cuteee
🍃Tags/Warnings🍃: pure fluff, Soft!Reader, NeverBeenInLove!Pope Cody ( so ig hurt/comfort..?? idk ), Shy!Pope Cody
🍃Plot🍃: Pope is used to wearing his emotions on his sleeve. It doesn’t matter, because no one has ever noticed. But Y/N notices..
🍃Characters🍃: Pope Cody x Fem!Reader
🍃Title🍃: Soft
🍃A/N🍃: awe! Hope you’re doing awesome, babes! I love shy/nervous Pope Cody!! Ugh! Lol, I hope you like it!!
((Requests are ALWAYS open))
Masterlist
When you and Pope first started dating, he’d watch you a lot.
It was never something that threw you off. In fact, most times, it’d break your heart. Pope had a way of looking at you that was always a mix between fascination and nervous adoration. He spoke gently, he moved slowly.
He acted as if you were a butterfly that had landed next to him. Something that he didn’t want to scare away. And most times, date nights with you were spent with him in his head. Second guessing everything.
So you learned to read his silence.
You studied him back during the comfortable, low energy moments he’d spend recharging around you. When his guard was down and no mask had to be plastered on his tired face..
You learned what every look meant, every pause, every facial twitch and quiet murmur of his voice. You kept note of it all. And in return, you gave him something he thought he’d go his whole life without..
Softness..
And slowly… He began to seep into it like a hot bath after a long day. Yet he still had his habits. And his hesitations…
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Now enjoy these headcanons
• He’d want to hold your hand, but if your grip loosens too much, he’ll think you’re tired of his grip, so he’ll let go. You’d have to reach back over for it. You might even see the corner of his lip twitch slightly when you do, like he’s trying not to smile outright.. •
• He’ll speed up his explanation of things to try and ‘get it all out’ before he loses you completely. He rushes through the rest of what he’s saying, which makes it harder for you to follow along, so you have to softly tell him to repeat himself. Only then does he realize you’re actively listening to him. •
• His eyes light up when you ask him more about the topic he’s talking about. It’s subtle, but you see it in his eyes and he’ll even fidget with his fingers to get the nerves out before he answers your question as ‘casually’ as he can master.. •
• You don’t know this.. But he remembers your every reaction. He'll store it away in his memory for later. What made you smile, what made you furrow your brow, what made you get genuinely excited. His happiest moments are ones where he can talk to you and get a reaction like that. It makes him feel.. ‘Interesting’. •
• The first few times you brought up something he’d told you about in the past, he was genuinely so surprised and thrown off. You’d be around the table with friends and say happily: “Andy loved to swim as a kid, right, honey?” and he just stares at you in stunned silence for a moment or so before nodding slowly, as if not knowing what to say to that. He’s never had someone remember really small things about him.. •
• The first time you looked him in the eye while he was explaining something, (it was how to perform a ‘Boardslide’), it threw him off so much that he stammered over his words a bit. That was on your first date, and you had found it so cute that you smiled more. He never forgot that smile. It’s what he first fell in love with.. •
• Sometimes, he’ll go off on side tangents because he’s not used to having attention on him for so long, so he thinks he needs to get everything out in one sitting. You always gently steer him back to the main topic and then let him finish any other things he wanted to say because you want him to know all you two have is time.. •
• When he does finish a little tangent with you about something he’s interested in, he’ll get this small ‘accomplished’ smile on his face. Like he’s so satisfied with being heard.. •
• If you’re quiet for too long, he’ll second guess his own words. “I don’t think I.. I’m not explaining it right..” He mutters gruffly with a shake of his head. You always assure him that you understand it perfectly and only then does he keep going. •
• Pope is really into documentaries. More specifically, Pope is really into ‘Shark Week’. He can stay on that one channel all day, but he tries to limit himself when you’re around so you don’t get bored. He’ll try and change the channel or hand you the remote, but you’ll just softly mumble how you were ‘listening to that’ while you’re doing some other task on the couch with him. He’ll relax when he realizes you actually don’t mind, and with his head on your lap, he’ll lay on the couch, enjoying his day off with his girl.. •
Summary : Dex can’t seem to bring himself to tell you that you killed your attacker.
Pairing : Benjamin Poindexter x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : hurt/comfort, attempted assault by another character, strangulation/choking, graphic violence to the person who assaulted reader, blood and gore, self-defence escalating into overkill, panic attack, memory loss, non-sexual nudity and bathing, gaslighting, lying, possessive/protective Dex, unhealthy but sincere devotion. (I pictured FBI!Dex in this but honestly I could see DDBA!Dex too).
Word Count : 5k
Requested by : Ko-fi request <3
Notes : I listened to Run Rabbit by Mollie Elizabeth by writing this, hence the title. Enjoy!
You did everything Dex told you to do.
You took the safest route home, even though it added twelve minutes to the walk. You stayed beneath the streetlights and kept away from the mouth of every dark alley. Your phone was fully charged, your location was shared with him, and your keys were already threaded between your fingers before you even left the busy part of the avenue.
You even noticed the man following you early.
He had been behind you for three blocks, never close enough to prove anything, but he always crossed when you crossed and slowed whenever you slowed. You knew better than to look directly at him. After all, Dex had told you not to let someone know you were frightened until you had decided what to do with that fear.
So you stepped into the late-night pharmacy and wandered beneath the fluorescent lights for several minutes. You pretended to compare shampoos while watching the convex security mirror above the aisle.
The man waited outside.
Your stomach sank.
You pulled out your phone and called Dex. It rang once before going to voicemail, which meant he was either working or already packing his things and moving towards you. You left the line open anyway, slipping your phone into your coat pocket as you stepped back onto the pavement.
“I’m on Stanton,” you said, quiet as you could, knowing the microphone would catch it. “I’m going on the safe route, and there’s a man following me.”
You headed towards the twenty-four-hour diner two streets away. At least there were lights, cameras, and most importantly, people there.
You almost reached it, but the man caught you when you passed the narrow service road behind an apartment building. One moment his footsteps were behind you; the next, his hand gripped around the back of your coat and dragged you hard enough that the thicker collar choked into your throat.
Your keys fell from your fingers, and all you could manage was a pathetic little scream before he could cover your mouth.
His palm immediately struck your lips and teeth, crushing the sound back into your skull as he hauled you into the darkness of some random New York alley. Your heel scraped uselessly across the pavement as you bit down until you tasted blood that wasn’t yours. It worked! He swore, jerking his hand away.
Immediately, you drove your elbow backwards.
Dex had shown you where to aim for, and you were trying to retrieve it from the rolodex of information in your mind, not quite the ribs, but lower in the soft tissue.
The man grunted, but he didn’t let go. His arm locked around your throat instead, squeezing until firework-white sparks burst across your vision.
“You stupid fucking—”
You stamped on his foot before he could finish his sentence and threw your weight forwards, turning beneath his arm, exactly as Dex had taught you.
Eventually, his hold broke.
You stumbled free and ran, but the man recovered faster than you initially expected. His hand found its way and tangled his fingers in your hair, snapping your head backwards so violently that your neck burned.
He slammed you face-first against the brick wall.
Oh. Fuck.
A burst of pain exploded through your cheek, teeth unintentionally biting into the inside of your mouth. Warm, fresh blood flooded on your tongue, thick and metallic, while his body pinned you against the wall.
The panic bells ringing in your head turned everything white-hot. “S-stop!”
He didn’t.
No. No. You were better than this.
You reached behind blindly, clawing for his eyes, his throat, anything you could find. Your nails found skin, raking down as he cursed and drove you against the brick again.
Maybe your nose broke, you couldn’t really tell.
His hand slid beneath your coat, and that’s when your vision went red. Rage flared hot inside you, burning through every thought in your head. You threw your skull backwards and felt his cartilage collapse beneath it.
His grip loosened, howling in pain.
You spun and shoved him with both hands.
He stumbled off the curb at the edge of the service road. His ankle twisted beneath him, and he went down hard. The man managed to catch himself on one palm before his shoulder struck the pavement.
You could have run.
The diner was less than a hundred yards away. You could see its red sign glowing at the end of the road, bright as a fresh exit wound.
That was when the man looked up at you.
A sick, satisfied feeling churned in your stomach as red poured from his nose and over his mouth.
And… he was smiling.
Oh.
He still believed he was going to win.
He pushed himself onto one knee. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”
Your hand found the loose brick beside the wall, and it was heavier than you expected. Its edges bit into your palm as you lifted it with both hands.
When the man saw it, his smile vanished in an instant.
You brought the brick down across his temple.
The sound that came off it was shockingly small. It sounded like a damp knock, followed by the scrape of his body collapsing onto the road.
He rolled onto his back, blinking rapidly. One side of his face had already begun to swell around the ripped skin as a blotch of blood ran into his ear and disappeared beneath his head.
You stood over him, panting.
He was still conscious. “Wait.”
You could’ve stopped. You could’ve shown mercy.
Instead, you struck him again.
This time, the brick split the skin above his eyebrow. Blood sprayed across your coat and speckled your face in warm droplets.
He raised one arm to protect himself.
Huh. Cute.
You hit that too.
His arm gave beneath the brick with a muffled crunch. His forearm bent where it shouldn’t have been bent, and he screamed, the sound travelling through the empty service road.
You dropped the brick.
For half a second, the sight of his ruined arm nearly pulled you back into your logical self.
Then, his good hand closed around your ankle.
You shrieked and kicked him in the face. Your heel connected with his mouth as teeth snapped together. One of them even skipped across the pavement and vanished beneath a parked car.
He released you, but you fell on top of him.
Your knees struck the ground on either side of his hips, and your hands seized the front of his jacket. His blood made the material slippery beneath your fingers.
Before you could think any better of it, you dragged his head upwards, then slammed it against the curb.
The back of his skull struck concrete with a thick, hollow crack.
His eyes rolled, and it horrified you how much you liked it, seeing the man who wanted to touch you fucking bleed out.
So you did it again.
Blood spread beneath his hair.
Again.
The hard crack now sounded wetter as the skin split and bone began to cave in. His body jerked beneath you, heels scraping against the pavement, but there was no strength left in it.
He made a noise through his broken mouth. You didn’t know whether it was a plea or merely air left escaping.
“You followed me!” you sobbed. “You fucking touched me!”
You brought his head down again.
The edge of the curb disappeared beneath blood. It ran between your fingers, coating your palms each time you pulled him upwards.
“I did everything right.”
Again.
“I—”
Again.
“Have—”
Again.
“A—”
Again.
“Fucking—”
Again.
“Boyfriend—”
Again.
“You—”
Again.
“Asshole—”
Again.
“He’ll fucking kill you!”
The last word broke somewhere in your throat, ragged. You were crying now, maybe. You couldn’t really tell. Your face was wet, your hands were red, and the whole world had shrunk down to the most-likely-dead man in your grip and the curb beneath him and the memory of his hand on you where it never should have been.
The back of his skull was now the shape of the concrete underneath.
You felt the structure collapse beneath your hands where there should have been resistance. It didn’t feel dramatic or righteous. All you could think was how it felt gooey in the wrong places.
You pulled him up again anyway.
“I told you,” you sobbed, or screamed, or whispered. You couldn’t tell anymore. “I told you to stop.”
But his eyes were open and empty, staring past you at nothing, and when you tried to lift him one more time, your hands slipped in all the blood and he dropped back against the curb with a sound that made your stomach sink
That was when the anger went out.
All at once, as if someone had blown out a candle inside your chest.
You stared down at your hands and the red beneath your nails. You saw a dark smear across your wrist where he had grabbed you. “I did everything right,” you said again, smaller this time.
His face had lost all expression. Blood bubbled faintly at his lips before spilling down his cheek.
He was dead.
You knew he was dead.
You screamed as you struck him again, though you no longer knew whether you were furious or terrified.
You remembered Dex telling you never to stop until you were safe.
Make sure they cannot get back up.
You had done everything he told you to do.
The man’s head struck the concrete one final time and didn’t bounce.
You released him.
His ruined skull settled crookedly against the ground. The road beneath him shone black-red beneath the distant streetlights, and blood soaked through your tights at the knees and dripped from your hands in heavy threads.
The dead man’s head no longer looked human.
Your stomach heaved.
You tried to stand, but your legs folded beneath you. The world tilted violently, the brick walls stretching upwards as though the road had dropped away beneath your body.
Footsteps thundered behind you, but you couldn’t turn around.
Your vision narrowed until the alley became a tunnel.
Then a hand touched your face, but this time, the touch was gentle.
His thumb swept carefully beneath your eye, avoiding the swelling along your cheekbone, as an arm curved around your waist before you could collapse fully onto the body.
“There you are,” Dex whispered.
His voice sounded distant beneath the rushing in your ears.
You tried to tell him what you had done, but your lips would not let you.
Dex’s palm cradled the back of your head, carefully nudging your nose back into place. He pulled you into him, turning your face away from the ruin on the pavement.
“My smart girl,” he murmured, stroking your hair with bloodless fingers. “You remembered everything.”
The praise sank through your heart as he felt his lips press against your temple.
“You saved yourself.”
Eventually, dazed and overwhelmed by the adrenaline crash, your eyes closed.
The last thing you felt was Dex’s thumb moving across your cheek, wiping away a tear.
—
Dex knew you.
He knew you were nothing like him.
That much had been obvious almost from the beginning, though he hadn’t understood it properly. Dex’s first instinct had always been violence. Whenever a problem appeared, his mind found that the bloodiest way was often the fastest way to solve it. Even inconveniences made his skin crawl, from a jammed drawer, a car alarm that would not stop, to a man looking at you for half a second too long across a restaurant.
You were different.
You were gentle in ways Dex had once found impractical.
You apologised to furniture when you bumped into it. You cupped moths in your hands and carried them outside. You left sugar water out for bees in summer and lowered your voice around frightened dogs. You once stopped walking entirely because there was a snail on the pavement after rain, and you refused to let anyone step on it until Dex moved it safely into the grass with a leaf.
He had stood there watching you then, half-annoyed, half-fascinated.
“It’s just a snail,” he had said.
You had looked up at him like he had spouted bullshit from his mouth. “It’s alive.”
From then on, he realized alive mattered to you.
Even small alive. Even when it was inconvenient .
Dex hadn’t been raised with that as a natural instinct. As a boy, he had thrown stones at birds because he found that he liked the little burst of movement. He hadn’t thought of it as cruelty then. It was just aim, maybe boredom.
Then you bought a bird feeder for your apartment.
You hung it outside the kitchen window with such bright delight that Dex hadn’t even known what to say. You filled it every morning, scattering seed with your bed hair falling over your face, then stood there with your coffee while sparrows and blue tits flickered down. You loved them. You loved their stupid little hopping, their bright feathers.
You loved listening to birdsong most of all.
You whistled back sometimes without realising it while you watered plants or folded laundry. At night, when you were deep enough asleep that your body forgot to be self-conscious, you made the same small breathy sounds in your dreams, sweet enough that Dex would lie awake beside you and listen as he calmed down.
So instead of throwing rocks at it like he used to, he learned how to imitate their songs.
At first, only because you smiled when he whistled them. Then, he did it because you looked at him like he had performed a miracle when a robin landed on the feeder while Dex stood still by the window, unknowingly calling them closer.
Without realising, he had learned to mimic their distinctive calls.
He even stopped exterminating annoying bugs because of you.
You were afraid of spiders, yes, but when one of them showed up in the nightstand and you screamed, hiding behind him like a shield, you would make this horrified and pleading sound because he reached for a shoe instead of a cup. To you, being afraid of the little thing didn’t mean it deserved to die.
“Dex, no. Outside. Alive.”
So for you, he learned to trap spiders beneath glasses and slide envelopes carefully underneath them. He learned to carry them to the windowsill instead of crushing them.
Eventually, he learned not to flick beetles off the balcony, because you worried about whether the fall would hurt them. He learned to scoop flies out of half-open windows with hands while you hovered behind him whispering, “Careful, careful,” like he was defusing a bomb.
He learned to pretend he cared whether tiny, ugly things lived.
Eventually, he cared because you cared, and caring about what you cared about was the closest thing to general empathy Dex had ever understood.
And that was why Dex knew that you could not wake up knowing what you had done.
Because you had not even wanted him to kill spiders.
How the hell were you supposed to survive knowing you had killed a man?
Dex had known that the moment you went limp in his arms, your bloodied hands curled weakly against his shirt, your body giving up its adrenaline high only after it was finally safe to stop fighting. You had passed out before he could praise you properly, even before he could look you in the eye and tell you that you had done exactly what he taught you to do.
You had saved yourself.
Dex was proud of you in a way he knew he couldn’t show when you woke up.
Especially not with the body in the trunk of his car and your clothes stuffed into a sealed black bag hidden in the closet. His own clothes in there too, soaked with blood where he had held you, smeared bleach where he had poured it over the concrete.
He would deal with it later, when you were properly asleep, because the body could wait and you could not.
So Dex got you, half-passed out and half mumbling nonsense, home. Perhaps it was simply your mind coping on a traumatic memory.
He stripped you carefully, cutting fabric where it stuck, easing sleeves down your arms, peeling everything off your skin piece by piece until there was nothing left between you and him. His clothes came off too, though nothing was ever sexual about that, but because his soaked shirt was evidence, too.
He washed you in the shower while you leaned against him, barely conscious, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, your knees buckling every time the warm water hit another bruise. He did this all while murmuring sweet nonsense into your ear, words he knew your body understood even when your mind was tuned out. “You did so good, baby. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
He washed you until water at your feet ran pink, then red, then thin and clear.
Your hands took the longest as he held each finger between his own, washing beneath the nails, over the knuckles, around the raw places where the brick and pavement had scraped you open. You whimpered once, so quietly he almost missed it, and he kissed your wet temple before continuing.
He had to make them clean because you would look at your hands first.
When it was done, he carried you to bed and lay down naked beside you, pulling you onto his chest before the cold could bite.
The skin to skin was its own kind of intimacy, no barrier, but his body around yours.
By 2 a.m., he had not slept. He had tried, once or twice, mostly for the performance, because if you woke up and found him sitting upright in the dark watching you breathe, you would know something was wrong.
So he lay with you until dawn, and every time your breathing hitched, Dex tightened his hold. Every time you made a frightened sound, he kissed your head and whispered until you settled. He kept one eye on the bedroom door, one ear tuned to the street.
But mostly he watched you.
You looked smaller when you slept after fear, lashes clumping from old tears. Your mouth was swollen and a bruise was blooming along your cheekbone where the man had slammed you against brick, and Dex had to look away from it more than once because all he felt was red-hot rage.
But it wasn’t like he could do anything. The man was already dead.
You woke up sometime around 3 a.m.
Dex felt it when you choked on a breath, curled against him, cheek on his chest, one leg tangled with his. Your fingers twitched against his ribs, and he knew some part of you had surfaced too quickly.
Your eyes opened.
Almost immediately, panic tore through you.
You jerked upright so fast the sheet slipped from your chest.
Your hands flew up in front of your face, fingers spread, as though blood might still be dripping from them. They were clean, but you stared anyway.
You turned them over, looking at your palms, backs, nails, and wrist.
You seemed shocked to find them… clean.
Dex sat up behind you. “Baby.”
You flinched at his voice, and that knee-jerk reaction hurt more than he expected.
You twisted towards him, naked and shaking, eyes wide with a terror that had no full memory attached to it yet.
Dex could see your mind reaching and clawing through fog, finding only flashes of memories. Maybe you remembered a streetlight, maybe a hand on your throat.
Your lips parted, but no sound came out.
Dex reached for you.
You scrambled back half an inch, and he frowned immediately.
He tried to make himself look harmless, like there was nothing hidden near the closet, nothing dead cooling in the back of his car.
“There you are,” he murmured.
Your face fell, but the sob didn’t come out. It got trapped in your chest, making your whole body shake. You looked down at yourself then, at your bare skin, at his bare skin, at the tangled sheets, and your confusion quickly became fear.
Dex moved carefully, scooting closer until his thigh touched yours.
“You were cold,” he said, pulling the duvet back up around you before you could ask. “ I had to get you warm.”
Your eyes darted around the room.
The bedroom looked normal. That made it worse.
There was no proof of anything, no blood, no alley, no proof of anything but your body remembering what your mind could not grasp.
Dex placed one hand over your knee.
You stared at it.
He expected you to pull away, but instead your breath hitched and your whole body tilted towards him, helplessly, like a compass finding north. He gathered you before you could think better of it.
You collapsed into his lap.
Dex wrapped both arms around you and pulled you against his bare chest again, tucking your face beneath his chin. You were shaking so hard it passed into him. You pressed your hands flat to his shoulders, then curled, then opened again, like you could not stand the idea of grasping flesh too tightly.
“There,” he whispered. “That’s it. Come here, baby.”
Your breath hitched against his throat, and he felt the first wet tear hit his skin.
Then you were crying without sound, which was worse than sobbing. Violent tears shook you from the inside while your body stayed stiff with shock.
Dex rocked you slowly, enough to give your panic a rhythm to follow.
“You’re home,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re with me. No one’s gonna touch you.”
Your fingers dug into him. “I—I…,” you whispered, not quite coming out with words yet
Dex closed his eyes for half a second. “It’s okay, baby.”
Your eyes darted in a panic. “I don’t know what happened.”
He tried shushing you. “You don’t have to know all of it right now.”
“I-I don’t know, Dex.”
“I know, baby. I know.”
Your breathing grew shallow, almost choking. You tried to pull back and look at your hands again, but Dex caught them between your bodies, folding them against his chest where you could feel his heartbeat beneath your palms.
Focus there.
You did.
“I-I remember him,” you managed to say.
Dex stroked the back of your head. “Okay.”
“I remember walking. I took the right way.”
“You did.”
“I did what you said.”
“You did everything right.”
The sentence seemed to be a trigger, ripping a sob out of you.
Dex held you tighter.
“I-I did everything right,” you repeated, smaller now. “I promise.”
“I know.”
“I went inside. I waited. I called you.”
“You were so smart.”
Your face pressed harder into his neck.
“So smart,” he whispered again. “My girl, you did so well.”
You shook your head, frantic, because praise did not fit beside the images cutting through you.
You didn’t remember much, but you saw flashes of blood and concrete behind your eyelids.
Your breathing stopped.
His hand slid up the back of your neck and held you close. “No,” he murmured, soft as velvet. “Stay with me.”
“I saw—”
“You saw too much.”
“I… did something.”
“You protected yourself.”
“No, I—”
“You protected yourself,” he repeated, more insistent this time.
Your fingers twisted against his chest.
Dex let his voice warm up, like honey in warm water. “You were scared and hurt and you did what you had to do.”
He felt you take the information in, but your panic continued circling it like vultures on corpses.
Dex kissed the top of your head, then your temple, then the bruised corner of your brow. “You’re okay,” he breathed. “I promise.”
You made a wounded noise, and he knew exactly what he was doing.
The kindness was not accidental, it was architecture. He was building a room inside your memory, where the bloodier parts could be locked outside until you forgot where you held the key.
“Where is he?”
Oh. So you vaguely knew there was a he now.
“He’s in the hospital.” He lied easily.
Dex knew this was how it would happen. One lie was enough to sound like mercy, and you would hold on to it because you trusted him more than you trusted your own shattered memory. He was making you need his version of the truth because he truly believed it was the only one that would save you.
You froze in his arms, and Dex held you through it.
“The hospital?” you whispered.
“Mm.”
Your hands clutched him harder. “He looked...”
“I know what it looked like.”
You pulled back just enough to see his face.
Dex hated it, and not because he couldn’t lie to your face. He could, he had, and would again if it meant it would preserve and protect your sense of self. Instead, he hated it because you looked so desperate for him to make the world kinder than really it was, and he loved you so much it nearly made him crueler.
He cupped your cheeks.
“Head wounds bleed badly,” he said. “You know that, sweetheart.”
Your eyes blazed into his, and he knew he made a mistake then. You didn’t remember that part.
“H-head wounds?” You breathed out in disbelief, unable to claw the memory now.
“He was breathing when I got there,” Dex lied again.
A strangled sob left you, but it didn’t sound like relief yet. For now, it was only the body realising it had been offered a way out.
“Head wounds a-are dangerous.”
“I know.”
You hiccuped. “I thought— I remember—”
“Pieces,” Dex murmured. “You remember pieces.”
“But I saw blood.”
“There was blood.”
“On me?”
“Yes.”
Your face fell, Dex pulling you back in before the horror could.
“That’s why I cleaned you up,” he whispered, and that part, at least, was not a lie. His thumb moved slowly along your cheek, careful in a way Dex was rarely careful with anything that wasn’t you. “That’s why we ended up like this. You were shaking so hard, and I couldn’t get you warm. I tried. I swear I tried.”
His mouth brushed your temple, barely a kiss.
“I kept trying to move,” he murmured. “I kept thinking I should get you a shirt, but every time I pulled away, you reached for me again like you thought I was leaving, and I couldn’t—” His voice snagged, just slightly. “I couldn’t make myself do it. Not when you looked at me like that.”
You stared at him, still heavy-limbed, your thoughts coming back to you in pieces. It sounded embarrassingly believable, because there was a warmth in your chest that remembered him. Your hands had always found him before the rest of you caught up.
“I did?” you asked quietly.
“Yes.”
Your eyes narrowed, weakly suspicious. “You’re lying.”
Dex leaned down and kissed your forehead, lingering there like the answer mattered more than the accusation.
“About you needing me?” His voice dropped. “Never.”
You cried harder then, finally making messy little sobs that broke against his chest while Dex rocked you, He ran his hands up and down your back, whispering into your hair. He called you precious until the word stopped sounding like a word at all.
You shook your head.
Dex closed his eyes and held you tighter.
“You’re my girl,” he whispered. “Nothing about you changed.”
His gaze drifted once, towards the closet.
The black bag waited.
Behind the wall, beyond the apartment, beneath the ordinary morning, the dead man waited too.
Later, he would get rid of the body. Later, he would burn what needed burning. For now, you were shaking in his lap, believing him because you needed to.
“Dex,” you whispered.
“I’m here.”
“You promise?”
He knew what you were asking.
You promise I didn’t? You promise I’m still me? You promise whatever I don’t remember isn’t real?
Dex pressed his lips to your temple and held them there. “I promise you’re safe.”
It was not the answer you wanted, but it was the one he gave.
You sagged against him after that, emptied by tears, your body surrendering. Dex eased both of you down until he was lying on his back and you were draped over him, skin to skin beneath the sheet. Your cheek rested over his heart, hand curled weakly near his ribs.
He kept touching your scalp, your spine, and the back of your neck in gently repetitive strokes until your breathing evened out.
Eventually, sleep took you again. Poor girl, still so tired after murdering an evil man.
Every few minutes, you twitched. Every time, Dex whispered you back down.
My precious girl, he would praise. You did so well.
At last, your body grew heavy over his, your fingers stopped moving. Your mouth grew pliant against his chest.
Dex waited for five minutes, then ten, then twenty.
Only when he was certain you were properly asleep did he turn his head towards the closet again.
He had things that needed doing.
But you stirred faintly against him before he could move, and Dex froze. Your brow pinched, your hand tightening on his skin, some nightmare threatening to pull you under.
He settled back immediately.
Not yet.
The dead could wait a little longer.
Dex brushed his mouth over your hair and smiled.“My sweet girl,” he whispered.
His hand covered yours, pressing your clean palm flat over his heart.
“You did everything right.”
He adored you for last night, even if he could never let you know exactly what you had done.
He adored the shaking, furious thing you had become when there had been no one left to save you. He adored the fact that some part of you had remembered him, remembered every warning, every lesson, every instruction, just in case.
He adored that you had survived. More than that, in some terrible private corner of himself, he adored that you had survived violently.
He adored that for a split second, you had become him.
But he knew you best, and he knew you weren’t made for that.
So he would take that truth to the grave, and you would wake up tomorrow with the love of your life beside you.
You would wake up believing you had done only enough to live.
And Dex loved you enough to make that true.
—end.
NOTE : I genuinely love seeing all your requests in my asks, but I do get a lot and I physically can’t write every single one. I usually write the ones that catch my eye, and it’s probably every 1 in 5.
That’s why I have Ko-fi! If you request there, it’s pretty much guaranteed I’ll write it within a month of responding as a token of appreciation (keep this post in mind for July and August 2026). If I’m uncomfortable with the request or don’t think I can do it justice, I’ll let you know and we can brainstorm something else.
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