・┈ ✦ ﹕ favorite band(s)/artists ⨾ Djo, Ice Nine Kills, Motionless In White, From Ashes To New, Palaye Royale, Taylor Swift, The Sleepy Haunts, Yungblud, etc
・┈ ✦ ﹕ favorite author(s) ⨾ Laurell K. Hamilton, H.D. Carlton, J.R. Ward, Hanna Harp, Joe Hill, Laurie Gilmore, etc.
・┈ ✦ ﹕ favorite tv show(s)/series ⨾ Supernatural, The Boys, The Pitt, The Rookie, Criminal Minds, Virgin River, Shrinking, Law & Order: SVU, Stranger Things, etc
・┈ ✦ ﹕ favorite movies ⨾ Scream, Terrifier franchise, Halloween, Nightmare on Elm Street, Trick R Treat, 28 days later franchise, Final Destination franchise, Top Gun & Top Gun Maverick, Twisters, etc.
“you’re sleepy. go to sleep,” jack chuckles fondly, propped up on an elbow as you lie underneath him, your fingers fiddling with his black sleep shirt.
you pout. “‘m not. lemme keep talking.”
you’ve been saying anything and everything for the last half hour, trying to stay awake with him. he’s used to staying up past four in the morning (well past), you just wanted to do it with him. but you’ve been fighting sleep for an hour, now. cycling between rambling, at some point singing, and letting your eyes flutter shut, telling him “‘m not sleeping, ‘m resting my eyes,” while he stays quiet for the next minute or so, before you’re jolting yourself awake to repeat the cycle.
he smiles, shaking his head. “don’t be stubborn.” he watches your eyes go half-lidded. “tch. there it is, see? go to sleep.”
you let out a drowsy whine, kicking your foot for added effect. “‘m wide awake. lemme tell you about… about…” jack counts about five seconds of silence in his head. “what was i talking about?”
“jess.”
“mm. jess.” you mumble, not fighting him off when he starts tracing little shapes with his finger along your bone structure. a grumble leaves you. “that’s cheating.”
he smiles, affectionate. whipped, even. “y’can tell me about jess tomorrow, sweetheart,” he murmurs, the deep rumble of his voice pushing you into an even deeper relaxation. “just close your eyes ‘n sleep. i’ll be right here.”
just to be a little shit, you wink one eye open. he laughs again, presses his thumb a little firmer against your forehead in a half-reprimand. “go to sleep,” he says with finality. he doesn’t get another response from you as your eyes flutter shut and you go loose in his arms, his thumb tracing along your cheek, finally asleep.
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.
Summary: Not having seen you in a week has Jack on edge, and to add to his frustration, a certain doctor thinks he can touch what’s his
Warnings || smut, P in V, unprotected sex, implied age gap (Jack is 50 and reader is 30) oral (f!receiving), creampie, rough sex, daddy kink, jealous!Jack is a warning, inaccurate depiction of a hospital workplace
A/N: I had an itch that needed scratching so I wrote it myself. Hope ya’ll enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!!
Jack had been in a mood for what felt like forever. Your schedules weren’t lining up so the last week or so had been just texts and short phone calls.
Being doctors, you both understood what was demanded of each other. Him as an ER attending and you as a pediatrician, work life balance wasn’t exactly something either of you excelled in.
But when things became official, bit by bit you’d drawn boundaries at work, now refusing to compromise time you could’ve spent with each other.
Still, duty calls, and for over a week, Jack hasn’t seen your face unless it was through a phone screen. Not being able to kiss or touch you in any way has made him an even bigger grouch.
Truth be told, he was loosing it. He’s exhausted and pent up to the point he’d consider giving up his other leg if it meant spending even a little time with you.
So when his rare day off finally comes along, he’s already making the trip to the pediatric ward. With your coffee on one hand and a small excited smile on his face, he wishes the elevator would go faster. He can’t waste even a second.
Jack is already planning the evening in his head. He’ll pick up a few steaks and cook it at his place, not forgetting to grab your favorite wine too. Maybe you’d watch a movie, but he’d probably feign interest because all he really wants to do is make out with you on his lap.
Jack is busy playing out scenarios in his head when he’s stopped dead in his tracks. At the end of the hall is you, hair in a loose bun, looking every bit as beautiful even with the fatigue weighing you down. But it’s not the sight of you that has him on pause, rather the hand that’s running up and down your arm.
That blonde pediatric surgeon you’ve introduced to him some time ago is offering you a smile that looks fond, but Jack knew better. He knew that behind those eyes was an attraction you were oblivious to. You offered a polite smile back, mind only half registering what your colleague was saying.
Almost as if you had a sixth sense specific to his presence, you had turned your head, bright smile instantaneous as you watched Jack walk closer to where you stood.
Taking a few steps to close the distance faster, you were quick to wrap your arms around him.
“Jackie…” you murmured as you slanted your head to bury your face in his embrace.
Standing there, finally having you in his arms, the animosity that had started creeping up his veins slowed to a stop, albeit momentarily. He pressed you harder against him, communicating his longing through the hug both of you clearly needed.
Only when an awkward cough came from behind, did you reluctantly release your boyfriend.
“Jack, you remember Dr. Adams.”
If looks could kill, lord knows Dr. Adams would’ve dropped dead on the sterile floor. Jack only offers a small nod of his head in reply.
“Ah Dr. Abbot. Nice to see you again. I was just telling Dr. L/N what a great job she’d been doing with-”
“I’m sure she did. My girl has always been amazing at what she does.”
Your eyebrows crease at that. While Jack has always been a fan of pet names, it’s the possessiveness in his tone that has you tilting your head.
“Well, that’s true. Just the other day, with her patient, she-”
“Actually, I did have something I needed her to look at downstairs. So if you don’t mind…”
Jack was quick to intertwine his fingers with yours, walking back to the elevator with you in tow, not sparing doctor blondie a second glance.
Jack definitely missed this. You’re panting and whining as he sucks on your throbbing clit, fighting the urge to lock your thighs around his head.
It took him less than 10 minutes to drag you to his truck in the hospital parking lot and even less time to have you screaming his name.
“That’s it… my pretty baby, let me see you cum on daddy’s tongue”
His fingers have replaced his tongue, twisting them upward and curling them just right to hit that spot while his teeth lightly graze your sensitive clit.
“I-I, Jack! Please- Ah ‘m gonna cum” you squeal as he slaps your clit, sending shocks through your body, his stubble further adding to your overstimulation.
“C’mon pretty girl, let go for me,” his words have your muscles seizing up as you squirt into his awaiting mouth.
While he has you catching your breath, Jack is impatiently taking his pants off. You watch with wide eyes as he strokes his hard cock, tip an angry red, desperate to sink into your heat.
He’s gentle when he lifts you unto his lap, smiling softly at your flushed face as you settle your knees on either side of him.
Jack can’t wait for long, not when your soft hands have wrapped around his length, lifting your thighs up as you sink down on him slowly.
You let out a broken moan at the stretch of his cock. It’s been awhile, the frustration and impatience catching up to you as well.
More than a week without his touch and your pupils are dilating as you watch Jack throw his head back as you take him deeper inside.
“Fuck, there you go, my baby girl, so perfect, all mine” you mewl at his praise, wrapping your arms around his neck to stabilize yourself.
There’s a pool of your slick between the two of you as he rubs on your clit again with a rough thumb.
Jack bounces you softly at first, relishing in your little gasps as you adjust to his size. His length has always been a challenge, and your time apart makes him extra gentle with you despite the animalistic urge to lift you up and slam you back down his cock till he hits the very back of your insides.
He leans forward to suck and kiss your tits as you begin bouncing faster on his cock. He lifts one hand before landing a harsh smack on your ass.
“That’s it, baby… you’re so good to me, princess”
The pressure deep in your belly is overwhelming as Jack thrusts up to match your movements. The kiss you share is desperate and filthy. Your cries filling the small space.
“You going to cum for me? Yeah, baby c’mon- make a mess on my cock,”
That sends you over the edge. The absolute filth that comes out of Jack’s mouth is downright sinful. He has you shaking in his hold, coming hard for a second time.
Jack doesn’t take long after that. His hold on your waist is bruising as he keeps you rooted to the hilt while he cums inside you.
You’re breathing heavily as you collapse on his chest, your insides still warm from his release. Neither of you speak as you revel in the bliss of your orgasms.
Jack is planting soft kisses to your neck and shoulder when you finally find your voice.
“This was what you wanted to show me?” You teased. “The backseat of your truck? For you to fuck me in?”
Jack grumbles as you giggle.
“I was gonna invite you over to my place. Cook you dinner, ya know? Just wanted to spend time with my girl” he whispered the last part as he nuzzled into your neck
“I was gonna wait for you till your shift ended but then doctor Ken had his hands all over you” Jack continued.
“Doctor Ken?”
“That Ken doll looking, blonde idiot”
“Oh my god… are you,” Jack groans and hides his face deeper in your neck.
“You’re jealous of Dr. Adams?” Your tone carries your amusement at the situation.
“He’s obviously into you,” Jack whines. “Looking at you with hearts in his eyes, all lovey dovey and shit”
You’re laughing harder now, relishing in the way Jack is blushing at your delight.
“You know you have nothing to worry about right?” You pull Jack’s head back so he’s looking into your eyes.
“Dr. Adams is just a colleague, if anything, him acting that way towards me knowing I have you just makes me want to set the record straight with him.”
“You sure I can’t just punch him?”
“Dr. Abbot!” You gasp. “That’s no way to treat the other doctors,” Your face gives way to a teasing smile.
“Doctors aren’t supposed to fuck each other on the job either but that’s never stopped us”
You slap his chest at the crude remark and Jack can only laugh at your embarrassment.
“Your shift ends in a few minutes so I think we can go straight to my place, sweetheart”
“At least let me get my things before we leave”
“Mmmm you’re gonna walk back to peds and say goodbye to doctor blondie while my cum drips out of you? That’s so fucking hot, I-”
Summary: Andrew's girlfriend volunteers to be Lena's camp counselor. During a secret, late night meet up at the edge of the woods, she confesses a dark fantasy to him. Andrew fulfills it.
Content: +18 MDNI, established relationship, codependent tendencies from both pope and reader, size difference, slasher summer vibes, unprotected piv, dry humping, semi-public sex, fingering, oral f! and m!receiving, choking, facefucking, finger sucking, masked sex, knife play, predator/prey primal play, dacryphilia, pussy slapping, fem edging, bondage with zipties, rough sex, creampie, aftercare
Note: this is part two of of my fic sweetheart but can be read as a stand alone!! just written with the same shy freaky reader in mind! i hope you enjoy this new edition to the sweetheartverse <3
WC: 9.5k
[masterlist][AO3]
You are, single-handedly, the best thing to ever happen to Andrew Cody.
And he's painfully aware of it that day you pick up the phone to selflessly put an end to his anxiety. You don't hesitate or think twice. You see a solution even at the expense of yourself and you don't consider anything else.
The first week that school is out, Lena mentions summer camp no less than twenty times. So, Smurf finds one just out of town and signs her up.
She doesn't think about all the problems Lena's had with other kids this year. She doesn't think about the fact that they'd be dropping her off in the middle of nowhere with kids she's never met in her life.
They might be mean. They might exclude her or laugh at her or pull awful pranks. And no one would know until the four weeks were up, until summer camp was over, until she'd already endured it.
Andrew confesses his fears to you late one night, and the following morning he wakes to you making breakfast in the kitchen with your cellphone pressed to your ear, talking animatedly.
And when you're done, you tell him that you'd signed up to be a counselor at the camp Lena's going to. "So she has someone looking out for her," you explain.
Four weeks of your life, stuck in the middle of the woods with a handful of kids, all to protect Lena. All to give Pope a little bit of respite.
He doesn't understand what he did to deserve you, his sweetheart, but he promises to keep you. Happy, safe, satisfied—to keep you his.
The ache starts the moment you step out of his truck, encumbered by your duffel bag and Lena's backpack.
And even though you look back at him over your shoulder as you walk to the camp office building, hand in hand with his niece—even though you stop completely to run back to him for one last kiss, much to Lena's disgust—Andrew misses you the second you're gone.
He tries to busy himself by cleaning your shared room and color coding your dresser drawers. He pulls small jobs with his brothers and runs a few errands for Smurf and hires a new pool cleaner.
But the loneliness begins to suffocate by the second night.
He wasn't used to this. To the absence of your hand around his elbow, to the lack of warmth from your breath whenever you hid your face behind his shoulder, to the silence that presses in on him late at night.
He misses your quiet giggles and your whispered questions and the weight of your hand in his.
He misses the way you look up at him with wide eyes from down on your knees and the way you roll around restlessly in his sheets every night before finally giving up and admitting, "I can't sleep."
And he'll smile and kiss you sweetly and say, "I know, sweetheart. Take your shirt off."
Pope hadn't realized just how reliant he was on his nighttime routine of fucking you to sleep until he no longer could.
Sure, he could stroke himself to the gallery of photos he has of you split open on his cock, but it's not the same. It's not the same, and sleep evades him the same way it used to before he'd met you.
Before he'd been absolved of his sins by the sweetest little girl. Before you'd stuck your fingers between his ribs and taken hold of his twisted and mangled heart for yourself; without flinching, without hesitance—only a claiming.
And now you were gone, loving him in a different way, a way he had never experienced before.
On the third day, Craig is the first to point it out.
Pope is sitting in the same pool lounger you always lay on. His spine is straight and he doesn't speak, he only stares at the glimmers of reflection in the aquamarine waters.
"Dude," Craig says, lifting a joint to his lips and cupping his hands around the end to light it. "You've gotta get a hobby or somethin' man. I've got a girl coming over in twenty minutes, you can't just sit here all creepy and woeful cause you haven't gotten any pussy in a few days."
Andrew's lip curls. "Don't say that."
His brother shrugs dramatically. "Well, man. I'm just being honest. We're all thinking it, I'm just the one saying it."
"Saying what?"
"That this—" Craig sweeps his hands outwards, motioning to Pope and the state he's in. "It's not healthy. She's a real sweetheart and you love her, I get it. But this, like, codependency you've got going on is just sad, bro. Seriously."
Andrew doesn't respond, but the words stick with him.
He gets in his truck and drives himself to Deran's bar, knowing there's probably a hundred and one things to clean in the kitchen. A hundred and one things that will keep his mind busy.
But while he's reorganizing the back stock, he can't help but think about Craig's little speech.
Codependent?
Andrew Cody. Codependent.
No, he thinks. It's not that bad, is it?
Sure, he misses you. And yeah, it's hard to sleep without you. And he might be going a little stir crazy, not being about to take care of you in his day-to-day routines, but…codependent?
He's drinking a beer, sitting at the bar at the end of the night while Deran resets the register and wipes down the countertop one final time. Pope stares hard at his brother and carefully asks, "Do you think I'm…codependent?"
"Craig talk to you?"
The clarifying question comes immediately, and it does nothing to soothe his concerns. Andrew just levels his stare.
Deran lets out a sigh and says, "Uh…I wouldn't use the word codependent. Isn't that, like, a one sided thing?"
When Andrew speaks, the words come out monotone and rehearsed. "A codependent is someone who forms a dysfunctional, one sided relationship by prioritizing another persons needs over their own, often enabling harmful behaviors."
His brother stares blankly at him.
"I looked it up."
Deran sighs deeply and mulls over the definition for a moment, silence hanging between them while he counts the twenties in his hand. "I guess…maybe it's more like separation anxiety or something," Deran says. "You know, like a dog gets without it's owner."
"That's not helpful."
"You asked," he counters with a shrug.
Pope drops the subject.
And it doesn't matter, anyway. Because an hour later he gets a phone call from an unknown number and when he answers it, the sweetest voice speaks.
"Andrew?"
"Sweetheart? You okay? What's wrong?"
"I…I'm sorry for calling so late, but…"
He can hear it, even through the phone. The anguish in you. Pope hates it. Hates it so much that the words are rushed and desperate as they spill from his mouth. "Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me what's wrong and I'll fix it, okay? Talk to me."
A ragged sound leaves you, an almost-sob. "I—I can't sleep. I need to see you, to kiss you, to…please."
Oh—sweet girl. He knows what you need, even if you're a little shy with the asking. He knows because he needs it, too.
Pope's been fantasizing about this exact scenario for the last forty eight hours. So when he gives instructions, they're crystal clear.
"There's a…a trail. Into the woods, a little bit away from that cabin on the east side of the property, do you know which one I'm talking about?"
He's already got his keys in hand, halfway to his truck before you answer. "They call it Cabin Frog."
It makes Andrew laugh. He'd gone in the middle of the night two days before he'd dropped you and Lena off to scope the place out, and he does recall the cartoonish frog painted on the front door.
"Yeah, that's the one," he says, the faintest trace of amusement still in his voice. "Want you to take that trail through the woods, alright? All the way. It's gonna feel like you're walking a real long time, but once you get to the end you'll be at the side of that winding road we took to get to the camp."
"And you'll be waiting for me there?"
"Yeah, sweetheart," he answers gently. "Of course I will be."
"Do you promise?"
"Cross my heart."
By the time you hang up, Pope's almost out of Oceanside. The bustle of the city falls away behind him, allowing for the tall, towering trees to replace the lights.
He likes it out here. Thinks about one day finding some land away from all the chaos and noise and building a home for you there. Someplace that doesn't belong to his brothers or his mother. Someplace that's just yours.
But maybe it's wishful thinking. Maybe he's just excited and eager for the first time in days, fueled by the promise of seeing you.
Pope arrives at your spot before you do. He parks his truck on the shoulder of the empty street and gets out.
With his arms folded and his back pressed to the passenger door, he waits. It doesn't take long, though. He hears crunching leaves and cracking sticks beneath your feet seconds before you emerge from the darkness of the brush.
And the moment you see him, you melt into yourself. Shoulders relaxing, a long held sigh leaving your pretty mouth. You're dressed in nothing more than a pair of pajama shorts and one of Pope's old t-shirts.
That tightness in his chest dissipates right then and there. The tension bleeds from his muscles and everything settles in him as you run up the small, grassy bank at the side of the road and throw yourself into his waiting arms.
Pope smiles. For the first time in what feels like a long time. He smiles and presses his nose into your hair, inhaling the scent of you deep into his lungs. "Oh, sweetheart," he muses, hands squeezing you tight.
"I missed you so much," you mumble, face pressed into the crook of his neck.
Pope feels the wetness of your tears against his freckled skin and pulls back just enough to see your face. "Hey, don't cry. M'right here. Okay? I've got you."
His sweet girl.
When he slips his big hands beneath your shirt, pressed to the small of your back, it's not a sexual caress but instead a grounding one. Feeling the softness of your skin, warming the cold away with his heat.
Pope opens the passenger door of his truck, brackets a hand around your waist, and sets you on the edge of the leather seat. He pushes your knees apart to make room for him between them and rests his head against your chest.
He hears the steady thumping of your heart and feels himself finally, finally relax.
You card your fingers through his hair, messing up the structure of the ambery curls. Your nails scratch lightly at his scalp and he can't help the low groan that leaves him, the sound vibrating against your sternum.
When you tug lightly to pull his head back and press your mouth to his, he can taste the desperation on your tongue.
Andrew reaches up and grips your face just beneath your chin, holding you in place to lick into your mouth. He's moaning already, sounds mirrored in you, wanting to be impossibly closer.
Your hands grow fevered and he matches your every movement, fingertips pressing into the softness of your hips and the curve of your jaw.
He takes you right then and there; pushes your legs up to your chest and sinks his cock deep inside.
It feels like relief, like forgiveness, like coming home.
Andrew hadn't realized just how much he longed for the taste of your mouth. A craving satisfied only by your sweet sighs against his lips.
Even when he's finished, when he pumps you full of his release, he stays fully seated inside you. Not moving but simply feeling you, pulsing around his cock, sensitive and alive and his.
He traces the features of your face and feels like he'd taken his time with you for granted before. This closeness, the feeling of your skin beneath his fingertips—he hated being without it.
After some time, he helps clean you up with napkins from the glove box and climbs into the cab of the truck with you.
Only then, when you've got your head in his lap, looking up at him with those pretty eyes of yours, does he ask, "How's Lena?"
"She's good," you answer, sleepy grin widening. "I think she's having a lot of fun. And there's this girl her age—Caitlin. They've been making friendship bracelets the last few days. So many of them they're halfway up her arm now."
Hearing it makes Pope crack a smile. She deserves it. After the rough year she's had, he finds peace in knowing she's at least having fun and being a kid for a few weeks the way she should be. "Thank you," he says, voice quiet and a little melancholic.
"For what?"
"For taking care of her," he answers. "And me."
You reach for his hand at your hip and take it in yours. Pope lets you move his fingers of your own will, flattening them before placing them against the side of your cheek. "I love you, Andrew," you say.
It makes his chest pull tight. It's different when you say it. Not like when Smurf tells him she loves him, not like his brothers.
It's painfully different, because it's something you choose.
Even knowing all you know about him and his family, even seeing all you've seen, the things he's never been able to fully shield you from—you still choose him.
He brushes his knuckles against the side of your cheek. And because he doesn't quite know how to explain his own devotion, he says, "I'd do anything for you. Anything."
Andrew means it. Lie or cheat or steal or kill. Anything.
But you don't ask for much. You never do. Just his time and his affection. "Will you rub my back? I haven't been sleeping very well without you."
He nods, eyes shining bright with adoration. You turn on your side with your head still in his lap, and Andrew spends the next several hours stroking his hand lazily up your spine.
Not sleeping, because he doesn't want to miss this precious time with you. Holding his sweetheart close, smelling the scent of your shampoo and the cedar of the trees.
He wakes you a little before sunrise, giving you just enough time that you can sneak back onto the camp's property and back into your cabin undetected.
But before you go, you press your forehead to his and give him that pretty, warm smile of yours. You brush your noses together and peck his lips and say, "Same time tomorrow night, okay?"
"I'll be here," Andrew says.
"You promise?"
"Cross my heart."
This time, when the sun begins to set, Andrew brings a few things with him. He's in less of a rush because there's a routine created now that he can expect.
He's got blankets laid out in the truck bed and a cooler full of your favorite snacks and your favorite movie downloaded on his phone. Everything to make you comfortable, to keep you coming back through the woods every night to find him.
Craig is the first to notice the change.
They're both standing in the kitchen. Pope is making himself something to eat and Craig and Deran are piling leftovers from yesterday onto plates and popping the caps off a couple of beers.
Craig offers one to Pope, and even though it's only eleven in the morning he takes it. Because he's got no where to be until nightfall, and the weather is nice enough out today that he won't be scorched by the sun. He could use a little time to unwind.
His brother's eyes widen in surprise when he takes the bottle from his hands. "You're in a good mood today," he says.
Andrew just shrugs. Knows good and well what's gotten him out of the slump he was in, but doesn't want to give either of his brothers another reason to believe he's codependent. "What? I can't just be in a good mood?"
Deran narrows his eyes and lifts his beer to his mouth. "Seriously, man. Something must've changed."
Whatever relaxation Andrew had hoped for disappears with the conversation at hand. "Stop," he says simply. He wants to argue, but has no ground to stand on that wouldn't collapse under the smallest amount of pressure.
So, Pope leaves it. Gathers his perfectly made sandwich and his beer and leaves the kitchen, trying to ignore the look of concern on their faces.
He chooses not to speak when he overhears Craig saying confusedly, "Therapy, maybe?"
It doesn't matter to him what they think. Not when he shows up on the side of the empty road each night to you bouncing on the balls of your feet, more excited to see him than anyone else has ever been.
So, yeah—maybe he's a little codependent. But none of that matters when you tilt your head back to smile up at him.
None of that matters when you're sitting in his lap, kissing his cheeks and nose and forehead, feverishly rocking your hips against his thigh and making a big wet mess on the denim of his jeans.
Pretty, desperate girl. Always so needy for him, never fully satisfied. And of course Andrew understands, because he's just as insatiable for you.
He does start to wonder if maybe it's a little perverse, though. What he's doing to you.
It clicks in his brain one night when you emerge from the trees in nothing but a bikini top and a pair of jean shorts. The ends of your hair are wet, and when he tilts his head curiously you explain, "The camp counselors had a swim race tonight. And guess what."
Andrew struggles to guess much of anything because he can't stop staring. Rivulets of water still drip down the center of your chest, just between your breasts that are held up beautifully by the polyester ribbon tied behind your neck. When he speaks it's a single word and it's low and slow and raspy, eyes locked on yours. "What?"
"I won! Fastest swimmer out of everyone. Lena was so happy. Seeing her giggling and jumping around—God, Andrew. She's so cute."
"You're cute," he says. "Come here."
And you do, of course. Let him pull you in by the belt loops on your shorts, talking and giggling all the while. So excited to recount your whole day to him that you hardly notice what he's doing until you're on the hood of his car and he's pulling your shorts down your legs and pushing your shoulders back.
It hits him then. With his head between your legs, staring up at you to watch your nipples pebble beneath your bikini. The rubber soles of your high top sneakers make little scuff marks on the black chrome paint as you writhe under the gentle ministrations of his tongue against your clit.
Andrew Cody's got the sweetest, filthiest girl in the palm of his bloodied hands. Wrapped real tight around his finger.
A sweetheart who'd do just about anything for him, and here he is indulging your every whim when in truth he should be protecting you. From himself especially. From the raging monster that lives between his ribs, from the guard dog he'd been molded into by the harsh edges of his life.
Andrew's too weak, though. Could never in a million fucking years deny you anything.
Especially when you set those cute little sneakers over his shoulders and beg so prettily, "Please, Andrew—more. Want you to be—hmm—be mean to me, make it—oh, god. Want you to make it hurt."
And he will, of course. Shoving your legs against your chest, squeezing the back of your thighs hard enough to bruise.
Later in the month, nearly through the final week of your new routine now, the thought crosses Andrew's mind again.
He wonders if the state of your desires has been subconsciously shaped by him. Wonders if maybe, somehow, that darkness inside has started to seep out of his heart and stain your sweet one.
Andrew's given the opportunity to confess these worries to you late one night in the back of his truck. He's got you tucked tight beneath his arm, your fingers tracing lazy patterns over the muscle of his pectoral, right over his heart. "Can I…ask you something?"
You turn your head to look up at him. "Anything. Always."
He chews nervously on the inside of his bottom lip, mulling over how he can approach the subject without coming across insecure, despite the fact that he is.
"Do you…you don't…pretend to like the things we do for—for me, do you?"
A crease forms between your brows, and you prop yourself up on an elbow to fully look at him now. "What do you mean?"
Pope swallows hard, casting his eyes away, feeling suddenly as shy as you get around anyone other than him. "When we…when I…hurt you," he says. "You're not asking for those things just because I want them, right?"
"Andrew, what?"
"I just want to make sure I'm not changing you or….or corrupting you." He takes your face gently in his hands, stroking his fingers softly over your cheek. "You're so—so good. Such a sweetheart. And I'm…"
You wrap your hands around his wrists, pulling him away. It feels like a loss, like rejection, and he can feel his heart beginning to crack clean in two.
But then you look him right in the eye, voice more sure than he's ever heard it.
"I want you, Andrew. Not half of you. Not parts of you." You lean up further, on your knees now, a surety in your movements. "Do you…does it bother you? That I want those things?"
"No—no. Not at all. I…" The words get caught, stuck in his throat, horrified and exhilarated all at once to be so honest about the part of himself he's been taught to hate. The part of himself he knows is bad. Andrew is terrified of losing you, of scaring you.
But even as shy as you are, often hiding your face behind his shoulder, voice always timid and unsure, with this you seem certain. Unwavering.
With him, you've always opened your chest fully, willingly, your heart a soft feast for the darkness inside him.
And what is a man who's been denied softness at every turn of his life to do but devour it?
"Pope."
He stops, the spiral in his mind going quiet.
Not Andrew, but Pope. The worst of him. A name given to a boy with blood beneath his fingernails, a boy who'd already been molded.
You take his big hand in yours and bring it to the side of your neck, pressing his thumb just over your steady pulse.
His own heart hammers, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for you to realize you deserve better than this. Softer than this.
When you speak, the words are a whisper. A secret meant for him only. "I want you to violate me."
And because it's you who asks—his soft spoken, timid little sweetheart, who's never once flinched at the hard grip of his bloodied hands or shown an ounce of fear at a glimpse into what lives inside him—Pope does it.
Unleashes the worst of himself and lets his fingers tighten around your pretty neck. He presses you down and crawls on top of you, knees bracketing the top of your ribcage. Your hands come to steady themselves on the big expanse of his thighs, and the touch is so gentle that it grounds him. Helps him stay in the moment, reminding him that this is what you want.
Pope's hand on your throat moves up your jaw, cradling your face. He circles the shape of your mouth with the rough pad of his thumb, squishing your pretty lips beneath the pressure. "You have such a sweet mouth," he murmurs, his eyes dark and molten. "D'you know that?"
You can't answer, because he's shoving two fingers behind your teeth before you can inhale again. Your tongue swirls around them, between each digit, moaning around the thickness of his knuckles. He pushes them in deeper, deeper, until you're choking and gasping for air.
Pope doesn't pull them out, not right away. He lets those tears well in your eyes, lets your fingers flex at his thighs, nails scratching against the rough denim. But not once do you look afraid.
Instead, your glassy eyes hold a certain sort of magic in them.
When he does finally pull back, Pope's fingers come away slick and glossy with your saliva. You greedily suck in lungfuls of air that he'd denied you, lips turning up at the corners, forming the happiest looking smile he's ever seen.
Pope unbuttons his jeans and pulls his cock out, already hard and aching. He grips the back of your neck and guides himself between your swollen lips, letting out a sigh of relief when you swallow him down.
Your mouth is soft and smooth, warm velvet around him, tongue gentle but seeking as you swirl it around the tip. He pushes himself to the back of your throat, humming when you choke on his length.
His other hand joins the first, cradling the back of your head, holding you firmly in place so that when he snaps his hips forward your mouth stays in perfect position.
It doesn't take long. Pope fucks your mouth with reckless abandon. Violates you, just like you'd asked. When your eyes go all cloudy, he pulls back just enough to let you breathe. To let the oxygen return to your blood cells, groaning low at the way his cock looks covered in your spit, webs of it clinging to his length and snapping against your lips.
Pope slides himself back into your mouth, down your warm throat, until your nose is pressed up against the trimmed hair at the base of his cock.
He steals your air and you stare up at him with so much adoration in your eyes that it makes his heart constrict. He's never felt a love like this—unconditional and absolute. His own devotion met with equal and devastating totality.
That familiar coil winds tight around his spine, and before he can stop himself Pope is spilling his release at the back of your mouth with a heavy groan.
You swallow him down until he's finished, his cock twitching between your lips. And when he finally pulls out, assessing the fucked out state of you, guilt begins to creep up around the edges of his psyche.
But then you giggle and wipe the back of your hand across your messy, spit-covered mouth, and Pope can't help but mirror the sound.
You cling tight to him for the remainder of the night, and Andrew presses gentle kisses to every inch of exposed skin he can reach with your head on his chest.
It makes him a little sad when sunrise comes and you have to leave him again, but the feeling is soothed by knowing you only do so only to protect Lena.
Still, the final week comes as blessed relief.
On Tuesday night, you come bounding out of the treeline more excited than usual. There's a wide grin on your face as you fall into his embrace, arms wrapped tight around his neck.
"You're in a good mood," he observes, hands resting against the small of your back.
"Mhm. After we put the kids to bed today all the adults got together to watch a movie. A scary one. You wanna know what it was?"
Andrew opens the passenger door of his truck for you, relieved just to hear your voice. "Tell me."
"It was Friday the 13th. You know, the one where the killer goes around and murders all the camp counselors."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah, but it wasn't that scary. Some of it was even a little silly. But…there was this one part."
Andrew helps you up onto the leather seat in the cab and stands tall between your knees. He urges, "What part?"
"Well, it just…"
He sees it happen in real time; that slight embarrassment taking hold of you. You twist your fingers in your lap, fidgeting nervously. "Just what, sweetheart?"
Bashfully, you admit, "It got me thinking of you."
And he knows, before you even explain, that this particular scene had you thinking of what he does to you. Pope wets his lips with the tip of his tongue, breath growing a little slower. "Did it?"
"Mhm." You nod. "The killer is, like…super strong. He's tall and broad and big, you know? Like you are."
Andrew feels his face heat when you say it. "Big, huh?"
You giggle softly and press your forehead against his chest that is, in fact, big and broad. Corded with muscle beneath a masculine softness.
He nudges you back up with a shoulder. "Keep going," he says. "I'm still listening."
Your eyes shine brightly when your gaze finds his. When you continue, your voice is just a little lower, quieter—but that shy smile still persists. "He wears this hockey mask, too. Which got me thinking about that mask you wore for that one job—the one I helped with, remember?"
"Mhm."
"And the killer, he was…well, he was chasing one of the camp counselors through the woods. And it was late at night, and the actress was wearing the same shoes as me."
"Yeah?"
"Mhm. Same color and everything. And then she trips, and he catches her of course—"
"Well, of course."
You laugh at his dry attempt at a joke. "Of course. But then…I don't know. He has…he carries this big knife with him, too. Like a machete kinda. And…" You swallow hard, raise your index finger to his neck, and slide it across the crease in his skin. "He holds it to her, you know? Right here. And she looks so scared but…I don't think…if it were me. If it were…you."
Andrew picks it up then, what you're inadvertently asking him for. He knows you. Knows his sweetheart like the back of his hand, in fact. Can hear your desires even before you form the words around them. "You don't think you'd be scared? If I chased you through the woods and held a knife to your throat?"
Your breath stutters when he puts it plainly. But you don't speak, you just slowly shake your head.
He asks, holding eye contact so he'll know if you lie, "S'that what you want me to do to you?"
"I think…maybe…" You sigh, trying to fight of your shy demeanor. "Yes."
Truthfully, he's not sure what to make of it right away. Because Andrew would be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it before. Or an adjacent thing, anyway. Chasing you down, tying you up. Seeing that look in your eye when you're not sure what happens next. Seeing just how far he could push, seeing how much he could take.
But it's all only fantasy. Buried beneath his own shame, his own guilt, practicing the learned behavior of suppression. Because it's you, and he's fire holding fragility in the palm of his hand, and Andrew Cody thinks he would die if he ever managed to hurt you. To truly hurt you.
He would die. Should die.
But…he's not taking, is he?
You're offering up your trust, your safety, your life. For him. For pleasure.
No, Andrew thinks. He's not taking, and it's not something as simple as surrender.
You're giving. Eagerly. Wishfully.
The weight of it overwhelms him.
Andrew lifts his hand to your face, brushing the back of his knuckles gently over your cheek. "And you're—you're sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Do you promise?"
"Cross my heart."
A smile pulls at his lips, hearing a phrase of his own echoed in your mouth. Vowing this time not on his darkened heart but on your sweet one. And because he'd give you anything, anything—even the very worst of him, Andrew nods stiffly. Says, "I think I want that, too."
Your shoulders slump just a little, relief bleeding the tension from your bones.
"But you'll tell me if you change your mind, right? Even during. If you…if you do get scared, I won't be upset or mad or—or anything. You just tell me, okay?"
You wind your arms and legs around him, pulling his body against yours, head resting at the crook of his neck. "I'm not afraid of you."
Only then does he feel himself relax, melting beneath your touch. Andrew lifts your face to his with a finger beneath your chin. But as soon as he presses his mouth to yours, his phone begins to ring.
With a sigh, he fishes the pesky device out of his pocket and presses it to his ear, listening to his brother fill him in on the situation going on back home, outside of the perfect bubble of devotion and safety he's created here with you.
When he hangs up, there's melancholy in his voice as he admits, "I've…I've gotta go. Scouting something for a job next week. And I won't make it tomorrow, either. But…Thursday night. Alright?"
"It'll be the last night before summer camp is over," you say with an excited smirk. "So we can…"
Pope nods. "Just don't—don't come all the way off the trail. alright? You find someplace to hide an' I'll…I'll find you. Yeah?"
He doesn't miss the flash of excitement as it flickers through your pretty eyes. But you only nod in agreement, press a kiss to his cheek and say, "Be careful. And come back to me in one piece."
Far sooner than he'd like, you're turning to walk back to camp and Andrew is turning the key in the ignition.
But even knowing he won't see you for two days, the unsettled feeling is soothed in knowing what comes next.
And when he swaps Craig and Deran out at the scouting spot, Andrew is left alone to his own thoughts and they're filled with only you.
Of how lucky he is that of all the people in the world you could choose to shower in your affection, you choose him. It makes Andrew feel lucky and blessed and perhaps a little undeserving.
He thinks about how pretty you always look and how much harder he'll be standing over you with a knife in his hand.
The thought does occur that maybe this whole thing is fucked up—that he is fucked up for wanting it as much as he does. But then he remembers the brightness in your eyes when you'd asked this of him, and it settles something heavy in his chest.
He moves through the next few days in a sort of haze. Unfocused, because his mind is stuck on you. Not an unusual thing, but more intense than any given day.
And by Thursday morning, Andrew feels like he's buzzing with excitement. A little nervous, too, because he wants this to be perfect for you.
He even picks out an outfit. Andrew isn't the type to typically care that much about how he looks, as long as it's neat and clean and comfortable.
But for this, he picks out a pair of black jeans and a black hoodie, an attempt to blend himself into the shadows where he'll be hiding in wait.
He doesn't own a hockey mask, but he does own an all black ski mask, and…there's a part of him that thinks maybe you'll like it even more.
It takes longer to pick out a knife than an outfit, though.
He has quite the collection, in truth. Mostly smaller ones, easily concealed in a pocket or a boot.
But the one he settles on is a little flashier. Sharp around the edges. It's got a heavy, four knuckled grip and a chrome blade. Serrated with a saw back and a glint at its point.
It's pretty, like you are.
Andrew packs his truck with a few extras for afterwards, too. Your favorite blanket. A thermos full of icy water. A towel and a change of clothes and the t-shirt he'd worn to bed the night before just in case you ask for one to sleep in.
He stops at Deran's bar before he goes. Sets a stack of cash on the table and says, "I'm busy tonight. So don't bother me."
His brother asses him, trying to unearth an answer he won't be telling. Because this is something meant for Andrew only. Deran might know about your shared codependence, but all he needs to know apart from that is the truth; that you're a sweetheart.
"O…kay?"
Pope's jaw flexes. "I mean it. Don't call me unless one of us is dead."
Deran laughs nervously. "Somethin' going on I should know about?"
"No."
"Okay, well…you're acting weird, Pope. I mean, what? I'm just supposed to agree and not ask any questions?"
"Yes."
"You pullin' a solo job or something?"
"If I told you, it wouldn't be a solo job."
Deran levels his stare. And then asks with the smallest trace of amusement in his voice, "You breaking in to a summer camp tonight?"
Pope's jaw flexes. He blinks, and points at the cash. "That's for whoever takes my scouting shift," he says. And because he doesn't trust himself to say nothing more, he turns and leaves.
It takes more effort than he'd like to admit to ignore his brother's laughing in the background.
But none of that matters, Pope tells himself. Not now. Not tonight. Not when dusk falls, and he parks his truck in the familiar spot on the side of the road.
Not when he slides the freshly-polished knife into the leather sheath at his hip or when he pulls the black ski mask over his face.
Andrew's heart beats fast as he steps into the woods. The trees here are tall, the underbrush thick. The air smells like soil and rain and there's a faint aroma of fresh blossoms beneath it all.
His steps are careful. Meticulous. He's silent as he disappears into the cover of thick branches and green leaves. Darkness begins to descend, and Andrew lies in wait, knowing any minute now you'll come.
Knowing you'll run.
He's off the trail. Not far, but enough that you'd never spot him without knowing exactly where he's at. He breathes in deep, shedding free of that veil he wears of a righteous man, letting the his own darkness breach the surface of his psyche.
Pope hears you before he sees you. The branches breaking beneath your sneakers, the subtle shift of your feet. And when he does see you, coming into view just up on the trail, the thought crosses his mind that you got all dressed up for this, too.
Your hair's done up all pretty, and there's glitter on your eyelids and mascara on your lashes. There's even a shimmery gloss on your lips, and Pope can't help but think of how nice your glittering mouth would look around his cock.
He doesn't approach, not right away. He just follows close behind, observing the way you move when you think he's not watching. You're a little more stiff—more aware than you are with him. Like his presence alone puts you at ease, letting you become the sweet girl you are with the protective predator at your back.
You're wearing a pair of shorts and a black tank top over a bikini, the straps thin. Easily cut away, Pope thinks.
He steps deliberately on a stick, the sound loud and echoing in the silence of the forest.
Pope watches you turn towards it, your eyes wide and searching. But he's too well hidden in the shadows.
Yet still, you know he's there.
You turn and run.
Pope gives you a head start. Counts to ten in his head before chasing after you, a dark shadow that meets yours all too quickly.
You look back over your shoulder and stumble when you see him catching up, your balance faltering for only a second.
The trees blur at the edges of his vision as he closes the space between you. When he's close enough to hear your panting breaths, Pope flings his hand out to grab your elbow.
You give a yelp and wrench your arm away, slipping out of his hold.
A raw, animalistic sound of frustration rumbles deep in his chest.
Pope forces himself forward, breathing hard beneath the knit wool of his mask. His heart pounds in his ears, hands itching for another touch of your skin.
You're fast. Faster than he'd though you'd be. A sweet little gazelle slipping fluidly through the brush.
But he's the hungry wolf nipping at your heels, and it doesn't take long before he catches up with you again.
Pope surges forward, this time waiting until he's close enough to enclose his arms around your waist.
You let out a cry, loud and echoing in the trees, squirming in his hold that you'll never free yourself from. He's too strong, too big, too mean.
He holds you tight against him, trying to wedge his leg between your thighs as you struggle. Pope reaches for the knife at his hip and unsheathes it, gripping the handle hard as he brings the blade to your throat.
Your squirming settles.
Pope smiles when he sees you swallow hard. "Yeah," he whispers, breath warm against your ear. "You know what that is, huh?"
He pushes you forward, sharp blade pressing against your neck. You let him maneuver you, forcing you over to a tree a few feet away.
The bark is dark and rough, the trunk thin enough for what he intends.
Pope grabs your shoulder and turns you around, pressing your back against the tree. He lifts the knife and presses the point of it to your chin, lifting your head so you're looking right at him.
Your shimmery lips are parted, your eyes wide and zealous and wanting. Andrew doesn't think he's ever seen you this needy before. So filled with desire that your eyes are glassy with tears.
"Aw, sweetheart," he says tenderly. "You gonna cry? Shh. S'okay. You can cry if you need to, hm?"
A whimper stutters out of you, a single tear sliding down your cheek as you close your eyes.
Pope leans forward and licks at the wetness, drinking in the saltiness of your overwhelm. "You're pretty when you cry," he whispers.
He rights his blade, pressing the edge against your throat again. And then he caresses your arm, fingers sliding all the way down to your hand.
"Don't move," he orders, rounding the tree. Andrew sets your hand against the back of it, reaches for your other arm, and brings them together. He takes one of the black zip ties he'd stashed in his hoodie pocket and wraps it tight around your wrists, the plastic sliding noisily over the raised notches.
Pope comes back around the tree to face you, standing just a few feet away so he can get a good look at you. Sweet and pretty, completely at his mercy.
He could do anything to you, anything. And you'd let him. Perfect, perverted girl that you are.
The muscles in your shoulder flex as you fight against your restraints, trying to free yourself.
Pope smiles beneath his mask and steps closer, bringing the tip of his blade to your face. Carefully, he slides the cold steel down your cheek, over your pulse, across your chest.
"Please," you cry, shifting frantically from one foot to another.
He hooks the knife beneath the straps against your collarbone and pulls, cutting them clean.
You whimper, and Andrew feels the adrenaline in his blood peak. His skin buzzes with the power he holds, watching you twitch in fear and arousal alike.
He shifts the blade over, to the other side of your chest. He cuts away what remains of your straps and feels his cock pulse as your breasts bounce, released from their confines. With his free hand, Pope yanks the fabric down your chest, baring you to him, letting the polyester gather just above your hips.
A whimper escapes your mouth, and then his name, and Andrew pauses.
But then you say, "Touch me, please. Please, please, I can't—"
He sees the way your thighs press together. The way your hips move, chasing what little friction the seam of your shorts allows.
Pope tilts his head. "Filthy thing, aren't you?" He slides his blade down your chest, over the swell of your breast. He gently presses the tip of it against your hardened nipple, smiling at the way you squirm in response. "Got everyone fooled, hm? Always acting so shy. Embarrassed so easily."
His hand comes to your center, pressing hard between your legs. You moan at the contact, the sound desperate and guttural.
"But how pretty you sound when you're afraid," he whispers, rubbing his hand over your clothed cunt. He drags the tip of the knife across your sternum, laying the cold metal flat against your other nipple. "Begging me to touch you. To fuck you. To hurt you."
"Yes, please. I need it, I need it, Pope, please—!"
"Shh," he coos, bringing his hand up to cup your jaw, squeezing hard. "Open your mouth."
You do, and Pope sets his blade between your teeth.
"Hold it," he orders. "Don't drop it. Understand?"
You nod frantically, biting down hard.
"Good." Pope unbuttons your shorts and drags them down your legs. He tugs them off over your sneakers, leaving you in nothing but your cut top around your belly and bikini bottoms.
He drops down to his knees and hooks his fingers around the strings tied at your hips. And as he slowly lowers them, a groan leaves him as he sees just how wet you are.
Sticky and slick, webs of arousal clinging to the polyester fabric as he pulls it away. Pope doesn't think he's ever been this hard before in his entire fucking life.
"Sweet girl," he mutters, discarding your bottoms. He wraps his big hands around the backs of your thighs and pulls them apart. "This where you need me?"
A cry escapes from between your clenched teeth. He thinks you look real cute like this. Squirmy and needy, all for him.
He brings his hand to your cunt, sliding only the tip of his index finger through your syrupy folds. He collects your wetness, dragging it down to press his finger into your entrance.
Pope curls it upwards, stroking that soft spot inside of you, and watches as you struggle to hold the knife in your mouth. Drool begins to collect at the corners of your lips, slowly leaking down your shin. There's a crease between your brows, frustration manifested.
With his free hand, Pope spreads your cunt open. "Pretty pussy's just crying for me, huh?" He pulls his finger out of you, painfully slow, and drags it back up to your swollen clit. He circles it gently, watching it twitch beneath his touch.
And then, with no warning at all, he brings his hand sharply down against your cunt.
You gasp, teeth parting just enough that you drop the knife.
It clatters to the ground between your feet, and Pope looks up at you with a darkened look in his eye. "What did I say?"
Your clit throbs beneath his hand. "M'sorry, m'sorry, I know—"
Pope picks up the knife and wipes both sides of it on his jeans, cleaning the dirt and spit from around the blade. "It's alright," he soothes. "I'm gonna give you one more chance. Okay?"
With a frantic nod you say, "Okay, okay—I'll be good—I promise I'll be good."
He stands, slides his knuckles tenderly over your cheek, and smiles sweetly at you. "I know you will be, sweetheart."
Pope sets the knife back between your teeth and lowers himself down to his knees again
This time, he pulls his mask up just enough to expose his mouth. He leans forward and slides a pointed tongue through all your wetness, drinking deep. You moan in tandem with him, satisfied fully for the first time all night.
He licks every inch of you, tongue hot and wet against your clit. He slides it up and down, up and down, circling your opening that flutters around nothing, begging to be filled.
Pope eats at you like a man starved for it, chin messy and covered in your slick. He presses his face against you, hardly breathing as he licks and sucks feverishly. You taste so sweet, a blend of ambrosia made all for him.
His pretty girl. His sweetheart.
He can hear it in your moans when release threatens. Can feel the way your clit throbs when he sucks it deep into his mouth, tongue flicking over it, ratcheting your pleasure higher and higher.
Pope doesn't let it happen. Pulls his mouth away from you at the very last second, ignoring your whining to slap your cunt again. Not as sharply this time, yet still no less forgiving.
You cry out, thighs trembling, drool covering your chin.
He taps your clit with his fingers. Not quite a slap this time, but not meant for pleasure, either. Just a quick rhythm to keep you right there, right on the edge.
Pope sucks in a breath through his teeth. "So fuckin' wet," he muses. "Does it hurt, baby? Does it burn right here, right in your belly 'cause you need to cum? Hm?"
You try to grit out a response, but it's muffled by the steel in your mouth. Pope stands to his feet and wraps a hand around your neck.
He licks your mouth, right over the blade you hold, cock leaking now behind his zipper. Your eyes are so full of lust and adoration and love that it makes him feel high on it.
The taste of metal and drool and strawberry lip gloss coats his tongue. Pope gently eases the blade from your mouth, smirking when your shoulders slump in relief.
He returns the blade to the leather casing at his hip and palms himself through his jeans.
"I need—fuck, Pope—I need you to fuck me. Please. Please."
It makes him laugh. All those shy, sweet words gone completely now, overshadowed by your desperation. "Yeah," he says. "I know it."
Pope undoes the button of his jeans, watching you watch him.
Your eyes are so eager as he slides his zipper down and reaches in to free his cock, thick and so hard that just stroking it has him fighting back a sigh of bliss.
He closes the small distance between you, lifting one of your legs and setting it up over his hip. Pope lines himself up at your entrance, sliding his cock through your spit-slick folds once before pressing inside.
It feels like solace. Satisfying, blessed solace as he sinks fully inside your cunt, filling you up, spreading you open.
"Oh god—"
Andrew thrusts his hips into you. Hard and unforgiving. The bark of the tree scrapes against your spine, but there's nothing but euphoria on your face.
He slams his hips up into you, fucking you as deep as your anatomy will allow, the head of his cock pressing right up against your womb.
"That's it," he mutters. "Look so fuckin' pretty taking my cock." Pope sets a punishing pace, finding your clit with his thumb and circling it.
Your head falls back, and your sweet moans echoing in the trees. Each wet slide of his cock reverberates in the open space, and the pleasure buzzes beneath you skin. "Don't stop, oh god—please—"
Pope loves the sound of the word in your mouth.
Please.
You beg so beautifully, music to his sick and twisted heart. He knows what he does to you is perverse and wicked and he knows that he shouldn't want to hurt you like this.
But he does. God, he does.
And what's worse is that you want it just as bad. More, even.
He fucks his cock into you, grunting low at how tight and wet you are around him. "You gonna cum for me, sweetheart? Hm?"
"Yes, yes yes—fuck, Andrew, please. Love you so much, I love you so fucking—hmm—"
The words send a shiver down his spine. To hear it now, while he's fucking you like this, rough and cruel and without mercy—it's euphoric.
He's never been loved by anyone else. Not like this. Not so true or so raw. You ask to be given the very worst of him and when he does you love it still.
The velvety walls of your cunt squeeze tight around him.
"Cum for me, baby," he orders. "Give it to me. S'mine. All mine. My fucking girl. My sweetheart. There you go. That's it."
He fucks you through it, even when his own releases crashes into him. Even when his cock grows too sensitive as he pumps you full of his cum, Pope doesn't stop the rhythm of his hips until your thighs tremble. Until your body twitches, balance faltering, pulling tight at the restraints around your wrists.
He's gentle when he pulls out of you to tuck his cock back into his jeans, and quick to grab his blade, reach around the trunk of the tree, and cut the zip ties away.
Your knees buckle, but Andrew is there to catch you. The way he silently vows he always will be. "Hey," he murmurs. "You're alright. Here, hold onto me."
He places your hands on his shoulders, and grabs your shorts from the forest floor. He shakes the dirt out of them and carefully pulls them back up your legs, righting the denim at your hips.
He then removes his ski mask completely, then his hoodie. Pope pulls it over your head, helping you get your arms through the too-big sleeves. When he's satisfied you're warm enough, he wipes gently at your face with careful fingers, cleaning away your tears and spit.
The entire time, you wear this sated, sleepy smile. Staring up at him through your lashes, mascara smudged now.
When he speaks, his voice is quiet. Soft. The words break a little in his mouth. "Are you…okay?"
You nod immediately. "I'm really good," you say. "Are you okay?"
Andrew kisses your forehead, cradling your face in his big hands. "Course I'm okay. Just wanna take care of you. Will you let me do that?"
An easy giggles leaves you, and Andrew wraps his arm around your shoulders.
He leads you back to his truck, where he hand feeds you your favorite snacks and urges you to drink water. He holds you close, your back to his chest, stroking his fingers delicately over your arm.
Your wrists are tender and beginning to bruise already, and Andrew thinks he'd hate himself for it if you hadn't told him how pretty they make you feel.
He tries to massage some of the tension from your shoulders, and wraps you up tight in a blanket. You fall asleep in his lap, safe and sound with his arms around you.
Only in the silence does Andrew admit to himself just how much he enjoyed the night. Only to himself does he admit that maybe he does want to hurt you.
Just a little bit. Just enough.
And he thinks it's not so bad, is it, if you want it too?
He gently wakes you just before sunrise. Just before the alarms back at the camp will start to go off, just before your fellow counselors will notice your absence.
Andrew hates to see you go, but the ache is soothed by knowing you'll return to him later tonight, just after five when he comes to pick up both you and his niece.
You kiss him hard before you start back down the trail in the woods. Look up at him through your lashes with a playful smile and embarrassment in your eyes.
Pope laughs when he sees it. Thinks it's a little silly, after all you've done together, to be shy about anything with him. "What?"
"Nothing, nothing…just—well…" He waits. Gives you the time to gather the courage. "Maybe, I don't know…maybe sometime, we could…do it again?"
A grin stretches wide across his face. "Of course we can, baby."
Your eyes brighten. "You swear?"
He thinks he'd promise you just about anything, as long as you keep looking at him like that. Like he put the stars in the sky. Like you're so unfathomably in love.
Andrew smiles. Kisses the tip of your nose and promises, "Cross my heart."
FREAK ARMY WE STAND WITH POPE CODY SLASHER SUMMMMMERRRRR 🫡
wifey idk how you do it every single time always bringing us that finger lickin GOOD story telling AND good smut like holy motherfuckin shit !!!! No one does pope cody like you baby!!!!!!!
Summary: When Jack pushes himself too hard, you’re there for him to lean on. <3
Warnings: Mentions of blood, age-gap relationship, explicit language, medical inaccuracies.
Word Count: 4k+
Author’s Note: different universe than my ‘Night Shift Love’ series. Jack & reader are pre-relationship.
Jack Abbot was good at noticing things. Picking up things others—except maybe Robby—wouldn’t. His hazel eyes stared across the ED observing more often than not. He knew things that people probably wanted to keep a secret or to themselves, and he made sure they stayed that way unless it involved danger in any way.
He picked up when people were in an off mood that wasn’t their usual self, he’d always make his voice a little softer—a brief grounding touch on the shoulder—send them for a break if needed. He knew when the coffee machine needed cleaned or new beans just by the smell alone. Never mind the taste that was somehow worse than it usually tasted. He could sense when a trauma was incoming or a person was behind him he’d feel the air shift around him, or the hair on the back of his neck and arms standing up. He knew when it was going to rain, another thing he could smell. He noticed when people were struggling, had a rough shift or simply just needed a breather.
But above all; he noticed you.
From the day you first stepped into that noisy ER he was silently clocking you—watching like he did with all newbies—but something about you made his chest twist in a way he hadn’t felt in years.
He noticed when you got new scrubs in a different color, all the different ways you did your hair each day. He looked forward to seeing what it would be every shift. He noticed which water bottle was yours, how you liked your coffee. The way you bit your bottom lip and furrowed your brows when you were thinking really hard. How gentle and soothing you were with patients, always calm and thorough. He noticed the way you’d snort quietly if you laughed hard enough. The way you painted your nails or added a small pin or accessory to your scrubs for each holiday.
He noticed your hovering hand when you’d squeeze past him, the small rub to his arm as a wordless ‘thank you.’ When his own arm was barely an inch from yours as you both leaned against the counter of the hub, talking to Dana. He could feel the heat of your skin, and he wondered if you could feel his too. He noticed if you had a ride to and from work every shift, he’d pay for your Uber or offer to drive you home if you didn’t.
So what if he hovered a little longer than usual to make sure you got in your Uber safely? Or memorized the license plate, make of the car and what driver looked like, just in case? So what if he ordered takeout from your favorite diner during a long and tiring shift? He was just looking out for you, right? He wanted all his coworkers to be safe. He’d do those things for anyone, wouldn’t he? He told himself that even when Dana suddenly spawned next to him, smirk on her lips and that look in her eye.
“Her car’s been gone for five minutes, how long are you gonna stand there and stare at the parking lot?”
“What?”, Jack’s head swiveled around way too fast; “I wasn’t-“
Dana hums; “Sure.”
“I was just taking a minute, waiting for Robby”, He tried.
Dana only laughed; “Robby’s been waiting for you at the hub for ten minutes.”
Shit. Were his ears as pink as they felt?
“Uh-yeah, right. Ok. Be right there.”
Dana mumbled something along the lines of “Stupid men worse than a teenager…” as she disappeared from his side and out of sight.
Even though Jack noticed things about you, the one thing he didn’t notice was how much you had noticed him too.
It was pretty much the same things; his mood, his coffee preference, things like that. But you also noticed the way his jaw clenched and ticked when he didn’t like something, the way his shoulders tensed, and pulled closer in on him when he was stressed. The way he scratched his stubble in deep thought. How he always stood with his bow legs apart, or how his hair always looked tousled like he’d run his fingers through it a million times that day. The soft smile and huff of a laugh that only a few people—like Robby and Dana—could get out of him. But then you started to notice you could bring it out of him too.
Most of all, you noticed when something was off about him. When he was trying to cover something up or hide something from everyone around him; like he had to in order to keep going.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
You first noticed how tired he looked when he walked in through the ED doors at the beginning of your shared shift. The way his eyes were slightly more sunken and heavy, his shoulders stiff and jaw tight. The way his feet seemed to drag below him. The way he looked like he hadn’t slept at all on his day off. His stubble was slightly thicker and darker, only adding to his disheveled appearance as he got closer to you.
“Geez Jack, you look like hell, brother”, Robby’s voice comes from behind you.
Jack pauses for a second, so quick you almost missed it, and then keeps moving towards the staff room. He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t smile, only a small flick of his eyes at Robby.
“Thanks man”, It comes out low and gruff, like it physically hurts to talk.
When he’s out of earshot you turn back towards Dana and Robby, preparing for handoffs.
“What’s going on with him?”, You ask, low enough for only them to hear, careful not to overstep.
Robby lets out a deep sigh, hands in his hoodie pockets as he shrugs his shoulders, raising his eyebrows to his hairline; “Don’t know. Not exactly the easiest person to get to open up.”
You hear Dana scoff next to you; “You’re one to talk.”
Robby shoots her a brief glare, and a “Thank you, Dana”, before sipping on the last of his—now probably cold—coffee. One of his hands claps your shoulder as he moves past, bending down close to your ear.
“I already talked to Lena but, keep an eye on him, ok? He seems to trust you, maybe you can get him to talk.”
You don’t have time to respond as Jack appears beside the hub again, rolling his neck like it’s stiff before turning to Robby to do handoffs. You feel Dana’s hand on your lower back before you see her, turning you gently to come with her until you’re both out of earshot. She knew about your crush on him, hell she encouraged it. Not that she didn’t take any opportunity she could to tease you about it. But this wasn’t one of those times; she was serious.
“I caught him asleep in an on call room during his last shift”, Her voice is low, brow pinched together.
You look over at Jack briefly, then back at Dana; “Really?”
She hums in response; “I’ve never seen him like this. Usually I have to force him to take a break.”
Jack was stubborn. Headstrong. Everyone knew that. He rarely ever let his guard down—and when he did—it wasn’t for just anyone. As you looked him over, you couldn’t help but think how tired he looked. Already more prominent than when he’d walked in a few minutes prior.
You huffed softly; “I’ll see what I can get out of him”, you pat Dana’s shoulder; “If not, you’re up mom.”
Dana laughed; “That’s right, and don’t you forget it either.”
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
The shift starts how it usually does, a quick influx of patients has you and everyone else working on autopilot, practically speed walking everywhere, Dana had previously threatened to poke anyone she saw running between the eyes. Robby and Dana had long gone home, leaving the night shift to take over.
You don’t see Jack other than in quick passing until almost two hours into the shift. He’s walking up beside you as you both head for the ambulance bay, shoulders almost brushing together.
“Hey, you ok today?”, You ask softly.
It takes him off guard, his head whipping around to look at you so fast you don’t know how it didn’t hurt.
“Peachy, why?”, His voice is still gruff, not mean, just short and blunt. Like he doesn’t want to put too much thought into a coherent sentence.
You shrug; “Just seem tired today, wanted to make sure you’re ok.”
He forces a smile at that, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“M’fine, sweetheart. Just take care of you.”
You open your mouth to argue, but the arrival of the ambulance in front of you makes your words die before they reach your lips. You can’t help your eyes watching him as you roll the gurney through the ED and into a trauma room; watching him work. How his hands are just a little unsteady, not quite shaking but just slightly unsure of themselves. Still he moves with precision, but anyone who looked at him close enough would be able to tell something was off.
When you help him pull off his gown, Ellis is pulling you away to another patient before you can speak to him. But not without you seeing the hesitance in his step, his gait slightly wobbly, like he has to think about it before taking a step.
The moment you step into another patient’s room the thought is at the back of your mind. You can’t help your thoughts wandering to him each free second you get. You had shot Dana a text not long ago, filling her in on whatever you’d picked up on. The conversation did little to calm the apprehension crawling through your bones.
Somewhere across the ED, Jack steps out of another trauma, forcing himself around the corner before leaning up against a wall, forehead pressed to the cool paint as he inhales deeply. A shaky breath leaves his nose when he squeezes his eyes shut. It’s only for a minute—not long enough for anyone to catch—before he’s on the move again, gritting his teeth as he goes.
Later, you find him at the hub as you stop to check in with Lena. Your eyes drop to his feet where he has one foot—the prosthetic one—completely lifted off the ground, balancing all his weight on his good leg. Your heart hammers in your chest. Oh. He’s hurt.
You want to speak up, but not here. Instead you settle yourself at a computer to work on charting when his voice rings out, calling your name. You meet his gaze just in time to catch the sandwich he’d thrown at you.
“Eat.” It’s all he says before going on his way, not even fully stopping to talk.
Your chest pinches, even in pain Jack was still looking out for you. That’s just who Jack was. Everyone else before himself, no matter how much he might need something. Sleep, food, a moment of quiet? Not until everyone else had it.
“Jesus he’s stubborn”, Lena muses from behind you.
“Yeah”, You say, not fully paying attention, looking at the sandwich in your hands; “That he is.”
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
Six hours into shift there’s a lull, you let yourself sit in the break room, refill your coffee, breathe for a moment. As soon as you look through the windows out into the hall that peace is shattered. Jack’s leaning against the furthest wall from you, back turned your direction, head down like he’s trying really hard to compose himself. You see his hesitation as he keeps one hand along the wall for balance as he goes to move, the furrow in his brow. You flick your eyes back down before he catches you looking.
A half an hour later, his prosthetic stutters beneath him, he grabs a nearby cart to steady himself; knuckles white as he grips it. All eyes turn to him, a quick “I’m fine”, tumbling from his lips before anyone can say anything.
It only gets worse from there. Walls and counters become his lifeline, hand pressed against the cool surfaces to keep himself upright with each step. He winces when he stands from the roller chairs in a patient’s room. A small sheen of sweat lingers above his brows. If his scrubs weren’t black it would probably be visible there too.
His jaw stays almost permanently clenched. Frustration settling inside him. Fake smiles with patients and other doctors. Quick two or three word answers, sometimes just a huff or a grumble in response. You find yourself steadying him with a hand hovering at his back during a few procedures; he thankfully wasn’t leading them. Ellis shoots you a look, you can only return one that says ‘I’m working on it.’
The idea of Jack making himself suffer didn’t sit right with you. Your eyes lingered on him longer, clocked him more quickly. Followed his movements or lack there of. How he favored one foot, how he winced each time his prosthetic touched the ground. You’d spent the last hour or so internally fighting yourself about confronting him. But the next time he rounds the corner cements your decision.
You stand without hesitation, moving quickly to be by his side, a hand reaching up to his shoulder.
“Dr Abbot-“
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“It’s just a long shift, I’m fi-“
“Jack”, You say sternly, and he finally looks at you; “Your leg. You’re bleeding.”
He follows your gaze to his foot where a small puddle of blood has dripped onto the floor. He looks back to see a trail of droplets from where he’d just come from. A deep sigh leaves his lips, a frown settling on his face as he shuts his eyes.
“Fucking shit.”
You don’t let him argue any further, grabbing his wrist and pulling him with you; “You need a bed. Now.”
You call it out to Lena before Jack can argue. You know he’s strong enough to get out of your grip if he really wanted to, but he doesn’t even try. Practically forcing him onto the exam bed after shutting the privacy curtain, you wheel yourself over to him on one of the chairs; slipping a pair of gloves on. A shaky hand hovers over his knee, your eyes meeting his to ask for permission.
“Can I?”, You ask softly.
He hesitates before nodding.
You carefully roll up his pantleg, removing his prosthetic and setting it next to the bed. You meet his eyes before you reach for the sleeve, gently tugging it down to reveal the slip that keeps it in place. A tear sits at the bottom of it, crimson seeping through. You remove it with gentle hands, setting it aside to clean up later. He winces slightly, hand inching closer to yours. You feel your breath catch in your throat when his skin is exposed.
His residual limb is bright red, angry, chaffed and swollen. An open sore or laceration at the bottom, no doubt the cause of his bleeding.
“Oh, Jack…”, Your voice comes out barely a whisper.
He doesn’t answer, only the sound of a breath leaving his nose hits your ears. The laceration on his leg a few inches long, but deep. Like it’s been slowly getting worse with each step he took.
“You’re gonna need a few stitches for this.”
He only shrugs, watching through tired eyes as you move around the room, getting everything for the sutures. He winces once when you numb him, either from the shot or the feeling of contact with his angry leg. You start the first suture in silence, psyching yourself up to speak.
“Dana said you fell asleep in an on call room last shift”, you say it as more of a statement than a question.
He shrugs; “Yeah, what about it?”
“Don’t you go home after shift?”
He’s silent for a moment, watching you work; and then:
“Been sleeping here between shifts. No point in going home if i’m just gonna come back in a few hours. Figured it would be easier, shower here too.”
You can feel your face drop.
“Jack, you need real rest.”
He doesn’t answer, just has that blank look on his face. You add the second suture before speaking again.
“When was the last time you took care of your leg?”
You watch him fold his arms, can see the hesitation before he speaks.
“Don’t know. A week? I take it off for the five minutes I get to shower.”
“A week? Jack that’s not-“
You stop yourself with a deep inhale; “…Have you been sleeping with it on?”
He nods; “Easier to get up if i’m needed. Faster.”
You clench your own jaw at that, heart aching as heavy silence filling the air as you put in the last suture before bandaging him up. As you wrap his leg you can feel his eyes on you, watching you work, maybe thinking something more.
“You don’t have to overwork yourself to the point of injury”, You finally say.
You know he won’t answer, but needs to hear it anyways. When you finish with his bandage you stand and remove your gloves.
“No prosthetic for a week, at least. I’ll talk to Robby about your shifts.”
“No, I’m fine really-“
“You’re not. You need rest to heal. You’re done for tonight too, I’ll take you home.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but stops when he sees the look on your face. Stern, not wavering, beyond serious.
“I’ll get my spare bag from the locker room and your crutches. Call Shen in. You’re going home.”
You disappear behind the curtain, sighing once to push back the tears that pricked your eyes. Disbelief and desperation to help him feel better ache in your chest. The realization of how much pain he was causing himself just to keep pushing through settles heavy over you. How someone so beautiful could reduce themselves to so little, to think they didn’t matter enough to take care of themselves. Lena clocks it immediately, pulling you in for a hug.
“Hey, what’s going on?”
You explain everything to her. She listens with an intensity only she and Dana posses. Her face stern. Nobody knew it was that bad. Then she calls Shen for you, fills Ellis in. Before you know it you’ve got your extra bag slung over your shoulder, and Jack’s crutches in hand.
When you pull back the curtain, Jack’s sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. You hand him his crutches, stepping to help him when he stops you.
“I got it, please, let me do this.”
You step back and follow him out of the room; “Come on, we’ll take the back exit.”
He leads you to his truck, stopping to fish in his pockets when your voice cuts through again.
“Give me your keys.”
“What?”, His asks, his eyebrows raised.
“You’re not driving. Give me your keys.”
The look of amusement he gives you doesn’t get him very far, and next thing you know he’s tossing you his keys with a huff, letting you hold his crutches as he pulls himself up into the truck.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
You pull into his driveway, letting his truck run for a moment before you switch it off. Looking over, you see his body slumped, head against the window, eyes shut and soft breaths leaving his mouth. Safely asleep in the passenger seat. So you let him sleep, pulling out your phone to occupy yourself until he stirs.
“Shit”, He says, voice groggy; “M’sorry.”
You shake your head; “Don’t be. You needed it.”
He stares at you, his jaw working like he’s thinking. Whatever it is he’s thinking about, he lets it go.
“How long was I out?”
You shrug; “Forty minutes, maybe.”
He doesn’t answer, just shifts in his seat before pushing his door open, looking back at you as he uses his crutches to lower himself out of the truck. A small hint of a smile on the corners of his lips.
“Cmon, it’s warmer inside.”
Jack’s apartment—or rather condo—is nicer than yours. Of course it should be with his attending salary. The outside is nice, each unit looking fairly similar. Inside is just as you’d expect his place to be, furnished but too clean to be super lived in. Barely decorated other than a few pictures here and there, a key bowl by the door. A row of his shoes by the welcome mat.
You’re immediately struck by how much his place smells like him. Musky and warm. Something sweet lingering underneath. He drops his own bag down by the front door, making his way further into the living room.
“I’m gonna go shower”, He says, then stops, scratching the back of his head; “You’re welcome to use it after. Just uh—make yourself at home.”
You mumble a soft ‘thank you’ as he disappears down the hallway. You flop down on his couch, realizing it’s way comfier than yours. You order a pizza for the two of you, and by the time it arrives, Jack is reemerging from the hallway; hair still damp and fluffy.
You can’t help but think how domestic he looks like this. Pajama pants and a white t-shirt. His freckled arms and face more prominent. His face slightly more vibrant and awake, like the shower fixed everything for him.
“I ordered a pizza for us, I hope that’s ok”, You tell him.
He offers you a small smile as sits down on the other end of the couch, already reaching for a slice.
“That’s actually perfect, thank you.”
You eat in silence, the hum of his tv in the background. It’s not charged or awkward, but rather…comfortable in a way you’d only ever get with him. You clean up after, despite Jack insisting on helping, you force him to take it easy.
“I’m gonna take you up on that shower now, if that’s ok.”
He nods, telling you where everything is. That the handle to the hot water sometimes sticks so you have to wiggle it. But he lets you go, eyes lingering on where your frame previously stood for a beat too long.
His shower is warm, spacious, inviting. You let the hot water run over you, washing extra diligently to get rid of any remaining traces of the hospital. The butterflies in your stomach and chest flutter to life as it finally hits you where you are. Jack’s apartment. Alone. With Jack. The attending you’ve had a crush on since you started at PTMC all that time ago.
There’s a fresh fluffy towel waiting for you when you exit the shower, shaky hands wiping the condensation off the mirror. You look at yourself for a moment; tired, bags under your eyes. Normal after a long shift. But you can’t help but think of Jack, how tired he looked today, how much it still shows on his face. You decide tonight’s mission is about making him comfortable and well rested. Making sure he’s ok.
You move to get dressed, realizing with a defeated sigh that there’s only a pair of shorts left in your bag. The shirt being tossed in your hamper a few weeks prior after your scrubs got stained during your shift. You never put one back in to replace it.
Sighing, towel wrapped up around your torso you peek out through the bathroom door.
“Jack?”, You call.
There’s a grunt and the click of his crutches against the floor before he peers in the doorway.
“Is everything ok? What’s wrong?”, Always too quick to worry.
“I um—I only had extra shorts in my bag…”
A look of realization flashes across his face as he nods, moving to dig through one of his drawers.
“Oh, that’s ok. You can borrow one of mine”, He fishes out an old grey shirt, the words ‘ARMY’ written across the front.
You hesitate, but he shakes his hand once, offering the shirt again, a laugh leaving his lips; “Cmon, I won’t bite.”
You finally take the shirt from him, smiling sheepishly as you disappear back into the bathroom. You slip the shirt—that smells ridiculously like him—over your head, brushing out your damp hair before pulling it up. When you open the door, Jack’s in his bed, already under the covers with his tv on.
You don’t see how Jack stops breathing for a moment at the sight of you in his shirt, heart beating against his ribcage as he searches for words, anything at all to say.
You stuff your scrubs back into your back before tossing it to the floor, hovering next to the bed awkwardly before clearing your throat.
“Well, I guess I’ll let you sleep. I’ll be on the couch if you need me”, You go to leave the room when his hand on your wrist stops you.
“Wait”, He says, looking up at you with those puppy dog hazel eyes, “Stay.”
You open your mouth but no words come out, so you force them; “I don’t want to intrude.”
Jack chuckles; “Don’t be silly. It’s a queen bed, plenty of room…Cmon, please?”
You sigh; “Ok.”
His bed is comfier than yours, feeling your body sink down into the mattress as soon as your back hits it. Jack’s scent surrounding you as he gently pulls the covers up to your waist. You leave enough room for another person between the two of you, fiddling with your hands under the comforter as he watches tv.
It stays like that for a while, just comfortable silence and his presence next to you. An occasional soft laugh rumbling from his chest. As the sun starts to rise he clicks the tv off, wiggling around a little to get himself comfortable. Then he inches closer to you—his head finding its way to rest against your torso—arms around your waist.
Your breath hitches at the sudden contact, the feeling of his calloused hands against your skin burning like fire in the best possible way. You tense under him for just a second, before letting go of the breath you were holding.
“Is this—is this ok?”, His question comes softly, voice quiet as you feel him move, scruff scratching against your—well his—shirt.
“Yeah”, you say, cause damn he was warm. Inviting and safe.
You let your fingers find his salt and pepper curls, raking through them softly. You feel his lashes flutter shut, a deep sigh leaving his nose as his muscles relax. Just one soft touch, and the grumpy attending was relaxing into you.
“I’m sorry”, He finally says into the darkness; “About earlier.”
You force him to look at you, guiding him by his chin.
“I just want you to be safe, Jack”, You tell him, pushing a curl from his forehead; “You’re burning yourself out for everyone else. You need to take care of yourself too.”
He nods, another breath leaving through his nose.
“I hate the idea of you making yourself hurt just to meet expectations you think are there. I hate that you think so little of yourself that your own wellbeing doesn’t matter. I hate that I can’t fix it or-“
You don’t realize you’re crying until he brushes his thumbs across your cheeks, wiping the stray tears away.
“Shh, hey…”, His voice soothes you, a brief hesitation before he pressed his forehead to yours, just for a moment. Silence in the air except for your breaths intertwining, eyes closed before you look at him again.
“You matter so much. Let me take care of you”, Your voice hits his ears suddenly, making him freeze.
He looks up at you again, eyes wide and chest heaving with each breath.
“I mean it, Jack”, You add, “Been wanting to since day one.”
You feel his body move on the mattress, his body hovering next to you now. He reaches a hand up to cup the side of your face, calloused thumb rubbing against your soft skin again. You remind yourself to breathe as he gets closer, stopping just before your noses touch.
“Can I?”, He asks softly, eyes searching your face like you’ll disappear if he moves too fast.
“Please”, and the next thing you know his lips are on yours.
It’s soft, tentative, not rushed. Just two people finally connecting in a way their hearts knew they needed to long before their brains caught up. All the longing and glances across the ED, the coffees and sandwiches from the break room, the lingering touches, all lead to this.
You almost want to protest when he pulls away, but the way he looks into your eyes would have your knees buckling if you were standing.
“Ok”, He says softly, breath hitting your face as he answers your earlier question.
Then he’s lying down again, head against your stomach and freckled arms around your waist. Pulling you in closer than before. You let your fingers find his curls again, feeling another sigh against your shirt as he lifts it up just an inch or two—before pressing his lips softly to your skin, almost a ghosting—but still enough to send shivers down your spine. You listen to his breathing even out, fingers not leaving his hair until you’re sure he’s out. Every fiber of your being screaming how much you want to take care of him and keep him safe. You knew then you were absolutely fucked, and so did he.
With a soft brush of a finger against his temple you knew he was asleep, letting your hand settle softly against his skin. Then quietly, into the darkness of his room;
Leave it to the doctor sitting next to you to have the perfect trick for calming down your mid-air anxiety
Not even the martini you gagged down in the airline’s premium lounge, nor the gelatinous goody lost at the bottom of your purse could prepare you for the wave of anxiety that would course through your veins as you settle into your seat and buckle the belt. You tighten it across your hips as much as possible, the act itself calming as though the woven band will guide you slowly back to the earth in event the plane drops out of the sky.
And of course, on the day that you’re a bundle of nerves, a sack of live wires thrashing like electric eels, the most handsome man you’ve seen in your life has the seat next to you.
“Hi there,” he says with a smile, reaching up to slide his carry-on suitcase into the overhead compartment. As he does so, the hem of his t-shirt lifts slightly, revealing a stripe of toned skin just above the band of his pants.
“Hi,” you say back as he settles into the seat, quickly busying yourself with the self-soothing (and self-destructive) act of picking at your cuticles.
As the plane takes off, you command yourself not to lose your marbles, summoning the strength of the arm rest you’re digging your fingers into. If you’re not careful, your nails might actually snap off. At least then, you’d be distracted from the fear bubbling in your gut, if only for a moment.
By some miracle, the plane finds its path, the seatbelt light turns off, and smooth sailing is promised by the pilot over the intercom. You remind yourself to look at the flight attendants. If they aren’t panicking, all is well. Or maybe they’re all trained to hide it, saving face until the moment the plane breaks in half and they no longer have one because it’s torn from their skeleton–
“Drink?”
You let out a breath that had been building in your lungs, the huff of air escaping through parted lips. It’s the voice of the man beside you, reiterating the question asked by the attendant pushing the beverage cart.
“Nothing for me, thank you,” you reply sweetly, and the attendant moves on. You’re far too afraid that, if you fill your bladder (which may be impossible as you look at the size of the cups they hand out), you’ll have to stand up and use the restroom and you’ll tumble and fall right through the floor of the plane and into the sky by some defiance of nature’s laws.
When the plane hits a rough patch of air, your hand races to the forearms of the man beside you, your fingertips digging into his brawn as your eyes screw shut. Thankfully, the turbulence passes just a moment later and your panic subsides.
“Sorry about that,” you say with a nervous titter.
“All good. Nervous flyer?” He asks, pivoting toward you.
You nod. “Is it obvious?”
His brow quirks slightly and he tilts his head back and forth an inch. “A little.”
You’ve never liked planes. There’s something so unnatural about being suspended in the sky, held up by nothing but air, and you tell him exactly that, to which he responds with the science behind the laws of gravity that hold the plane in the sky, and how technically, there’s no way for the vehicle to just fall from the clouds. He likens it to an object submerged in jell-o. It’s stuck, unmovable.
“Are you an engineer?” You inquire, impressed by his miniature lesson on airplane physics.
He chuckles breathily, shaking his head. “No, no, I’m a doctor.”
“Ah. That makes sense.” He arches a curious brow, begging you to elaborate. “You’re a very calming presence, and I’m sure that translates to your bedside manner. Let me guess. Pediatrics?”
“Emergency Department, actually,” he corrects. “But we do get our fair share of kiddos who need a teddy bear to squeeze. Didn’t bring one with me today. Sorry about that.”
“Makes even more sense. Deal with a lot of crazy people in there? Crazier than a grown woman afraid of flying?”
“You have no idea,” he says, rolling his eyes, testing the next phrase on his tongue. His eyes glance down at the plastic cup sitting steadily on his try table. “None as beautiful as you, though.”
Your face burns, heat rising to your cheeks as the compliment settles in your belly, warmth blooming across your chest.
“I’m Jack, by the way.”
You give him your name with a smile, shaking the hand he’s extended toward you. The two of you share biographies, your respective reasons for flying to your shared destination, and you beg him for at least one emergency-room horror story to distract you from the wave of turbulence that rocks the plane.
“That sounds awful,” you say with an exaggerated wince. “Tell me another one.” And so he does, and it works. The ball of tension between your shoulders loosens, and you’re able to stop bouncing your knee like a maniac.
Maybe it’s his face, or the slightly rasp to his voice when he speaks softly to you, or perhaps it’s the freckles that dot those deliciously muscular arms. But it’s not long until you’re able to sink back into your seat and laugh heartily at his humor. That is, until the plane bounces and you convince yourself that a nosedive is impending. The turbulence lasts too long, the seatbelt light flickering back on, and an announcement from the pilot that the rest of the flight might be bumpy.
“I am never flying again,” you promise aloud. “I wish someone would just hit me over the head and knock me out, put me out of my misery already.”
That garners you a laugh that quickly dissipates into thick silence. He leans into your space, filling the air with the faint scent of his cologne, the clean musk of his skin. “I have a better idea.”
You turn your head to face him. “Like what?”
“You can tell me to stop, anytime.” His hand lands on your knee, palm caressing its say up the length of your leg.
“Jack, we’re in public,” you say, quickly tossing your jacket over your lap, hiding the hand he has trailing between your thighs. And I just met you.
“It’s hardly public. We’re in the air.”
“Same difference. Someone could see.”
He shrugs. “Eh, don’t worry about it. Everyone’s sleeping anyway.” You glance around the plane. It’s dark–the lights off, every window shut–and quiet except for a gentle hum. Lots of eye masks and fallen heads. “Just focus on being quiet for me, alright?”
You turn to him, nodding as you lock eyes, staring intently into a pair of warm, hazel irises. He’s so handsome, and that’s all it takes apparently–salt-streaked hair, fine lines that tell of a life well-lived, and a charming smile–for you to let his hand snake all the way up to the apex of your thighs.
He uses his right hand, the one you share an armrest with, to discreetly travel to the button of your slacks, to the zipper below it. Undoing the blockades with only a surgeon’s precision, he gains access to the band of your panties, slowly trailing beneath them tauntingly trickling your pelvic bone with a fingernail as it traces up and down your skin.
For the first time in your life, you’re grateful you went with the best deal and chose a seat in economy. The rows are close together, and the flight attendants have hardly ventured past first and business classes. It’s just you and Jack, and his hand down your pants.
“Shh,” he says, slanting into you. There’s a slight smile tugging at his lips as he whispers in your ear. “Feeling better?”
The plane shakes with almost perfect timing. “No,” you say, leaning over slightly, giving him your cheek to bump the tip of his nose against.
You nearly whimper when he slides his fingers, splitting them on either side of your clit, just slithering up and down the valleys between your lips. Thigh instinctively clenching, head tilting back, you let out a gasp. He draws a few lazy circles on the bud, pinching here, tapping there. Then, he inserts the pads of his fingers, stretching you out before thrusting the full length of middle and pointer into your pussy.
“That’s it,” he rasps at your ear, his voice still low and hushed. “You like that?”
You can only nod, the gift of speech being snatched from you, your voice completely out of commission with the exception of a few strangled gasps and muffled moans.
“Just breathe,” he coaches, and you take his cues to inhale and exhale, letting the anxiety melt off your chest. You meet his eyes, pupils affixed to your mouth as he listens for the breaths leaving your lips. “In and out. Just like that. Good girl.”
The praise has your vision blurring at the corners, your pussy clenching around his fingers as he works you open with them. With studied and practiced movements, he crooks his digits at the knuckles, pads finding the button behind your front wall. His hand stays in place, only bending at the hinges to keep pressing against the spot that has you grappling at his forearm, swallowing moans.
“I’m so close, Jack,” you breathe, your abdomen tensing and releasing, your core squeezing his fingers like you’ll never let them go.
“I know, I can feel you.” He continues his ministrations, though your body is aching for more of him. “Don’t chase it,” he says. “Let it happen.”
And with that advice, you take in a cleansing breath, forcing the tension from your hips, letting your head fall back against the cushion rest behind it, and your pleasure continues to grow. The climb is violent, and if you weren’t confined to a seat and to the strictures of polite society, you’d be crying out like a dog, clawing at whatever could fit in your fists to help quell the heat rushing through your veins. All you can do now, is sink your fingers into Jack’s forearm, his thigh.
“You’re so close, that’s it. Keep going,” he coos at the crook of your neck. “You can do it. I wanna feel you come around my fingers. Give it to me.”
Overwhelmed by the pressure in your core, the lulling words dripping from Jack’s tongue, you reach your peak, thighs shaking as you right through your violent high. As you come down, one labored breath at a time, Jack removes his hand from your pants, taking with him the sticky evidence of your orgasm. The sheen coats his skin, and he brings his fingers up to his mouth, sucking the moisture right off of them.
“You’re so incredible,” he whispers, leaning over to plant a kiss on your clammy temple. When he retreats, his pupils are blown, and there’s a look of complete admiration splashed across his face. “Any chance you’re afraid of hotel rooms too or do I have to get you on another plane?”
(A very short bonus chapter) We’re a little short on the Dana front
Dr. Jack Abbot x (female) reader | Dr. Jack Abbot x you
Summary: Jack and Robby during handover.
A/N: This wasn't planned at all. But I read @zulema222 's comment on the last chapter just as I was starting my lunch break and I had to write this down immediately. So... it isn't proofread. I hope the grammar is okay...
A/N: I'm no longer updating the taglist because Tumblr has been glitching way too much lately. If you don't want to miss any updates, feel free to turn on notifications for my posts! <3
Link to "You stole my cart" master list (1)
Link to "You stole my cart" master list (2)
Previous chapter: Daddy's not sick. He's just stupid
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The emergency department was busier than usual during morning handover. Jack leaned against the counter at the Hub, looking exactly like someone who’d been awake for the last twelve hours, survived on too much caffeine and hadn’t had a single bathroom break. He clutched his travel mug like a lifeline, listening to Robby who skimmed over staffing for the day.
“... two residents called in sick, radiology’s backed up and we’re also a little short on the Dana front today.”
Jack tilted his head. “The what?”
Behind them Dana looked up from her tablet. “The what now?”
Robby looked over his shoulder, shrugging. “The Dana front.”
Dana exchanged a look with Jack. “I’m sorry but what the fuck does that even mean?”
Jack took another sip of his coffee, his brain trying to catch up - then realization dawned. “Oh! The Dana front!”
He pulled out his phone, unlocked it and scrolled through his gallery. When he found the video he handed the phone over. “Look for yourself.”
Dana frowned and started it. She watched Lizzie sitting on the living room floor, a toy stethoscope around her neck.
“Daddy sick.”
Jack’s voice came from behind the camera. “And who helps Daddy when he’s sick?”
Lizzie looked at him with big green eyes, her thumb already in her mouth.
“Does a doctor help Daddy when he’s sick?”
Lizzie shook her head. “No.”
“Who helps?”
“Dana.” The answer came immediately.
“A nurse?”
Now she was nodding. “Dana.”
“And who has more medical knowledge? Daddy or the nurses?”
“Dana” she whispered.
The recording ended.
Dana covered her mouth. “Oh my God…” She looked over at Jack. “That is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Jack grinned. “Figured.”
For a beat there was silence then Dana’s face changed. She put her hands on her hips and frowned. “But - that child knows I have an entire personality outside this hospital, right?”
Robby chuckled. “No, I don’t think she knows that.”
“She looks at me and thinks - yes, that’s the blueprint for a nurse.” She let out a breath. “I’m not sure if I’m flattered or horrified.”
Jack grinned.
“Okay, it’s settled - I’m taking her for a day.”
Jack’s smile faltered. “What?”
“I’m serious, Abbot.” She counted on her fingers. “The zoo. The aquarium. The playground. A museum. Ice cream. I don’t fucking care. So she learns that Dana’s are actual people and not just a job description.”
“I’m not sure this will convince her” Robby said thoughtfully.
“Well” Dana said with a shrug. “At least she has some respect for our profession. That’s a nice change of pace around here.”
Now Robby and Jack both looked equally offended. Before they could say anything Princess’ head appeared in the door of Central 7. “Dana?”
“Dana?” Robby said without missing a beat. “Another Dana needs the Main Dana.”
He ducked just in time before Dana’s pen hit his head.
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You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon, I promise.
