summary — Jack has already decided what he can survive losing. You didn’t realize you weren’t on the list until you weren’t.
content warnings — 8k words. hurt/no comfort, breakups, talk of pregnancies & the decision to have children, partner who doesn’t want children, age gap (reader’s 30, jack’s 50s), power imbalances; reader’s a nurse, jack’s her attending, workplace settings; working with ex, anticipatory grief, mourning a future, references to patient death, five-year-old patient (no serious injuries), pediatric medical case (forehead laceration, suturing, child is okay), blood in medical context, obliquely referenced that jack’s a widower, this is just sad tbh, mentions of eating habits (reader mentions not being able to eat and eating habits)
author’s note — i kind of realllllyy don’t know how i feel about this so i’m sorry if it’s bad 🫤🫤 thank you for so much love though
It was childish, you knew that, to have yourself temporarily placed only on day shifts. The correct protocol would have demanded you go through your attendings, but given that one out of the two attendings was the man you didn’t believe you could’ve stood in the same room as without completely breaking while the other half was his best friend, you took it straight to Dana.
You’d written it on the back of a discharge instruction sheet because a Post-It felt too informal. You’d written ‘days?’ and crossed it out. You’d written ‘can I be moved to’ and crossed that out too. You’d settled, finally, on ‘days only, for now?’
That was acceptable, for the time being, considering you’d framed it as temporary. If it did end up having to be permanent, for you were sure night shifts would have to be pried away from Jack’s cold, dead hands, then you’d deal with it then.
Dana had not asked. She’d taken the slip of paper you’d written it on—you hadn't been able to say it out loud, you'd written it down at the workstation and handed it to her, like a child passing a note in class—and she had read it and folded it in half and put it into her breastpocket. She clicked her pen twice then set it down then picked it back up.
“Okay, honey. I’ll see what I can do,” she’d said, and turned back to the assignment board.
You had loved her in that moment with a small, almost dumb, religious gratitude. You had loved her for not asking, You had loved her for the way she had not, in the eleven days since, looked at you any differently than she had looked at you in the years she had been your charge nurse. Except for one morning the previous week where she had passed you in the hall and put her hand on your forearm, briefly, in passing, and squeezed once, and kept walking. You had cried for thirty seconds in the supply closet about it. It was the only crying you had done that week.
You checked the schedule every morning. You did it on your phone, from the wrong bed, in the wrong apartment, the second after the alarm went off and before you’d even sat up. You checked it again on the subway. You checked it again at the workstation by the supply closet when you got in, the monitor you'd come to think of as yours because the rolling chair in front of it had a busted wheel that everybody else avoided. You knew it was pathological, yet you continued to do it.
The next chart you did was a woman in her seventies with back pain. The next chart was a teenager with a probably-broken thumb. The next chart was a man in his forties who had cut his hand on a can of black beans and was apologetic about being there. You worked. Your hands worked. Your hands had been very good, the last eleven days, at working. You had begun to suspect that your hands had decided to take this one for the team.
At 11:14 a peds laceration came in. You heard it before you saw it. The The father saying that it was okay, over and over, the way fathers said it in waiting rooms, less to the kid than to themselves.
Dana looked at you from across the central desk and you looked at her. You did not know, in that moment, what she was asking. You found out about three seconds later, when she did not, after looking at you, hand the chart to anybody else.
She handed it to you.
You did not check the schedule again, which was the first thing your hand wanted to do. You opened the chart. Female, five, forehead lac from a playground fall. Vitals stable. Father in the room. Mother on her way from work. Tetanus current. No known allergies. Five-year-old's name was Lily.
You walked to the room.
The dad stood up when you came in, which you wished he wouldn’t, because people standing up when nurses or doctors came in always made you want to apologize. You told him it’s okay if he sat, so he did. He had the kind of fleece on that meant he had left the house in a hurry—half-zipped, the inner liner showing—and his phone was face-up on his thigh and the screen was lit and he was not looking at it. The father was almost always in fleece; you couldn’t pinpoint what it was about emergencies that made men reach for fleece, but in the four years, you’d seen it hold.
Lily herself was on the bed with a gauze pad to her forehead by her own small hand, and her tears were slowing down a little, all cried out. Her cheeks were the high red of a child who had been outside in the cold. She was wearing a pink hoodie with a unicorn on the front and the unicorn had a small smear of blood on its horn, and the detail of the smear on the horn was going to live in your chest for a long time. Your first thought, before you could stop it, was that’d need cold water to clean it. Your mother had said to you so many times that it had become, somewhere in your twenties, the only thing you knew how to think when you saw blood on cotton.
The second thing you noticed was that Lily had a barrette in her hair shaped like a strawberry, hanging on by one clip, and that somebody had put that barrette in this morning, and the somebody was probably the woman currently crying in the hallway, and you were going to have to not think about that for the next forty minutes.
“Hi, Lily,” you said. “I’m your nurse,” and you said your name. You said it the way you said it to children, with your voice pitched a little higher than it sat. It had taken you a year to get it right. You were quietly, stupidly proud of it. It was the kind of thing you'd never told Jack about, because it was the kind of thing that sounded like nothing when you said it out loud, and you understood now that this was probably the category of thing your whole inner life lived in.
Lily’s tears continued to roll down her cheeks but she looked at you, which was a start.
“I’m going to do a couple of things really fast,” you said, “and the doctor’s going to come look at your cut, okay?”
She nodded. The gauze on her forehead moved when she nodded, and the dad reached forward to hold it for her, but Lily re-pressed the gauze with the exact wrong amount of pressure and your own hand twitched to fix it and you did not fix it, because the holding of one's own gauze was a thing a five-year-old could do for herself and was, in fact, the first task she had been given in the long career of being a patient, and you wanted her to have it.
You took her vitals. You did them the way you did them. Temperature, BP—pediatric cuff, the small one with the cartoon giraffes—pulse ox, the clip on her index finger that she watched with something like interest because the red light fascinated her. Her vitals were good. Her vitals were the vitals of a five-year-old who had fallen off something and was scared but was not, medically, in any trouble. You wrote them down.
You asked the dad the questions. Tetanus current — yes, he checked his phone for the date of her last well visit and read it off. Allergies — none. What she had been doing: monkey bars. Where she had fallen from: the third bar, he said, and looked stricken, and you said, "That's not high," in the voice that meant please put your face back together, and he did, sort of.
How long ago: twenty minutes maybe. Whether she had hit anything else on the way down: he didn't think so. Whether she had been unconscious: no, she had cried immediately, which he said with the specific relief of a father who had read the same internet article every father had read about head injuries. You wrote it all down. Lily watched you write.
“Okay, kiddo. The doctor’s going to be here any second to come look at it. They’ll probably want to fix it up so it heals nice. Can you keep holding that for me?”
She nodded, and her tears had slowed.
Dana was at the central desk when you stepped out. “I’ll page,” she said, without looking up as though she could sense your presence.
“Page who?”
“Whoever can cover peds lac in the next five minutes.”
“Okay.”
“Go restock the suture cart.”
You went to restock the suture cart. The suture cart lived in the equipment alcove off the main hallway. You stood in front of it and you opened the drawers and you did the inventory. You counted nylon. You counted prolene. You counted the gauge of the needles. The act of counting was good. The act of counting was the kind of thing your hands could do without your brain. You let your hands count. Your brain did the thing it had been doing intermittently all morning, which was nothing, which was a kind of low gray hum.
You did not check the schedule. You wanted to. You did not. You had decided, sometime around the fourth drawer, that checking the schedule again would be the act of a person who was not okay, and you were going to be okay, you were going to be okay through this shift, you were going to be okay until you got home, you were going to be okay until you could close a door behind yourself and not be okay in private. The not-checking was an act of discipline. The not-checking was the only thing you had control over.
You restocked. You closed the drawers. You walked back to Lily's room with the cart.
You knocked once and pushed the door open with your hip.
He was in the room.
Jack had taken a chair with his weight foot forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped loose between them, looking up at Lily on the bed. He had positioned himself so his eyes were a little below the level of hers, a thing he’d clearly done on purpose, because the chair was lower than the bed and he’d wheeled it closer. He made himself, in the structure of the room, small.
You had not realized, in the moment, that you thought the word ‘father’ until you heard it land somewhere behind your sternum.
He turned his head when the door moved and saw you. His face went neutral, a deliberate-neutral that he had to will it to be.
“Hey,” he greeted softly, the way an attending greeted a nurse who walked in with a cart in tow. He said it in the voice he used at work, the voice that had nothing to do with you, the voice that was for any nurse who had walked through that door in the last fifteen years. The voice was a mercy. The voice was also a small specific cruelty, the way mercies sometimes were.
“Doctor Abbot,” you said.
You realized, cruelly, that you’d never used his last name since the fifth date. You said it now, flat and professional, the way you’d practiced it in case you ever were in this situation. You were proud of yourself for one second, then you immediately regretted it because Lily was looking at both of you with an alertness only a child can have and make it obvious.
Jack turned back to Lily. “Alright, kiddo. This is who I was telling you about. She’s gonna help me.” When Lily tilted her head to the side with a small smile, Jack added, “She’s the best we’ve got around here. You’re lucky.”
You wheeled the cart in, parked it, set the tray up. Your hands set the tray up. Your hands knew what tray Jack liked, for they had been setting up trays for Jack for years, since before the dates, since back when he’d been an attending you’d worked with and gone home and thought about more than was appropriate. You set it up the way Jack liked it, with the needle driver on his left because he was right-handed (he liked to grab things cross-body), the forceps angled toward him, the suture spread out so he could see the gauges without rotating the pack. Your hands did all of this arranging and you did not, you realized, have any conscious memory of telling them to do it.
Jack didn’t look at the tray. He had, you suspected, watched it all go together in his peripheral vision in the same way a violinist heard another one tuning. He’d likely registered that the tray was just how he liked it and decided to stay silent about it.
“All right,” he said to Lily. “We’re gonna take a look. You’ve been doing such an amazing job with the gauze. Can you let your dad hold it for a second so I can see?”
Lily looked at her dad who nodded and took the gauze. Jack braced his right hand on the arm of the chair and stood—a motion he had developed, the half-second pause as he settled his weight before he moved—and stepped to the bedside and bent at the waist over Lily to look at the cut.
“Yeah,” he said. “You were having a good time, huh.”
“I fell.”
“I heard. The third bar, right?”
She nodded.
“I would’ve fallen on the first one,” he said, pressing his lips into a straight line before shaking his head self-depricatingly. “Monkey bars were not my game. I had no upper body strength. I had—what’s the word—noodle arms.”
Lily, despite herself, made a small sound that was almost a laugh.
“Yeah, that’s funny,” Jack said, nodding as his lips spread wide. “I had noodle arms. Your dad probably also had noodle arms.”
“Hey,” the dad said, with a softness of a man who had just been given permission to be in on a joke.
“Sorry,” Jack said, faux-shrugging.
Lily did a snotty, half-cry, which was a laugh. You stood at the cart with a packet of lidocaine in your hand as you watched a five-year-old laugh at a joke Jack had made. You realized he had built this whole calibration for kids, probably years ago. He’d been carrying it all the time you’d been with him, and you had never once seen it deployed so thoroughly in front of you. Perhaps it came down to the fact that there weren’t many peds cases in the middle of the night, and as luck had it, today, the universe decided to play a cruel joke on you by putting you on one with him.
You handed him the lidocaine with steady hands. You were so proud of your hands. Your hands were carrying you.
“Okay,” he said to Lily. “I’m going to put a tiny bit of stuff in the edges of the cut. It’s gonna pinch; I’m not gonna lie to you about that, ‘cause I think you can handle the truth. Can you handle the truth?”
She nodded solemnly.
“Good. So it’s gonna pinch. It’s like a bee sting but smaller. You ever been stung by a bee?”
“No.”
“Okay, so this’ll be your first bee. Congratulations. Some people would be good money for a bee this small.”
The dad made a small huff that was almost a laugh.
“Once it pinches, it’s gonna feel cold. And then in about two minutes, you’re forehead’s gonna feel super weird. Like—” He looked up, and you were almost certain he was pretending to think. “—Has your foot ever fallen asleep?”
“Yes.”
“Like that. But on your face. It’s a weird feeling. Some people don’t like it. I want you to tell me if you don’t like it, okay? So we know you’re being honest with us.”
“Okay.”
“And then once the numbing stuff is working, I’m going to clean the cut, and then I’m going to put some stitches in. The stitches are going to feel like pushing, and they’re not gonna feel like pain. If they feel like pain, you tell me right away, and I’ll stop, and we’ll fix it. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Jack blew out a breath, tilting his head to the side. “You are an excellent patient, you know that?” he said. “I had a forty-year-old in here last week who cried more than you, and he was getting a much smaller thing.”
You couldn’t look at Jack, so you looked at the tray. You looked at the suture pack and the lidocaine vial sitting next to the sharps box. You looked anywhere but at his face, because his face, right now, was doing something you couldn’t afford to look at.
Jack’s face was being kind and patient. His face was being good at being this; his face was one of a man who would have been an extraordinary father, and the face was standing six-feet from you in a fluorescent-lit ED room with a kid’s blood on the sleeve of his coat. You had to hand him forceps in approximately ninety seconds, and you couldn’t look at that face.
When he gave the lidocaine, Lily flinched and gasped but there were no tears. Jack said, “There it is, that’s the bee. You did so good. You did so good.”
He capped the needle and handed it back to you. Your fingers brushed when you took it. The brush was less than a second, and neither of you reacted, except for his thumb, which was curled in, briefly, against his palm.
Lily was hiccuping, and her had had his hand on her ankle.
Jack stepped back from the bed to let the lidocaine work. He did not sit back down in the chair. He stood at the foot of the bed, one hand resting on the rail, weight on his left, which was his good side, the side he stood on when he had to stand for a while.
His eyes didn’t find yours while the lidocaine worked. He looked at Lily, asked her about her hoodie. She told him about the unicorn. He asked the unicorn’s name. She said it was Strawberry. He said Strawberry was a great name for a unicorn. He said he had a stuffed animal when he was a kid named Bear, which he admitted was a low-effort name. Lily told him he should’ve named it something better.
The dad had relaxed by degrees watching this, like he realized their kid was going to be okay and he was allowed to stop bracing. He was watching Jack with something that was close to a love born out of appreciation. Parents fell in love with their kid’s doctors in moments like this; it was a small and clean version of love. It came out of realizing their child was being held by someone who could be trusted to hold them.
You filed it down with the smear of blood on the unicorn’s horn, the muscle in his jaw, and the word ‘father.’
“Okay,” Jack said. “I think we're ready. Let's see if you can feel this.” He took the forceps from your hand — your fingers brushed again, the second time, less than a second, again no reaction. And he touched the closed end of the forceps very lightly to the skin a centimeter from the cut. “Feel that?”
“No,” Lily answered, voice bemused.
“Cool. Cool cool cool. That’s what we want. I’m gonna clean it up and then do the stitches. You can close your eyes if you want; some kids like to close their eyes, some like to watch.”
“Can I watch?”
“Absolutely. I have to warn you, it’s a little gross.”
“I want to watch.”
“Okay, brave girl,” he said, chuckling slightly as he exhaled through his nose. “Girl who’s also potentially a future surgeon, what do I know?”
You handed him saline. You handed him gauze. He blotted. He worked. He talked to Lily the whole time. He told her about the saline. He told her what the irrigation was for. He told her that the cut was going to need four stitches, probably, maybe five, depending on how it sat once he got the first two in. He told her that the stitches would dissolve, eventually, but for now they would look like little blue threads, like tiny pieces of embroidery floss. He told her she could tell people at school she had embroidery in her forehead. He told her, when she asked, that embroidery was a kind of needlework, where you made pictures out of thread on fabric.
You watched his hands. You watched his hands because watching his hands was your job, because watching his hands was the thing a scrub nurse did, because you had to be ready to hand him the next thing he needed, because watching his hands meant you did not have to watch his face. His hands were the hands you knew. His hands were the hands that had held your hips in the kitchen during one of the worst three weeks of your life. His hands were the hands that had built you a stew thirteen days ago. His hands were the hands you had watched, for three years, do small competent things in your apartment like open jars, fix things, hold a coffee cup, work a buttonhole. His hands were doing small competent things now, on a five-year-old's face, the same hands, the same exact hands, and you watched them work the suture through the skin and you understood that hands were the cruelest organ a person had, because hands kept doing what hands did, regardless. Hands didn't grieve or pause for the convenience of the people watching them. Hands were just hands.
He did four stitches. He did them well. He did them in the time it would have taken a worse doctor to do two. He talked to Lily through every one of them. He told her when the next push was coming. He told her she was doing great. He told her, at one point, that her dad had been very brave to bring her in so fast, which was the kind of gift a doctor sometimes gave a parent in a room and which the dad in the corner accepted by closing his eyes for a second and exhaling.
He cut the last suture and stepped back. “You’re officially repaired. How do you feel?”
“Weird,” Lily said, dragging the word out.
“Yeah, the numbing stuff is weird. That’ll wear off in sometime. Your forehead’s gonna feel normal again by dinner.”
“What’s for dinner?” the dad asked Lily with a wobbly smile at being handed his kid back.
“Don’t know,” Lily said. “Pasta?”
“Pasta sounds good,” Jack said nodding. “Try to keep her from running around for the rest of the day. She can run around tomorrow,” he said to the dad.
Jack went through the rest of the discharge, and the dad asked one or two questions. Jack was excellent at this. You knew that. You’d known that since the first time you’d met him as a nervous nurse, but this, this he was especially good at.
You started cleaning up the tray. Your hands did the cleanup. You bagged the sharps. You wiped down the surface. You stacked the unused supplies. You did not look at Jack and Jack did not look at you. You moved around each other in the small room without contact, the way you would have moved around any colleague, the way you had moved around him in this hospital for years before you had ever moved around him in a kitchen, in a bedroom, in the small space between his side of the bed and the wall where you'd had to turn sideways to get past.
“Can I come back?” Lily asked Jack.
“We see you again, it means something bad’s happened. You can bring a drawing or anything you want, though. We put them on the wall.” He pointed to the wall by one of the desks where kids’ drawings were taped up in a gradually growing collage that nobody had ever taken down. “If you want to draw a picture, I’ll put it up.”
“Okay. I’ll draw Strawberry.”
“Send it in!” Jack said, smiling.
As the dad helped Lily down, the dad turned to you and said, “Thank you,” and said your name.
“You’re welcome, take care.”
Lily hugged you around the waist, briefly and fiercely, the way kids hugged near-strangers when they had decided in the last twenty minutes that the person was safe. You put your hand on the back of her head. You let her hug you. From the other side of the room, you heard Jack inhale, just once, audibly, like something had landed wrong in him.
She let go. She took her dad's hand. They left.
You and Jack were alone in the room. You went back to cleaning the tray. There was almost nothing left to clean. You cleaned it anyway. You picked up the empty lidocaine vial and you put it in the sharps box. You picked up the suture wrappers and you put them in the trash. You folded the sterile drape and you put it in the linens bin. Your hands were moving very fast and very precisely. Your hands were doing a week's worth of cleaning in the next forty seconds because if your hands stopped, you didn't know what would happen.
Jack said your name, and your hands paused for a minute.
You gathered yourself in a millisecond and picked up the cart’s handle to wheel it around. You moved past him to the door.
“Hey—” he said, voice so terribly soft. “Can I—”
You heard Jack stop himself, as he realized it was a question he didn’t have the right to ask. You knew that he realized asking was the cruelest thing he could have done in a room where he had just performed forty minutes of being the father he was choosing not to be, and you heard him try to take it back by going quiet.
You opened the door with your hip and you wheeled the cart out into the hallway and you let the door swing shut behind you and you walked.
You did not run. You walked. You walked at the pace of a nurse who had somewhere to be. You wheeled the cart back to the equipment alcove and you parked it and you did not, this time, restock it. You left it. You walked past the central desk and Dana looked up and Dana looked at you and Dana did not say anything, and you turned the corner past the central desk and you walked down the back hallway to the staff bathroom and you went in and you locked the door behind you.
You stood with your back against the door.
You walked into the far stall and closed the door. You sat down on the lid of the toilet with your scrubs on you and you put your hands flat on your knees and you bent forward at the waist and you put your forehead almost on your knees. It was what they taught you to do in school to do if you thought you were going to faint, the way you had done exactly once before, on your first day, after you’d witnessed your first death.
The sound that came out of you was close to a sob; it was small, it was wet, it was almost a laugh. It came out of you and you put your hand over your mouth and you pressed hard. Then the sob came, and then another.
You cried for the dad in the chair with his phone face-up and the look he had given Jack. You cried for the way Jack had stood at the foot of the bed on his left leg, managing the load. You cried for the muscle in his jaw when Lily said your name. You cried because his hands had been the same hands. You cried because he had said your name behind you, in the empty room, and you had not turned around, and the not-turning-around was the kindest thing you had ever done for him and also the cruelest, and you didn't know yet which one it was going to turn out to be.
You texted Jack before you opened the door to the apartment. The apartment, not yours. Just a thing your sister’s friend had graciously offered while she was out of town.
You wrote, hey - i need to come by for my passport. You sent the message before you could think twice about it and stood very still before your door as you watched the three dots appear, disappear, then reappear again. You did need your passport, but you also had to have this conversation with Jack. You wished you could live in this limbo state forever, the one where you can still be a tad unsure about what the two of you are, before you get a clean break and there’s no question that it was, truly and completely, over.
You were going to have to see him on Mondays, or Wednesdays, or whatever other days you were put in the same rotation as him because that was out of your control unless night shift had found a new nurse that was available every night, every day of the week.
His reply came in eleven seconds. Eleven seconds was, by your count, exactly Jack-fast. It was the speed of a man who had been waiting for the phone to do something and had decided, the moment it did, that he was not going to make you wait the social interval of pretending he hadn't been.
Of course. When works?
You wrote back, 2 PM today?
His response was quicker, the lag almost imperceptible. Yeah. I’ll be home. It seemed he had decided the same thing as you, and that was he was going to stop trying to make it small, because making it small was a thing the two of you had spent three years doing to bigger things, and he was—apparently—done.
You put your phone down on the kitchen counter that didn’t belong to you. The counter was a butcher block, scarred where your sister’s friend had cut tomatoes directly on it for years. You’d been resenting the butcher’s block since Tuesday. The marble in your apartment with Jack had been wrong in its own ways, but at least it hadn’t been absorbent. You wiped a smear of something off the butcher block with your sleeve, because there was nothing else to do with your hand. You had not eaten since the day before. You had not eaten breakfast or lunch or the kind of in-between snack that would have made not eating breakfast or lunch a manageable thing, and you understood, looking at the butcher block, that the not-eating was going to become a thing you had to address before it became a thing somebody else had to address, but you were not going to address it today.
Jack was in the entryway. He’d been waiting in the entryway near the closet, and his hand was on the closet door, and he had—you understood, taking in the staging—positioned himself so he was doing something when you walked in. You guessed that he landed on which was the same flavor of stagecraft as him being at the sink eleven days ago when he had imagined, that time, you coming in. He had needed a thing to be doing. The closet was the version of the dishcloth.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
“You can—come in,” he said. The pause before come in was the size of him deciding whether to say come in or come home or come here. He had said come in. It was the most correct of the three available options and it was also, you understood, a thing he had picked from a menu.
You came in and closed the door behind you. You hadn’t let yourself lock it, because that would’ve meant something different.
“I kept your passport on the counter,” Jack said, and you almost paused in your footsteps as you stepped through the entryway. Like he’d noticed, he added, “Not to—you know. Just, if you prefer not to—”
He looked down at his hands, which were still on the closet door, and he took the hands off the closet door and let them fall, and the falling was the thing that told you he had given up on the staging. He had nothing to do with his hands and he had decided, in the half-second of looking down, that he was going to let them be empty.
You walked. You walked past him into the apartment because the walking was easier than the answering, because the answering would have required you to pick which of his unfinished sentences you were responding to, and you could not, in this entryway, pick. You walked. You felt him behind you not following.
You set your bag down on the bench. You set it down without thinking and it was only after the bag had left your hand that you registered the bench, that you understood your body had walked you to there because that was where bags went in this apartment, and three years of muscle memory had walked you to the bench and your brain had not been consulted.
The bag was on the bench. Your bag. Where his bag had always gone when he came home and put his hands on your hips. You looked at your bag on the bench and you understood, with a small clinical clarity, that this was the last time anything of yours was going to be on this bench, and that the bench was going to keep existing after today, and that he was going to walk past it every morning for some number of years, and that the bench was not going to know.
You took your hand off the bag slowly. You took it off the way you took your hand off a patient's wrist after a pulse check, the careful release of a thing you were not going to be holding anymore.
You’d never let yourself imagine it all too deeply, but the imagining had happened anyway, in the soft margins of your brain where you didn’t keep accounts. Standing in this entryway you were aware of it the way you became aware of a bruise four days after it settled. You had imagined, you understood now, a girl. You had imagined a girl with his hairline and your hands and you imagined her on the bench by the door putting on shoes. You had imagined Jack sitting on one knee to do the laces, because you knew he would crouch even though it hurt him. He was a man who made himself smaller to help at the child’s height; he’d done it for Lily and you knew the small grunt his left knee would make and the way he would brace one hand on her shoulder to stand.
You had imagined a second one, too, smaller, a boy or girl you hadn’t decided about, somewhere. You had imagined a kitchen—not this kitchen, a different one, somewhere with more light and up the river, a kitchen Jack had said yes to, with a backdoor that opened to something green. You’d imagined him older in that kitchen standing at a counter in that kitchen explaining something patient and slightly too complicated to a kid who was half-listening, and you had imagined yourself watching him do it from a doorway. The watching had been the feeling, and you had thought—when you let yourself think it, which had been rare, late at night, in a warm muzzy place between his arm and pillow—that you would be lucky.
You had built a future in the warm muzzy place that you had never once dragged out into the kitchen and put on the counter and asked him to look at it. And you had now understood that he, in the same three years, had built a different one, and neither of you had shown the other the blueprint, and the blueprints had been incompatible the whole time, and the incompatibility had been sitting between you on every couch and in every bed and at every table for three years like a third person nobody was introducing.
You weren’t sure when you’d grabbed the passport, but it was in your hand.
“My sister’s going to come down to help me move the stuff next week, if that’s okay?”
Because it was decided—you’d decided—that you’d be the one to move out.
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Whatever works for her.”
It came out lower than he’d meant to. You could tell because he heard it come out, and his jaw moved once, a small adjustment, the kind of micro-correction he did when a sentence didn't come out the size he had wanted it to. He cleared his throat again.
“I can be gone, if you—she wants. The whole day. I’ll take a shift, I’ll—yeah. I can not be here.” Then, he added, “Or I can help. If it’s heavy stuff. Some of the boxes from the closet are—”
“I’ll let you know.”
He was nodding too much. He had been holding the nodding to the metered pace of the rest of the conversation and the pace had broken, somewhere in the last three sentences, and the nodding was running ahead of him. He noticed. He stopped. His hand came up to the back of his neck and stayed there.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
Don’t do this, you were thinking to yourself. Don’t make this any harder than it already is.
“And I’m sorry about the case—Lily. I wasn’t going to take it because you were on it, and it was peds, but Robby was busy—”
You were shaking your head because your eyes had started burning now, at the memory of it. “It’s fine, Jack.”
“I should’ve found someone else. I shouldn’t have walked in there. I knew you were on it and I walked in anyway and I—I am sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
You said it louder the second time than you’d meant to. The loudness almost echoed in the apartment as his lips pressed together to keep himself from saying more, and you stood there with your eyes threatening to spill over and you understood he was apologizing for a case because a case was the only thing he would apologize for. That was the only way he could apologize for any of it, and that letting him do that was a kindness you did not have inside you to give.
You couldn’t let him use a five-year-old with a forehead lac as the vehicle for the thing he actually wanted to say because the thing he actually wanted to say was too large and the vehicle was too small and the gap between them was going to break you if you stood in it any longer.
He kept his hand on the back of his neck.
“You were good with her,” you said, voice softening an inch. You hadn’t meant to say it. “You were really good with her. That’s not—I’m not saying that because. I’m just saying.”
You weren’t sure if you’d said any words that resembled anything close to a sentence.
“Thank you,” he said, and closed his eyes for a second and held them that way. “I’m sorry I can’t be—that. For us.”
You closed your eyes, too at that, and the pressure caused a small, single stream to ripple down your cheek. Looking at him with his eyes closed without sleeping was a thing you were unequipped for, closing your eyes was the only available form of leaving the room without leaving the room. You stood with your eyes closed and the passport warm in your hand and you let yourself, for two seconds, not be in the entryway.
When you opened them he had opened his.
“Don’t—that’s not—you don’t have to be sorry for that. It’s a thing that—it’s just a thing. Don’t apologize for it.”
He pulled the corners of his cheeks between his lips as he nodded.
“But you should have told me. A long time ago.” Because I don’t know where I’m going now, without you.
“I’m sorry. I’m—I am sorry,” he said, and his hand had come off his neck and he was fidgeting with the belt loops of his jeans, tugging on them harshly as though that was the place he was redirecting his words to.
“I should go,” you said.
“Yeah.”
You stepped into him before you could decide to. Your body did it, the way his body had done the half-step at the closet, and you were halfway across the foot of air between you before your brain caught up and registered that you were doing it, and by then it was already done, your forehead was against his collarbone and your hand had found the front of his shirt and the passport was somewhere, you didn't know where, you had stopped holding it.
He stood still for half-a-second. He stood with his arms at his sides and you understood he was not going to assume he was allowed, that even now, even with you in his chest, he was waiting for the permission to be explicit, and so you pressed your forehead harder into his collarbone and that was the permission, and his arms came up.
He held you so carefully, the way you held a thing you had been told you couldn't have but had been given anyway, briefly, for a reason that wasn't going to last. One of his hands found the back of your head. The other one was at your shoulder blade, flat, and you could feel his thumb against you not moving, holding very still, the discipline of a man not allowing the thumb to stroke because stroking would have been taking.
His body shook. It was small. It was one tremor that moved through him from somewhere low in his ribs up through his shoulders, and you felt it because you were against him, and you would not have felt it from a foot away, and you understood that the thing about being held by him right now was that you were the only person in the world who could feel what his body was doing, and that you were never going to feel what his body was doing again after today.
“This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”
He whispered it into your hair very quietly. He said it at the same decibel of when he said things in the dark when he thought you were asleep, the small unguarded register he had thought, in those moments, was private, and that you had heard every time, and that you had never told him you had heard.
There was no answer that was the size of what he had just said and so you stayed against him and you let him have the silence.
He held you for a few more seconds.
He pulled back first and gently, with the carefulness of a man undoing a knot he had tied himself, and his hands moved down your back and around to your sides and stopped there, briefly, before one of them—his right— came up to your face, his own twisting slightly as he warred with himself over whether or not he was allowed to touch you this way. He put his palm against your cheek and cupped it. His thumb went under your eye where the tear had been earlier and was now dry, and he brushed the dryness with a shaky thumb, and it stayed there for a second longer than it needed to.
“I know you’ll find the right person.”
His voice had come back to almost level. He had spent the moment on the shake and the whisper and now he was using the last of the discipline he had to deliver this line, and you watched him deliver it, and you understood that he had been saving it. He had decided some time in the twelve days that this was the line he was going to give you on the way out, and he had practiced the steadiness of it, and the steadiness was working, and the steadiness was the gift.
You couldn't imagine loving anyone but him.
You were going to be thirty-one in three months and you were going to live in apartments that were not this apartment and you were going to walk past men on the street and on the train and at work and none of them were going to be him, and the not-being-him was going to be the central fact about every man you met for some long time you could not yet measure. You knew this with a clinical clarity that you kept to yourself. Voicing it would do nothing.
“You too, Jack.”
He smiled softly, like he knew you were offering him a kindness you couldn’t promise, a kindness he himself believed not to be true. His jaw set, the half-second readjustment that told you he had heard the lie and was not going to correct it. He was going to receive the lie the same way he was receiving the hug, carefully, gratefully, knowing he was not supposed to have it.
“Okay.”
His hand came down from your face and you stepped away, because being there any longer, in his arms, you knew, was not right for you. You grabbed your bag and cleared your throat before you said, “I’ll text you about the move.”
“Okay.”
“Probably Tuesday.”
You had walked into the apartment in your shoes and you were going to walk out in them and the not-taking-off-of-shoes was, you understood, a thing the version of you who had come through this door at 2 PM had decided about, the small protective instinct of a woman who had known she was not going to be staying.
You put your hand on the doorknob.
You turned around.
He was where you had left him. He had not moved. His hands were at his sides again, the kitchen-position, the position they had remembered. He was looking at you with his face mostly held but not entirely held.
You let yourself look at him for a half-second longer than you had meant to, because the half-second was the last one you were going to have with him being someone you could love before he became your attending and just that; you wanted to know what he looked like at the end of it so you would remember the right face later.
Jack had decided that he wanted to let you leave clean, not prolong it any further. He’d given himself that opportunity for three years, and he’d let you leave cleanly now, with the small consistent excellence of a man who had decided what the standard was and was going to meet it.
You were going to spend the rest of the afternoon, and the evening, and the night, and possibly the rest of your life, hating him for being good at it even now.
“Bye, Jack,” you said as you opened the door.
You couldn’t bear to turn around, but you heard a hitch in his breath as he said, “Bye.”
Jack had been the love of your twenties. He was never going to be able to tell you you were the last love he would have.
summary – winding jack up all through date night earns you a one-way ticket to the doghouse. a photobooth at midnight gives jack the perfect place to get you back for it!
warnings – [ wc: 3.8k ] 18+ MINORS DNI! fingering, brat tamer!jack, brat!reader who’s slightly insufferable to jack at the beginning, reader’s wearing a silk dress, grinding/dry humping, thumb in mouth, semi-public/public intimacy (photobooth on an empty street!), jack’s got a mouth on him, hair-pulling, light degradation, sex while under the influence (consensual!), established relationship dynamics, soft-dom/dom!jack
notes – this is basically part of the controversially young gf!reader universe but it got a lotttt longer so i just thought i should make it a oneshot
You’d been a pest all throughout dinner. It was awful, and you and Jack both knew it was intentional. You’d sank down five glasses of red with your alfredo, cooing by the third one that Jack was just so amazing, running your foot slowly up the inside of his calf under the table while you said it. The fine wool of his trousers was warm under your bare arch, and you felt the muscle beneath it tighten. So handsome and hot and grumpy, how you couldn’t wait until the two of you got home to see it all, you’d said, loud enough that the elderly couple beside you had glanced over, and Jack had shot you a glare over the rim of his class that did the opposite of ceasing you.
Fuck, you’d been wrong. You’d stolen forkfuls of his plate. You’d found a dozen flimsy excuses to lean across the table, every one of them cover to let the champagne silk of your neckline fall low, watching his gaze drop and stay. A flush had climbed up his neck at the sight of the swell of your breasts underneath and you took such immense satisfaction watching how his throat bobbed as he swallowed. Poor Jack, always so composed and now losing it at this Italian joint. Your hair became a little tousled because you kept sweeping it back off your shoulder to expose the line of your throat. You kept leaning in close so the candlelight caught the gloss on your mouth, your tongue peeking out slightly as you tried to catch the wine at the corner of your lip.
He’d hooked his good leg around yours at one point, a pained and warning smile on his face, when you let a strap fall loosely off your shoulder, and said, “Asking for one nice dinner with my girl.”
“S’this not nice?” you’d asked, frowning, your lips jutting out so sweetly.
“It’s really nice.” He reached over and tugged your strap up onto your shoulder, knuckles dragging down your bicep once it was fixed, gooseflesh chasing the graze of them. “It’d be nicer if you’d sit still for two minutes.”
“I’ve missed you,” you murmured, because you had.
It was almost embarrassing how badly you’d wanted to simply push him onto the bed once you were both ready; your stomach coiling as you watched him spritz on the cologne you liked and roll his sleeves. You’d sat on the edge of the mattress in your robe, watching him. And then he’d told you that your makeup looked just so pretty, how the night was going to be so much fun, and you’d realized there was no way you were going to last through this dinner.
You’d been starved of him the past week, practically living on scraps of him. You had a feeling Jack knew exactly how much you’d missed him. You weren’t sure what hint you’d ever given him that made him think you were going to play fair.
“Missed you, too,” he said, thumb finding your wrist on the table. “That’s why we’re here. Missed you so much I got us to the place you’ve been goin’ on about for a month. You can do all this at home.”
Wine-fueled and pouty, you said, “Should’ve just stayed home.”
“You’re complaining about being taken to the hardest reservation in the city?” Jack’s brows went up to the middle of his forehead and he set his fork down. When you opened your mouth, he shook his head and said, “No. No. You’re right. Should’ve done the couch. Saved myself a fortune.”
That may have been the straw that broke the camel’s back, because now, you were walking beside Jack – past midnight – trying to find a dessert shop in silence. He’d indulged you when you quietly, hesitantly, asked him if you guys could get something else after trying the tiramisu, which had been – you’d whispered it – kind of dry, actually. His jaw had tensed, and he’d nodded quickly and said, “Sure,” reaching for the check, “let’s get you somethin’ else.”
Your heels clicked too loud on the pavement and Jack was a half-step ahead of you the whole way, hands buried in his pockets, so silent. He wasn’t holding your hand, and Jack was a hand-holder through and through. A small-of-the-back toucher. A man who steered you like a wheel through the world. And now, it felt like a very, very painful punishment he was doling out on you.
“Are you mad?” you tried.
“No,” he said, tossing the words over his shoulder without looking. “Looking for your dessert.”
“You could hold my hand,” you said, and hated just how small you sounded. “Jack,” you tried again when his hands stayed exactly where they were. “Are you going to talk to me?”
“When you’ve got somethin’ to say,” he said, shaking his head with a small click of his tongue at a closed bakery. “There’s a place two blocks up that stays open late.”
Two fucking blocks. Your heels clicked, and his footsteps stayed silent. You let the gap between you stretch – a foot, then another, as you slowed and he didn’t – until you were trailing him down an empty midnight street. Groaning to yourself, you bit the bullet, speeding up to catch up to him properly. You slid your hand into the crook of his elbow and pressed yourself into his side, tucking your cheek toward his shoulder.
“Sorry, Jack,” you mumbled.
He breathed out through his nostrils, pulling his hand out of his pocket to maneuver it around you now, pulling you in. Still tense, but the relief of being by his side was so immense you sagged against him, still wine-drunk and loose.
“Woah – ” he muttered, trying to catch you as you tipped into him, your heel skidding a little on the pavement. His arm clamped tightly around your waist, hauling you upright to his side before you could go anywhere, and he huffed out a small laugh. “Who told you to drink this much?”
“Was trying to match you,” you mumbled.
“Now, that’s stupid, isn’t it?” He patted the side of your waist once. “Gotta take care of you now. Wound me up all through a nice dinner ‘cause you wanted my attention and couldn’t ask nicely. Congratulations, you got me.”
“You’re being kind of mean,” you mumbled, tucking into his shirt.
“Not getting you out of the doghouse, so don’t try it.”
“I’m in the doghouse?” you asked, surprised.
“Oh, you’re in the doghouse,” he said, chuckling, steering you around a crack in the pavement. “Forget brunch and the whole big day we planned tomorrow. We’re on house arrest.”
You squeaked out something incoherent. “How do I get out of the doghouse –?” Your words trailed off, when your eyes landed on the photobooth – wedged into an alcove between a laundromat and a corner store, a curtained one with the pale blue fabric hanging crooked, its light still buzzing faintly. It was like a star in a cloudy sky to you, your body perking up at his side, feet slowing as the wanting rose brightly, childishly.
But you were in the doghouse, so you made your lips clamp shut. You’d be surprised if Jack ever did an outside-activity with you ever again, much less indulged a wine-drunk detour into a novelty photobooth this late. You were pretty sure you’d used up your whole allotment of Jack’s patience when you’d stood up on the pretense of the ladies’ room and instead leaned over to whisper something dirty in his ear as the waiter arrived with the entrées. Somewhere in the gauntlet, Jack’s amusement had faded and you were now, a little too late, sure you were the worst, most ungrateful girlfriend ever.
So you did the hardest thing ever: you said nothing. You looked at it like you were a kid looking at a toy in a shop window – doomed – and you dragged your gaze forward to keep your feet moving.
Jack, whose open book you were, read the longing off you in an instant. “No.”
“Didn’t say anything,” you mumbled.
He got four steps forward before he paused, craning his neck down to look at you nuzzled into him. His arm tightened around your waist, and you had a feeling that this time, it was more exasperation toward himself.
“What is wrong with you?” he mumbled. “You don’t want a picture with me?”
“I do,” you said, immediately, through a sharp breath. Your shoulders stiffened at your sides. “But I’m in the doghouse.”
Jack let out a laugh at that, disbelieving. He turned, so the two of you stood across properly, chest to chest, and his face dipped down toward yours. “You know you can ask me for it.”
Your hands came up to fist at the fabric above his chest. “Can we take a picture?”
He took his time, eyes dropping from your face, down your throat, lingering on the silk covering just more than a third of you, how the fabric clung and skimmed and gave everything away. Your brows furrowed in suspicion when his tongue quickly dragged over his bottom lip.
“Why, yes, we can.” His hand slid up your spine as he leaned down to press his mouth against your forehead. “Can’t have you this dolled up and nothin’ to show for it.”
He pushed the crooked curtain aside and held it, nodding his head for you to go in first, and you ducked into the little box. It was three feet with a lightbulb as the screen flickered awake to throw its glow across the two of you. Jack folded his frame down onto the single stool with a low grunt, one hand bracing against the wall, taking the weight off the prosthesis, settling back against the metal. He worked the ache out of his thigh with the heel of his palm before he spread his knees wide enough that it took up the entire square footage of the space.
You stood in the vee of them, hemmed in, and looked down at him. His knee bracketed you in, the walls an inch off your shoulders, the heat of them crowding out the air outside.
Your bottom lip tugged between your teeth as you watched him thumb through his wallet. He glanced up at you through his lashes as he counted coins into his palm, heavy-lidded, a slow curve pulling at his mouth, and he looked suddenly, thoroughly, indecent. He placed the coins into your open palm, then gestured to the slot.
When you turned to feed the coins and leaned down slightly, Jack’s palms came to the sides of your thighs, sliding up to go up to your bare skin under the dress, and he let out a pleased hum.
“This is a nice view,” he murmured, his thumbs pressed to the side of your hips before he turned his palm to squeeze the globes of your ass. “Take your time there.”
His hands filled themselves with no hurry at all, kneading slow, palming you like he’d also been waiting all night for you to shed the layer off your skin.
You let out a small fuck as the quarter hit the slot and clattered somewhere on the floor.
“Butterfingers,” he mused, palms sliding up from the curve of your ass, dragging the dress up until it bunched up around your waist, exposing the tiny black lace pair you’d picked out before dinner.
Before you could say anything, his mouth pressed over the base of your spine, letting out an appreciative hum into your skin. You’d chosen it for this reason, only you hadn’t expected it to be revealed in a shitty photobooth. You hardly had time to think about dignity, or anything dignity-adjacent, because Jack blew out a long breath that ghosted over your skin while pulling away, and his thumb hooked into the delicate band at your hip and snapped it along your skin.
“Maybe we shoulda stayed home,” he muttered.
“Thought you wanted a nice dinner,” you said, palm bracing flat to the wall as you tipped your head down, having no space to spread out.
He clicked his tongue, letting his hands go greedy, spreading his palms wide over the bare curves of your ass. “S’my fault for thinking my girl wants to be wine and dined.” He gave a pointed squeeze, humming delighted as your back arched in response. “No, this is all you wanted.”
On any other day, you would’ve – you were sure of it – had some quick thing to fire back at him, some retort to keep the game going. But the calluses in Jack’s palm were kneading slowly, the roughened skin catching the softness of you with each pass, and the friction of it scattered every thought you’d ever had. His hands were so functional – so broad, innately warm, scarred at the knuckles – and they moved over you so achingly slowly, and the wit just drained straight out of you and pooled right about where your dress was shamelessly resting on his wrists.
The box had gone humid, the air thick with the warm cedar of him and the wine, your breath fogging on the glass every time you exhaled. You managed to shove a coin in with wobbly hands, determined – for what? You didn’t know.
“Hey, look at that. Cat finally got your tongue.” He let one of his palms drift down, finger reaching out testingly where the damp fabric sat between your legs, tracing one feather-light stroke along the lace, and your knees buckled slightly, your head pressing against the cool, glowing glass of the screen, your reflection – completely undignified – swimming an inch from your face while his breath fanned against your back. “This the off switch for your mouth now?”
“Jack–” Your hips went to chase the touch before you could think better of it.
His hand went to splay wide and heavy over your hip, pulling you back slightly closer to hold you steady as your legs shook. His other finger hooked the lace aside – one blunt finger easing the sodden fabric out of the way – and pressed the pad of his thumb through the bare, slick heat. You let out an embarrassed whimper, teeth digging into your lips as your eyes pinched shut.
“Did all this to yourself thinkin’ about me at dinner while I was right across from you, huh?”
Letting out a low groan, he dragged you back in one motion, tumbling you into the sprawl of his lap. His arm wrapped around your waist to hold you right there, and he ground you down against him, so fucking mean with it, slow and fast all at once, so you felt every inch of two hours’ worth of tormenting him pressed against your legs, the blunt drag that made you chase more, more, more.
His free hand slid beneath your thigh, fingers digging the soft crease on the inside of your thigh, and pulled it outward, patting your skin once. “Open up.”
He rolled his hips up when you did, and your eyes snagged on the screen in front of you, catching your faces from the neck-up. His head tipped back against the metal wall, hands sliding up under the silk bunched at your waist, up over the bare plane of your stomach, and closed over your breasts, palming them full and greedy – the band of his watch a shock of metal against the warm underswell of you – as his thumbs grazed over the hardened peaks until you arched back into him with a broken sound.
“Jack,” you said, trying to force a hiss as you looked down, noticing how your dress had bunched into nothing but a few inches of fabric sitting shamelessly over his forearms like a tiny towel. “Someone could walk in –”
“Mhm – they could, couldn’t they?” His chin fell onto your shoulder to watch your face on the screen. His tongue dragged over his lips before his mouth found the shell of your ear. “Someone could see my pretty girl fallin’ apart on my lap.” He shifted his hips forward, pressing against your core with a groan. “Wanna take the risk?”
Your teeth gritted together as you tried to focus on him, focus on the screen, focus on his hands that had seemed to already have done a clean sweep of your entire body. “Thought I was –” you started, and his brows furrowed in amusement, “in the doghouse.”
“Oh, you are.” He slid his fingers back down, bumping his hip against yours to slide his fingers down the lace, thumb finding your aching and circling it. “You love it here, too.”
“I don’t–”
“No?” he drawled, thumb circling while his teeth nipped at your throat. “Coulda fooled me.” He let his fingers drift down, the pads of them gliding through the slick heat you’d made for him until two fingers pressed against your entrance while his thumb rubbed over your clit. The lace was now clinging in a dark, translucent patch against your inner thigh. He tapped his fingers against your entrance. “You’re soaked for me, baby. I could slide right in here.”
You let out a small whimper at the words, and like you’d done a magic trick for him with the sound, his fingers sank deep in one broken press until his knuckles rested against you. On the screen, you watched your own mouth fall open, watched how he smiled against your throat like he’d won something.
He curled his fingers, dragging them over a spot that made your whole body seize in Jack’s cage, the sound following was filthy enough to make the entire booth feel smaller. His smile widened, and he pressed a lazy, open-mouthed kiss right under your ear.
“Got myself such a pretty girl,” he murmured into your skin, the lower half of his face nuzzling into the flush emanating off your neck. He kept dragging his fingers in you, always knowing your body better than you knew yourself, until your thighs trembled against his.
He shifted behind you, free hand pressing flat between your shoulder blades, folding you forward until your palms hit the glowing glass of the screen and your spine curved down.
“Hold there,” he rasped, the new angle somehow driving his fingers deeper. “Attagirl.”
Your eyes flickered up to catch him on the screen as he worked his shirt open one-handed, thumbing the buttons loose. The fabric fell away from the broad stretch of his chest, exposed in the wash of the screen, and you watched him move behind your own reflection with your breath picking up.
“See somethin’ you like?” His hand gathered a fistful of your hair and tugged, drawing you up back against him in one motion. Your spine hit the heat of his chest, the sweat sticking to you, and your head tipped back. “Got warm in here,” he said, smiling when you tried to press even closer to him.
Your hand awkwardly reached up to his neck, manicured nails raking up the hot column of it, scraping through the short hairs at his nape and holding on for life as everything in you wound tighter, brighter, and turned completely unbearable. “M’close,” you said, words slurring together, and your head nuzzled the side of his face.
“Aw,” he cooed softly, fingers continuing their rhythm. “S’that what that is?” He curved them inside you pointedly, and you bit down a sound. His thumb pressed into making quick, merciless circles. “That why you’re squeezing my fingers, huh? Spoilt girl.”
When you pulled at his hair, he tsked, amused, and brought his free hand up to wrap loosely around the front of your throat, thumb resting against at the hinge of your jaw, dropping your head back against his shoulder where he wanted it. His thumb, pressed at the corner of your mouth, and your mouth just felt so empty, so achingly unoccupied, so you turned your head and drew it in – the blunt salt-and-soap of him, slightly rough against your tongue – and the weight of it in your mouth settled the frantic-ness in you, gave your restless want somewhere to wrap.
Jack’s face in the reflection had gone hooded, brows drawing in together at the sight. His pupils swallowed the last of the color from his hazel eyes as his jaw clenched. His hips rolled helplessly beneath you.
His thumb pressed down onto your tongue, forcing your mouth open, then dragged his thumb along your bottom lip, pressed it back in, out, and every second your throat worked around a sound or your lashes fluttered at the overwhelm of him, his fingers stuttered still buried in you.
And fuck, the relentless attention of Jack tipped something in you. You’d spent all night starving for exactly this – his eyes, his focus, all of it aimed at you, selfishly – and now you had it completely that it made you drunk in a way the drinks hadn’t managed.
“I think you like watching us,” you said around the shape of his thumb.
He chuckled, and his thumb slipped from your mouth to trace along your jaw, tilting your face just so, and his lips curved into a crooked smile.
“No, I think I like you,” he said, fingers still working you through the peak. His mouth pressed to your temple. “Love you.”
“Jack,” you said through a small, cracked whimper. You almost hated how he could do that, how easy it was for him to reach past with two plain words and disarm you so thoroughly. You turned your face to nose against his jaw, greedy for him. “Love you, so much. Even when you’re mean.”
He laughed at that, fingers moving your jaw so you could face the screen again. “So mean to you, huh.” He tilted his head in the reflection, amused as he watched your face scrunch up. “Looks like you’re suffering real bad.”
He pulled his fingers out of you completely, and they came away slick. He dragged them up over your clit in one small smear, then pushed back in almost as quickly as they were gone.
Your hips ground down into the heel of his hand, chasing that unbearable brightness winding tighter and tighter behind your stomach. And Jack, watching you on the screen with such naked curiosity, chose the exact moment to reach with his free hand and jab his thumb against the plastic of the machine.
Your eyes, hazy, barely caught the countdown on the screen. Behind it, your head was lolled against the crook of his shoulder, throat damp with sweat, your mouth slack and parted, the hints of gloss coating your lips and around. Jack’s jaw shadowed your temple, his eyes hooded with pupils blown out, fixed on your reflection, one hand a clear hard line where it disappeared beneath the dress bunched underneath. A loving couple, from the collar up. A postcard, and below the frame, his fingers buried deep, your lace panties shoved aside, and his whole length straining against his pants and rubbing into you.
The countdown blinked, and Jack’s fingers curled for the final few pumps so knowingly, your vision had started going white at the edges.
“C’mon, baby. Give the camera somethin’ good,” he whispered. “All it can see is you lookin’ like my fucking angel.”
when teenagers start throwing roadkill carcasses over the fence of the zoo, there's only one person you can call. boyd fowler is an odd fellow, but you find yourself harboring a certain fondness for him. will the fondness remain when he kidnaps you all for himself? (spoiler alert: yes)
Warnings: DD:DNE!! reader with a backstory, reader collects animal skulls, boyd is not a rapist serial killer in this fic, he’s just a pathetic pervy loser with some Tendencies, like he skins roadkill instead of killing people, boyd flirts by showing you a dead raccoon, you’re kinda into it, animal death, stalking, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, reader is waaaay too okay with what is happening, SMUT (18+), oral (f receiving), one use of pussy pronouns, unprotected sex, breeding kink (no pregnancy), boyd is down bad and a bush-enjoying eater, scent kink (because remember who’s fics youre reading tf. like c’mon), he genuinely loves you but just doesnt know how to go about it, reader manipulates him a bit, no pronouns used for reader, no use of y/n, reader is called ‘ma’am’
A/N: dedicated to the three (3) boyd fans out there (specifically @defijones who has been waiting so patiently for this. love u <3). gotta use my zoology degree somehow *shrugs* (this is so self indulgent its not even funny LMAO) also part of this was written in the middle of the Pacific Ocean
w.c. 16.3k wheeeew
You thought that moving to Miami would solve all your issues. You weren’t running per se, but you were desperate to get out of your living situation. A shitty roommate, a crazy ex, a dead-end job. You really just needed to get away. So you scoured the AZA job board and eventually got an email back from a privately owned animal park in Miami. You packed up everything you owned. It all fit in a single U-haul trailer hitched to your car. You had conflicting feelings about seeing all your worldly possessions within a single 6x12 trailer. You were glad that it was easy to move, but fuck. All the years you had been living and that’s all you had to prove it? It was even worse when you unpacked the boxes. They were stacked in the living room of your studio apartment. The shitty couch you had found was already nestled into its spot facing your TV and its stand. Outside of the necessities- bed, cookware, your animal oddities collection- you didn’t have much. You hung up the nature scene tapestry and a few band posters and stood back to admire your work. The apartment looked so cold. So lifeless. So…uninviting, honestly. You made a vow to yourself that once your first paycheck hit, you’d get some lamps to add soft light to the room instead of the harsh overhead ceiling sconce. And you did. As the initial weeks passed, you settled into your role as a small-omnivore zookeeper and as a resident of Miami. You got a rug for your apartment, a really soft one that you enjoyed running your feet over. But something was still missing. There was a disconnect. When you walked through the door after your shift, you never felt the rush of satisfaction of being home for the night. It honestly felt like you were staying at a hotel. You didn’t think much of it and just chalked it up to being in a new place. Surely it would pass eventually.
It was going to be another hot and humid day. You could feel it. Even though it was only eight in the morning and the sun hung low in the sky, you could feel the wet heat beginning to trap the fabric of your dark uniform shirt against your back. Summer was in full swing and the smell of freshly mowed grass and the chorus of birds filled the air. The animals spent more time out in their habitats rather than their climate-controlled houses. You said good morning to each one as you walked down the path carrying a bucket of vegetables for the lemurs. It was part of your morning routine. Clock in, prepare the vegetables and fruits for the small omnivores, divide them up into color-coded buckets depending on species, add in any medications or dietary supplements, and distribute them accordingly. The lemurs were the last to go. You had already made your rounds to the other habitats. The opossums had climbed up onto your shoulder as you scooped their food into their dishes. You liked the opossums. There were two at the zoo, kept separate due to behavioral issues, but they were both sweet to you and relatively well-behaved. Though, that morning, Chuck had slapped you in the face with his tail while trying to jump down from your shoulder and into the food bucket. You had to scruff him and gently place him into the grass. He waddled back up and pawed at the leg of your cargo pants. He looked up at you with his round little eyes and an over-bite that made you apologize sincerely before topping off his bowl.
The sound of your boots hitting the pavement was the only thing that broke up the quiet morning. The zoo was about to open and you cherished the quiet time before the screaming kids flooded the walkways. You turned down the pathway leading to the lemur house and stopped abruptly. The head keeper stood there, hands on his hips and looking down at the row of bushes that lined the perimeter fence. His brow was furrowed and he was muttering to himself, mustache twitching with silent words, and shaking his head. You cleared your throat to alert him to your presence and he looked up.
“Oh, good morning.” He mumbled.
“Morning, Stan. Is everything okay?” Stan let out a huff of air and took off his hat, scratching at his scalp. He motioned you over with a jerk of his head. You placed the feed bucket on the ground and walked over. You didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t what you saw. In the bushes was a dead opossum, jaws wide and eyes picked out by birds. Its fur was blood-stained and its abdomen was crushed. Its little pink fingers were stiff and part of its tail was missing. Roadkill.
“Damn teenagers,” Stan spat. “Pickin’ up roadkill and throwing it over the fence. Do it at least once a month.”
“Poor thing.” You sighed, brows knitting together with sympathy. You imagined Chuck like that, a sweet creature lifeless and discarded as part of a prank. It made your stomach clench. Accidentally running over an animal was one thing, but scraping its corpse off asphalt and hoisting it over a zoo’s fence like garbage? Despicable. Stan took a deep breath and sighed, putting his hat back on his head.
“Listen, kid, I’ve got a lot of work to do before we open.” He told you. “Do you think you can take care of this? Call the county collection people. Tell ‘em it’s not an emergency and it’s on a staff path. The gatehouse will radio you when the guy gets here. Bring him back and he’ll do his thing.” You nodded along to his instructions. Stan placed an appreciative hand on your shoulder. “Thanks.” From inside the house, you heard the lemurs screaming. “I think they’re hungry.” Stan chuckled and handed you the bucket of food before he walked away.
An hour later, your radio buzzed to life. The guardhouse called you down to the back entrance and said the Department of Sanitation had finally sent someone. You took the radio from its clip on your belt and assured them you’d be right down. After weaving through crowds of visitors, trying not to trip over a child who was trying to scoop up his dropped ice cream, you finally emerged on the other side of the zoo. You walked through the zoo’s office and made your way to the staff entrance. Through the double-wide glass doors, you could see a yellow truck with the county logo painted on the side. The sun glared off the aluminum of the truck’s hood and you had to shield your eyes as you walked back out into the hot Florida sun. The air conditioning of the building had been nice, and you felt any remnants of cool air whipped away from your keeper’s uniform. You cursed whoever mandated the dark green t-shirt and black cargo pants combination for workers who were outside all day.
You approached the van and found its driver sitting in the back of the bed. He kicked his suspended feet aimlessly while he waited for you, back hunched and fingers drumming on the metal.
“Hi,” You greeted, holding up your hand to shield your eyes from the sun. The man turned to look at you, a little startled, and jumped from the bed. “I’m assuming you’re here for the collection?” He nodded and reached out his hand with a smile. You could see a peak of his crooked teeth and it made you smile back.
“Yes, ma’am,” He confirmed, shaking your hand. “Boyd Fowler.” You introduced yourself and led him up to the doors and scanned your ID badge, unlocking the building and stepping inside.
“You have perfect timing,” You told him as you walked him through the zoo. “Saved me from having to shovel badger shit.” Boyd chuckled.
“Yea, sorry we weren’t here sooner. There was a gator th’got hit and dangerous calls are always the priority. Never know if those things are dead.”
“Was it?”
“Dunno,” Boyd shrugged. “Didn’t find it. Probably wandered off somewhere.” You hummed in interest and turned the corner onto the staff path behind the lemur building. You stopped at the bushes. The opossum was still draped across the branches, though it was now considerably smellier and covered in flies. Boyd clicked his tongue when he saw it, grabbing the gloves from his pocket and widening his stance to examine the scene.
“My boss says there’s a group of teenagers that do this sort of thing often.” you explained softly.
“Poor thing,” Boyd mused, using a single gloved finger to lift up the opossum’s paw. He twitched his nose to reposition his glasses. “No defensive marks. Just roadkill. Been dead for a few days.”
“How can you tell?” You took a step closer, peering over Boyd’s shoulder to look at the carcass. A small breeze shook the trees. He smelled like sweat, but not in a bad way, and something a little more unnatural. Almost chemical.
“The blood on its fur isn’t really red anymore. Means it’s been dried for a while. And the eyes are pecked out. So the birds have had time to get to it.” He explained.
“That’s so interesting. How do you know that?” Your question was innocent, but his shoulders tensed slightly before shrugging.
“Gotta know your craft.” He turned to you and grinned. He dug into one of his pockets and pulled out a roll of trashbags. “Now usually, I just carry it back to my truck, but I have a feeling you don’t want me to traumatize all these kids by parading around a rotting carcass.”
“That would be appreciated, yes.” You took a step to the side to let Boyd do his job. You watched him while he worked. He was wearing a backwards cap, curly hair poking through the opening. It looked brown, but when the light hit it just right, you swore you could see some ginger strands. The color was reflected in his mustache and the tiny bit of chest hair that poked out from underneath his khaki county-issued shirt. The top button was undone and you noticed the bottom two were as well. His green canvas belt was barely holding up his black cargo pants. You could see a thin band of his underwear above the waistline and you wondered how he got past the guard house looking like that. Usually, guests had to stick to a dress code, family friendly establishment and all that, but you could see the dusting of freckles that covered his belly and his chest. And, of course, that covered his muscled arms. His biceps flexed as he shook out the trashbag. You weren’t necessarily complaining, but you knew you would be getting a few looks from uptight parents escorting this sweaty, half-dressed man carrying a trashbag around. Boyd gently picked up the carcass and slid it into the bag. You shivered at the plopping sound it made. Boyd looked at you and lifted up the bag triumphantly with a polite smile.
“Done.”
When you got back to the truck, he hoisted the garbage bag into the back of his truck and took off his gloves. He procured a small bottle of hand sanitizer from his shirt pocket and squeezed a glob into his palms. He held it out to you and you turned your hands over, allowing him to place some in yours too.
“Can never be too careful,” He said, rubbing the sanitizer into his skin. “Tons of bacteria on a dead animal. Live ones, too, but I’m sure you knew that.”
“Yea,” You smiled, patting the excess onto your pant legs. “We have to wash our hands between each enclosure.”
“S’good habit to have.” Boyd rounded the truck and hopped into the driver’s seat. The air fresheners hanging from the mirror swayed with the movement.
“I like your deer freshener." You pointed at the square that was hanging beside the iconic green tree. “Deer are my favorite. I grew up in an area where there were loads of them. I always liked watching them.” The words seemed to earn a genuine smile from him.
“Thanks,” His eyes scanned your face and he looked you up and down, like he was trying to decide something. Boyd dug a crumpled business card from his pocket. “Listen, I’ve gotten this call before. As the summer goes on, there’s usually more.” He handed you the card and you took it. He tapped the number with his finger. “If it happens again, this is my direct line. Sometimes it takes a while for it to go into the system if you go through a dispatcher.” You nodded, a little unsure if he was really just trying to help you professionally. On the way back to the truck, you had caught him checking out your ass.
“Alright,” you told him anyway, “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Boyd. Have a nice day.” You tucked the card into the pocket of your pants and waved to him as he drove off. You had forgotten all about the card until you got home. It had been a long day of changing out bedding and creating enrichment toys. When you collapsed onto your couch with a drink, you felt the hard cardstock poke your thigh. You retrieved the card and frowned at it, taking a sip of your drink. You sighed and put it in your wallet.
Boyd had been right. After a few weeks passed, you began to find more animals littered on the pathways. Never in the same spot, and never the same species. A skunk here, five rats there. One of your coworkers said that, yea, it happened sometimes, but this year was by far the worst. You were getting one every week. You noticed that it only happened while you were working. Which wasn’t saying much, you only had 3 days off a week, but the days you had off rotated and they never had to call something in when you weren’t there. The lack of a pattern made it hard for the police to come up with an explanation. They had simply told you to install more cameras. The zoo directors took the advice, but you knew they didn’t have the funding to rewire the system. The newly added cameras didn’t work. They were just used as deterrence.
For the first month, you always called in to the Department hotline. You filled out the report and waited like you were supposed to. But today was different. Two of the zookeepers were out sick. Since there were already such a low number of workers, the absence of two pushed you to consider the department officially understaffed. You had to do all of your duties as well as take on half of the additional workload. You were stressed out of your mind, planning how to incorporate the new tasks into your already full schedule. You worked all day with an edge and you were counting down the minutes until your lunch break. You rounded the corner to the giraffe habitat and of course, laying on the welcome mat of the giraffe house, was a dead raccoon. You let out a growl of frustration and stomped your foot. You really did not have time for this. You closed your eyes and forced yourself to take a deep breath. Great. Wonderful. Now you had to push back your entire day just to sit on hold for a hotline. An idea poked into the frustration. You dug your wallet out of your pocket and opened it up. Looking back at you was the tattered edge of the business card Boyd gave you. You sighed with conflict. You really shouldn’t. You should go through the proper channels and report this, so it could be added to the file. But Boyd had given you his number. And to be fair, Boyd was always the one who showed up for the calls. You were on a first-name basis with him. Surely he wouldn’t mind. Plus he’d have to report it anyway. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you dialed the number written on the card. On the second ring, the call went through.
“Boyd Fowler.” His voice came through the speaker. It sounded slightly distorted, but professional.
“Hey, it’s me,” You started.
“Oh! Hi…” You could hear the surprise in his voice.
“I, um. I hope it’s okay that I called you.” Your words were a little shaky and you nervously shifted on your feet. “There’s a raccoon. A dead one. Can you…”
“Yea,” You heard the blinker of his truck flick on. “I’m pretty close by. Should be there in…like five minutes?”
Sure enough, six minutes later, the yellow truck you had memorized pulled into the parking lot. At least the giraffe house was directly next to the staff entrance.
“Thank you for coming,” You told him as he gathered his things. “I would have called the line but I’m way too busy to wait. I’d rather just get it over with.”
“No worries. You can always call me.” Boyd smiled at you, crinkling his eyes. He wasn’t wearing his glasses and his shirt was actually buttoned and tucked into his shorts. You thought he looked good regardless, but it was nice seeing him a little cleaned up and you enjoyed that you could see the hazel ring of his eyes. They were really pretty. “Rough day?”
“You have no idea,” You huffed. “Two people called out sick and now I have to pick up the slack.” He offered his condolences as you stepped up to the giraffe house.
“Hello, Bandit,” Boyd greeted the raccoon. “Caught trying to break in, huh?” He subtly looked at you to see you suppressing a giggle. Boyd smirked anyway. He gently gathered the raccoon’s feet and lifted it up to examine it. “Huh.”
“What?” You walked closer to him and Boyd opened his posture to allow you to get a better look at the animal, hand ghosting over your lower back to get you at the right angle. He ran a finger along the throat of the raccoon. His face leaned closer to you. Another inch and his cheek would be pressed to yours. You could smell his deodorant. “See those marks?” He murmured, eyes flicking to your face. You ignored the way his gaze paused at your lips. You nodded. “Cat teeth.” He closed his teeth rapidly together to simulate a bite. “Right through poor Bandit’s carotid.” You sighed with wonder.
“How can you tell they’re cat marks and not another raccoon?”
“Distance between the teeth.” He said, using his pointer and middle finger to measure the gap. “Cats have that shorter muzzle, so there’s less of a vertical gap between the canine and incisor marks.” You saw it. It was a small semi-circle. Clean and neat. You were surprised that you didn't catch it until after Boyd pointed it out. To be fair, being so close to the man you were beginning to develop a crush on made your head a little woozy.
“Huh.” You admired. “Fascinating.” You turned to look at Boyd to find he was staring at you. Maybe he had been the entire time. His lips were turned up in an easy smile and his eyes were fond. Warmth spread in your chest. You didn’t know if it was embarrassment or something else, but you didn’t allow yourself to think too hard about it. You cleared your throat and took a slight step back. Not dramatic, but enough to get some space between the two of you. “Thank you, I really appreciate it.”
“Just doin’ my civic duty.” He gave you a fake solute.
“What time is it?” You asked, gesturing to the watch he wore. When he answered, you let out a noise. “Thank god,” You sighed, rubbing at the tense muscles of your shoulder. “Lunch time.”
“What did you bring?” Boyd asked, beginning to walk back towards the entrance. You walked beside him.
“Chicken noodle soup. Just from a can. Nothing fancy.” You giggled when his nose scrunched up. “What? Don’t like soup?”
“I prefer tomato.” He said simply. “Plus it’s so hot out. It’s not really a soup day. And you deserve something more fulfilling than that, especially if you have to work harder.” You shrugged.
“That's all I had in my pantry this morning.” You stood with your hands out in front of you while you watched him toss the raccoon over the side of the truck bed. Together, you performed the hand sanitizer ritual. You’d grown so accustomed to it, you didn’t even wait for him to offer, just held out your hands and waited. Each time there was a new scent of sanitizer. The original instance had been unscented, but he began bringing ones from Bath and Body Works. He said he liked the smells. After you rubbed it in, you held up your hands to your nose and inhaled. It smelled familiar. “Mmm, what’s this one called? Smells good.”
“Japanese Cherry Blossom.” He read from the label. Your eyes widened.
“That’s funny,” You mused, “I have the body wash version.”
“Huh,” Boyd huffed. “Weird. I like it, though.” You nodded. A moment passed between the two of you and Boyd swallowed. He lifted a hand to readjust his hat. “Hey, so, this might be crazy,” he began, “but I know this really good cafe not far from here. Would you…wanna go to lunch there? It’ll be a helluva lot better than…canned soup.” Boyd’s gaze dropped to his feet at the last part, shoving his hands in his pockets and furrowing his brow. He probably thought it sounded stupid. You tried to suppress a grin, but the corners of your mouth twitched anyway.
“Yea, that sounds great.” You agreed softly.
“Really?”
“Sure. Let me grab my stuff and we can go.”
The cafe was adorable. A local bakery and coffee shop that you’d seen on your drives to work, but their hours usually fell outside your schedule. You usually just sat in the breakroom and ate reheated leftovers. The change in routine excited you and you were grinning like an idiot the entire time you ordered a sandwich from the menu. You reached for your wallet, but Boyd put a hand on your elbow, shaking his head and reaching over you to hand the cashier his card. You gave him a look and he just shrugged. His treat.
“So do you like what you do for work?” You asked, taking a bite of your sandwich. Boyd gathered a spoonful of eggs and nodded.
“It’s not for everyone,” He acknowledged “But I love it. It’s never boring.” Excitement crept into his voice and his eyes sparkled. “Like yesterday. Got this call to a house, said they needed help with a python. I’m thinkin’, okay, shouldn’t be too hard to manage if it’s already dead. What the property owner failed to mention was that the python had started eating one of his pet goats, which is why he shot it. So I had to maneuver a fifty-pound snake and a seventy pound goat halfway down the python’s throat.” He laughed and shook his head, taking a bite of eggs. “Fucking nightmare.” Your eyes widened.
“Holy shit, Boyd, that’s insane.” You laughed. “How did you do it?” Boyd scoffed.
“Used a chainsaw to divide up the weight.” He looked like he was about to go into more detail, but he decided against it once he saw you take another bite of your sandwich. He stabbed a sausage with his fork. “Pretty easy after that.” You were surprised at the level of detachment he spoke with. You worked with animals for a living, and had even been there during the euthanization of some. It still made you cry when you thought about the binturong who you worked with during your first job. She was extremely geriatric and had dozens of health issues and ultimately the choice was made to humanely euthanize her. You remembered the way her tail was curled around your arm. And the way it slowly loosened and eventually slipped off. You supposed it was a little different, considering Boyd didn’t have a personal connection with the animals and that they were already dead.
“So you’re pretty used to seeing dead things, then? I bet the smell can be terrible.” You pushed the painful memory out of your mind. Boyd shruged.
“The smell can be awful but…can’t say I ever get used to it-” A ringtone cut off his next word. Boyd patted down his body until he found the offending device. He sighed and got up from his chair. “Shit, sorry, I gotta take this call.” He piled up his napkins on his plate. Boyd looked at you. “It was really nice talking to you. Not a lot of people ask about my job. I-If you ever want to, uh, ride along with me, or something, just…let me know.”
“I appreciate the offer,” you said with a polite smile “But I think my passion lies with the alive ones.” Boyd laughed at that. A genuine, light noise that sparked something in your chest. You found yourself enamored with his smile.
Eating pussy and skinning roadkill. Those were Boyd Fowler’s two hobbies. And he had done neither of those things since he set eyes on you three months ago. The first one was self-explanatory, and he hadn’t actually done that in years. Women didn’t really pay attention to him. To most women, he was a county worker who was just as unsightly in their neighborhoods as the dead skunk on the culdesac. And as much as he loved watching the housewives jogging in the morning, he understood.
The second one was trickier. He liked to take his work home with him, storing the collected carcasses in trash bins for later use. Whenever he’d have a bad day, he’d grab something from the bin and take it to his shed. He liked the process of skinning the animals. They were already dead, he wasn’t really doing any harm. The focus he had to dedicate to the task soothed his nerves and he’d sell the pelts to his taxidermist friend for some under-the-table side income. Win-win situation for everyone. But he had to preserve the carcasses he was called to take care of. They had a better use now. The teenagers really had been throwing dead animals over the fence in the beginning, but they had stopped after three times and you had still used the call line. He wanted you to call him. To let him know that you needed him. So he decided to continue the acts until you did. It wasn’t hard. Boyd knew the cameras didn’t work. He’d pick a spot and chuck the carcass over, congratulating himself when it landed right where he intended. Boyd had memorized your work schedule. Even though it rotated slightly, there was always a pattern, and he had noticed. He only ever dropped off an animal when you were working. Because he always wanted the caller to be you.
You had enraptured him the moment he laid eyes on you. You were beautiful. The kind of effortlessly pretty that he adored. The worst part was you acted like you were oblivious to that fact, like you didn’t know how hard you got his blood pumping. And maybe you didn’t. But he would change that soon. It was more than the physicality. It was the way you actually saw him as a person, the way you asked him questions about himself. You didn’t know a ton about him- it was hard to have deep conversations when you only saw each other for thirty minutes every week- but you knew that he was an awkward minimum wage worker and still decided to talk to him. He knew all about you, though. One night you were out with some coworkers for a drink. Boyd had been watching you for weeks, getting to know your habits. And when you were out for the night, he used the spare key taped to the top of your door frame to break into your apartment. It was sparsely decorated. Not a lot of personal items beyond some books and posters. But it became very clear you enjoyed fragrances. You had a tray on your dresser with a line of perfumes. Your bathroom closet had a shelf dedicated to candles. He smelled each one until his head felt fuzzy. You had a body wash and a sugar scrub in your shower, whereas Boyd just used soap, 2-in-1 shampoo, and a washcloth. The body wash sitting on the shelf was the one he smelled on your skin that first day and had been dying to get a hit of ever since. And now he had a name. Bath and Body Works Japanese Cherry Blossom. He went to the outlet mall on his next day off and bought a hand sanitizer of the same scent. Boyd slowly implemented the change of scented sanitizers, too afraid that he’d spook you by immediately coming in heavy with one that matched your smell. And he had done it perfectly; you seemed more intrigued by the fact you had a common interest rather than disturbed that he knew what scent you liked. Boyd even started deep-cleaning during his showers, making sure the dirt and grime actually flowed from his body rather than a quick rinse. He wanted to smell good for you. The image of you nuzzling against his chest and inhaling deeply hung heavy on his mind. How you might run your nose along his sweaty neck and tell him how good he smelled. He thought about it often at night with his boxers shoved down his thighs and his heavy cock in his hand.
You were smart, too. You had gone to school for animal stuff and you always seemed to know the answers to any question he had. He showed you a picture of a partial skull he found and you were able to tell him it was a striped skunk simply because it had square molars. He showed you one he thought was a grey fox and you had vehemently disagreed. It was a red fox because the temporal lines were V shaped, not U shaped. You told him it was easy to remember- Vulpes had a ‘V’, Urocyon had a ‘U’. You taught him how to tell the difference between caniformes and feliforms based on how many chambers the auditory bullae were divided into. And you always found it silly how lagomorphs (hares, rabbits, and pikas, you had explained to him) had two rows of incisors. Every time you dropped an unexpected zoological fact, Boyd just watched and listened in awe. But he also knew that the fascination with skulls ran a little deeper than simply learning about them. When Boyd was in your room that night, he saw your collection of oddities. You had deer antlers, a vial of raccoon teeth, and sixteen skulls of varying species. You liked the bones and he liked the skins. And to Boyd, that’s why you were a perfect match
Every action he took was carefully curated so he would be able to take you gently. Like luring a stray dog into the house with bits of food before capturing it and giving it a home. He thought he fucked it up once, allowing the dizzying excitement of eating lunch with you to numb his thoughts. Asking you to do a ride along was risky, too heavy-handed. And although you responded kindly, he could see the hesitation in your eyes. He went home that night and slapped himself repeatedly, spewing how utterly fucking stupid he had been while crying in the darkness. But then you called him again, and he allowed himself to breathe. This was serious. He would not slip up like that again. Even though he noticed that your fridge was empty the last time he broke in, and it took all of his strength to prevent him from filling it up for you. That would be too far. You were his everything. He knew you at least liked him, and that was enough to formulate his plan. Boyd would give anything to have you by his side for the rest of your lives. To brag to his coworkers that he had a pretty little thing waiting at home for him. Coming home to you after a hard day at work and you rubbing his shoulders, kissing his face. That you would allow him to spend hours eating you out until you were begging for him, and then he’d give it to you so good you’d be shaking after. The CDs he listened to told him that he needed to decide what he wanted and take it, because it wouldn’t wait around for him. Boyd decided he wanted you. And he wasn’t going to lose the opportunity to get you. All he had to do was set up his attic and wait for the right moment.
He decided this was the perfect moment. You worked the closing shift instead of the opening, and he had asked his supervisor to do the same. The sun was below the horizon, but slivers of orange and pink still cut through the dusky sky. There had been another call. He had thrown a groundhog over the fence and patiently waited. Sure enough, you called him right away. Boyd had debated continuing his deposits. He was growing a little restless and he needed a trip to his shed. But he had ultimately concluded that he at least needed to continue it for a few weeks. If they stopped the day after you disappeared, that might be bad for you, especially since Boyd did want you to go back to work eventually. As much as he wanted to, he recognized that his job couldn’t provide for both of you. And you genuinely enjoyed what you did- he didn’t want to take that from you. The call was an hour ago and he hadn’t left. He waited for time to pass, lunchbox sitting on the passenger seat awaiting the right moment. Boyd pushed his glasses up his nose. He knew you liked it when he didn’t wear them, you had complimented his eyes when he showed up one day without them, but he was out of contacts.
Boyd’s fingers drummed nervously against his thigh and it wasn’t long before he saw the doors to the staff building open. He swallowed when he saw you. You looked so good in your work uniform. He watched your powerful legs, strong from having to lift and carry heavy food boxes and climbing through enclosures. The movement of you walking mesmerized him and he felt blood begin to flow south. He adjusted himself and willed his brain to calm down. He needed to remain aware and present if this was going to go well. You made it to your car. If you had noticed he was still there, you didn’t make it known. Still, he unzipped the lunchbox and pulled out the sandwich. He kept the bag in his hands until the right moment. You tried starting your car, but the engine sputtered. A smile twitched at his lips. He had drained the battery. He saw you hit your hands in frustration against the steering wheel. And he saw the moment your eyes moved to his truck. Now. He popped open the sandwich bag and took a bite. He forced himself to keep his eyes forward. When there was a tiny knock at his window, his jump was sincere. He couldn’t believe it worked. He turned to see you standing on the other side of the door, smiling sheepishly and eyes wet. Boyd set the sandwich down and leaned over the seat, cranking the window down. He mustered his best surprised grin.
“Oh, hey! What’s wrong?” He tilted his head when he saw the way your eyes glistened from the parking lot light. You sniffled. His heart cracked. He felt bad about the situation, but it was ultimately necessary. It was almost over.
“M-My car won’t start,” You took a shaky inhale, trying to hold back tears. “What are you still doing here?” He lifted up his sandwich.
“I decided to take my dinner break here instead of driving somewhere.” Boyd swallowed the bite. “I would offer to jump your battery, but we’re not allowed to. Company truck, company policy.” It was a lie. There was no such policy. “But I can give you a ride home and you can deal with it tomorrow.” Your eyes lit up and Boyd felt his heart soar. He loved being able to rescue you, even if he had to put you in the situation.
“Really? You’d do that for me?” You asked, teeth showing behind your smile. I’d do anything for you.
“Absolutely,” He unlocked the door and moved his lunchbox. “Climb on in.” You pulled yourself up into the truck and he immediately noticed your eyes go to the center console. His CDs. Fuck. He hadn’t meant for you to see those. He quickly swept them onto the floor of the back seat and rested the lunchbox on the console instead. His fingers dipped into the front pocket, wrapping around the needle filled with the sedative. A low dose of tranquilizer, just enough to knock you out for a few hours without harming you. He waited until you clicked your seatbelt on. Boyd’s hand shot to your neck, pulling you close and inserting the needle into the skin. You let out a strangled yelp, eyes blowing wide. When he retracted, you looked at him with panicked betrayal, hand pressing to the injection site. “I’m so sorry, baby,” Boyd cooed, thumb running over your cheekbone. He felt tears begin to well in his eyes at the sight of you. “I’m so sorry. It’s okay, you’re gonna take a good nap and I’m gonna take you home.” Your pupils dilated and your eyes fluttered closed. Boyd pressed a kiss to your temple, short hairs of his mustache scuffing against your skin. He gently eased your head against the window, so any passer-bys would just think you were sleeping. He took a deep breath and gripped the wheel. He gave you one more unsure look. You were going to hate him, Boyd knew that. But he also knew you would adjust. He had made the attic a home for you. And eventually, you’d fall in love with him. As deeply as he was with you. He was sure of it.
The first thing you noticed was the dry scratching in your throat. Then the pounding in your head. Then the ache in your knees and shoulders. Your memory was fuzzy, but you could feel that something was wrong. This wasn’t a hangover, this was something different. More sinister. You let out a little groan and shifted. You realized you were lying on your side and your face was pressed against something soft. It smelled like your sheets, fresh out of the laundry. Confusion deepened the fog in your mind. You tried to push yourself up, but something held your wrists together and you slumped back over. Your awakening seemed to stir something at the end of the room. You felt the vibrations of boots on wood and your eyes fluttered open. They focused and saw two black boots standing in front of you. Your brows pinched together.
“Boyd?” You rasped out between panting breaths. The word felt like fire as it came from your throat. Boyd bent down next to you, holding a glass of water with a straw.
“Hey, baby,” He whispered, running a soothing hand over your head. “Drink this, you’ll feel better. S’just water.” He placed the straw between your lips. You hesitated, but your throat hurt so bad you had no choice but to comply. The water was like liquid gold, soothing the daggers and allowing you to speak.
“What happened? W-Where am I?” You tried to sit up and Boyd made an uncertain sound, but allowed you to lean upright against the wall.
“You’re home.” You looked around the room. You were sitting on a mattress tucked into the corner. The shape of the ceiling told you that you were in an attic. There were counters on the other wall and a small closet with a toilet and a sink. Light streamed in from a single circular window, catching the dust particles in the air. You could see the first step of descending stairs.
“This isn’t my apartment.” Boyd was squatting, arms on his knees and looking at you carefully. He was wearing a white tanktop and black gym shorts. You could see the tan line half-way down his freckled biceps. He gave you a sympathetic look and a small smile.
“No,” He agreed. “This is my house. Our house.” He was still grinning at you. Not maliciously, but rather fondly. He looked around the room. “Do you like it? This is just the attic, but once you get…acclimated I’ll show you the rest of the place.”
“Boyd what did you do?” Your tone was escalating and Boyd shot back to his feet, scratching at the nape of his neck. He crossed his arms over the swell of his belly. “Wh-Why am I here?” You tried to press your hand to your head but it was held back. You looked over your shoulder to look at your wrists. They were linked together by a chain wound around a pipe. Two leather cuffs surrounded your wrists. You furrowed your brow. “What are these?”
“Hand cuffs.” Boyd said simply. “I’m sorry, but it needed to happen. It’s the only way we could be together. The cuffs are so you don’t hurt yourself or me while you adjust.” You blinked up at him, shock on your face. You scoffed. “What?”
“You used leather cuffs?”
“And?”
“I just…I guess I was expecting zip ties or metal.” Boyd scoffed, shaking his head, walking over to the counter where there was a grocery bag.
“Those are dangerous. I’m a safety guy. Don’t want you gettin’ hurt or cut or nothin’” He explained, taking bottles of water from the bag. “The leather’s s’posed to be comfortable. If it’s not, let me know. I can get you something else.”
“What is going on?” You said it more to yourself, eyes so wide a tear dripped down your cheek. You took in the mattress you were sitting on. Your sheets and comforter were wrapped around it, your pillows at the head. And nestled between the two of them was a little stuffed deer. The same stuffed animal you had since you were six. “Is that?” Your voice was barely above a whisper, but Boyd heard you.
“I wanted you to be comfortable.” He turned to face you, face open and pleading. “You like sleeping with it. I don’t…I don’t want to hurt you. I want you to feel safe here.” All you could do was laugh at the absurdity of the situation. The man who had kidnapped you had taken your sheets and your favorite plush toy so you could…enjoy your time locked in his attic?
“Boyd please, you have to let me go.” You begged. “Someone’s going to notice I’m missing. If you untie me I promise it won’t be bad. I won’t…I won’t press charges or hurt you or anything.” Boyd shook his head firmly and turned back to the counter.
“No.” He said. “You’re not. And no one’s going to notice. Your rent and utilities are on autopay. I told the zoo that you had a family emergency and you were going to be out of the country for extended leave. Stan was very understanding. Sends his condolences.” You let out a choked sob.
“Please,” You begged. “I thought you liked me. I liked you. Why are you doing this to me?” You could tell your questions were beginning to annoy him. His jaw clenched and he slammed his palm onto the counter.
“Life doesn’t j-just give you things. If you want something you gotta take it.” He spat, clenching his hand into a fist. Boyd turned to face you, expression softened with vulnerability and emotional pain. “And I’ve never wanted anything more in my life than I’ve wanted you.” The words shocked you, and you couldn’t deny the small flicker of flattery that sparked in your chest. In any other situation you would have been over the moon that someone considered you a prize. And even now, the idea that Boyd would go through all this effort because he wanted you settled in your stomach in a not-unpleasant way. But then again, you were being held hostage in his house.
“You could have just asked me on a date like a normal person.” You told him but Boyd scoffed, muttering something self-deprecating. You saw him take a knife out of the bag and you pressed yourself back against the wall. “Please don’t hurt me.” Your voice was watery and Boyd looked confused. His eyes flicked from you to the knife he held in his palm. He dropped it instantly, like it had burned him.
“Hurt you?” Boyd looked genuinely taken aback, eyes widening and lips parting. He crossed the room and kneeled back down to you, collecting your face in his large hands. You squirmed a bit, but he made you look at him. “Hurt you? No, never. I love you.” Your lip quivered. “You don’t have to say it back right now. But you will.” Boyd pressed a kiss to your forehead. You tensed at the feeling of the combination of his soft lips and wiry mustache. “You should get some rest, okay? The tranquilizer’s still in your system. You’re gonna feel really sleepy for the next few days. I won’t do anything, don’t worry. Call me if you’re hungry or thirsty or need to use the bathroom, okay? M’just downstairs.” Boyd helped you lay back down and he draped the comforter over you. He tucked the deer stuffy between your chin and neck and walked down the stairs. You sobbed quietly until sleep took you again.
The next few days were a blur. Dry eyes blinking open from restless sleep, Boyd forcing you to drink more water, eating crackers, and then falling back asleep. Once the tranquilizer had worn off, the reality of the situation began to settle firmly in your mind. Boyd had taken you. You were locked in his attic. There was no escaping. And yet, you weren’t as distraught as you probably should have been. As time went on, you and Boyd fell into a routine. He’d wake you up before work by running a hand up your calf, squeezing just light enough where you’d blink awake. He’d say goodbye and ask if you needed anything. During the day, you were left to your own devices. After promising Boyd you wouldn’t do anything crazy, he had let you out of the cuffs. And you had meant it. You were still angry, scared, generally confused at the situation, but you weren’t going to break out of the house. The window to the attic didn’t open, and it was far too small for you to bust out of, anyway. It’s not like you were in immediate danger. Boyd had been nothing but respectful. He brought you clothes and left you to get changed in peace. Yea, his touches lingered longer than they should, but it never truly bothered you. And he seemed like he genuinely wanted you to enjoy yourself while you got acclimated to your surroundings. When you were freed from your binds, you explored the attic. There was an old TV collecting dust in one corner, and when you asked Boyd if it worked, he spent the entire night figuring out how to get it wired up for you. He came home for lunch every day, brought up a couple of sandwiches and you’d eat together. There was no clock in the attic, but you knew it was 12:15 when you heard the door close and the heavy sound of footsteps ascending the stairs. At first, you just sat there in silence, eyes unfocused and brain trying to come to terms with the fact you were being held hostage by a man you couldn’t hate. You had tried, screamed into your pillow about how disgusting and broken you were. Boyd kidnapped you, and yet the fondness for him lingered. You repeatedly promised yourself that you would start being mean to him, refusing his offerings of food until you starved to death. But when he excitedly jogged up the stairs with your food and sat on the floor with you, giving you small sideways smiles and telling you stories from his childhood…god, something in your heart just hammered harder and those promises went out the window. He acted like he cared, like he wasn’t actually going to hurt you, and you began to allow yourself to believe him. That was the dangerous thing.
You kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to get bored of you. You assumed one night you would wake up with his hands around your throat or a gun to your head. But it never came. Your routine continued. One day, you decided to take a chance and shake it up. It was lunch time and you chewed your sandwich slowly. Most of your meals were eaten in silence, with Boyd staring off into the distance and you taking in every one of his mannerisms.
“I’m craving something for dinner.” Your voice was quiet, but Boyd snapped his head up to look at you instantly. Something akin to excitement flashed across his face. Maybe he was thrilled that you were finally talking to him. He swallowed his bite quickly.
“Sure, where from? I’ll pick it up on my way home tonight.”
“No it’s…” You shifted in your spot where you sat on the floor across from him. “It’s a family recipe. I miss cooking. I haven’t had it in a while and I could really use some comfort food.” You didn’t feel bad about using his promises against him. He wanted you to enjoy your time? Fine. But that meant he needed to make some compromises. You were getting tired of microwaveable dinners. “We’d have to go to the store.” Boyd let out an unsure noise and itched the back of his head.
“Could you…give me a list?”
“Boyd, please,” You lowered your sandwich and mustered the best, most pathetically needy eyes and looked at him. “I haven’t left the house in weeks. I’m getting restless. I just need to walk around somewhere. One trip to the grocery store.” Boyd spent a few breaths looking at you. You could see the internal battle behind his eyes. Okay. You had to lay it on a little thicker. Before he could say anything, you leaned forward and rested your hand on his bare leg. “I’ll be good.” He tensed beneath you, eyes glued to where your fingers rested against his skin. You saw Boyd clench his jaw and his neck became unevenly splotched with blush. He swallowed before answering, not moving his eyes.
“Okay.”
There had been an indescribable prickling sensation that settled beneath your skin during your time in Boyd’s attic. Something frustrating and stale. The moment you stepped out of the front door of the house and took a deep breath of fresh air, the prickling subsided. A relieved smile immediately parted your lips as you filled your lungs with the summer air. You could smell freshly-cut grass and traces of a bonfire. You stretched your arms over your head and allowed your spine to decompress. Your moment of bliss ended when you felt Boyd’s thick fingers settle on your lower back. You stiffened beneath his touch. Boyd didn’t seem to notice, and if he did, he didn’t care. He gently herded you over to the garage. As the door lifted up and revealed a rusted truck, Boyd turned you to look at him.
“I’m going to trust you with this,” he warned “Don’t give me a reason not to. If you’re good, maybe we can discuss some privileges.” You suppressed the urge to roll your eyes. You were going to the fucking grocery store, not planning a heist. It would be maybe twenty minutes. What were you going to do, lock yourself in the freezers until the police came? You were so tired and disoriented, all you really wanted was the warmth that came from your favorite meal without the promise of additional reward. But if Boyd was considering letting you do more than sit in a confined space all day, you could play along. You nodded at him and he gave you a crooked smile, rubbing circles into your back. You stepped away quickly, climbing into the truck.
The drive to the grocery store was shorter than you had hoped. You spent ten minutes with your arm out the open window, enjoying the feeling of summer wind rippling over your skin. Your head rested against the door and you took deep breaths of the fresh air, exhaling with a soft smile. A smile that faded slightly as Boyd slowed to a stop in the parking lot. You looked over to him when he rolled up the window and turned off the car.
“Do you think I could have, like, outside time or something?” You asked, trying to keep your tone even, but you were sure Boyd picked up at the light hint of desperation tinging your words. “It’s summer and I miss being in the sun.”
“Sure, I don’t see why not.” He shrugged with a lopsided grin. He pushed his glasses further up his nose as his eyes flicked up and down your form. Your hair was windblown and the hem of your shorts were trapped between the junction of your thighs. “I wouldn’t mind you sunbathin’ out in the yard.” You ignored the way his tongue flicked over his teeth. You ignored the way that his words should have disgusted you, but they didn’t. Instead, you popped the door open and climbed out of the truck. The sun was beginning to dip lower into the sky, but its warmth clung to your skin as you walked into the blasting air conditioning of the store. There were small signs scattered along the entrance wall advertising various sales.
“Do you like cherries?” You asked Boyd as he grabbed a basket. He followed your gaze to the sale sign and shrugged.
“Sure.” He muttered. “They’re fine.” You grabbed a bag and put them in the basket. Boyd watched you intently. The domesticity of it made him bite the inside of his cheek. You dug the list from your pocket and began heading toward the aisle you needed. It took Boyd a few seconds to register you had moved, eyes locked on the bag of cherries, but soon hurried to catch up with you. At first, he just followed obediently, holding out the basket while you placed an ingredient in. But with every stop, he lingered a little closer, watching you with eyes so sharp you could feel them. He was on edge. You supposed you could understand why, it was the first time you had been somewhat free in weeks. But you were trying to remain relaxed, to subtly let him know you wouldn’t be trying anything. Boyd was not picking up on your signals, and his hovering was starting to annoy you. You made your way to the meat counter and as you surveyed the cuts of meat for the perfect one, Boyd brushed against you. You forced down a roll of your eyes and instead put on a smile.
“Boyd, could you go get the spices?” You asked, voice saccharine and nonthreatening. “I feel bad for just leading you around.” Boyd’s eyes narrowed. You tilted your head and brushed a stray sweaty curl away from his face. He flinched a little, but didn’t move away from you. His cheeks were pink. You couldn’t tell if it was blush or because the summer heat was beginning to seep into the store. “Please?” You dropped your voice a bit as your fingers brushed along the ridge of this cheekbone. “It’ll help us get home faster.” Your word choice was intentional, binding yourself to him and playing into his desire for you to be normal domestic partners. Boyd blinked before taking a breath and relenting. You gave him the list and he took it between his fingers, giving you one last glance before begrudgingly walking down a different aisle.
A few moments passed and the butcher still had not come out to get your order. Your eyes scanned over the cuts of meat, looking for the slab that would work perfectly for your recipe. The one your grandmother would pick if she was there with you. A small noise made you look over your shoulder. It was an older woman, clearing her throat. You immediately stepped back from the glass case.
“Sorry!” You rushed out, moving aside so she could look at the display. “I’m in your way.” The lady stepped up beside you, eyes not meeting yours. She stood close enough that you heard her whispered question.
“Are you alright, dear?” You made a confused noise and the lady continued, still gazing at the ham that glistened under the display lights. “That man,” she clarified “He looked like he was bothering you. Do you know him?” You were lost for words for a moment. You wanted to assure the woman you were alright. But were you alright? You had, in fact, been kidnapped. Somehow, you kept forgetting that. You weren’t sure why you had been so resigned to your fate. Maybe it was because you didn’t actually hate the situation. Yes, it sucked to be confined to one space, but Boyd obliged every ask of yours that would make you more comfortable. You didn’t have to wake up at 4 am to chop vegetables. Didn’t have to spend all day battling heat and head-splitting screams of children and animals nibbling at your fingers. You loved your job, but you couldn’t deny you had been feeling burnt out for a while. Maybe your body recognized that you needed a break. You might have preferred a week of vacation over being held hostage, but these were the circumstances given to you. Besides, as much as you were waiting for your fondness for Boyd to waver, it never did. If anything, getting to know him made it settle into something closer to genuine affection. Almost enough to overcome the prickle of fear that he would one day dispose of you. Almost.
“Oh!” you gasped. “Yea, I know him, he’s…” What were you supposed to say? Ah, yes, that’s Boyd, my work crush who injected me with sedatives and locked me in his attic because he was too scared to ask me on a date. But it’s okay, because he’s hot and says he loves me. Yea…right. “He’s a friend from work. We’re getting stuff for a company picnic. I know he’s a bit off-putting, but I’m fine.” The lie rolled off your tongue a little too easily. The woman didn’t look incredibly convinced, but eventually pursed her lips and nodded.
“Alright. I just thought I’d check in.”
“Yea, thank you, I appreciate you looking out for me.” You gave her a genuine smile. If you were any one else, she would have saved you. But, for some unknown reason, you didn’t really want to be saved.
The butcher came out at that moment, wiping her hands on her apron. She apologized for the wait, and packaged up your order quickly. When you were done, you told the woman to have a nice day and turned around. Boyd was leaning against the glass. The spice jars were aligned neatly in the shopping basket. A grin pushed his cheeks up to his eyes. You realized then that he had overheard your conversation, at least in part, with the woman, and pride rolled off him in waves. He held out his hand and you took it after a breath. Boyd led you down to the checkout with your hand in his.
“Great job, baby,” he practically purred. “Knew I could trust you.”
When you pulled back into Boyd’s driveway, his mood was significantly better. You had officially proved yourself to him and you could tell he was allowing himself to relax a bit.
When you walked into the house, paper grocery bags in hand, you were expecting to have to write down directions and be ushered back into the attic. Instead, Boyd led you to the kitchen. It wasn’t huge, laminate counter tops running along the walls, yellowed appliances, but it was homey. Lemon-printed towels hung from the stove handle. A carved wooden chicken was perched on the cabinet above the sink. Boyd had mentioned something about this being his parents house before he inherited it, and it didn’t look like he had changed much since their passing however long ago. He set the bag he was carrying down on the counter and stepped back. He wiped his sweaty palms on his cargo shorts and looked at you expectantly.
“I want to show you around.” He said, almost a little hesitantly. “As a reward. I hope I’ve made it clear that I want us to live together normally. And this is your home, too.” You blinked, placing the onion you were holding back in its bag before agreeing. He led you around the hallways, pointing out the decorations above the mantle and where they came from. He showed you framed photos of him as a kid. Same glasses, same overlapping teeth, same flicker of uneasiness in his posture. At first, you were simply tagging along, letting him ramble about anything he could think of. But then, something started to shift in your chest. It was when he showed you the downstairs bathroom with metal-worked colorful fish decorating the wall and the matching towel on the rack. The house was lived in. Loved in. Decorated with care and kept as a sanctuary. A place that you would want to spend time in rather than a room to sleep in between shifts. It had the spark of domesticity that your apartment was missing. As you ended your tour, you found yourself looking forward to exploring it during the day, sitting on the plush couch and flipping through Boyd’s CD collection.
It reminded you of how you introduced animals to a new habitat- slowly, carefully, bit-by-bit. You'd put them in the off-stage area first until they got comfortable. And then you open the gates to their full enclosure and suddenly, they’re right at home, exploring each new sight and sound and smell. You had seen it countless times. You had never imagined you’d be on the other side.
Even though you had free-roam of the house and yard, you still made it very clear to Boyd that there were still some boundaries you would be keeping. You were appreciative of his gesture, but you were not going to completely give in. You made it very clear that you were still going to sleep in the bed in the attic. Alone. And that, while you were okay with interacting with him more, you were not going to roll over and become a perfect house wife just because you could stretch your legs. Boyd was just glad you weren’t trying to escape. To him, that meant that you were trying to accept your circumstances. And that was all he could ask for.
You spent most of your days outside, lounging in the bikini that Boyd presented to you with a crooked grin that was only a little sleezy. He would pick up books from the library and allowed you to use his CD player so you could bask in the sun while listening to music or reading. You noticed a stack of CDs in a cupboard one day. Some self-help dude-bro bullshit that you were not going to listen to. You asked Boyd about it over dinner one day and he clammed up, muttering something about them belonging to an old friend. They were gone the next day.
After your vision was sunbleached and you felt the water evaporating from your body, you would head inside and spend the afternoon relearning your love of cooking. You whipped up a new dinner from scratch every night, greeting your captor with a proud smile and demands of feedback for whatever you had decided to try that day. Boyd had a few cookbooks collecting dust above the microwave. Each morning, you would show him the recipe you wanted to try that night. You’d give him the list of ingredients you didn’t have and he’d bring them home on his lunch break. Words could not describe the feeling he had when he came home to you, in your apron, strands of hair sticking to your forehead, a flustered and hopeful look on your face as you presented that night’s dinner to him. He would brag about it to his coworkers. Yea, my girl’s cookin’ up lasagna tonight. Homemade.
He had to work the later shift again. Since you had extra time, you decided to try and make pasta sauce from scratch. The kitchen looked like a war zone. Splotches of pulverized tomatoes and granules of spices pocked the counter. The sink was filled with bowls and utensils and the window was open to try and get some of the steam to waft away. But it was all worth it for the tantalizing aroma of fresh lasagna cooking in the oven.
You finished cleaning at 8:26, the exact moment the door unclicked and Boyd stepped into the house. You heard him grunt as he toed off his work boots and tossed his keys into the dish by the door. Boyd wandered into the kitchen. He still glistened with residual sweat and you felt the dampness of his mustache when he pressed a kiss to your cheek. You found yourself not flinching away from the contact.
“Smells great, baby,” he hummed, bending down to peer into the oven. “M’gonna shower before we eat.” You nodded. As he showered, you got everything ready. Lasagna cooling on the table, cups and forks and plates from the cabinet. He walked out of the bathroom as you were placing a plate down on the table. And you paused for a moment when your eyes caught him. He wore a white tanktop, his broad shoulders and pectorals straining against the fabric. You could see his stupid farmer’s tan that made some freckles more visible than others. His thick thighs were covered with loose-fitting black sweatpants. The sight made a shiver prickle at your lower back. You swore that, if you tilted your head just right, you could see the imprint of-
“Did you make the sauce from scratch?” Boyd pulled you from your musings with a point to the pot drying beside the sink.
“Yea.” You handed him the serving spatula so he could carve out a piece. He settled into his chair with a grunt, licking his lips before diving into his meal. He moaned when the lasagna hit his tongue. It came right from his chest, and you pushed away the desire to hear it under different circumstances.
“This’s’amazing,” He purred from around his bite, pointing his fork at the slice with a wide smile. You cast your gaze down sheepishly. No one had ever really enjoyed your cooking like he did. He made sure to sing your praises at every single meal, even if it was just a microwaved Hot Pocket. He said you “microwaved it with heart” whatever that meant. You found yourself wanting to take on more challenging dishes. To prove yourself and to make yourself useful to Boyd. And each time, he had a wider smile and more words of appreciation. The little boost of confidence stayed with you for the rest of dinner.
After everything was cleaned up, you squeezed Boyd’s arm and told him you were going to bed. You climbed the stairs to the attic and began to strip off your clothes from the day, replacing them with the silk pajama set Boyd had surprised you with one day after work. He really did try to spoil you as much as he could, given the circumstances. You were about to wash your face when you heard your name called from downstairs. It was Boyd. His voice was tense and it made you suck in a breath. A little whisper of fear licked against your brain. Maybe it’s time. He’s finally going to do it. You’re going to die. But you forced the fears down to respond in an even tone. “Yea?”
“Come watch TV with me.” He called back. Your face scrunched with confusion. He had never asked you to do that before. Usually, after dinner, you’d retreat to the attic and Boyd would spend his evenings downstairs doing whatever Boyd did.
“I’m tired-“
“Please?” That really made you pause. Not once during the month and a half you’d been in the confines of Boyd’s house had he ever asked you to do something with a ‘please.’ He always said thank you after you completed a task, whether it be the laundry or dinner, but never ‘please.’ You set down the bottle of face wash on the sink and exited the makeshift bathroom. You slowly descended the stairs, cautiously turning the corner to see Boyd sitting on the couch, one arm slung over the back, while some fishing show played on the screen. You walked over to him, bare feet sticking to the hardwood floor. Boyd turned to look at you when you reached his poripheral. You caught his eyes flick quickly over your form, no doubt appreciating the fact that you were wearing his gift. He grinned and patted the open cushion next to him. You hesitated.
“You’re not gonna…hurt me…are you?” Your words were soft, purposefully not inflammatory. But Boyd looked hurt regardless, the corners of his mouth dropping and his brow furrowing.
“No,” he assured “I told you. I love you. Why would you think that?” Your eyes nervously flicked to the end table by the couch. The one where his work belt always rested. Your gaze settled on the holster and the weapon inside it, well within his reach. Boyd followed your gaze and let out a small laugh. “Oh, that?” Boyd pulled the gun from his holster and held it up so you could see it. “S’just a tranquilizer gun. No bullets in here.” He opened the chamber and you saw the fluffy pink tip of the dart. “See?” You didn’t move. Boyd sighed and pushed himself off the couch. He took his belt and carried it over to the counter by the stove. He placed it down and looked at you. “Does that make you feel better?” You paused for a moment but nodded. He might still be dangerous, but at least that obvious threat was secured. “Will you sit with me?” He plopped back on the couch and reached out his hand to you. You sat on the arm of the couch. Boyd clicked his tongue. “C’mon, now, I don’t bite. C’mere.” He raised his arm to beckon you closer. Reluctantly, you obliged and settled down on the middle cusion. You weren’t quite touching, but you were close enough to see that his hair was still damp and his skin still dewy from his shower.
“So this show’s about findin’ the biggest fish in the world. They’re in, uh, Mongolia or somethin’. The fish they’re going after ate a school bus.” You let out an involuntary disbelieving laugh. You looked at Boyd with a glint of amusement in your eyes.
“A school bus?” He nodded, small smirk forming on his mouth. “There’s no way that actually exists.” He shrugged and nodded back to the screen. The commercials were over and a very dramatic title song played.
“Guess we’ll find out.” As the show continued, you found yourself relaxing more. The muscles in your legs weren’t as tense and eventually, your knee rested gently against Boyd’s. He slightly shifted his position on the couch. You could smell the soap lingering on his skin. Crisp, but not in an overwhelming way.
“What soap do you use?” Your curiosity got the better of you. Your eyes were still on the screen. A boat cut through muddy water as the main fisherman described what bait he was using. You could feel Boyd’s gaze heavy on the side of your face.
“Irish Spring.”
“Smells good.” You nodded. His eyes lit up and his chest puffed out. You had noticed.
“Thanks.”
The show continued and, to no one’s surprise, the fisherman was struggling to find the bus-eating monster fish. During one commercial break, a small movement caught your eye. Boyd’s fist was clutching the fabric of his sweatpants. His fingers curled in on themselves so hard his knuckles were white.
“Are you alright?” You asked. Had your lasagna made him feel sick? You were feeling fine, but he looked a little sweaty and flushed and his lips were pressed together in a thin line. His gaze met yours briefly before returning to the screen. He cleared his throat and readjusted his hips on the couch. He blinked so hard the muscle in his cheek twitched.
“Yea,” he breathed out “Yea, m’fine.” He didn’t say anything else and you didn’t press it. But your eyes trailed downward and you instantly realized the source of his weird behavior. He was hard. You could see the bulge pressing against his sweatpants in the flickering TV light. You blinked away quickly. He was embarrassed, clearly, and you didn’t want to pile onto it by revealing that you had noticed. You pulled your knee away from his by an inch to give him some relief. Remove any outside contact that was unintentionally arousing him. But, to your surprise, he widened his legs immediately, chasing after you and closing the gap between the two of you. The action, while almost undetectable, sent a wave of heat coursing through your veins. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t find Boyd attractive. Even now, after everything, you found yourself eyeing him when he came home from work. Sweaty and freckled from the sun. He looked way too good in that stupid uniform.
So to have the man you found attractive hard beside you simply because your knees were touching? Yea, that instilled something within you. Without looking at him, you inched closer until you were almost curled into his side. Your legs were pressed together and you noticed the poorly stifled moan that fell from his lips. His arm was curled above your shoulders, still resting on the top of the couch. You felt the tips of his fingers graze your shoulder. And when you didn’t flinch away, he made a bolder move. His arm slipped down from the couch and settled around you. The contact was light and he didn’t pull you closer to him. But it was contact nonetheless. You side-eyed his legs again. His hand was in his pocket now. You couldn’t help but smirk. You appreciated that he had the decency to not try and creep you out. Even though he was truly trying to conceal his arousal, his efforts were fruitless. His very prominent erection was hard to miss. But you still didn’t say anything. You stayed there, pressed against him, until the show ended. No fish caught.
“Guess it doesn’t exist.” You said lightly, turning to him. Boyd just blinked down at you, pupils wide and mind clearly preoccupied.
“What?” He whispered. You chuckled and got up from the couch. His eyes followed you the entire time. You leaned in and gave a kiss to his forehead.
“Goodnight, Boyd.” You murmured against his skin. You left him on the couch and walked up to your bed.
Martha Stewart was a fucking liar. The ingredients to the biscuits were simple, but they were not “a breeze to pull together” like her webpage promised. Maybe the oven wasn’t good enough or the store brand flour wasn't as good as the kind she used. But, for some reason, they were not cooking properly. Some of them were too raw and others were on the verge of being burnt. You weren’t ashamed to admit that the process had made you cry. Twice. But with each passing minute, you were worried that dinner wouldn’t be ready for Boyd when he got home. The homemade gravy and fried chicken were on their respective hot plates. It really was just the stupid biscuits that needed to hurry up.
When they were finally done to your satisfaction, you looked at the clock. 5 pm. Boyd must’ve hit some traffic. You arranged the table as usual and sat and waited. And waited some more. You watched the bird feeder outside and smiled when a sparrow was able to shoo away a thieving squirrel. As the sun dipped lower, so did your stomach. A pit in your abdomen quickly replaced by a crawling anxiety. He was late. Later than a simple excuse could explain. The gravy had congealed an the chicken would have to be reheated. The biscuits you had spent so long on had that odd texture of bread that was becoming stale. But none of that mattered. Because all you could think about was Boyd. You paced the room, back and forth, nibbling on the edge of your thumb and mind racing through endless possibilities. A car wreck. An accident at work. A hostage situation at a bank. You laughed a little at the irony of that one. Each possibility buzzed around your mind, little fireflies that lit up with each new scenario.
A phone ringing cut through your hazy headspace. Not your phone. You had no idea what Boyd had done with that. Rather, the landline in the kitchen. The one you didn’t even know still worked. You slowly approached it, as if you might startle it, and picked up the phone.
“Hello?” Your voice was small and your throat was dry.
“Good evening,” came a voice, peppy but in a way you knew was fake. “Is this Mrs. Fowler?” Your mouth opened and then closed. This used to be Boyd’s parents’ house. Maybe they were looking for his mother. Surely they weren’t asking for you.
“Can I ask who’s calling?” You deflected.
“Yes, this is Miami General Hospital. Mr. Fowler suffered a snake bite at work and came to us about two hours ago. This number was listed as his emergency contact.” Your eyebrows flew to your hairline. A snake bite?
“I-is he okay?” You fumbled out.
“He’s going to make a full recovery,” the person assured “we gave him a dose of antivenom and some pain medication. He’s about to be discharged but he will need a ride home.” You mumbled out something aggreeable and hung up. Your eyes shifted to the key dish by the front door. The keys to the rusted truck sat there. Had they always been? Could you have realistically left anytime you wanted? You pushed the thought to the side. You’d ruminate on that later. You grabbed the keys and left the house.
You drove to the hospital in silence. After you parked, very poorly, you hurried through the doors of the ER.
“Hi, um, I’m here for Boyd Fowler?” You greeted the nurse at the desk. She clicked a few times on her computer before nodding.
“Sign in please. I’ll take you back.” After scrawling out your signature on a tablet, the nurse led you down the hallways of the ER until you paused in front of a room. Until now, dread had settled low and heavy in your stomach. The clutches of anxiety only released when you saw Boyd sitting upright in bed, talking to one of the nurses while his IV was removed. You let out a sigh of relief. He was okay. Boyd saw you through the window of the room. Instantly, his face lit up with a toothy grin. He waved at you enthusiastically. You gave him a small wave back.
“What’s wrong with him?” You asked the nurse.
“Yea, that’s the pain meds. He’s going to be really happy and really sleepy when you get home.” She nodded.
“Wonderful. Is there any at-home care I need to do?” The nurse handed you a packet of papers. By the time she went over the visit summary and continued treatment, Boyd was dressed and ready to go. They wheeled him out of the hospital. The snake had gotten him in the ankle and it was too swollen for him to walk on. You pulled the truck around front and helped Boyd get into the passenger seat. When he was all buckled in, you thanked the nurse and got in the truck. Before you could even put the keys in the ignition, Boyd threw his arms around you in an awkwardly-positioned hug. His face nuzzled into your neck.
“You came,” he sighed happily, running his nose along the column of your throat. “I knew you cared.” You couldn’t force down the small smile it caused. You patted him on the arm and gently pushed him back into his seat.
“Let’s get you home, Boyd. I bet a nap sounds really good right now, huh?” He nodded. He looked at you sheepishly.
“Sorry I was late for dinner.”
“That’s okay,” you pressed a kiss to his knuckles and his nostrils flared. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
Boyd spent a week at home and you fully accepted your role as his monitor. You cooked him whatever he requested, which was never that outlandish, and made sure he took his meds when he needed to. He was healing well, and it wasn’t long before he was cleared to go back to work. His final day off was spent sitting beside you outside, asking about your books and reacting accordingly when you read the next plot twist. You never mentioned noticing him getting hard sitting beside you on the couch. And it hadn’t happened since. You weren’t proud of it, but you were starting to feel pent up. For a whole week, you were forced to see stupid Boyd with his stupid muscles and his stupid belly and his stupid mustache without the refuge of his work hours. You really hoped that the close proximity and your apparent eagerness would spark something in the man. But, true to your suspicions, he was too much of a coward to do anything. Whatever. You would have to take matters into your own hands. You had needs, too, and if Boyd was forcing you to stay in his house, the least he could do was take care of you in all aspects of your life. Especially since it was very clear he wanted to.
You hovered in the doorframe, observing the man on the bed. Boyd was sitting up against the headboard, legs sprawled in front of him as he scrolled through his phone. His bandage peaked over the hem of his sock. The swelling of his ankle had subsided, and he was scheduled to go back the next morning. Maybe you should be kind enough to give him something to think about as he cleaned the streets of Miami. He was just in his boxers and a black tanktop. You could see the soft roundness of his belly rise and fall with each breath. His hair was mussed, still a little wet from his shower. His glasses sat low on his nose. His arms looked huge curled up beside him and the constellations on his skin were extra prominent in the low light of the room. You could see the small bulge between his legs. A flash of arousal seared your abdomen. He looked so good. You licked your bottom lip as your breathing got heavier and your pupils dilated. Yea. You needed him.
Without giving yourself time to reconsider, you crossed the room. You stopped beside Boyd and plucked the phone from his hand, tossing it on the bedside table. His face snapped up to look at you, brows pinching together and mouth parting in protest. But his lips pulled shut once you climbed onto the bed. You slung one leg over his hips and settled into his lap. Boyd’s breath caught and his eyes shot wide open. His hands hovered just above your hips. You rolled your eyes and took them in your own, guiding them to rest on your sides. You didn’t waste any time, crashing your lips to his. He let out a muffled yelp and froze beneath you. After a roll of your hips, he tentatively began working his lips against yours. The kiss was soft but clearly needy. You only pulled away when you could no longer breathe. He chased after you with a desperate moan. Boyd’s eyes fluttered open just in time to watch you peel your shirt over your head and toss it behind you to the floor. He swallowed hard. His eyes slowly roamed your bare chest. You weren’t wearing a bra. You stayed still on top of him, giving him time to observe. The edge of his thumb brushed the underside of your breast and you let out a breathy sigh. You experimentally moved your hips, feeling his cock begin to chub up against your ass.
“Wh…What are you doing?” Boyd choked out, eyes still glued to your hardening nipples.
“Getting you hard,” you said simply, like it wasn’t exactly what he had been dreaming about for the better part of two months. You leaned in and ghosted your lips over his. He shivered beneath you. “And if you fuck me good enough,” you whispered, nipping at his bottom lip “Then maybe you can have me tomorrow, too.” Your words seemed to snap him out of his haze. His grip on you tightened and you squeaked when he rolled you over onto the bed. His hips pushed into yours as he hungrily devoured your mouth.
The kiss turned sloppy, tongues clashing and moving against each other as each moan and gasp was swallowed. Boyd moved to kiss along your jaw and you shivered with every brush of his wiry facial hair against your skin. He lazily pressed kisses down your neck and torso, stopping every so often to suck and nip a mark into your skin. He paid special attention to your breasts, licking each nipple to a peak before biting at least three hickeys into the flesh. When he kneeled upright, his glasses were fogged. He tore them from his face. The thought of not being able to see you beneath him was blasphemous. He looked at you for reassurance when he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your sleep shorts. You nodded desperately. He pulled down the shorts and your underwear with one motion. When you were exposed to him, Boyd let out a sigh of awe. He sat back on his knees and just took a moment to look. You suddenly felt very self conscious. It had been a long time since anyone had been between your legs and your wax was long overdue. You took his staring as a signal of his disgust and you moved to close your legs. Boyd caught them immediately.
“Don’t you dare try n’ hide her from me,” He growled, quickly adjusting himself so that he settled on his stomach. He tugged you closer to him and you yelped. His eyes never left your center. You allowed your legs to fall to the side and you saw Boyd’s pupils dilate, eyes roaming the space between your legs and licking his lips in anticipation. “Prettiest pussy I ever seen,” He whispered, more to himself than to you. “So fucking perfect.” The first broad swipe of his tongue was irritatingly slow but instantly shot pure pleasure up your spine. You arched into him, hand flying down to tug at his curls. He let out a small noise of appreciation at the sensation. He licked your entire sex and lifted his head briefly. “Beautiful and tastes so good,” He sighed “How’d I get so lucky?”
“Boyd, please!” You begged airily, pushing his head back to where you needed him. He just chuckled, but tugged you closer to him.
“I gotchu, baby, just sit back and relax.” He dove into his efforts without restraint. He alternated between sucking and flicking your clit with the point of his tongue, to flattening it against you and running broad stripes between your folds. And when you were panting and whimpering with need, thighs coated with a mixture of your juices, Boyd slipped two thick fingers into you. You keened, tossing your head backward, as he curled against your warm velvety walls. “Yea, s’that the spot?” Boyd cooed. The pads of his fingers continuously stroked your most sensitive spot and each of your breaths came out in little gasps. “C’mon, baby, give it to me. Lemme feel it.” He returned to your clit, circling it with his tongue as he continued to fuck you with his fingers. Each thrust sent another droplet of your arousal down his wrist. He urged you towards your release, watching you unblinking. Memorizing every twitch of your eyebrows and huff of air that left your lips. You had been so touchstarved, and Boyd was so unexpectedly skilled with his mouth, that your orgasm built fast. You squirmed under him, unsure if you were trying to chase after or escape from his onslaught. But it didn’t matter. His palm settled heavy on your abdomen, holding you to the bed. Your toes curled in on themselves and your jaw fell open as searing heat pooled above your tailbone. You came with a strangled cry of his name, bucking your hips wildly on his face. Boyd’s eyes fluttered shut, reveling in the stuttered jerks of your hips against him as you rode it out on his face. Only when you stopped, chest heaving and hand disentangled from his hair to rub at your eyes, did he lift his head. You looked down to see him licking the remnants of you from his fingers and his chin, mustache plastered to his upper lip. “Can’t wait to do that every day for the rest of my life.” He smirked.
“Please,” you whined, pulling at his shirt. Boyd pushed himself back up and you pulled him into a kiss. The taste of yourself on his tongue sent another punch of neediness to your core. You lifted your shaky legs to wrap around his waist. He gave in, rolling his bulge into you so hard it must have hurt him, but he just let out a sigh of satisfaction. He broke the kiss and you pouted.
“I know,” He soothed, kissing your nose. “But you’re actin’ like you need something inside you.” You tilted your head and nodded, brain still fuzzy from your high. Boyd used his weight to maneuver you on the bed. He positioned you on your hands and knees, facing the edge of the bed and the mirror that hung on his wall above his dresser. You watched your reflection as Boyd pushed his boxers down. His chubby cock was swollen and angry, weeping pre-cum from the tip with each desperate twitch. His eyes locked on yours in the mirror as he pushed in. You struggled to keep your eyes open at the feeling. Boyd wasn’t particularly long, but he stretched you almost to your limit. You felt the solidness of him pressing against each inch of your pussy, firing off every single nerve. Your hands fisted the comforter and your exhale was hitched. When Boyd bottomed out, your vision was going blurry. “Deep breath for me, sweetheart, gotta breathe.” You had forgotten that you had to do that. You sucked in a breath and the cool oxygen just augmented the pleasure fizzling in every neuron. Once your breathing evened, Boyd began to move. He used his hands to fuck you back on him, exiting almost the entire way before sinking back into you with a groan. It started off slow, but quickly turned ravenous as he used you, controlled breathing turned into frenzied pants.
“You’re so per-perfect. Mmh, fuck,” He moaned. He bit his lip and stared at where the two of you were joined, watching his cock disappear inside of you and re-emerge with a fresh coat of slick. It was hypnotizing. “G-Gonna take such good care of you. I l-love you so much.” You moaned at his words, the pussy-drunk look on his face causing you to squeeze tighter around him.
“So big, Boyd, you fuck me so good.” You gasped, words tumbling from your mouth. Your breasts swayed with every snap of his hips. Boyd leaned forward a bit and cupped one in his warm palm, never faltering with his pace.
“Yea? Gettin’ all dumb on my cock, baby?” He mocked. “Squeezin’ me so tight. Not gonna last much longer with you like this.” You gasped when a particularly harsh thrust caused his dick to split you open a little further.
“Cum inside me, please!”
“Yea?” Boyd panted, as if he was considering any other option. He straightened back up, nodding his head enthusiastically. His hands dug harshly into your hips, fat spilling between his fingers. “Want me to put a baby in you? Keep you with me forever? I can do that, baby, shit, I can do that.” He widened his knees and thrusted into you with a newfound vigor, hard and deep, loud slaps of skin joining the chorus of your combined moaning. Your arms gave out, face slowly coming to a rest on the bedspread. Boyd continued to fuck into you and your eyes rolled back at the new angle. You felt drool begin to seep from your mouth onto the sheets. You were overcome by the need for him and you reached one of your hands back, grasping for his. Boyd took it immediately, weaving your fingers between his in a small gesture of comfort. You mumbled out his name.
“Knew you were fucked up.” He let out a small huff of amusement. “The minute I laid eyes on you, I knew you'd enjoy this. Enjoy me.” Boyd threw his head back and pinched his eyebrows together, biting harder onto his lip and whining with every stroke of his cock between your walls. You gripped him like a vice, internal muscles tightened without release. He came with a deep growl, ripped straight from his chest. He continued to roll his hips until he softened to ensure not a drop of his cum slipped from your cunt. Even though he wasn’t as hard, the stretch of him filling you remained delicious. You were allowed a few breaths of reprieve, but soon you felt his fingers ghost over your skin. You let out a buzzy noise of protest when they nudged against your clit again. You tried to squirm away, but Boyd pulled you back and clicked his tongue.
“Uh-uh.” He scolded “Give me one more. Wanna feel you push me out.” Your pussy was so puffy and so silky and your clit was so sensitive that it didn’t take long for another orgasm to crawl up your spine. This one rolled into you gently, but you still clenched so hard his cock was forcefully ejected from your warmth. A gush of liquid splashed against your ankles and his thighs. As it left your body, so did any remaining energy. Your face was still pressed into the bed and your legs wobbled fiercely when Boyd’s grip loosened. You let out a tiny whine and Boyd pulled you up, cradling you in his arms and laying you back on the pillows. He snaked an arm under your hips and settled you on your side. He showered your face in kisses while you regained your mind. “Did so good f’me.” He whispered softly between each press of his lips to your cheeks. “My perfect girl. All mine.”
“All yours, Boyd,” You confirmed with fluttering eyelids and a dry throat. Satisfied exhaustion settled in your bones. You felt like you had just run a marathon. “C-Can I have some water?” Boyd nodded dutifully and slipped away to the bathroom, returning with a large glass and a handful of wetwipes. The contrast of the cool wipes against your pulsing sex made you squirm and Boyd whispered an apology. The next swipe was gentler and you sipped on your water. He cleaned you so reverently that you almost forgot this was the same man who kidnapped you. Doubt swirled in your stomach. You had spent the past two months believing that he wanted to kill you, that you were a fleeting fancy he would dump in a lake somewhere. But as you watched his face as he cleaned you up, filled with devotion and care, you began to think differently. You began to trust Boyd’s words. You began to trust that he really did love you. Maybe you could love him, too.
Omg second post in one day? Someone contain her (or don't & say nice things and I'll write faster js)
18+ content only!
0.8K
tags: smut, Jack Abbot x Reader, oral (m! receiving), sweet talk, toys, this is really short
When Jack had found your vibrator charging next to your nightstand, you predictably had a good evening. A great evening.
When Jack saw you walking funny the next day, he promised to use it on you more often. After that, it became a familiar part of your sex lives.
When he found your dildo however, things played out a little differently.
You were lying in bed, reading, and asked Jack to find your hand lotion in your bedside drawer. Instead, when he turned back around, he was holding your petal pink, sparkly dildo.
“You buy this before me or to replace me?” Jack asked, eyebrows raising at you, turning to where you were currently lying in bed.
Seeing what he was holding, you huffed a laugh, your cheeks flaming hot. You covered your face with your book for a moment, forgetting your recent purchase. Your friend was ordering from some shop online, and it made sense to split the shipping cost. Obviously.
“Neither,” You said, dropping your book beside you and meeting your boyfriend's mischievous gaze. “I bought it for when you’re busy.”
You swiped to try to grab the offensive thing away from him, but he pulled his hand high, holding it out of your reach. At your response, Jack’s amused look shifted, eyes darkening, a challenging smile on his lips.
“Oh for when I’m busy?” He asked mockingly, leaning into your space. “When am I too busy for this pussy, huh?”
You felt your pulse spike at this, rugging sluggish and warm through your veins. You cock your eyebrow at him in your own challenge.
“You work long hours. I can get bored.” You said, with a shrug.
“Ah.” Jack said cooly, wrapping his hand around your wrist and dragging you closer. “We can’t have that, can we?”
“Poor baby,” Jack cooed in mock sympathy, kissing below your ear, soft and slow. “Can’t wait for me to get home? Gotta do it all yourself?”
You feel your face warm again, a little embarrassed, but smiling anyways. You wrap your arms around Jack’s shoulders as he leaned over you, hands planted in the pillows beside your head.
“A girls’ gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.” You laugh, the sound high and breathy.
“Mmm, I can only imagine.” Jack murmured against your skin, nosing along your jawline and up towards your mouth. “Wanna show me, baby?”
“Jack!” You squealed with a laugh, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. You were definitely feeling embarrassed now.
“What, I can watch you cum on my cock but not this sparkly one?” Jack asked you, pressing light kisses along your hairline as you hid from him, a smile in his voice. The action was so soft, so sweet, clashing against his dirty words, his request. It made heat pool low in your belly.
Jack pulled you into a deep kiss, his tongue skating along your bottom lip before plunging in your mouth, pulling every thought directly out of your brain. When you broke apart for air, lips already swollen from his kisses, you laugh again, airily.
“Yeah, okay.”
“Fuck you look good like this.” Jack ground out from above you, his jaw slack.
You hummed happily from where you knelt on the floor in front of him, sucking at the tip of his dick while you worked the rest of him with your palm, shakily. You took a few experimental rocks of your hips, feeling the sparkly dildo rubbing deep against your womb.
Jack had painstakingly prepped you, stretching you out on his fingers and spreading your slick all over your weeping sex. When he had finally pressed the silicone dick inside of you, he let out a filthy moan watching it disappear into your cunt.
With a wicked smile, Jack had stuck the suction cup base of your dildo to the floor and sat you atop it, guiding your hips with his hands for a bit before asking if he could fuck your mouth.
Jack looked glorious from here, his pants shucked down just far enough, shirt bunched up on his tummy. His silver curls were slightly askew from him running his hands through it repeatedly, hazel eyes locked on your face while you worked him over.
“That feel good, baby?” Jack asked, his hand on your jaw, tilting your gaze up to his.
You moan and nod as best you can, swirling your tongue along the underside of his cock, pumping up and down his shaft. Your hips rock faster, the fake member thrusting in and out of you, the plastic balls rubbing against your clit. You could feel the fire starting to burn in your blood, humming along your bones.
“Yeah, I bet it does.” Jack rasped out a laugh, moving to fist his hand in the back of your hair, thrusting his hips into your warm, waiting mouth.
“Once you cum on your toy, you can get up here and do it again on the real thing.”
casually sexting jack abbot while you’re on the couch eating snacks with a face mask on, barely paying attention but still amused by how excited he was getting. lazily lifting your shirt and snapping a pic of your tits from a low angle, smirking, quite satisfied with yourself. and quickly returning your attention to the tv.
and he’s at work, hunched over in the bathroom and trying not to whine your name while he jerks his cock at a frantic pace. his other hand braced against the wall while he grips his phone, trying not to drop it. alternating between that and sloppily typing out the dirtiest things with his chubby thumb. it takes a while for him to type what he wants — some versions of “need that little pussy so bad” “so fucking hard right now” “please send another pic baby” you ignore the typos.
he’s imagining you touching yourself too, back arching, body glistening with sweat, moaning like a whore for him. he grits his teeth and closes his eyes, imagining his cock enveloped by your drooling pussy instead of his rough hand. in reality you’re fully clothed, immersed in your newest reality tv obsession.
another message from you. he scrambles to read it, his orgasm approaching.
“can you pick up food on the way home”
and he cums all over his fist anyway, the thought of taking care of his sweet, sexy girl pushing him over the edge.
“Bye guys, thanks for coming,” a chorus of distant echoed goodbyes follows the last remains of a crowd out of the bar, door hinges screeching as shaggy surfers shoulder through the doorway. A relieved sigh blew through your lips once the last head ducked under the doorway, hands planted on the sticky bar with a subtle grimace.
The night had been an obvious success, the cluttered sight of littered beer bottles all over any and all elevated surfaces the living proof of a good night. You had served an overwhelming amount of patrons, hours of uncapping beer bottles and trips back to the ice machine to refill the ice bin under the bar, shaker rattling in your ear drum with the heavy chorus of loud grouped conversations and whatever music Deran had let Craig out on while he assisted you behind the bar. Something that made you both turn your heads to the speakers before sparing a glance to the other from either end of the bar before serving out more drinks.
“We—” a loud groan reverberated in your throat at the feeling of Derans arm slung over your shoulder, elbow hooked around to jostle you around, “—fucking killed that shit.”
“I think that shit killed me,” you moaned, lips turning up into a grin as Deran's scruff met your temple in a dramatic kiss, a teasing elbow meeting his side.
“Seriously, man, I don’t know what’d I do without you,” you hummed, head lulling back to rest on his shoulder, a grateful smile staring back at you once you did.
“You probably wouldn’t have any business because I’m your only bartender,” Deran groaned, chin settling to rest on yours. “Really you couldn’t replace Ed before your huge ‘one year celebration’?”
“Yeah, that probably would have been a good idea,” you nodded. “All worked out though, right? You’re basically three bartenders in one.”
“Does that mean you’ll start paying me triple?”
“And the moments ruined,” you grunted, Deran's arm unwrapping from your shoulder. You kept your head tilted back, whining at the loss of support. “Get out of here. Me and Craig will handle cleaning up.”
Your nose scrunched up, “He’s still here?”
Deran gestured vaguely towards the back of the bar, where the door had swung shut from the fire pit, a few gargled voices murmured through the thin metal.
“Most of the family is still out back.”
“Your other brothers?”
“Baz, yes. Pope, no. No, he said he was heading out a while ago,” you hummed. You hadn’t seen either of the older Cody brothers since they had arrived. They had gotten their beers and retreated out to the fire pit. Deran glanced around the vacant bar, “But Craig’s around here somewhere, cars still in the lot. Probably getting a blow job from that chick with the lip ring.”
“Modern romance,” you replied thoughtfully. “She might really be the one for all you know.”
“Yeah, the one to give him an incurable std maybe,” you laughed, Deran's lips curling up with a shake of his head. “I’ll find him. Go home, sleep, shower, whatever. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
“You’re the best,” you sighed, lips pressing a big wet smack on his cheek while his nose scrunched in a grimace.
“I know, totally selfless,” he hummed, head tilting with a sly grin. “Adrian also may or may not be waiting in my office so I do need you to get the fuck out.”
“I love you,” you smiled, hands reaching for your bag over the bar, fingers lightly gripping Deran's chin as you came back around the counter, “Wrap it up. Or don’t. Your sexual habits are none of my business, okay, bye! Bye Adrian!”
The door hinges screeched open pushing out of the front entrance, the summer warm breeze blowing cool against your sweat sticky skin. The dim night sky was polluted with the city lights, fluorescent street lamps hanging over your head on the vacant sidewalk, barely visible speckles of distant stars speckled above.
You rocked on either heel shrugging your purse over your shoulder, looking down the familiar street toward your apartment. Walking home from work was not ideal by any means, but seeing as your car had taken a disproportionate downward spiral in function, spawning every single problem possible that made driving it beyond unsafe, it was your only option and had been for weeks.
It wasn’t so bad, you thought optimistically, thick soled boots starting down the sidewalk. Your apartment was a fifteen minute walk from the bar, which was not very far all things considered. The general scenery was nothing to write home about, other shops and such on the strip of pavement, but it wasn’t unpleasant or otherwise terrifying. If you kept a brisk pace you could even get home in ten minutes flat.
“What are you doing?”
Your head whipped around at the gruff voice, halting on the sidewalk, hardly making it past the empty lot outside the bar. Pope Cody stood beside his truck, incredibly stiff, dark still eyes looming over you as he stepped out from the large view of his truck.
“Pope,” you attempted the greet, clearing your throat of the sudden lump that settled at the sight of the eldest Cody. “Hi. Um, I’m just walking home,” he stared as you spoke, unresponsive as you shuffled. “Deran said you left.”
“I was,” you nodded, decidedly very clear on not receiving any more details based on the finite nature of his tone. “Why are you walking?”
“Oh, I’m all finished up, so,” you trailed off.
“I mean why aren’t you driving? Don’t you have a car?”
“No?”
“Was that a question?”
“I do—it just doesn’t work.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Lots of stuff,” you replied meekly, internally cursing yourself. You had interacted with Pope Cody a handful of times in the time you had known him, three years now, and each time had been more brief than the last. All your practiced charisma from working service had been drained from the hours of preening guests and now you couldn’t get your foot out of your mouth long enough to provide a sufficient response.
“You don’t know?” he watched you solemnly as you shook your head, dark eyes blinking back at you. He looked off down the road then back at you, lips pressed into a firm line, “Get in. I’ll drive you.”
“It’s not a far walk,” you said quickly, watching him come around to the passenger side door.
“I was already leaving, I’ll drop you off on my way,” his stalky forearm tensed as he pulled the passenger door open, looking toward you expectantly.
He shut the door after you once you hopped in, giving in far too easily which you weren’t sure if he appreciated or not, his expression remaining that same stagnant stare.
You had murmured a meek, “Can we turn the music on?” Once you had started off down the main road, petrified by the silence. He hadn’t said anything, merely pressed the knob on his sleek car radio to turn on the most recent station. It wasn’t very loud, a gentle lull in the otherwise silent truck. The seats were new leather and you were uncomfortable making any sort of movement that would sound much louder than it truly was. You sat uncharacteristically stiff, hands shoveled between your knees which knocked together over every residential speed bump.
Pope followed your direction toward your apartment easily, making turns just as you were mentioning them. A squeak of ‘turn right here’ and ‘left here’ which he never muttered any sort of reply to. He said nothing for the first lengthy five minutes of the car ride, not until you were nearing the block your complex was on.
“You did a good job tonight.”
Your head turned at the sudden sound of his voice, his stare still set on the road, gruff tone generally earnest.
“Thank you,” you murmured politely with a small smile, despite his lack of attention to your face. “Did you have fun?”
“It was nice,” you nodded, fighting the urge to mention his lack of the word fun. “You and Deran are friends.”
“For a few years now.”
“You’re important to him. He trusts you.”
“He’s really important to me too,” you smiled. You looked at the side of Pope's face, the red street light glowing against his sharp features. “He likes when you guys come to the bar. Your family. If he hasn’t told you so.”
Pope spared you a single glance, eyes flitting over your kind face before he looked back at the road. He said nothing else, letting the silence settle back between you both as he entered your complex.
“This is it,” you told him, rolling up to your building, a large number 7 plastered on the side. You turned to Pope whose stare was suddenly set on you with an intensity you were startled by, having not experienced his gaze for the last ten minute drive. Your lips curled up anxiously, shrugging your bag as your hand placed itself on the door, “Thank you, again—”
“Give me your phone,” his brows pinched together, eyes flickering down to your bag. Your lips parted in confusion, reaching down into your bag to hand him your phone, “Open it.” You frowned for the first time that night but did as you were told, typing in your password before Pope plucked the device from your hands. You watched the glare reflect off his angled face as he typed something and then switched it off, a dark black screen shoved back into your hands, “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
You walked up the steps to your apartment glancing over your shoulder to the bright headlights of Pope's truck remaining stagnant on the curb beside your building. It didn’t drive off until you had unlocked your door and settled inside. Too exhausted to check your phone, exhaustion outweighing your general curiosity, you stripped your clothes off beside your mattress and slumped onto the bed.
You're sat around the pool at the Cody house, perched on your boyfriend's lap excitedly chatting with your friends Deran and Craig.
There's are so many 'dudes' and 'bros' being thrown around in the conversation the three of you could be easily mistaken for a caricature of some west-coast surfer dudes.
You turn to Andrew without thinking, "Wait, bro, did I tell you—"
Immediately, his face falls. His dark eyes fill with something close enough to hurt to makes your chest tighten. You cringe internally, realising your mistake.
"I'm not your bro" he grumbles, his grip on your hip tightening almost like he's trying to remind you of his role of boyfriend. The last thing he wanted was to be lumped into the same category as his idiot brothers by you.
The expression on his face is almost pouty and you have to try your best not to let slip how amused you are at your boyfriend's offence over the tiniest slight.
"Oh shit!" Craig hollers from the other sun lounger and you shoot him a dirty look.
"I'm sorry, honey." You emphasise the last word, pointedly but he just frowns so you try again. "Handsome, my man, sweetheart, king?" He scrunches his face in disgust at the last one and you giggle.
"Andrew" You finally coo, having known that was what he wanted all along. He only grunts in response, but he looks relieved, his annoyance clearly placated. You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth and his brothers groan dramatically in protest.
"My Andrew," you announce, giving him another, longer smooch just to spite your dumb friends.
──────────୨ৎ──────────
a/n: this is so dumb but I have been struck down by writers block
pope cody who asks you to give him a haircut, not expecting you to take in a dramatic gasp and climb into his lap, straddling his thighs, resting your hands on his broad shoulders.
"you want me to cut your perfect curls?" you say, running your fingers through his hair, tilting his face up towards you, "i don't think i can do that my love,"
"J said his girlfriend cuts his hair," pope says, looking up at you with a glimmer of confusion in his eyes, gripping down on your waist, "i just thought because you're mine..."
"i am yours," you say, leaning forward, placing a soft, sweet kiss on his lips, "but you look so handsome just the way you are,"
popes eyes flick down to where his hands rest on your waist, a small blush spreading across his cheeks.
"are you gonna ask me to cut of a toe next?" you say dramatically, twisting one of his auburn coils around your finger, "like, where does it end?"
"it's just hair," pope says, a small smile playing on his lips at your antics, "it'll grow back,"
you smile back at him before pulling his head to your chest, burying your face in his soft curls, breathing in his warm smell.
"i'll miss you," you mumble against his head. pope smacks your ass playfully.
"i don't want you to buzz it," he says as you pull back with a mischievous grin on your face, "just a little trim,"
"ok," you sigh, leaning forward, brushing the tip of your nose against his, "only because I love you so much,"
"i love you so much," pope says before connecting your lips in a gentle kiss.
@romantic-insomniac and i were talking about being pope's fake hostage for a job and getting turned on by his rough treatment… this might be the longest fic i've ever written lmao
andrew "pope" cody x fem!reader
18+ MDNI | cw: bank robbery, fearplay, gunplay, chokehold / choking, sub!pope at the end, mention of nipple sucking
pope had been so stressed out about getting the money he needed for lena's trust fund. it's not like he could ask his brothers for help with a job — they'd all ask for their cut, and he needed all the cash he could get. it was making him brood more than usual, so you hadn't even wanted to initiate sex recently, knowing he wouldn't be in the mood.
eventually, pope had narrowed down the bank he wanted to hit, but he was having a little trouble with the logistics. it was a lot trickier to rob a bank solo.
you watch as he pores over meticulously laid out blueprints, his eyes low, waiting a few moments before you speak up.
"why don't i help?"
pope's eyes linger on the table for a while before he turns to you. "you're not getting involved with this," he murmurs.
"why not?" you ask.
"because you've never done this before," he replies plainly with an arched eyebrow. "hitting a bank for your first job? it's too dangerous."
"i didn't mean that i'd be taking the place of one of the guys," you elaborate, voice slow and soothing, "i meant as a civilian. a hostage. y'know? like how smurf used to act like an sweet, clueless lady when you hit diners together? and she'd make you hold her up?"
pope's brows crease at the memory. he remembers how well that had worked: his mother had really sold the "frightened lady caught in the crossfire" act. and he knew you were quite the actor, considering how sweet you could be towards smurf despite your disdain for her, and how easily you could fool any wayward cops into thinking you had no knowledge of the goings on inside the cody compound.
"that could work," he mumbles as he works through it in his mind. "you get there early, wait in line to cash a check or two…"
"right," you agree, a soft smile forming on your face. "you bust in all scary, wave a gun around, put me in a chokehold…"
pope listens as your voice turns a little breathy at the idea. he can picture it going off without a hitch now.
"alright," he grits out eventually. "listen carefully, here's what's gonna happen…"
it's just after half past ten in the morning, and you're at the bank. you lingered at the side for a while, pretending to be very interested in a business checking account pamphlet, before it was time to join the queue. your pulse kicks up just a tad. any second now…
the door busts open with a loud thud and you jump, just like everyone else, before you hear sharp yelps and shrieks.
"EVERYONE DOWN, ON THE GROUND, NOW!"
it's pope's voice, muffled slightly behind his ski mask. you almost obey him out of instinct before he grips you by the arm and pulls you to his chest. he smells so comforting, like his favourite lemon verbena detergent, but you remember to struggle convincingly.
"stop!" you cry out.
"you shut up," he hisses back. with a grunt, pope slings the crook of his elbow around your neck, pushing just hard enough to make you gasp.
it's a gasp that convinces everyone else in the bank that you're currently struggling for air, fearing for your life, but pope knows it means you're incredibly turned on.
"mornin'," he mumbles gruffly against your temple, and you can feel the way he hovers for a milisecond, fighting the inclination to press a kiss there.
to really sell it, pope lifts his gun and presses the cold metal of the barrel to the place where he'd just had his lips. you hear multiple people gasp. your panties are soaked.
"any of you move, and she gets it," he bellows, and it echoes through the unnatural stillness of the bank. you whimper, forcing tears to your eyes as you let your knees buckle slightly.
"you okay?" pope whispers almost imperceptibly against your ear.
"harder," you reply through a sniffle.
at that, pope tugs your body upwards, hauling you upright. "stand up," he commands. "hands behind your back."
you obey, your wrists clasping against your lower back. you take the chance to clutch at the edge of his shirt, tugging pope impossibly closer. he exhales, then walks you over to the nearest teller.
"empty it out— quickly," he orders. the teller's gaze momentarily flicks between pope's masked face and yours. your eyes are scrunched shut, your mascara running, your chest heaving with laboured breaths. she empties the register without an argument.
he goes around the rest of the registers the same way, using your innocent, terrified, whimpering face to get the cash he needs. pope drags you out of the bank with his gun still pressed to your head. you make sure to end your performance with a little kicking and screaming and a performatively loud "what are you going to do to me?" before he hauls you into his car.
he peels out of the parking lot, and the drive home is fast, tense with anticipation. pope pulls off his mask and his auburn curls are gloriously messy and damp with sweat. your thighs press together, both from the sight of him, and from the rush of the job.
pope clenches his jaw as he drives, and then when you're finally safe behind the gates of the cody compound, he rumbles out a "… bravo. you did good."
he tells you to go wait in his room while he brings the duffles of money in, and you don't waste a second before stripping yourself bare, the thrill of the heist still thrumming in your veins. besides, it had been a while since the two of you had had sex, and what better occasion to fuck for than a successful heist?
soon enough, you're riding pope into the mattress in broad daylight. it's barely noon, and you're grinding your hips deep into his as you grip his wide shoulders. you have a lot of adrenaline to use up.
"that— was— fucking amazing," you pant as you bounce on his cock.
pope's breathless too. he has one of your nipples in his mouth, the other cupped is in his thick palm. his free hand is squeezing an ass cheek as you roll on top of him.
he pops his lips free of your breast, still glistening with spit, as he gazes up at you, his hazel eyes wide and pleading. it's a wild contrast to the fearsome expression he had plastered on just hours ago.
"not— ah— wasn't too rough?"
"not nearly rough enough," you breathe out in reply, pressing his cheeks together in a hand.
"you shoulda slapped me when i talked back, like i told you to, that would've sold it so much better."
pope grunts in acknowledgement, and his eyes fall shut at the idea. not of slapping you, but of how much more ravenous for him it would make you for him afterwards. his cock twitches where it's nestled deep inside you.
"next time," he murmurs as he pouts up at you for a kiss.
pairing: pope cody x reader
summary: you stumble onto the cody compound during the tail end of an acid trip, not expecting to see pope cody bleeding out next to the pool while the property burns down. next thing you know, you’re putting your cover and livelihood at risk. now it sounds like you have a moral obligation to be there for him.
wc: 4.3k
tags/warnings: AK ending spoilers, blood, drug use (psychedelics), language, violence, angst, hurt/comfort, revenge, fixit fic, music fashion film, likely inaccurate depictions of emergency medicine and how criminal orgs work, fucker jones, there are other ways, this chick dude woke up in my HOUSE... maybe more that i'm missing.
a/n: i know, i know, this is so different from the smut but i'm trying to diversify! and this is my first attempt at writing a longer version of pope that isn't this blurb or this one. i have notes on how this could be a multichapter series if i have the energy/capacity for it, even though golden hour is also right there begging for my attention. also i am imagining fmc's character (pinterest mood board) and skill set as a cross between medic and huntress archetype, but that can still change if this story continues.
songs i'm thinking about:
... arctic monkeys - "i wanna be yours"
... charli xcx - "no one lasts forever"
You weren’t sure how long it took you to realize the smoke was real. You’d already experienced a few false flags today, like thinking you could hear someone addressing you or calling out your name, only to recall that those voices belonged to people who were long dead and gone. So that couldn’t be possible, right? Besides, you were wrapped in the softest sheets and you’ve now tried several times to count how many individual threads made up the luxurious quilt that had you wrapping yourself into a burrito and rolling back and forth across your king-sized bed.
When the day started, you had everything planned out. It was your first free day in months, and you’d planned to celebrate the last successful job with a much-deserved bender. The paper tabs were properly dosed and tested for safety. Your room was decked out in everything you needed to stay hydrated, create, or meditate as needed. Terry, your best friend and emergency contact, was fast asleep in the basement with instructions in case anything went askew during your trip. A couple of blunts and a fifth of Henny waited for you at the end of it.
But—right, smoke. Smoke?
You stepped onto the patio with an unlit cigarette and tapped its filter against the railing a few times, feeling the echo of the miniscule crumbs of crushed tobacco tumbling through as you packed it down. A flick of the flint wheel was a millisecond that stretched into a fireworks show. Eyes closed when the flame appeared. Eyes opened, and you’d smoked it down to the butt. How much time had passed?
Wait, wrong smoke. Wrong flame. This wasn’t what you came outside to do. You looked up and to the right, and there it was: a black column in the sky, coming from next door. Maybe the Codys were having a bonfire or something. But a bonfire wouldn’t smell so hostile, and why the hell hadn’t Craig invited you over if that was the case? … and how could they have a bonfire where the pool’s supposed to be?
The asphalt melded against the soles of your shoes as you walked out of your house. You figured you’d see how the party was going, if there was a party, since you were in a partying mood anyway, and depending on how much time you had left, being at a party with other people shouldn’t be as scary as it could have been while you were coming up. You knew it was best not to look at your phone, or at any mirrors, or even clocks if you could help it, in case more relics of your past returned to haunt you and made all this an extra bad ride.
Before stepping out of your back door, you grabbed a small go-bag anyway.
You smelled the smoke before you saw the flames. You saw the flames before you felt the heat. There was so much heat—and no clear entrances besides the one in the backyard by the pool. Less than a mile away, an alarm blared through the fire station and ten members of the fire department packed into two trucks headed your way. On the other side of town, four local police units were called to a fire at the Cody compound. Feds were likely on their way as well. You didn’t know this for sure but that’s what this raving inferno was dancing about.
Through the back entrance, your vision turned into a pinhole singularly focused on one subject. The sight was sobering. Definitely real.
Pope Cody, Smurf’s eldest son, limped out of a room he may have set ablaze. You saw as he collapsed in slow motion until he was slumped and bloody and alone, lying next to the pool as the house around him, the Cody kingdom, burned like the Library of Alexandria, like Persepolis, or Ancient Rome under Nero. Tufts of smoke from inside the house blasted through glass windows, and you could trace its path as it entered Pope’s nostrils and spread through his lungs and bloodstream. You ran toward him, and while closing the distance felt like a marathon you got to him eventually. In the corner of your eye you thought you saw a body, but your brain ignored it, razor-focused on a single goal for once. There was blood, and you weren’t sure where it was coming from. Crimson dissipated from his body like clouds into the water.
He was bleeding out, but he was breathing. But he was bleeding the fuck out.
You splashed some pool water on your face to be sure this wasn’t some other trick your mind was playing on you. Ferrous notes in the amber droplets confirmed it.
You crouched next to him and pinched every layer of his shoulder and repeated his name multiple times. “Pope. Pope? Pope! Where is everyone? We need to get you out of here before the cops come.”
“No, don’t—” Pope stirred, dark opal eyes and a defeated expression like he was personally dragging himself to death’s doorstep. He didn’t seem to be in a rush. “Leave me here. Leave me here to die.”
“Well you’re shit out of luck, Andrew Cody,” you said, fingers scanning his neck, searching for a pulse. “...cos it looks like I have to save your life.”
His pulse was thready at best.
“Get—”
“Stop talking.” You heaved an exasperated sigh and wagered the additional “fuck” under your breath was too quiet for him to hear.
On closer inspection you saw where a bullet tore through the right side of his abdomen, so he was bleeding on two sides; that had its pros and cons. Working quickly, you propped him upright, unzipped your go-bag and packed some gauze into the exit wound. You unbuttoned your shirt and threw it over your head, then wrapped it across his side so you could have something for both sides of his body. Pope’s hand which had dipped into the blood-soaked pool was now holding the top of your shirt against the bullet wound. You tamped down on his hand to signal pressure.
“Please, Pope. Hold this. Keep that right there—do as I say.”
His eyes started to gloss over, wordless, and holding him there felt like you were witnessing his physical heart as it struggled to stay in motion.
Time slowed while your hand was on top of Pope’s, and you watched your flesh melt onto his. For a brief moment it was as if his breathing and yours were the same breath. As if you felt his pain, felt the warmth slowly escaping his body as his blood continued to spill, creating red trails along the tile on its way to the pool. You were no saint, and neither was Pope, but holding onto this man while watching the life drain out of him ignited something within you. There was no other option but to do everything you could to save his life.
“Stay with me, Pope!”
Then with your brain’s sudden upload of hawklike abilities you darted around what little of the compound wasn’t engulfed in flames or covered in shards of broken glass to find anything that could help you get this beautiful, dying man in motion, still breathing, and out of there.
When Pope Cody woke up hours later, the sirens that crescendoed while the emergency cavalries pulled up to the Cody compound had already died out. The crowd of curious spectators and press vans had since thinned. He was now in a room that was nearly silent, save for the synthetic crashing of waves that played on loop through a single speaker.
At first he couldn’t see too clearly, mainly because of your offset angle while sleeping parallel to him, but it didn’t take long before Pope recognized you. He remembered you from a few of his brothers’ house parties, and he’d even spoken to you once or twice. If he recalled correctly, you were Craig’s friend, the one who liked to give him a bit of a show when his younger brother picked you up while celebrating another winning round of beer pong. You liked to wear that short pink dress that always rode up a little and never failed to catch Pope’s eye. He noticed you, and he always noticed you noticing him. You had that smile that was coy and mischievous and oddly inviting. You never once looked at him oddly, or like you were scared of him, even when everyone else at the party seemed to be.
Then he remembered what he’d done, how he’d set it—the living room, the kitchen, his room, his brothers’ rooms—all on fire. After expending most of his energy on J and eventually letting him go, Pope was done. The guilt over what happened with Julia, over allowing his mother to use him the way she did all his life, washed over him like the surf against jagged rocks along the coast. He didn’t know where Craig and Deran had gone, probably dead or arrested, but Pope knew for sure he’d had enough. He held the gas can and doused everything in petroleum, ready to end it all, himself included. He remembered walking toward the pool, that photo of him and Julia in hand, before the darkness finally collected its dues.
Pope didn’t expect to wake up.
In a way, he didn't want to.
He started to make sense of the sterile white space surrounding him. It was neither Hell nor Heaven, but a mysterious room that smelled like lavender and antiseptic and looked like something between a clinic, an interrogation room, and the sunken living room of his family home. He tried to sit up and look out the window and maybe figure out where he was in relation to the compound. He tried to move his hands, only to learn he was not only handcuffed to what looked like a single sized hospital bed from the 20th century, a vein in his right arm was also connected to an IV drip and he had several bandages around his torso. He had no idea where he was, where anyone was, or what the person sleeping in the daybed across the room had to do with any of this.
Where was he, why were you here, and what did you want from him?
When Pope Cody woke up, you were still asleep.
So he did what he did best: he watched you.
And he waited.
Pope’s eyes were still fixed on you by the time you finally woke up. The sight of him was jarring enough that the realization activated your instinct to sit upright, pointing your gun at his chest but remembering the state of his condition made you lower your guard just as quickly. He mirrored your tension and relaxed when you did.
“Good morning,” you greeted him, rubbing your eyes. There was a general malaise about your body as you grounded yourself back onto reality, no doubt an aftereffect of your depleted serotonin from the day before. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Pope Cody. Congratudolences.”
“This isn’t a hospital,” Pope said, unblinking. It wasn't a question . “You law enforcement?”
“I’m just the girl next door.” You tilted your head at him with a coy smile. Behind the brick wall of his glare you could sense his confusion. “No, really, we’re right next door to your family’s compound. What’s left of it, anyway. And no, not law enforcement.”
Pope tugged at his handcuffs. “Then why do I feel like a prisoner?”
You forgot about those.
“Oh, yes—” you reached into your pocket to retrieve a pair of chrome keys and approached one side of the bed. “These were honestly just a precaution in case you decided to run off before I could catch you up on everything. Because I’m not sure you remember, but you were shot quite a few times.”
“I can see that,” he grunted, glancing at the bandages on his torso, and in doing so noticed he didn’t have any clothes on under the blanket. They’d been soaked in blood, and you had to cut them off his body before you treated him to avoid infection.
“Well, one of them went through and through too, so,” you continued. “You really do need to take the time to rest. Recovery might take a while, and I don’t think you’re the type to turn up at a real hospital if you can help it.”
He shook against the cuff on his left wrist to draw your focus. Your hands hovered over the lock on his wrist’s side of the cuffs and said, “Please don’t put me in a headlock when I unlock this. I’m only trying to help you. Promise?”
Pope’s brow curled in an attempt to cover the sting of his wounds. He couldn’t hurt you if he tried. “Yeah, promise.”
You turned the key and slowly unclasped the metal cuff off his wrist. Pope barely moved. You rested one hand over his bandaged arm.
“Take it easy with this one,” you instructed him, raising and lowering his wrist carefully before walking to the other side of the bed.
“Did—did you pull me out of there all by yourself?” Pope clutched across his torso with his free arm. He wasn’t sure if you were working alone, with someone else, or for someone in particular.
“Yes, I did.”
“How?”
“I got creative.”
In reality, you were blasted off to space and could barely remember, either. You could really only recall discrete vignettes of the night before. Rolling Pope along the nearest set of wheels so he could get to your house. Making a premature phone call before the end of your trip to move him to the dining table and then to this bed. You weren’t sure how Pope would react if he knew what state you were in when you treated his bullet wounds.
“But why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you do that?”
You paused before unlocking the handcuff on his right.
“It’s kind of a funny story, really,” you told him flatly. “Turns out I’m the kind of idiot who runs toward a burning building while tripping on research chemicals. I’m sure someone from the legendary Cody family will make it up to me. So… you’re welcome.”
He couldn’t tell if you were joking, and even you were only half sure.
“Well, maybe I didn’t want you to pull me out of there. It’s over. It’s all gone.” Pope’s voice broke into a whimper, and you were surprised when his hand reached for your forearm. His grip tightened, though still weak, but it wasn’t out of anger. “I should be dead.”
Your expression shifted into a sneer. “So, fun update for you while you were sleeping. As of right now, you, Pope Cody, are presumed dead. They found a body that got incinerated after the grill exploded during the fire, and it sounds like they’re saying it was you.”
“How do you know that?” Pope’s voice was gruff, like his words had to evade stalactites in your throat before they came out.
“I have my sources,” you replied. Pope clutched across his chest again, winced again, his face squeezing into itself. A patch of blood had seeped through the gauze. “Shit, we should probably change those up. One sec.”
You sauntered to the other side of the room toward the wood and glass cabinet you used to store medical supplies. While its contents were alphabetically organized by function and name on any other day, your altered state the night before made sure you'd be dealing with the absolute opposite. Syringes sat next to blood bags, vials of ketamine next to antiseptic bottles set on top of sterile gauze, vials of morphine from Tijuana you'd have to deal with later. Tucked into the second row, middle-right shelf you eventually found the little black caboose where you stashed an array of pain pills that had miraculously stayed intact. You grabbed that along with some gloves, gauze—so much gauze—and some saline, tape, scissors, antiseptic wipes, and laid the supplies neatly on the table next to Pope’s bed.
“Alright, Pope, I’m gonna need you to sit up for me a bit, if that’s okay.”
Pope hesitated, but he eventually gathered some strength to sit up. You held him closely for support, knowing his wounds were still fresh, and a part of you wondered what you’d see after unpacking the wound. Dread bubbled in your stomach. Worst case scenario, your high ass had packed the bullet tract with unsterile gauze, or done a terrible job patching him up. You moved his pillow so it better supported his back. Once he was in a more secure position, you put on your gloves.
“This isn’t gonna be fun,” you began. “But we’ll need to do this a few times while you heal up. I have supplies for about a week, but then I’ll have to send for some more.”
“You a doctor or something?” Pope asked, and you realized you still hadn’t introduced yourself or given him any reason to trust you.
“Kind of. Not really,” you opened a drawer on the bedside table to retrieve a glass and mercury thermometer and gave it a few swipes with an antiseptic wipe. “But I knew enough to keep you alive, didn’t I? Open your mouth for me.”
“Is it… clean?” he asked, furrowing his brow at the mercury thermometer that was now in your hand. He was surprised to see that device past the year 2000, but using them meant having one less battery-operated tool for you to manage.
You nodded. “It’s clean, just—you should be old enough to know not to bite on it too hard.”
Pope opened his mouth so you could stick the thermometer under his tongue. While waiting, you took a pulse oximeter from a drawer and slipped it onto his index finger to check for his pulse and O2 levels, which were surprisingly stable. His body temperature was normal as well. You gently removed the thermometer from his mouth but kept the pulse ox on his finger.
You sighed and pressed your lips tightly.
“I’m going to take your bandages off now, Pope,” you continued, reaching for a pair of sterile scissors. You worked softly but deliberately, taking your time to carefully remove the tape that affixed the gauze to his bare chest and abdomen, trying your best not to pull on any of his hairs while doing so. The bottom layer of gauze had attached itself to some dried blood and flesh, so you instructed him, “Can you breathe in for me real quick, please? Good, now give me a slow exhale.”
His breath broke as your slow pull on the gauze caught on some of his exposed flesh, collecting blood and tissue and plasma from the site. Pope winced, then grunted, as if to stifle a scream, and you watched the pulse ox register a spike in his heart rate. He managed a low “fuck” once his breathing normalized.
“Good, you’re doing so good for me right now, Pope,” you said. You lifted the last layer of blood-soaked dressing to reveal the entry wound, which was packed in with even more gauze that had to be removed. “Don’t worry, I’ve done this plenty of times.”
Pope was familiar with the process, having been on the receiving end of this treatment more times than he’d like to admit. That didn’t stop him from flinching as you used a pair of forceps to gently pull the packing gauze from the tract. He grunted at the sting of the thin, blood-soaked fabric against his exposed flesh and squeezed his eyes shut so he didn’t have to watch you snake it out of him. Pope’s hand grasped your forearm again. You usually didn’t allow clients to touch you like that, often giving them some other object to clamp onto, but you let him.
Once the gory part was over, you examined the open wound for any signs of infection, still unsure what exact measures you took to treat him last night but also rather impressed at yourself for doing what seemed to be a bang-up job so far. The redness was to be expected, and you noticed some light yellow discharge near the opening that would need to be cleaned out before repacking. “You okay? Gonna need you to be real still for what I’m gonna have to do next, Pope—”
“Andrew,” he interrupted you. Craig once mentioned that only their mother ever got to call Pope by that name. But Smurf was dead. Smurf was gone.
“Andrew,” you repeated. “I’m gonna be honest, I’m all out of lidocaine, so the next few minutes are gonna hurt like a motherfucker. But know that I’ve got you, and I really am sorry because this is really going to suck.”
Pope’s eyes fixed on your face, glaring intensely as you spoke. He paused and braced himself. His wounded biceps twitched and tightened, as did his forearms. “Ready.”
“Good.”
The rest of the process went like clockwork, and your head gradually cleared up while you continued to work on him with practiced movements. You irrigated the wound with a saline solution you made from boiled salted water and used an antiseptic wipe that nearly had Pope yelling on contact. He held onto whatever part of your free arm he could and tightened his grip whenever he wanted to scream, but you didn’t mind. Repacking the gauze was always the worst part, inevitably causing Pope to let out a single, tortured wail that violated his signature composure. Finally, you replaced the outer layer of gauze and tape, and all you had to do next was repeat the entire process on the exit wound.
You asked Pope about what happened, if he knew where his brothers were, why he set the house on fire. He was silent for a while, clenching and unclenching his jaw while you probed him, and you’d expected as much based on what little you'd heard about the oldest Cody brother. Slowly, around the time you were disinfecting his back wound, Pope started to ease up, his hand still on you, grip loosening.
“The truth is,” he began. “I don't even know where they are.”
“Deran or Craig?”
Pope shrugged, causing the packing gauze to touch the inside of his wound again. He flinched then shook his head. “No.”
“What about your nephew, J?” you asked. Pope’s eyes turned black, and that was enough for you to understand. “...got it.”
He sat wordlessly and completely still for the remainder of it. When you were finished, you slowly guided him back to a more comfortable position with one arm around his shoulders as you chanted, “Easy, Andrew, easy, okay, that’s very good.”
Pope Cody was a densely muscular tank of a man, but you were stronger than you looked and he noticed that. You had clear memories of being able to pick Craig up with relative ease a couple of years ago. Pope was also there that day, and you wondered if he remembered seeing you then. His shoulders were firm and heavy against you, but your arm was strong enough to support him without additional assistance this time.
“You know you didn’t need to do this,” Pope said flatly while you cleaned up.
“What do you mean?” you asked in response.
“Keep me alive. Still don’t get why me.”
“Honestly, I’m not sure I have an answer for you. Karmic energy, maybe?” You pouted, shook your head, then shrugged at the man in front of you whom you compulsively brought under your care. You weren’t totally lying. “Look, Andrew, you might be a little bummed to not be dead right now, but the least you can do right now to thank me is stay here and rest up. Everyone thinks Pope Cody is dead, but if you show your pretty face outside that’ll all change in a heartbeat. Play your cards right, and you might have a chance to start over, get a whole new lease on life.”
You paused, trying to read him, but to decipher what was behind Pope Cody’s stare was a Sisyphean task, and if he agreed to stay, you’d have time for that later.
He stayed quiet so you continued, “I know you have a lot of questions right now, and I might have some of the answers, but can we talk over breakfast? I can bring it to you but get some rest.”
You waited for the slightest change in his face, maybe a twitch of his jaw or a curl in his lip.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” he nodded.
“Good. I’ll be back in half an hour and you’ll have breakfast in bed. You are going to get better, Andrew, and once you’re ready, we can talk about how we’re gonna deal with that fucker J.”
2026 | thedivinegirlyp0p — do not feed this to any ai tool for any reason or else i will pray for ur sorrowful demise. replies and reblogs are my besties <3
author's end note: let me know if this is something you'd be interested in reading more of, and if you'd like to be tagged in any future chapters. or maybe you think i should stick to smut and stop trying new things! in any case, would loveeee to know what you think because i've never really written a h/c scene before.
Description: You meet Andrew at the bar, and are looking for a quick fuck. Andrew seems to have read things wrong and wants more from that night.
Warning: andrew cody x reader, delusional!andrew, mention of b*z and sm*rf, one night stand (not really), cursing, dirty talk, p in v sex, dick slapping, use of condom, NSFW MDNI 18+
Word Count: 2.7k
You met at Deran’s bar, you had seen him sitting broodingly from across the room clenching the same beer he had been nursing since he’d arrived. Although his energy wasn’t necessarily inviting, there was something pulling you into him.
Maybe it was the fact that you could see the bulge of his muscle from under his black t-shirt, his freckled skin, or maybe the fact that it had been almost a year since you had sex.
Ever since you had broken up, you had gotten zero play from anyone. Initially you needed that time to recuperate since the breakup was rough and messy, but now it felt as if you were going to burst if you didn’t get some immediately.
You and your friends sat within the booth, despite the growing conversation around you, you couldn’t help but fade out and focus only on the stoic man across the room. Your friend beside you noticed your gaze had wandered and your participation in the conversation had left. “Hey babe”, her eyes followed yours and found what was on the end of it. “Ohhhh…girl, I know it’s been a while you better hop on that!”
You rolled your eyes and gave a sheepish smile, “I don’t know…I mean he’s cute but…should I?”, You turned and looked at her.
“It’s been too long, you better go after it. It doesn’t mean you have to date him or anything, you have a hookup.”
You nod in agreement, quelling any inch of you trying to deny yourself a simple pleasure that could come.
“Okay I’m gonna do it”, You shimmy your way out of the booth and make your way over to him. You stand next to him and call the bartender over to order another drink, his eyes glance down at you before returning back to his lap.
“Hi, can I get a vodka cran please, thank you.” As the bartender walks away, you turn your focus towards the man.
“Soooo, what brings you here?”
He raises his head, turns to look behind him before looking at you with a puzzled look, “Are you talking to me?”
You giggle lightly, “Yes I’m talking to you. What brings you here?”
“It’s my brother’s bar…Deran. Just here for a beer.”
“Oh really? Wait which one? Are you Baz, Craig, or Pope?”
“I’m…Pope, but you can call me Andrew.”
“Okay Andrew, well is it alright that I stand here with you?”, You inch your body a tad closer to his, making your arms brush.
He looks down at the brief connection before responding, “It’s okay.”
If Andrew was being honest he was confused why you were standing with him. He saw you sitting with a group of your friends earlier so it made no sense for you to saddle up beside him.
He’s not gonna deny the fact that he noticed you when you walked in, it was hard for him to not notice a girl like you. You were very attractive and you had an outfit that accentuated all of the best parts of you. So it made him curious why on earth someone like you was standing near someone like him.
You both chatted for longer, the drinks flowing through your body providing you with the confidence to flirt with Andrew.
“So, do you have a girlfriend?”
Andrew gives a snort at your question, “No, do you have a boyfriend?”
“No, no boyfriend for me”, you say with a smirk.
The air settles but you both maintain eye contact. In most cases, your eyes would quickly dart away, but it was something about his warm hazel eyes that drew you in.
The rumble of his voice interrupts the comfortable silence, “Why are you over here?”. He gave no pleasantries to bring up the elephant in the room. You laugh at his brusque attitude, “Right to it huh?”
“I wasn’t trying to be rude.”
You grab his forearm and give a gentle squeeze, “I know! But if I’m honest I came over here because I think you’re cute and I was hoping to get to know you a little bit tonight.” You left out the part that you were hoping to get to know him in the bedroom too.
“You think I’m…cute?”
Why on earth did you find him cute, he thought to himself.
“Extremely cute. If I’m being honest probably the most attractive guy I’ve seen in a long time.”
Andrew honestly couldn’t believe his ears. If he was being honest he thought he’d died and gone to heaven. There’s no way that a girl like you thought that he was attractive.
You could sense Andrew was in his head about the new revelation, the admission and the music booming from the speakers nearby wouldn’t allow his brain to process how he felt.
Maybe a change in scenery will help, you thought. You gingerly grabbed his hand and pulled him in the direction of the door, “Would you come outside with me?” He nodded and allowed you to pull him along like a puppy on a leash.
You both walked outside, finding a spot near the fire pit. Andrew sat first and you sat beside him, choosing to rest your legs laid across his lap, your hands naturally gravitated to grab his hands and hold them in your lap.
“So, like I said earlier. I think you’re a very attractive guy and…if you are okay with it, I’d love to give you a kiss.”
Andrew’s hesitation was barely visible to the naked eye, but you could see it momentarily flash before he nodded profusely, wanting to taste your lips dearly.
You lean in and plant a fat kiss to kiss lips. Initially, he is frozen but after the feel of your soft lips pushing onto his, he melts into your kiss. He allows the kiss to remain chaste but it’s you who pushes for more. You slide your tongue on the seam of his lips, hoping he’ll allow you access to explore his mouth.
He opens his mouth timidly, giving you access to lick into his mouth. Your tongue tastes exactly as he thought, the slight punch of vodka, the twang of cranberry, and a hint of minty flavor from your toothpaste. You moaned at the flavor of his mouth, savoring the bready flavor of beer that seeped from him.
His hands slid from resting in your lap to now kneading the fat on your hips. If it wasn’t for the people who were the people who had come outside, your kiss would have led you to fuck him there in front of the fire pit.
You pulled away much to both of your chagrin and panted, “Would you want to come back to my place?” Your heart was pounding within your chest, not only because the kiss from this gentle giant was passionate but a part of you was anxious for his reply.
“Yes,” he growled. As you looked into his eyes now, they were no longer the warm amber color but now a deep dark brown with lust.
You both had made your way to his car, him making the short drive to your home, trying to maintain your composure and not kiss and lick his neck as you gave him directions.
Once inside, the kiss continued, only now he gained the confidence to pick you up and settle your core on his hardening cock, instinctively you wrap your thick legs around his waist.
You quickly pull away to tell him where your bedroom was, “down the hallway, second door on the left.”, then quickly pressed steamy kisses to his neck.
It takes everything in Andrew to not fuck you against the wall, but he knew he wanted to be a gentleman and treat you right. No lady such as yourself should have the first time with a man outside of the bedroom, truthfully if he had more time he wished he could have made it more special maybe some candles or something to make it more romantic.
In Andrew’s eyes, this wasn’t a one-night stand situation, he planned to make you his. It’s not that he wasn’t privy to a quick fuck, lord knows Smurf dropped plenty of women in his lap so he could release tension for a night, but with you he could sense that you needed a man like him as soon as you waltzed right up to him.
Andrew had found your bedroom with ease, making his way into the room and shutting the door with his foot. He threw you down on your bed, eagerly stripping himself down to his boxers, then climbed over your body. He started to peel your clothes off stopping after each item was removed to pepper soft passionate kisses where he could. You moaned at how gentle the man above you was being.
Andrew reveled in your beauty once all of your clothes were removed, the curve of your breast, your soft supple waist. His eyes finally landed on your core, your legs were crossed, hiding your wet entrance from him. He feels like most people feel on Christmas, unwrapping their present with so much eagerness, so excited to set their eyes on what lies inside. He gently pulls your legs apart and finally he's able to set his sights on just how wet you were, practically cooing at how gorgeous your pussy was.
He finally looks up to see your face, your features highlighted by the moon shining through the window and your mouth agape in pleasure.
"Can I taste you?" he asked in a desperate tone.
As much as you loved the idea of having a hot muscular man between your thighs making you cum with only his tongue, something about getting head felt a little too romantic, something about getting head from someone who yearned to taste you was too much and didn't give the impression of a one-night stand.
You shook your head lightly telling him, "I need you in me". You grabbed the fat of his ass and pulled his hips to press against your wet slit, He pouted at the denial, but let out a groan at the contact. Soon the idea of him between your legs was forgotten but, for Andrew it was saved for later. He made work of pulling off his boxers as you searched your bedside drawer for a condom. You tore it open pulling the condom out, Andrew moaned at the feel of your hands gliding down his cock.
The moment the condom is on, Andrew pushes you back onto your back, grabs your thighs, and rests them on his hips. He grips his cock and slides his pink tip up and down your slick entrance. He looks up to you, confirming that you want to continue, you nod eagerly, wanting him to keep going. He slowly pushes inside of you, you both release a moan at the pleasure.
His dick was exactly as you imagined, thick, veiny, and filling you perfectly. With him a little over halfway in, it felt as if you couldn't breathe. When he finally pushed in fully to the hilt, you breathed out a deep sigh and ran your fingers up and down his muscular chest, Andrew paused, letting you adjust to his size.
"You can go Andrew" you whisper, looking deeply into his eyes.
He starts with a slow pace, treasuring the sweet whines you made on each thrust. Your pretty face screwed up in pleasure was feeding an insatiable piece inside of him, something told him that he would do anything to keep seeing this side of you.
Although the stretch of his dick felt heavenly, you were greedy for more, you made grabby hands pull at his neck and bring him down for a heated kiss. You trail your kisses down his neck, mumbling into it, "Please fuck me harder Andrew, I need you".
How could he deny you when you were so needy and asking him so sweetly?
"Yea you need me? You need me to fuck you harder sweet girl?" he said in a mocking tone.
You nod dumbly with a pout. "Please Andy, need you.”
He groans at hearing how badly you needed him. Without breaking eye contact, he grips your hips and pushes into you with a strong powerful pace, the sound of your moans and his grunts quickly being drowned by the loud slapping sound of his hips snapping into yours.
"Fuck angel, you're so fuckin' tight–shit–god this pussy's so good." he babbles. He brings his head towards your chest and sucks your nipple intently before switching to the next.
"Mmh, god Andy it's so good!" you moan out. You scratch up and down his back.
The sex is even better than either of you imagined, the undeniable chemistry between you has been bubbling all night, and the passion he gave was mouthwatering. Tonight was exactly what you needed Andrew was giving you his all and was eager to please you.
Just thinking about it was making you wetter by the second. So wet that Andrew could hear the wetness with each thrust.
"On is your pretty pussy talking to me? Y’like that baby?" he whispers to your core. He pulls out and taps his cock on your clit a few times before pushing back inside, now giving even stronger thrusts than before.
The more he thrust, the closer you got to your release. You reached down to frantically rub at your clit, but were swatted away by Andrew's meaty hand. He tsked, "Only I get to rub your clit angel." his fingers rubbed diligently while thrusting deeply inside of you, your orgasm is quickly approaching and Andrew can feel the grip of your pussy tightening around him.
"Whose pussy is this? Huh, whose fuckin' pussy is this?" he grunts above you.
In your head, you recognized this as odd but you were far too cock drunk to give it much thought. So you naturally gave him exactly what he wanted.
"Fuuuuck–it's yours...this pussy's all yours Andy." Unknowingly, you just helped Andrew stake his claim in you. For him, this solidified the beginning of your relationship. He melted into you and pressed a searing kiss to your lips.
You mumble into his lips, "I'm gonna cum Andy!” he responds by pounding into you harder grunting loudly in your ear, "Angel, I'm gonna cum too. Wanna cum with you–shit Let's cum together.”
You nod and within a few more thrusts and rubs of your clit, you're on the edge. "m'gonna cum Andy" you moan, running your fingers over his sweat-sheened chest. Suddenly his thrusts start to falter, signaling he's at his reach too.
You both moan out, your pussy clenching around him and him releasing into the condom. You both are panting into each other's mouths, exhausted from coming down from your shared high.
Andrew peeled off the condom, walked to your bathroom, and tossed it in the trash. You heard him rummaging through the linen closet, pulling out a towel before returning back to bed. He quickly wiped you down, trying his best to wipe away your slick.
You wrapped yourself in the blanket ready to fall asleep, before Andrew delicately placed his shirt over your head.
You were too tired to usher him out and chose to let him lie beside you. He grabbed your hips and pulled your ass back into his crotch and nuzzled his nose into your neck, then drifted off to sleep.
"Goodnight my angel”, he whispered.
When you woke up Andrew was gone. Internally you were grateful as last night you felt like Andrew was assuming that your one-night stand was something more.
You got up and walked into your kitchen to find a full spread of eggs, bacon, pancakes along with a bouquet of flowers and a note.
You walked closer and examined the note which said, “Morning beautiful. I had to leave but I'll be back later @ 6 to pick you up for our date. Last night was amazing. ~Andrew”
You knew then you were fucked. Apparently you should have made it clear that this was only for one night.
a/n: ugh the idea of pope being a quick fuck and him being like um no you’re my wife now has been rotting my brain for the longest, so i had to bring it to life! i really hope you enjoy, feel free to comment, like or reblog if you did! if you have a prompt feel free to inbox me or send me an ask :) 🐛💗
🍃Tags/Warnings🍃: fluff, hurt/comfort ( slight? Maybe? lol ), Young!Pope Cody ( only for a little bit ), AU where Pope had a girl to keep him in check, Protective!Pope Cody, Book-Smart meets Street-Smart trope, Sweet!Reader who’s secretly Badass!Reader(?! 😱)
🍃Plot🍃: Just Pope Cody and his overachieving, sweet as candy, girl against the world. OR! What if Pope had his girl season one, episode one..
🍃Characters🍃: Andrew “Pope” Cody x Fem!Reader
🍃Title🍃: In Hell With You
🍃A/N🍃: Literally nobody asked for this, but when I tell you it’s been in my head for THREE DAMN DAYS!! I had to write it down to get it out 😭 but I always found it interesting how some people have “Y/N” find pope in season 2 or 3, but.. What if he basically grew up with her? What if season 1, episode 1 he had his girl already. What would change? I really really hope yall enjoy..
((Requests are ALWAYS open))
Masterlist
* * May 12, 1995 * *
The beat up black pick up slows to a halt, overlooking the vast beach. The engine along with the old rock song fuzzily playing over the radio gets cut short as Pope settles back in the driver’s seat, smiling a bit at the view in front of him, keys hanging in the ignition but turned off.
They’d made it just in time to catch the sunset.
In the passenger seat sat a girl he never in a million years thought would agree to be his. But here they were, two months into dating, and his hands would still get sweaty when near her.
Y/N Y/L/N.
The smartest girl in all of Oceanside Viking’s High School. The girl who was going places.
Pope was honored just being a pitstop in her life..
“Andy. You weren’t joking. It’s so pretty up here..” Y/N gushes as she sits up more, her bare feet still tossed happily across his lap, nails painted his favorite shade of blue. A symbol of her love for him, honestly.
“You like it?” Pope asks to make sure, heart skipping a beat at the idea of doing good by her.
That’s all he really wanted.
She smiles warmly, nodding as she settles in to watch the sunset before remembering. "Oh! I actually wanted to tell you." She begins as she plays a bit with her thumbs, barely able to contain herself the longer he watches her with those beautiful brown orbs of his, the sun hitting them just right to make them gold..
"I got in!” She blurts out while giggling. Pope is shocked for only a second before letting out a breath of pure pride for his girl. “You're looking at a future doctor of Oceanside, baby!" She playfully jokes as she leans forward more to touch his cheek.
"No shit..” He laughs, actually laughs, and it makes Y/N smile wider. It’s rare when he does laugh out loud, so each crack of that is joyous for the young girl.
“Holy shit, Y/N. I told you that you’d get in..” He states, having never doubted his girl. She’s always been smart. Hell, she was class president from ninth grade all the way to eleventh. This year, she’s vice president.
She tells Pope it’s cause she wants to ‘cut back’ and enjoy her senior year, but.. Pope knows his overachiever has no real plan of that..
"I got in..” Y/N repeats, breathing out like she can finally settle, grinning so wide her cheeks might actually start hurting.
Pope finally reaches over, cupping her face tenderly. His thumbs brush along her cheekbones, brown eyes searching hers like he's trying to hold onto this moment forever. He’s always trying to hold on..
"I knew you would. I told you that you would." He can’t help but repeat. It’s true though.
He never doubted her for a second.
Pope dropped out of school in the ninth grade, but Julia was constantly trying to share new things with him whenever she could, just to keep him sharp. He had met Y/N when she was Julia’s tenth grade science partner.
He was stunned by her from that moment on, but he never had the courage to talk to her till two months ago when he saw her at the skatepark he frequents.
She’d been there with her after-school environmental group, planting a tree. Julia had called her over, much to Pope’s panic. She had made a joke about Pope itching to teach someone how to skate a half-pipe, but that she was too scared. She encouraged Y/N to be his ‘student’. Pope couldn’t walk away because Baz held him in place.
That was the beginning of the end, really.
While Julia and Baz snuck away, Pope and Y/N spent almost all night at the skatepark together, actually getting to talk more than when Pope would stare at the back of her head in fourth period history..
Y/N giggles softly, resting her forehead against her boyfriends to truly enjoy this moment. "I haven't even told my mom yet.” She notes gently, voice softer now that their lips are so close.
Y/N’s parents were never really home. As much as Pope hated it, that’s kind of why Y/N enjoyed going to his place everyday. Smurf was a.. Colorful character, sure, but at least she was around.
That was Y/N’s logic at least..
“Congratulations on being the first person to know..” She continues, a slight tease to her voice as Pope smiles more, pulling her into a soft kiss that’s more like a tender peck.
When he pulls back, he’s smiling just as big as before. "A fucking doctor..” He says it like it’s already happened.
Pope saw bright things for Y/N. She just wishes he saw the same for himself..
She sighs, excitement buzzing through her. It was the perfect set up. The college was real close to town, a 45-minute drive to campus, so she didn’t have to leave Pope, and it was her first choice anyways.
“It’s gonna be great. Especially because then I can help your..." Y/N pauses a bit, realizing something was about to leave her mouth that really shouldn’t. Pope catches on quickly though, eyeing her.
“Help… Who?” He asks slowly. She shifts a bit in her seat.
“Y/N. Help who?” Pope asks again to clarify, making her sigh softly.
“Help… You and your family.” She tries to keep it at that, but he stares her down. “On your… Jobs.” She clarifies only then, voice low and soft as she watches him carefully.
Not because she’s scared he’ll lash out and hurt her, but because they’ve talked about this before.
And Pope has stated firmly that coming over for spaghetti on a random Thursday night is one thing, but actually hanging around his family? That’s a big no.
But it’s too late to go back on the admission. The words hang in the air as the sun fully sinks below the horizon.
Y/N can feel the shift before she sees it clearly on his face. The smile has fully faded without a trace, replaced with a look of… Well, the best word to describe it is.. Lost.
Pope’s hand moves from her face now as he finds his spot in the driver side only, her feet still on his lap as he stares at the steering wheel.
"Y/N..." He begins finally, breaking the thick silence after what feels like minutes.
His voice is quiet. Controlled. Pope never wanted to scare Y/N. Even when angry or overwhelmed, he’d rather draw blood from biting down on his tongue than have her see him like everyone else does..
The truck feels smaller suddenly, the moonlight shimmering over the vast ocean that can be seen from over the pier.
“Andy..” Y/N sighs softly.
“We talked about this…” He continues over her soft voice. He doesn't look at her. His jaw works, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he has a staring contest with the steering wheel.
“Can you just.. Look at me, Andy. Don’t.. Freak out on me." She tries again as she reaches over to grab his hand that’s lulled at his side.
Pope doesn't move. He didn’t react. For the longest time, he sits there, trying to let it all wash through him. Finally, he shakes his head. "Don't freak out..” He repeats her words with a low, humorless chuckle.
Finally, he turns to look at her. His eyes unreadable, that damn wall firmly in place now.
He can practically see it. See her slipping away. He just wanted these two things separate. He wanted his family on one side and Y/N on the other.
But Pope can never get what he wants..
“What do you mean by.. Jobs?" He asks quietly, bracing himself.
"Your..” Y/N sighs. “Your mom told me. Everything. The jobs you guys do. All the heists.” She admits softly. Pope would be vague about so much of his life that when Smurf came to get Y/N from his bedroom during a sleepover at around 2am, it.. Well, it was like when the devil held out that apple for Eve…
Pope shakes his head in silent disbelief. Months of being vague, of telling half truths, of sneaking around. Of trying to shield Y/N from seeing who he truly was. All of it went down the drain as he slept. As he let his guard down.
“Baby..” Y/N whispers, moving her hands up a bit to his bicep, just in hopes of pulling him back. “She said it can be dangerous, Andrew. And… That it'd be good having a doctor on call for some under the table stuff." She explains the gist of their conversation that night just last week.
Y/N had let it all sink in right there at the kitchen table. Smurf was holding gold in front of her. Gold in the shape of a spot in this family. A spot next to Pope.
Forever.
It’s silent once more as Pope turns his head, his free hand reaching up to rub at his bare chin, eyes quickly glancing along the starry sky as he tries to wrap his head around his mother’s game.
She always had a game..
"She told you." He whispers, mind racing. Why? Why do that?
"She said it'd be good having someone you all can trust. For when things go wrong. And I.. I agree.." Y/N defends softly, watching Pope closely as she rests her chin on his shoulder now, fully watching the tense jaw of her lover.
“When things go wrong." He repeats it like he's finding a bitter humor in the words. Always with the dramatics, his mother. He laughs a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Fucking Smurf." He mutters, his thumb pressing against his own lips as a way to possibly self-soothe.
It works better when it’s Y/N’s thumb on his lips though…
“Baby. Look at me..” Y/N whispers, trying to reach for his chin and physically turn his face only for him to quickly push open the truck door and get out.
Y/N watches with a frown as he walks to the end of the wooden pier they were parked on for this view. It had been abandoned a while ago, and Pope has been using it as a lookout for almost a year now.
His back is to her as he leans against the wooden railing. The nighttime ocean breeze catches his curls making him pull up his hoodie.
After slipping on her flats, Y/N gets out of the car as well. The salt air hits her nose, a sharp and cold reminder that this should be a fun night. It’s their anniversary today for crying out loud. Two months down to the hour..
She approaches him carefully, stopping a few inches away just to watch him.
"She's been planning this.” He says. He can’t prove it, but he knows. "Since you came to the house. Since I first showed that I liked you. She saw you and she started figuring out how to use you." His hands grip the railing tighter. The feeling of guilt is heavy on his shoulders as Y/N frowns, moving a bit closer now.
"And I don’t care if she is..” Y/N tries.
“I do!” Pope snaps, turning to face Y/N now. “I told her to leave you alone.” He states as Y/N tries talking over him only to be crumbled by the boom of his agitated tone. “I told her that you were off limits." He ignores her words until she finally yells.
“I want to help, Andrew!” She stomps her foot, growing mad herself at his tunnel vision. He can’t see the bigger picture.
“It’s hell, Y/N!” Pope shouts right back, letting go of any self control in this moment. Y/N stiffens a bit at his tone, but she doesn’t back away. “You wanna be in hell?!” He continues, tone raw and wall down. This is the real him. How he really feels.
“If I’m with you? Then yes!” She argues back, unapologetically as she basically gets in his face, no care over their height difference or the fact that his eyes look as dark as the ocean behind him.
The silence settles, only kept from feeling too heavy by the constant crash of the waves below them.
Pope’s shoulders settle finally, his face breaking from his stone cold expression to… His fear.
“You don't get it." His voice drops, quiet and hoarse. "You don't get what you're saying. You're..” He can’t speak when her hands find his face. He looks at her with a mix of guilt and worry.
"You're good, Y/N. You're good. And this life..” He shakes his head, eyes turning a bit glossy at the mere thought. "It eats people like you." He whispers, wanting to stay strong, but his hands find her waist when she presses against him.
"Then don't let it get me..” She says as if it’s that easy.
“Don’t give it the chance, Andrew.” She continues, holding his gaze as she moves on her tiptoes, forehead finding his as her arms wrap around his neck. "Stay with me." She whispers against his lips.
His lips.. That tremble only a bit as his grip on her tightens.
"I can't lose you..” He whispers. "You're the only good thing I've got."
Y/N hums as she pulls back only slightly to really look him in the eyes. “Then be with me. Stay with me. And I’ll always patch you up.” She whispers. “I don’t care about anything besides you.. And me. That’s all I want.” She states.
*
*
*
* * June 14, 2016 * *
“Ma’am, this is an active crime scene..”
“My nephew is in there!”
J looks up from his staring contest with the couch when he hears the voice he’s only ever known for birthdays and holidays.
Aunt Y/N
This morning was already morphing into a blur. One he hoped would soon go pitch black. One he hoped he’d never remember fully again. The cops step aside and in the doorway she appears.
When he called, he was only 50% sure she’d show up. It was rare when he saw her outside of those brief moments.
“J..” Y/N breathes, letting the teenager rush into her arms like he used to when she’d show up at the door with presents before leaving after hushed and somber words with his mother.
She holds him close, gripping him tight as he hugs back. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. We’ve got you..” Y/N sighs as she braces herself for what is to come..
The ride back to the house is silent. Walking into the house… That is a complete 180. Y/N leads J through the chaos of the home and to a room at the very end of the hallway. “I had 16 hour shift yesterday, so.. I’m sorry about the mess..” She mutters as they get into the bedroom that is completely clean. Almost.. Untouched.
“Is this… Your room? I don’t wanna put you out..” J begins quietly, looking around only to find a few things that show she shares this room. The man in the wedding photo that’s framed on their nightstand looks… A little familiar, but he can’t put his finger on it.
“Trust me. You’d be bringing some life into it. I take the couch every night..” Y/N mutters, voice soft. What’s the point of a marriage bed if her husband isn’t here to share it with her?
“Get settled in. I uh.. I’m gonna tell everyone you’re here..” Y/N says after a moment in order to change the subject a bit. She steps out of the room and covers her mouth to keep from getting physically ill. She’d spent so much energy on trying to get Pope and Julia back on speaking terms.
It had been an average night in the Cody residence. Y/N had been showing off the dress she’d wear for graduation, practicing her speech when Smurf walked in. She called a family meeting, and right in that living room, she said that money had gone missing. She’d made it very clear who she assumed it was.
She had looked Pope in the eye. “Either Y/N.. Or Julia.” She had made the choice sound so simple. And without saying words.. Pope’s eyes had drifted to Julia. The fight had lasted all night. Not between Pope and Julia or even Smurf and Julia. No. After Julia was physically kicked out, Y/N and Pope fought all night. But he was stone on his decision. Smurf felt someone had to go.. And he’d never pick Y/N.
And Smurf knew that..
After that, the guilt kept Pope back from ever reaching out. The hurt kept Julia from doing the same. But Y/N refused to let it go, going to visit during any birthday or holiday she could, and always making sure J and Julia stayed in the loop anytime her number changed. In case they needed anything.
Walking to the kitchen, Y/N finds her balance against the dining table. She knew tomorrow she’d have to visit Pope. She’d have to tell him. She just didn’t know how. Outside she can hear the rowdiness of a pool party and rock music on the stereo. Rolling her shoulders, she stands up straighter just as Baz walks into the kitchen with a happily buzzed Craig.
Y/N averts her eyes from Baz, moving to the fridge for some water. “Can I get?” He asks, always finding an excuse to make conversation. Y/N makes a show of slamming the fridge shut, walking away from it with her own bottle. He sighs as Craig snickers.
“You gonna keep this up for how long?” Baz asks finally.
“Until you realize you’re a piece of shit.” Y/N states simply as she stares him down.
“Cops were coming, someone had to leave-“ Y/N cuts Baz off from the same story.
“No one believes that story but you!” She snaps as Craig shakes his head in slight amusement while slipping past the tense showdown to get another beer. “And anyone who does believe it is just as fucking stupid as you.” She finishes sharply.
Before Baz can fully argue back, his eyes drift to just behind Y/N, lips pressing together in slight surprise. Y/N looks over too, sighing as she sees J standing there. “It’s okay. Come here..” She assures. He slowly walks over to her.
“You remember your uncles? Craig, Baz. Deran is outside. Uh.. And.. Grandma Smurf is-“ Y/N is cut off by Smurf.
“Right here.” She says, smiling warm as she walks right over to J to fully embrace him.
Y/N stays close..
*
*
*
“What are you doing in my room?”
The question was fair enough. Three years in prison had resulted in Pope wanting only two things the minute he stepped into the loud Cody home.
A shower being one.
And Y/N being two.
And yet, as he entered his bedroom at the end of the hallway, what stood amongst the bittersweet memories but a teenager in swim trunks. The young boy stammered and barely managed to get a word out when arms wrapped around Pope from behind.
“Baby!” Y/N gasped, jumping on her husband in astonishment. Either she’d finally lost her mind from lack of sleep, or the Andrew Pope Cody was in her grasp once more. If it was the former, no one better pinch her.
Hoisting up his wife, his head nuzzles into her neck before he can help it. All he needs in this moment is her scent, and from the way she’s clawing at his shoulders to stay attached to him, he definitely doesn’t need to worry about that shower. She doesn’t seem to care.
J watches, a bit thrown off over his sweet aunt being the wife to… A man who looks like he could kill him and then eat a sandwich afterwards..
As if realizing his slight alarm, Y/N finally settles herself a bit to look at J. “This is your uncle Pope, J. I-I’m sorry. He.. I guess he just got out today..” Y/N mutters, quickly trying to wipe away tears as Pope looks over at J.
“You just ruined my surprise..” He mutters, staring J down as Y/N goes back to hugging him.
Pope had no intention of mingling after that. In fact, he wanted everyone besides Y/N out of the room immediately. Craig joked loudly about them needing time to catch up, but.. They really did just need time to catch up.
And by ‘catch up’, they meant laying on their sides and facing one another like they used to do when they were teenagers.
His eyes are shut and for the first time in three years, he has no urgency to open them again. To be aware if his surroundings. He knows where he is because he knows who he’s with. Chest to chest, Y/N moves her thumbs over his forehead and temples before slipping them lower to his cheekbones.
Tracing his face. It always worked to soothe him. And now more than ever, he needed this. Smurf had told him yesterday over the phone.
Y/N could try to understand what the hell was wrong with that woman, but she was an ED attending. Not a psychologist.
Pope had roughly kicked out the rest of the world, slammed the door, and then laid like this with her as he let it all out. After a few run-ins with the law and seven years of marriage, he knew in front of him was a woman who’d rather cut out her own tongue before she ever told any of his secrets.
“Baz been enjoying being second in command?” He mutters after a long moment of silence between the two. He had no more tears left to shed for Julia. It’s clear he could use the change of subjects right now as his wife snorts humorously.
“Focus on settling in right now, Andy. You can see the mess tomorrow..” She mutters as he finally looks at her. Really looks at her. A soft frown plays on his lips.
“You been sleeping? I told Deran, I.. I told him to watch you-“ She cuts him off, a gently hand moving to rub his chest.
“I’m a grown woman, Andrew..” She reminds, wanting to leave it there. In reality, sleep had been the last thing on her mind. She watches the guilt seep back into his eyes though.
“I got sloppy..” He finally says.
“Andrew..” Y/N mutters, not wanting to talk about it.
“I just.. We couldn’t have both gotten caught-“ Y/N cuts him off sharply.
“Yeah!” She huffs. “That’s why I spent three anniversaries with you in a spare prison room for two hours only.” She finally lets some of the anger slip. She sighs, realizing it’s all still just under the surface..
All the pain, frustration. Laying below her skin was all the lost time of those three years, the family they were supposed to start, the house they were supposed to buy. All of it, frozen in her veins..
She gets up from the bed to sit on the edge of it and Pope frowns a bit deeper, slowly sitting up as well. “Y/N-“ She cuts him off again.
“You know what, Andy?” She whispers as she turns to look at him. “The next time a job starts going south?” She grabs his chin. “You make it home to me.” She says bluntly as she looks him in the eyes, not kidding around. “You already did your time.” She mutters.
Pope presses his lips together at the implication. What making it home would consist of. He wasn’t a selfish person. But Y/N was. This life had set that up on her shoulders. Selfish got you what you wanted, and all she wanted.. All she was promised if she stepped into this world.. Was Andrew Cody.
He watches her for a moment before giving a singular nod that’s extremely slight. He’s given his word. And somehow, even in this life, his word meant something.
Slowly, both lay back down in the bed, deciding to leave the stresses of yesterday on the bedroom floor. Snuggling against his chest as he lays on his side, arms around her head, she’s enclosed around just his scent. His heartbeat. His lips find the top of her head as she sighs, finally enjoying her space in this home.
“You still like it in hell?” Pope mutters against her hair, voice quiet as he recalls a conversation had two months into their relationship. One that confirmed Y/N was willingly stepping into his world. Her hand finds his shirt, absentmindedly playing with a button as she looks up at him.
“Are you still with me?” She lets the question speak for itself as she looks him in the eyes. No answer is given. It’s not needed. His lips find hers in the very next second. A silent confirmation that the clock is officially ticking again. The house, the family, the memories. All of it is in reach once more as she blindly unbuttons his shirt..
synopsis: micro twitter celebrity, yn, moves to Oceanside and meets Andrew "Pope" Cody at the bar. She's too trusting for her own good and Pope finds her demeanor hard to ignore.
warnings: mention of age gap. reader just turned 25, and is brunette. she has a popular twitter account where she tweets out her unfiltered thoughts. reader has kinks/ fetishes she talks about on her account. she is a virgin, he is not. pope is kinda vanilla but not due to the trauma from his mother (praise kink). will be slightly angsty in the future.
three | four | five
writing below ! take note that there is a major jump in the show to connect the story. in the story, it will look like the scenes were only days apart.
and obidently, you listened. you blame it on the fact that he’s older than you, feeling the lack of risk with every action he suggests or takes. with men your age, it was hard to be so careless. every interaction made you second guess yourself if it was truly as innocent as you thought it was. not with Pope, though. to you, everything he said was in no way of trying to take advantage of you.
so when you gave your address immediately to him, only for him to say, give me a minute.. then that minute turned into 3 hours and it was now eight pm, you lost a bit of pride. just when you were sitting on the tiny couch in what you would call a living room, feeling like you were going to burst in tears any second because of the humiliation you felt— your doorbell rang.
like a rabbit, you spring up. make your way to the door, seeing a tensed Pope standing behind your door from the peephole.
you open it, immediately notice the slight sheepish look he had on. so the wait wasn’t intentional.
“My brothers needed me home. it turned into an interrogation.” You caught the sudden look of panic from him, seeming like his mouth talked more than his head wanted to let out.
You smile, “it’s okay.”
Pope peeks around your shoulder, your apartment was cramped but it was the structure’s fault. you probably had the smallest apartment in the building. he took note of the many book shelves that covered every empty wall, knickknacks, books, and probably some other sentimental possessions you didn’t want to part with. “So, let’s get started, yeah? I’ll order us takeout too.”
He gains a nod from you and you let him inside.
Pope notices the way you tense up, avoiding his gaze. Perhaps you were scared to be judged, and maybe Pope was judging a little bit, but he understood the circumstances weren’t up to your favor. “How much is the rent?” he asks, breaking the tension with some small talk while he walks around and takes in the place.
“a thousand… the area is pretty safe. kinda.”
“kinda?”
“well, a few days ago my neighbor was harassed in her car by a shirtless man. he broke the mirror and ran away.”
and just like that, Pope stiffens. you take notice, so desperately wanting to comment on it, but you bite your tongue, feeling like you would get in trouble if you did so.
He reaches over and evens out the books on your shelf so they weren’t sticking out as much, “Yeah, thats Oceanside.”
author’s note : hello :3 sorry for the delay, i got bunnies!
tag list here .. @desperatecatgiirl @1dhoe93 @aniaphrodite @cowboylover2000 @sta4bunny @rockinglikemotley @heaven4lostgirls @mrsabbotthankya @misiolivia @batlover05 @sunbonesss
cw: 18+ mdni, smut, d/ș dynamics, humpíng :p, p in v
He’s been making those corny jokes your entire shift, randomly poking your sides as he sees you rounding the nurses station trying to find spare rooms, bumping shoulders when you’re observing a patient.
“What’s up with you tonight Dr. Abbot?”
His eyes flicker from you, who’s typing away at the computer, then to Lena who’s more than intrigued. You can see the the end of his lip curve upward just for a slight second, sucking in a breath before putting on that charming smile, “I can’t check on my favorite nurses? Aren’t I supposed to be a good attending?”
You and Lena share a look, both laughing and continuing your tasks, you point at him, finally giving the older man the time of day to see that beautiful face in all your glory, pursing your lips, “First, get away from my station with your shit,” you lick your lips, trying to hide your smile, “and Trauma 2 needs you.”
Abbot let’s put an exaggerated sigh , feet already heading in that direction before you call out, “And try to keep your hands to yourself this time around!”
You’d take those words back if you knew the old man would have you like this, pussy gushing while you clawed at the pillows of your bed, whining and shaking your hips for more movement. Jacks heavy cock slowly rutting through your glistening folds. His cockhead leaking pre everytime he rolls the tip around your puffy clit that makes you groan out.
You reach for his hip again, letting him smack you hand away for the nth time this morning, “You said no touchin honey,” he tilts his head to the side rolling his hips fast this time, watching you wither and gasp at the feel. “M only following your orders.”
“That was only- anngh- only at work!” You whine, glaring at Jack.
“Don’t make that face baby,” he chides with a smirk, leaning back on his hands on the bed, grinding his hips into yours hard, “You run the show here [+], remember?” He grunts, your so fucking warm even if his dick is just feeling the syrup on your pussy lips, “Oooonly doin’ what you tell me to. Mmh- tell me what you want from me sweetheart.”
You mewl, hiccuping, “W-Want you t’ touch me.”
“Been touchin you this whole time though, huh,” Jack, gently pulls you closer by your plush thighs, letting his throbbing tip, ‘plap, plap, plap’ against your fluttering hole. Putting the tip in before pulling out juuust enough then smearing himself on your cunt, “Feel how good we fit together pretty?”
You let out a frustrated cry, tears starting to brim your eyes as you bottom lip trembles. You feel Jacks hand run down your thighs, his voice softer, richer, “Don’t start that baby, told you to use your words.”
“My words.” You repeat, incoherent to Jack but he nods, encouraging you. You let out a breath, “Need you inside me Jack, hck- aangh- please?”
And it’s just enough, Jack sinking his dick inside your hole inch for inch. Stretching you out so good all you can do is squeeze your eyes shut, clawing at his biceps till he’s folding you in half. His lips finding your plump ones as he rolls his hips into yours, velvety walls holding onto him so snug around him as he picks up his pace.
“Goood job baby.”
a/n: I KNOW I don’t go here, it’s obvious, let me have fun too!!! I was converted!!
The video was shaky and not the best quality, but it was good enough for Andrew.
He was only wearing his boxers, ready and half hard as he watched the first few seconds of the recording. On screen, you strode into frame, giggling and smiling at the camera – at who was behind the camera.
“Andy,” you sat on the bed, beckoning at the video version of him. You were leaning back on your hands, baring your naked body fully to the camera. “C’mere.”
The Andrew of now slid his hand down to palm his length through the thin fabric of his briefs. The first glimpse of you, naked and calling for him was enough to get him rock solid.
“M’coming,” Andrew watched himself stride forward, momentarily blocking the camera’s view of you. He grumbled, fast forwarding through some kissing until he was kneeling between your legs, his back to the camera.
Andrew returned it to normal speed, clicking the volume higher. Your heavy breaths and whines immediately filled his hotel room. His eyes watched your breasts rise and fall, your hand sliding into his curls. He remembered vividly how it felt, how you tugged and pulled every time his tongue swiped over your clit.
“Just like that,” your head fell back, bearing your throat as your thighs tightened around video-him’s ears. “Fuck, that’s good!”
He tried to hold out longer, but watching you tremble and cry out for him was too much. Andrew fished his dick out of his boxers, spitting in his hand before slowly beginning to stroke the shaft. He avoided his sensitive head, though, wanting to finish at the same time he does in the video. If he held out that long, maybe he could imagine he was finishing inside you, the only place he should ever finish.
“Andy! Oh fuck- Andrew I’m gonna-”
Your own moan cut off your words. Andrew squeezed his fingers tight around his base as he watched your body seize and spasm as you came. He could feel his cock throbbing between his fingers. The sight of you totally consumed threatened to throw him over the edge already.
“So good, Andy,” you were panting, running your fingers through his hair as he pulled back and gave you a chance to come down. “Such a good boy for me.”
“Yeah?” Andrew cringed slightly at how desperate his own voice sounded, but the sweet way you looked down at him quickly chased those thoughts away. He would always do anything to be on the receiving end of your praise.
“Want you in me,” you guided him up, and Andrew was once again frustrated with how his own body blocked the view, but he knew this interruption wasn’t for too long.
Andrew kept his grip tight around his base, watching with bated breath as you shifted onto all fours on the bed, smiling at the camera. His own doppelganger moved to kneel behind you. Andrew didn’t care to see himself – even in the mirror – but he couldn’t help but admit that the two looked perfect. His chiseled chest and abs that he worked hard for, settled behind your soft and supple form.
“Fuck!” Your head dropped down as he slid inside.
He watched his hand sliding into your hair, pulling you up to face the camera. “Wanna see you.”
Andrew was tempted to close his eyes, to try and recall exactly how wet and warm and tight you were. But he didn’t want to miss a single second.
“So good,” your mouth dropped open, little whines and whimpers spilling out as he picked up the pace. A soft slap slap slap filtered through his phone speakers as he settled into a rhythm.
“Yeah?”
Andrew timed his strokes with the thrusts he was giving you on screen.
“Yeah, Andy,” he watched your breasts swing and your face contort in pleasure. “Love it, love how you fuck me.”
Andrew was close, right on the brink. Behind you, his thrusts were picking up speed, his own groans almost drowning out your sweet noises.
Next time, he’d have to be quieter.
“Andrew! I’m close,” you were rocking back to meet him. “Gonna cum!”
His hand was working furiously over his shaft, hurtling himself towards the edge. He finally tipped over when he watched your eyes slip shut and your arms give out. Your upper body collapsed down against the bed, ragged moans and cries of his name spilling, drowning out both the on screen and in person groans Andrew released as he came with you.
Spurts of his cum shot out and over his fingers, splattering against his lower stomach, some of it reaching all the way up to his chest.
It wasn’t even close to how good it felt to fill you to the brim, but until he made it home tomorrow, it would have to do.
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