Helga's World

She/her. 18+ only please! Stories, recipes and other random stuff I like.

[oceansglimmer]

18 + mdni !!

season 4 pope is so massive. he's just so strong and broad. imagining him laying his full weight onto you while he fucks you. and it feels so nice having him all heavy on you, letting him grind into you nice and slow while you're pinned beneath him whining and moaning with no choice but to take what he gives you

[wesandresons]

ANDREW ‘POPE’ CODY IN EVERY EPISODE SEASON 2, EPISODE 1 Eat What You Kill

[merrmaidy]

Shawn Hatosy as Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody

Animal Kingdom S04E02

req by @seventangerines. tysm lovely!! i hope you enjoy🫶🏻

[pittrabbit]

a detailed breakdown of all the dirty things andrew's gf is going to do to him (and craig's internal breakdown at hearing them) (18+)

series masterlist

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walking around the house was somewhat dangerous ever since you'd entered pope's (and craig's) life.

your presence was a commonality by then, which craig didn't mind too much. you were funny, chill, and most important of all, you were hot. craig let girls hang around for much less.

the unfortunate part was that you weren't just any girl.

you were pope's girl.

this meant that craig's hands (and eyes) needed to stay off you at all times.

but it seemed like not his ears.

because no matter what corner he turned, what time of the day he avoided certain parts of the house, he seemed to be haunted by your constant presence, your sounds, your voice.

and worst of all, your seemingly endless desire for his brother.

now, he could've walked away. he could have turned the other way the moment he realized he just so happened to be in ear-shot of yours and pope's (supposed) private conversation. but it seemed like he enjoyed the inconvenience.

he'd been sitting there first, hoping to catch some vitamin d before the sun went down and taking advantage of that short period of time in which oceanside's heat wasn't scorching hot.

pope had had the same plan, which craig didn't raise any brows to.

within some moments, it was revealed to craig that you'd also shared a similar idea, except that unlike craig or pope, you walked past the empty chair to their left and opted to take pope's lap as your seat of choice.

so, yeah, the moment the pda made its way to craig's evening, he probably should've walked away lest he want to listen to his brother and his girlfriend loving up on each other.

but being the sick guy that he was, craig used some of those mental gymnastics that he'd been exercising quite a lot lately and did his best to remove his brother from the equation.

pope was a quiet guy, and from what it appeared, this time around he was simply sitting back and taking in your every word — which craig understood, because who would want to interrupt you when you were saying those words into his ear?

with his hands shamelessly laid on your bikini-clad ass (barely even a bikini, craig noted, as it covered absolutely nothing), pope squeezed every so often, pulling you closer at certain words that got to both him and craig.

craig had to pretend like he couldn't hear the whispered words that were meant for pope's ears only, but the hushed voice only made his focus even sharper.

"yeah? what're you gonna do to me, baby?" pope had asked with a patronizing tone as soon as you laid atop him, half straddling him, half simply perched on his lap.

your lips were slowly running up and down his jaw, sometimes flicking your tongue at it, sometimes leaving a wet kiss.

"wanna suck your dick, andy," you began, voice practically a hushed whine, "want it in my mouth so bad."

you were pent up the moment you walked out into the patio. craig had watched you enough to know your tells. your words only confirmed that.

"been thinking about it all day," you huffed out, pouting. your nails scratched lightly at pope's chest in defiance, "keep thinking about your dick in my mouth... how heavy it is, how good it tastes," you continued, voice breathy.

"wanna do that thing you like," pope groaned audibly at this, encouraging you to keep going, "wanna do it till you pull me off and bend me over the bed."

by then, your hand had sneakily made its way from his chest, reaching one of his nipples and discretely running the tip of your finger around it. pope's hands tightened on your ass, basically molding it like playdoh.

"i'll put on any outfit you want," you started, licking at his earlobe slowly, "that one with the blue lace?" you began listing them quietly, some teasing tone overtaking your voice, "or the pink one with the little bows? or maybe the maid one?"

you whispered that last one extra softly, but it made craig jump a little.

craig didn't understand how pope hadn't thrown you over his shoulder and dragged you away like a caveman. craig would've given in within the first sentence. probably within a single look.

but you seemed to be into the chase of it all. your every word was whinny, breathy. there was no way this wasn't just some weird foreplay for you guys.

craig kept on listening.

"baby..."

"i'll let you take me any way you want," you interrupted pope, "i'll take it from behind, or i'll ride you. i'll ride you sweet and slow, just how you like," you moaned as if entranced by the thought, "and when you're about to cum, i'll take you in my mouth again."

craig's eyes almost rolled back.

"and i promise i'll swallow every drop, baby."

pope pulled you closer, readjusting you into a straddling position so he could kiss you. the kiss was short but filthy from what craig could hear. if you were trying to be discreet, you were failing horribly.

"and then what? hm?"

craig had never known pope to be greedy. quite the opposite, actually.

but with you sat on his lap? with you offering yourself up like this? any man would've been crazy to not take as much as you were willing to give.

you kissed him again, this time whispering into his lips.

"i'll let you fuck me again," you slurred, trailing your way back to his ear to whisper into it once more, "and i'll let you cum inside."

pope's groan was a little louder this time.

it didn't really matter. not when it was immediately followed by him getting up with you in his arms, not letting you touch the ground as he lifted you bridal style.

craig had to pretend to busy himself up with his phone, make it seem like he hadn't been listening in on every word (and taking them all in more than he should've).

giggling, you let yourself be carried away back into the house. deran just so happened to be coming outside just then, leaving the sliding door open for pope as he led you indoors with very obvious intentions in mind.

pope grunted as a wordless thank you to deran while deran rolled his eyes lightheartedly at what was by then a common occurrence between pope and his girlfriend.

by the time deran made it to the lounge chair you and pope had just been sharing, craig finally left his little trance, nodding absentmindedly as a silent greeting in deran's direction.

he didn't receive a greeting in return. instead:

"dude, are you fucking hard?"

[alinathinkstoomuch]

it's a little bit messy | jack abbot

jack abbot x younger!reader ⋆˚꩜｡ 18+ MDNI !

summary: abbot’s hand should’ve never ended up between your thighs—because now you’re both trying to pretend it meant nothing, and neither of you is getting very far. [can be read as a standalone, but it's a loose pt 2 of this fic]

warnings: smut! car sex, panties being ripped, abbot yearns to the point of concern because he's down BAD for reader, reader cheats at beer pong & UNO because she can, a lil bit of angst but they fuck nasty so it's ok! thumb sucking, a lil bit of drooling, BITING, age gap implied, bad decisions being made, creampie (dont be like them), sexual tension, reader can't decide what she wants so abbot natrually fucks the decision into her ᝰ.ᐟ

wc: 7.9k

Abbot was certain you were avoiding him. It was the only explanation that made any kind of sense. It’d be impressive if it weren’t so annoying, the way you kept managing to be somewhere else the second he came into view. Turning corners like you’d just remembered something urgent, suddenly very invested in literally any patient that wasn’t his. 

He could stop it. He’s your superior, he could just tell you to assist him with a patient, he’d even take the scraps of your attention if it was just to discuss something medical. All he’d have to do is say your name in that tone and you’d come over, all professional and tight around the edges, and help him like you’re supposed to. 

He doesn’t, though.

Which is its own kind of pathetic.

Because apparently the possibility of you looking at him like he’s something you’d rather not touch is enough to keep him quiet. Enough to have him standing there, fully aware of what’s happening, and letting it happen anyway.

He knows why you’re doing it. There’s no mystery there, no confusion or theories he could hide behind. He crossed a line. A very clear, very avoidable line, and he crossed it like he wasn’t thinking. 

His hand should’ve never ended up between your thighs. 

For a lot of reasons. One, because he’s had the temptation for months and somehow managed to keep it under control until now, which makes this feel less like a mistake and more like a failure of character. And two, because he knew—knew—it was never going to be a one-off for him, no matter what the two of you said at the time.

You’re not the kind of girl who should settle for something casual, and he’s too damn old to be the kind of man who makes you come and sends you on your way, like that’s all there is to it. He’d want to make you breakfast, take you out to dinner, make space for you. Literally. A drawer at the very least. 

Which, when he actually thinks about it, is a problem in itself.

The whole thing was a bad idea from the start.

And judging by the way you’ve been treating him since, you’ve come to your own conclusion about it. Pretend it didn’t happen, and hope it quietly dies if you starve it of attention. 

And it pains him that you seem to be doing that so effortlessly. 

Because he can’t get away from it. Not at work, especially not at home, not even in the stupid in between moments where his brain should be empty for once. 

His kitchen, for example, is now completely unusable in any normal, mentally stable way. Even when he’s making his coffee, all he can seem to hear are the breaths and whimpers of you coming on his fingers, and not at all the beans being ground.

His shower is something else entirely. He can’t even wash in peace anymore, which feels like a new low. All it takes is one stray thought and he’s right back there, stuck on you admitting  that you touched yourself in there. 

He can’t even pretend these thoughts are occasional either. They’re constant. Always there. Even when he tries his hardest to drown them out. Which, again, is not ideal, given his job requires a baseline level of focus he is currently failing to maintain.

“Earth to Abbot. What do you want to do?” Shen asks, eyebrows raised, elbows and gown smeared with blood. “You’ve just completely dissociated on me, man.”

Abbot blinks. “Right,” he clears his throat. “Okay—no, we’re not happy with that. Suction.”

Shen passes it without comment, though there’s a look there. Curiosity? Mild concern? 

“BP?” Abbot asks.

“Eighty-five systolic and dropping.”

He exhales through his nose, refocusing. “We’ve still got a slow bleed somewhere. Pack that for a second—no, properly, you’re not putting enough pressure on it. There.” He adjusts Shen’s hand without thinking. “Hold it like you mean it.”

Abbot was getting increasingly irritated as the night dragged on. 

Usually that irritation worked in his favour, making him quicker and more precise, less tolerant of mistakes, including his own. It was useful. 

Not tonight though. 

Tonight that irritation sat under his skin, and refused to morph into anything productive. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, but nothing felt right either. And on top of that, there was an endless stream of patients, the usual rotation of problems that should be routine by now, but somehow tonight they felt entirely foreign. His hands didn’t even feel like they were attached to him properly. 

And his thoughts, all they seemed to do was circle back to you. 

The worst part of it all was that you were the one who said it was a one-off, implying you could both return to some sense of normalcy after that night, but you were doing everything that made him feel the opposite.

“Come get me if anything changes,” he says, voice clipped enough that Diaz doesn’t even try to say anything back, just nods like he knows better. 

His gown comes off in a rough pull, fabric sticking slightly before it gives, not even close to white anymore. Gloves go next, snapped off quick, dropped wherever.

He doesn’t even really think about where he’s going until he spots you. Your back’s turned, which means you haven’t had the chance to clock him and disappear yet. There’s a second where he considers leaving it. Just walking the other way. But he’s never really been particularly good at making sensible decisions when it comes to you. 

“You got a sec?” he calls out. 

You turn, distracted at first, and then do a double take when it clicks that, yes, he’s actually talking to you. “Me?” you ask, pointing at yourself. “Surgery has already been paged twice for my patient in bay one.”

He almost sighs at that. Not because it’s wrong, but because of course it’s something that’s already spiralled into multiple specialties and escalating calls and everyone pretending they’re not responsible for it.

“Yeah,” he says anyway, stepping closer before he can overthink it, then lowers his voice. “Not about that.”

“Right,” you drag out slowly, like you’re trying to decide whether that’s better or worse. 

A trolley clatters somewhere behind you, someone swears, an alarm rings before it’s quickly switched off. The department keeps on moving like it always does, indifferent to anything happening between the two of you. 

Abbot looks down the corridor, exhales through his nose and looks back at you. “Just—five minutes. Somewhere that isn’t here.”

You nod, fingers drifting up without thinking, fidgeting with a necklace tucked under your scrubs. You’re wearing a yellow undershirt today. He tries not to think about that too much.

“Bathroom?” 

You nod again. “Yeah, okay. Lead the way.”

He does just that, hoping you don’t vanish the second he turns his back to you.

You don’t.

That alone feels like a small victory. 

He pushes the door open, holds it long enough for you to slip in first, then follows after you, turning the lock. 

Suddenly it feels a lot more intimate than Abbot intended, especially considering what happened the last time the two of you were left to your own devices. You’re leaning against the sink and counter, thighs shifting slightly from the pressure of it, filling out your scrubs in a way that makes his mouth go dry for a second before he can stop it.

He drags his eyes back up to your face, hand scratching at his stubble. “You’ve been avoiding me.” It’s meant to sound like an accusation, but it doesn’t land as one. Instead it sounds like something he’s been holding in his mouth too long, wrong shaped and stripped of any pride. 

“I—not intentionally. It’s just been a busy week.”

“Please don’t lie to me.”

You break eye contact, hand falling from your necklace as you let out a small sigh. 

“Okay,” you admit eventually, softer. “Maybe I have been.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

He nods, swallowing. “Do you regret what happened that night?” he asks and you still can’t quite meet his gaze. 

You bite the inside of your cheek. 

“Do you?” he presses, a little quicker now, like if he doesn’t keep moving the question forward it’ll get stuck in him. “Because that’s the only reason I can think of you going out of your way to avoid me. We can’t even act professional at work?”

“I have been professional,” you argue reflexively. 

“Are you going to answer my first question?”

He watches your face like he can find the answer there before you say it, like he’s already halfway convinced he’s not going to like it but needs you to say it anyway.

“Because if you do,” he adds reluctantly, “then I need to know. So I can stop making it worse for you.”

“Of course I don’t regret it,” you answer like it’s the most obvious thing and he feels his chest loosen. “We said it’d be a one-off and I’m just trying to find the best way to work around that.”

“And you think this is the best solution?”

“Obviously not if you’re cornering me in the bathroom.”

It’s meant to be a joke but neither of you laugh. 

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I crossed a line that night and I shouldn’t have done it and it’s completely my fault for even putting us in this position, I—”

“Don’t do that,” you cut him off and he raises his brow at the interruption. “Don’t make this out to be something it’s not. It wasn’t just you that crossed a line, I did too, more than you. Please stop making it sound like something I was forced into.” You pause, taking in a breath, wiping your palms on your thighs. “I don’t regret what happened. The only regret I have is that it clearly can’t happen again. And I'm sorry that I’ve been avoiding you. It's obviously not working in the way I intended.”

Clearly can’t happen again.

You’re not wrong. You’re not. It can’t happen, there are actual rules about this, policies written in language so dry it makes your eyes glaze over but still very real, still very much enforceable, and it would completely jeopardise your future if anyone got wind of the two of you. Whether it turned into something serious or stayed exactly what it was that night in his kitchen two weeks ago, it wouldn’t matter. It would still be a problem. A big one.

He knows that. Of course he knows that.

Yet his brain doesn’t quite…stop there. Doesn’t neatly file it under sensible and move on like it should. Instead it lingers on the wording, on the way you said it.

Can’t.

Not don’t want to. Not even shouldn’t.

Your only regret is that you can’t do it again. 

Which might actually make him go clinically insane. Manic. Deranged. Because it’s clear now, isn’t it—the both of you want this, but can’t have it without consequences that would only land on you. 

“Yeah…you’re right.” Is all he manages at first, then scratches the back of his neck, and when he looks back up you’re actually meeting his gaze and holding it properly. Longer than you have in the past two weeks.  “Can we find a way to move past it without you ignoring me?”

Your face warps slightly, an immediate telltale thing you do when you’re trying to bite back a smile.

“What is it?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. 

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

You shrug. “If I’d known giving you the silent treatment was this effective, I would’ve enforced it months ago.”

“Good to see you’re back to making jokes at my expense again.”

“Clearly you missed it.”

There’s silence again, and if he’s serious about getting the two of you back to something resembling normal, he’s going to have to stop doing that—letting every word you say lodge somewhere in his head and sit there, overanalysed to death. Because he did miss it, and he needs to stop acting so…weird about it. 

“Maybe.”

You smile at him, pushing yourself off the sink. “You going to Ellis’s housewarming this weekend?”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

“Why not?”

He pulls a face, turning towards the door. “Not really my thing.”

“Well why don’t you come,” you press lightly, “we could hang. Be normal about things.”

His head tilts a fraction, like he’s checking he heard you right and also like he’s trying not to read into it at the same time. “Hang?” 

“Yes. Hang. That’s what friends slash work colleagues do. Hang out socially with other people.”

He nods, fingers finding the lock. “I’ll try and stop by.” 

Even as he says it, there’s still a brief sliver of doubt, because it’s probably not wise, but then again, what could possibly go wrong this time? What line could the two of you cross in a house full of people, full of noise and movement, nowhere private, nowhere for anything to accidentally tip into something else?

When Saturday finally came, Abbot didn’t really get a chance to second-guess going because Shen was already outside his place, leaning on the horn like he couldn’t cope with even a second of silence. Which would make sense if they were running late. They weren’t…Shen just got the time wrong. 

Ellis didn’t seem to mind when the two of them turned up an hour before everyone else was meant to arrive though, not with how quickly she put both men to work helping her set up.

In fact, when people did start showing up, it sort of worked in Abbot’s favour. He could stay long enough for you to see he’d made an appearance, then slip out early with a perfectly reasonable excuse of being there early and helping set up. 

It’s a win-win, all thanks to Shen’s poor time management for once lining up in his favour. 

He’s halfway through nursing a lukewarm beer that’s gone as flat as a puncture by the time you show up, a large basket balanced in your hands.

Everyone else had brought the usual, bottles and more bottles, nothing you have to think about too hard. But from where Abbot’s standing your basket was filled to the brim with actual things you’d need when moving into a new place. Blanket, food, cleaning supplies, probably an overpriced scented candle nestled somewhere in there. 

He’s not surprised. You’re always showing up over-prepared for even the smallest of things. He takes another sip of the beer and quickly regrets it, eyes drifting back to you before he can stop them.

You don’t notice him straight away, too busy unpacking the basket and explaining everything you brought to Ellis. She looks genuinely grateful, keeps nodding along, but about halfway through she cuts you off, takes the basket from you and dumps it on the counter, then grabs your wrist and drags you towards the drinks like she’s saving you from yourself.

And he just…watches. 

Not in a weird way. He tells himself that at record speed. He just can’t seem to help the habit that’s formed of tracking you in every room. 

Ellis pours you a glass of whatever Shen’s attempted to pass off as sangria, watching you take a sip, face scrunching up almost immediately. 

He huffs quietly to himself, shifting his weight, fully aware of how this must look from the outside. Him standing off to the side, completely blanking Robby who’s right there, still talking, mouth moving, hands doing something vaguely animated, and Abbot hasn’t caught a single word of it. Not one. 

“We don’t sleep with the residents, man.” 

Abbot does a double take, like he’s been caught mid-thought and dragged back too fast. “What?”

Robby doesn’t even look at him, just tips his beer in your direction. “You’re practically fucking her with your eyes and she hasn’t even put her bag down.”

He scoffs, taking a sip of beer to buy him some time. 

“I’ve already got Gloria breathing down my neck about budgets and patient satisfaction,” Robby goes on, “I don’t need her adding fraternisation to the list.”

“Nothing’s happening.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Shame,” Robby adds, almost idly. “Because if this is you not doing anything, I’d hate to see what it looks like when you actually are.”

“What, now you’re encouraging me?” 

Robby snorts, shaking his head. “No. I’m just saying—if there is anything happening, keep it the hell out of the ER.”

“There’s nothing going on, man. You can drop it,” he mutters, knocking back the rest of his beer as he spots you walking over, unsure whether that’s the best decision with what Robby’s currently insinuating. 

“Okay, well, I don’t need to be privy to this conversation,” Robby sighs, noticing you heading their way. “I’d like some plausible deniability.”

Robby gives you a quick nod as you pass him, then veers off towards Dana without another word, leaving Abbot standing there with absolutely nothing to hide behind, nowhere to look except you. 

You’re wearing a sundress again. 

And his brain just…malfunctions for a second. There’s a slight lag when his eyes fixate on the way the material sits against your hips, the neckline lower, the hem shorter than the one he’s seen you in before. It’s stupid how quickly he notices it, how it registers before he can even think to stop it.

This is exactly what Robby was talking about, and he’s stood here proving him right, fully incapable of acting like a normal person for five seconds when you’re in front of him.

“Ellis said you helped set up,” you say, coming up beside him. “That was nice of you.”

“Didn’t really have a choice, she had us working the second we stepped through the front door. Didn’t even get a tour or anything.”

“Is that why you decided to give everyone alcohol poisoning with the sangria?”

Abbot laughs, setting his drink down on the fireplace. “That was all Shen.”

There’s a stench of silence and it makes him realise how bad the two of you are now at this whole normalcy thing. There never used to be silences like this, not ones that felt like either person was thinking about something else. The obvious elephant in the room, even to Robby apparently.

“We’re setting up a round of beer pong,” Shen announces, appearing out of nowhere with a red cup filled to the brim with his sangria. “Next round is me and Ellis against you two—” he points between you and Abbot. “Be there or be square.”

Abbot glances at the cup, then back at Shen. “How about you be sober since you’re my ride?”

“You can just catch a ride with Robby,” Shen shrugs. “He drove.”

He shakes his head because he knew this would happen. Shen is the least reliable method of transport known to man. Abbot’s half surprised he even makes it to his shifts on time.

“You playing?” you ask, glancing between him and Shen.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

Shen groans. “You’re both playing. I’ve already decided.”

Abbot has come to realise that you’re actually really good at beer pong. Whether that’s down to your aim or just sheer desperation to avoid drinking whatever the hell Shen’s made, he’s not entirely sure. Either way, the two of you are winning.

Which should be what he’s focusing on.

It isn’t.

Because you keep leaning forward to line up your shots, bending over the table, one hand braced against the edge, the other hovering with the ball, squinting like it’s a matter of life or death. And it’s endearing how focused you get, how your tongue presses against your teeth, how you don’t even seem aware of anything else when you’re aiming.

And he’s meant to be watching the cups. The game. Literally anything else. 

Instead his eyes keep catching on the same things. The way the hem of your dress shifts when you bend, the brief flash of skin at the back of your thighs when you straighten and then lean again, the way your legs move when you step forward to grab the ball. 

He drags his gaze back to the table just as you release the ball. It arcs cleanly and drops straight into one of Shen’s cups with a splash. 

“No fucking way,” Shen scoffs. “We need to step our game up.” He nudges Ellis like she’s personally responsible.

“You need to step your game up,” she shoots back, grabbing the cup. “I’ve been carrying you this whole time.”

Abbot can feel eyes burning into the side of his head. He turns enough to see Robby watching him with a smirk, shaking his head, as though Abbot’s hitting every milestone on a very predictable recovery plan, like a patient progressing exactly as expected. Which is irritating, because Abbot is not, in fact, improving.

He rolls his eyes at him and turns back to face you. “Nice shot.”

“Yeah?” You glance over at him, mouth tipping at the corner. “You sure you saw it? You seem a little distracted.”

“Distracted? No, not at all,” he manages, which makes him sound like he was, indeed, distracted. 

You don’t comment though, just take a small step back so you’re beside him, shoulder brushing his as the two of you watch Ellis down the drink with visible regret before she’s reaches for another ball. 

“Jesus,” you mumble under your breath. “She’s going to hate us in the morning.”

“I already hate you,” she calls back, giving herself a dramatic shake like that might undo the damage. Ellis aims her ball like she’s about to shoot, but Abbot sees you stepping to the side. 

“El, your foot’s over the line,” you call out, all sweet and helpful.

She freezes mid-aim. “What?”

“Your foot,” you repeat, pointing vaguely. “You’re fully cheating.”

“I am not—” Ellis glances down, shifting her stance to check.

The second she looks away from the cups, you go still beside him, lips pressing together like you’re trying not to laugh.

“Just shoot,” Shen groans. “I’m ageing.”

“I was about to—” Ellis snaps, readjusting, rushing it now. She throws the ball too quickly. It hits the rim and bounces straight off the table.

“You’re full of shit,” Abbot mutters, just to you, eyes still on the table. “Her foot was not over the line.”

“I’m driving tonight.” You shrug, giving him a smile. “A girl’s got to do what she has to do.”

Ellis and Shen argue in front of you two, voices overlapping, something about angles, and you rushed me and you distracted me. 

Abbot scoffs, looking at you. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone cheat at beer pong.”

“It’s okay to say you’re impressed. I won’t tell anyone.”

“I prefer to win fairly.”

“Oh yeah,” you hum tauntingly. “I forgot you’re such a rule stickler. Always doing the right thing. Never crossing any lines.”

“Ouch,” he clicks his tongue. “You always get like this when you’re caught cheating at frat boy games?”

“Like what?”

He tilts his head, crossing his arms as he studies you. “I think there’s a vein of rage popping on your forehead.”

“Yeah? Nice of you to notice instead of trying to look up my dress all evening.” You give him a bratty smile, grabbing a ball and pressing it to his chest. 

“There she is,” Abbot hums, satisfied, because this version of you is exactly what he was waiting for. With this version there’s no awkward push to get back to normal, no weird pauses where it feels like one of you should say something just to prove everything’s fine. This is easier. You push, he pushes back. You get sharp, he gets worse.

You’re too nice at work. Too polite. Too put together, all neat edges and carefully chosen words and that calm voice you use with patients that makes everything sound under control even when it’s not. And he likes that, he does, but this…this is better. This is you slipping a little, dropping it, letting him see the part that doesn’t behave, doesn’t follow the rules you keep going on about. 

“Your turn,” you say, pressing the ball into his chest again. “Try not to miss.”

He takes it from you, hand covering yours before the ball settles in his grip. “Lots of attitude for someone who needed to cheat two minutes ago.”

“I didn’t need to,” you correct promptly, following him as he steps up to the table. “I just wanted to.”

“Right. That definitely makes it better.” 

“My eyes are up here,” you remind him, tapping two fingers from your chest up to your face.

He wasn’t actually gawking this time, but that’s a weak defence considering every other time he has been, so he doesn’t bother arguing with you.

“Wouldn’t want you getting distracted and making us lose.”

Several hours later, you’re pulling into Abbot’s driveway, the solar lights along the path flicking on like they’ve been waiting for him specifically. The engine idles for a second before you switch it off. 

“There you go.”

He unclips his seatbelt, keeping a hold of it as it slides back into the mechanism, his thumb pressing into the fabric. “Thanks,” he says, glancing at you. “You didn’t have to.”

“Well it would’ve been rude not to. Shen’s asleep on Ellis’s kitchen floor and Robby disappeared without saying goodbye.”

“Yeah. Hope Ellis doesn’t trip over him in the morning.”

It was meant to be quick. In and out. Show face, have a drink and leave early. But the opposite of that ended up happening, the majority of the night crew sticking around longer than the day shift. Now it’s later than he planned, and you’re here, in his driveway, with neither of you moving.

He should get out.

But you’re genuinely smiling at him, and he’s not sure he has the willpower to leave. 

“You had fun,” he notes, quieter than before.

“I did,” you confirm blithely. “You?”

“Mm.” He nods once, like that’s enough of an answer. He glances down without meaning to, tracking the line of your milkmaid neckline where it dips as you move in your seat, and that’s when he catches it. 

A black card with a white outline peeking above the fabric. Something that looks suspiciously like one of the UNO cards Whitaker had insisted everyone play with. A game you somehow won three times in a row. 

He huffs out a breath, not sure whether to be amused or surprised that you’d go that far to win a cards game meant for eight year olds. “You’re unbelievable.”

 “What?”

“You’re absolutely unbelievable,” he laughs dryly, turning towards you in the passenger seat. “You cheated.”

You raise your brows, and he watches you physically fight the grin trying to break through. “At beer pong?”

“Yes, that too.” he replies, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I don’t quite know what you mean.”

He gestures vaguely towards you, unsure how to phrase it without sounding insane. “You’ve got a card tucked in your—” he cuts himself off, dragging a hand over his jaw. “You know what I mean.”

“Bra?” you supply for him.

“Yes.”

“Funny, I don't seem to be wearing one.”

“Jesus Christ you need to stop doing that,” he hisses, words coming out harsher than he intends. You have to be doing it on purpose at this point, there’s no way you’re not aware of what you’re saying, what that does to him, how it lands and then just sits there in his head, repeating, expanding, getting worse the more he tries to ignore it.

Because now that’s all he can think about, not the card, not the game, not anything remotely normal, just that. The fact you said it so casually, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t drag his attention right back down again, like he hasn’t already had to physically pull his eyes back up to your face several times tonight.

“You’re accusing me of hiding cards in a piece of clothing I’m not wearing.”

“I saw it. Don’t try and twist it.”

“I’m not twisting anything,” you reply, but there’s that look again that tells him you know exactly what you’re doing to him. And, frankly, it's cruel. 

“You cheated,” he repeats, leaning in. “Everyone thinks you’re all nice and polite and—” he lets out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking his head. “You’re a cheater. A serial cheater.”

Your brows lift, but instead of being offended, there’s something else there, something that almost looks like interest. You undo your seatbelt, tilting your head. “Yeah? What else?”

“You’re manipulative.”

“What are you going to do? Pull my dress down and check?”

“Is that what you want?”

“I don’t think that’s a normal activity friends slash work colleagues do—”

“You know damn well nothing’s been normal between us since that night. You’re the one who said it was a one-off,” he goes on, because it’s been sitting there waiting to come out. “But then you look at me like this and say things like that and expect me to just—what, ignore it?”

Your tongue darts out to wet your bottom lip and his hand tightens where it’s resting against his leg, fingers pressing into his own palm. “I didn’t say ignore it.”

“Then what did you say?”

“That it couldn’t happen again.”

“Right. And this is you… sticking to that?”

You don’t answer him, but you’re breathing has picked up. 

“Yeah,” he mutters to himself. “Thought so.”

And then he just moves, like a car running every red light. His hand comes up, fingers firm at your jaw as he pulls you in, rougher than he means to be. The kiss lands messily, noses knocking, teeth catching because neither of you slow down enough to make it neat. It starts all wrong, rushed and badly aimed, with no patience from either of you to do it properly.

There’s a moment where he registers what he’s doing, where his brain catches up enough to go this is a bad idea, but then you’re kissing him back, deepening it, and that thought doesn’t stand a chance. 

He exhales against your mouth, thumb pressing into your jaw as he pulls you closer, like the extra inch matters, and it does, because the angle changes and your mouths fit better this time. 

“Come here,” he murmurs, one hand sliding from your jaw to your neck while the other drops to your waist as he shifts, pulling you towards him. You let him, moving over the console, the whole thing awkward and uncoordinated, things getting knocked in the process, your knee bumping into him, his elbow catching against the door.

He makes a frustrated sound when you finally settle into his lap, like the movement wasn’t fast enough, like even now he’s impatient, still pulling you closer once you’re there, his cock aching for friction. 

“Still think this is a one-off?” he mumbles, words uneven, breaking between kisses as they drop from your mouth to your jaw, then lower.

Your fingers bunch in the fabric of his shirt, tugging it up, chasing the heat of his skin. You pull it over his head, your hands coming to rest on his shoulders as his dig into your hips.

“You’re not very good at sticking to your own rules,” he adds, leaning in to press another wet kiss beneath your jaw. He sucks at the delicate skin before swiping his tongue over it to soothe. 

“We—we both—” you start, breath catching when his hand comes to palm your breast, “—agreed it’d be a one off.”

“Nu-uh,” he tuts. “You said you’d be able to move past it. I told you I couldn’t.” His fingers hook into your dress, tugging it down, the off-the-shoulder sleeves giving just enough for the fabric to slip, exposing your chest to him.

He’s imagined you like this more times than he’d ever admit, and he’s almost surprised he even registers the small cascade of UNO cards slipping free. The cards hit him, light taps against his stomach before they’re sliding down between the both of you. 

“You’re fucking joking.” 

You just shrug, like it’s nothing, like you’re not currently straddling him with evidence of your cheating scattered in his lap. You shift to reposition yourself, and he feels it immediately, his cock aching to be inside of you.

“Unbelievable.” His hand lifts, coming up to your chest, fingers closing around your nipple as he pinches it between his thumb and index finger, his eyes dragging over you, taking you in like he doesn’t know where to look first, like he wants all of it at once. “You cheat, you lie, and then you just—what—sit here like this?”

You tip your head back at the feeling, and he follows, bringing his mouth closer, tongue swiping over the nub as he watches you through his lashes.

“You don’t seem that upset,” you slur, hand digging into his shoulder as you roll your hips against him.

“Baby, with the view I have right now, I don’t think I’d notice if someone dropped dead in front of me.”

A soft sound slips out of you, half laugh, half moan, and it only makes his jeans tighten. He swears under his breath, pressing his forehead against your shoulder like that might help. He needs to control himself. He has to. He’s already finished in his pants prematurely like some horny teenager once before, and he really doesn’t fancy doing it again unless it’s inside you.

“Need your jeans off,” you mumble, hands reaching for his waistband, fingers deftly working the buttons. 

“Yeah? Think we might struggle in here.”

You shake your head, lifting yourself, balancing on your knees, the absence hitting him, a brief void he feels but doesn’t dwell on, not when your hands are right there, working each button open one by one.

Without warning, your hand dips under the denim, and Abbot inhales sharply as you palm him through his boxers.

“Huh,” you breathe, a smug edge to it, and he already knows what you’re about to say, can feel it in the way his precum has soaked through the fabric. “Have you been this worked up the whole night?”

He lets out a strained laugh because he’s been caught out and doesn’t have the energy or focus to deny it. His head tips back against the seat, eyes squeezing shut before he looks back at you. 

“Answer the question,” you press, your hand slipping underneath his boxers. There’s not much room for you to move, but the second your hand wraps around his cock, his breathing turns frantic, his hands digging harder into your hips.

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Been like this since you walked in.”

Your brows lift, impressed, like you weren’t expecting him to actually say it. “Good.” 

You lean in to kiss him, and he tries his best to reciprocate, but all he manages are sloppy pants because your hand is still doing its best to pump him and he can’t concentrate.

“Help me out,” you murmur, biting his lip as you pull away. Your hands move to the waistband at his hips as you tug, and Abbot pushes himself up, giving you just enough space to drag his jeans and boxers down halfway to his thighs.

Your hand grips him properly now, sliding up and down his length, your thumb brushing over the tip. Your mouth parts as you do it, like you’re getting drunk on the sight of it, on getting him off. He finds himself thinking—briefly, unhelpfully—about what it would feel like to have your mouth on him instead. Whether you’d look the same. Whether you’d get that same faraway, intent expression.

But there’s no space for that in your cramped car.

And he’d rather feel your pussy swallowing his cock instead. 

His hand closes around your wrist, stopping your ministrations in one decisive move. “Wait,” he says, though he doesn’t actually give you time to respond.

Because then his mouth is on you instead.

Your dress is already pushed up, bunched carelessly at your waist, and his hands follow without needing to think about it, sliding underneath the fabric, mapping their way upward along your thighs with a familiarity that feels…earned.

He finds what he’s looking for.

Hooks his fingers into it.

Then pulls.

It gives immediately, the rip louder than it should be in the enclosed space. 

“Abbot!” you gasp. “What the hell?”

“They were in my way. Sorry, baby.”

You blink at him, still catching up. “They were expensive.”

“I’ll get you new ones.”

“How am I meant to drive home?”

That—apparently—is the wrong question.

He pulls back to look at you, and then he scoffs, quiet and disbelieving, like you’ve said something so wildly off-base it doesn’t even deserve a serious response.

“Drive home?” he repeats.

There’s a beat.

“You think you get to just leave?” The question isn’t really a question. “Not a chance.” His thumb finds your clit, applying light, deliberate pressure. His mouth follows, pressing a tender kiss to your neck. “You’re spending the night,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’ve got plenty of boxers.”

Another kiss. Slower this time.

“Or,” he adds, like he’s genuinely considering alternatives, “you can walk around without anything at all.” His thumb circles your clit again. “I don’t mind.”

You wither against him, your body registering the touch before your brain has had a chance to catch up. “Jack,” you start, but it falls apart halfway through, the rest of it never quite assembling into anything usable.

He hums delicately against your neck, like he’s listening, like he might even care.

He doesn’t stop, his thumb moving in an achingly slow rhythm. “You’re thinking too much.”

“M’not—”

“You are.”

You shake your head anyway and he doesn’t accept that. His free hand comes up to your face, settling at your jaw, thumb just beneath your cheekbone. Not rough but not optional either. “Look at me.”

You do. A little slower than usual. A little softer around the edges. Like you’re already halfway gone somewhere else and he’s pulling you back just enough to see it.

“You are,” he repeats, nodding once like that settles it. As though it’s something observable, not arguable. His thumb picks up the pace and he watches the moment it lands. The way your expression shifts around it. The delay. The way your focus slips, then tries to come back.

Interesting. 

There’s something almost clinical in the way he tracks it, the small details, the cause and effect. Detached, if it weren’t for the fact that his own breathing has started to change, slower but heavier, like he’s not as removed from it as he’d maybe prefer to be.

“That feel good?”

You nod. 

“See?” he says, voice dropping. His other thumb drags slowly across your lips, catching on the slight part of them. He stops there, just for a second, feeling the warmth of your breath, the softness of it, like he’s deciding something.

“Stop arguing with me.”

There’s a pause.

Then he presses his thumb into your mouth.

He feels the moment you take it, the way your lips close around it, the faint pressure of your teeth as you bite down.

“Sit up for me, baby.” He reluctantly pulls his hand away from your warmth, only for it to settle on your hip instead, guiding you up gently. You meet him halfway, lifting yourself and grabbing him again, both of you glancing down as you line him up.

You press the head of his cock against your clit, rocking yourself against it. 

“Jesus,” he bites out, his thumb slipping out from your mouth with a thin string of drool stretching between. “Slowly—go slow.”

You nod, as you ease down, taking him in bit by bit.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, sharp enough to make him suck in a breath, and for a second he thinks about telling you to keep going until you draw blood but he’s not sure that’s wise in your dazed state. 

“Fuck,” you grit, stopping yourself before you’re even halfway down him.

“Too much?”

“Mhm.”

“S’okay,” he slurs, focusing on your puffy clit again, drawing slow circles, helping you take all of him. “You can do it.”

His grip tightens at your hip, thumb pressing in harder as he watches you, completely locked in, like if he looks away for even a second he might miss something important. The way your face pinches. The way your breathing shifts. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, softer now, coaxing more than anything. “You’ve got it.” He watches every inch of it, the slow give, the way your body takes him, the hesitation that never quite turns into stopping.

“Yeah… there you go.”

You’ve bottomed out now, all of him deep inside you, gripping him so tight he’s not even sure how much longer he can last, and you haven’t even started moving yet. He goes still, in an attempt to chase composure.

“Don’t—” he starts when he feels you shift,  then stops, jaw tightening as he recalibrates. “Just—stay there a second.”

His forehead dips forward, almost brushing yours, his eyes half-lidded as he tries to steady himself through it.

“Tell me when,” you whisper. 

That nearly undoes him more than anything else.

There’s something about the way you say it. Gentle. Willing. Like you’re handing the control back to him without even thinking about it. Trusting him with it. 

He leans in for a kiss, and it’s slower than the ones before. Thought-out. Intentional. All that earlier hunger still there, but pulled tight beneath the surface now, tempered by the fact that he’s already inside you.

It changes things.

Makes it heavier.

He presses in deeper, tongue sliding against yours, and you let out a broken whimper into his mouth. “Go ahead,” he says, pulling back enough to take in the way you’re looking at him now. 

You lift your hips, then lower yourself again, and he can feel the way your body adjusts around him—your walls clinging to his cock as you start to find a pace that works for you. 

Abbot searches for your hips, guiding you, pushing you down onto him when you reach the base again, the curls there brushing against your clit. 

Your eyes are screwed shut and he takes this time to watch you shamelessly, The sheen of sweat starting to gather along your forehead, the way your breath hitches every time he pushes you down just a bit further.

It’s fucking euphoric. 

You keep moving, whining—half-words, curses, his name slipping in and out—as you pick up the pace, losing whatever rhythm you started with in favour of something needier.

“Such a greedy girl,” he mutters, watching the way a slick ring of wetness gathers and drags along his cock as you bounce up and down, your cunt squeezing him so tight he’s grasping at straws to make sure you finish before him.

His thumb finds that sweet spot, making you go limp against him, your forehead sprawling against his shoulder.

“Yes—keep doing that,” you mewl, and he’s the kind of man who follows orders, even when he’s not sure he’s got anything left to give.

Your teeth sink into his shoulder, and it pulls a husked sound out of him.

“Yeah? That’s what you do?” His hips meet yours, as he plunges in and out of you, feeling your thighs tighten and shake around him. “Didn’t take you for a biter,” he mocks, but there’s no surprise in it, in fact he sounds pleased. 

You say something incoherent back and he just laughs. “Go on,” he encourages, tilting his head to the side to give you better access. “If you’re going to do it, don’t half—”

He cuts himself off with a sharp exhale when you do, the pressure of it shutting him up completely.

“Christ—”

“M’close, Jack—so close.”

His head drops again, eyes finding you like he needs to see it, needs to confirm it’s actually happening and not something he’s made up to torture himself with later. “You like that? That’s what gets you going?”

“Yes—fuck, yes.” 

Abbot feels you tense around him, your movements losing whatever shape they had, turning messy as the two of you dissolve into nothing but a tangle of limbs and half-formed sentences. Fragments of words, sounds that don’t even belong to language anymore.

You come undone with a cry, muffled against his skin that’s probably raw and marked now, something he’ll notice later. Your whole body tightens, then gives, your grip on him turning desperate while it rushes through you. 

It hardly takes Abbot a minute before he follows, the sight of you—like this, because of him—pushing him past whatever control he thought he still had. His hips jerk with a force that pulls a string of curses from him that are grunted into your hair, his cock twitching inside you as he thrusts into you one last time.

There’s no other sound for a few minutes, other than the two of you trying to catch your breath. Abbot can hear your heartbeat where you’re pressed against him, feel his own still thudding hard in his chest.

He leans back, resting his head against the seat, eyes closing.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

His eyes open immediately at that because you sound horrified, like something’s gone wrong, and his stomach drops at the off chance you’re regretting all of this already.

“What?” he starts, already bracing for the worst. 

He then follows your line of sight, your gaze fixed on his shoulder and immediately relaxes. “...That?” he asks, glancing back at you. 

You wince, reaching up like you’re not sure whether to touch it or not. “I didn’t mean to—I just—”

“Hey—it’s fine.”

You look unconvinced.

“It’s not fine, I—Jack, I think I actually made you bleed—”

“I know. I was there.”

That earns him an embarrassed huff. “I didn’t even realise I was doing it.”

“I did,” he replies smugly. “Didn’t hate it either.”

There’s a pause as you study him, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s serious or just trying to make you feel better. “...You’re weird.”

“Yeah, says the one who was doing all the chomping.”

Your mouth drops open. “Okay. I’m leaving.” You pull your dress back up over your chest and try to shift up, since he’s still inside you, but Abbot’s hands clamp around your hips, holding you in place.

“Not a chance. I already told you you’re spending the night.”

You catch the inside of your cheek between your teeth. “Do you think that’s wise?”

“Probably not,” he admits. “But I’m still not changing my mind.” He leans in, placing a kiss on your shoulder. “Plus you’re not exactly in a state to go anywhere.”

“I could,” you mutter.

He raises a brow.

“…I could try.”

He shakes his head, an amused exhale leaving him “Stay. Just for tonight. We’ll figure the rest out tomorrow.”

Your body sags against him, the fight easing out of you as your fingers brush lightly over the his raw skin. “Just for tonight,” you repeat.

Though neither of you can really pretend this is just a one-off anymore.

➜ find my abbot masterlist here ⋆˚꩜｡

......fancy fussing over a different old man?

[kisscoabbot]

shawn hatosy snapchat era please come back for my own sake you were exactly who you thought you were sir

[ozarkthedog]

SHAWN HATOSY for Quinn

[bowlby4]

[sconesfortea]

RIP Anthony Stewart Head (1954 - 2026)

[never-kill-on-the-first-dat-blog]

Hey, what’s Winnie the pooh’s favorite color?

[taco-bout-a-shit-blog]

Yellow

[never-kill-on-the-first-dat-blog]

No it’s red because of his shirt

[taco-bout-a-shit-blog]

No, it’s yellow because he loves honey

[never-kill-on-the-first-dat-blog]

You have no idea what you’re talking about

[taco-bout-a-shit-blog]

DID I FUCKING STUTTER?

[voaga]

Things heating up at the Winnie the Pooh fandom

[sun-of-a-watcher]

@hellsite-hall-of-fame

[lovebugism]

HEAD OVER FEET ─── jack abbot

summary: when jack abbot runs into you at a bar after your shift on the fourth of july, he teaches you what it means to unwind and you teach him what it means to feel loved again. (6k)

characters: jack abbot / fem!loser!reader, trinity and mel at karaoke, baran al-hashimi

contents: friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, jealousy, age difference, power imbalance, so much yearning, jack abbot hasn't had sex in eight years confirmed cw for mentions of trauma and grief, and smut 18+ (MDNI)

( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )

The bar pulses like a living thing with a heartbeat. The buzzing of a hundred different conversations and the wailing of a distant guitar sting overhead presses hard on either side of you. If you concentrate real hard, you think you can still hear Mel and Trinity butchering another Alanis Morissette song back in the private karaoke room — which isn’t nearly private enough, considering the way their drunken devotion bleeds out into the main hall.

You left them a while ago to order a drink, which melts slowly in the sweaty glass between your fingertips now. You bring it to your lips and try to take a sip, but something in your throat refuses. The taste feels wrong; the burn feels wrong. Actually, the more you think about it, everything feels wrong — like your body is still calibrated to the relentless rhythm of the ER, to the work you can never quite seem to leave behind.

Even now, as your eyes meet your reflection in the mirror behind the liquor bottles, you look like something you don’t quite recognize — dressed in a velvet red number pulled from Trinity Santos’ closet instead of your usual scrubs; with your hair done instead of carelessly shoved back. It’s like looking at a stranger wearing your own face.

“Long time, no see, Doc—” A masculine voice cuts in, so familiar that you wonder if you’ve been thinking about the PTMC so long that you’ve begun to hallucinate your coworkers.

Your head snaps over your shoulder. Your tired eyes widen at the sight of your attending sliding in beside you. Jack Abbot is still donned in his scrubs, you find, as he leans against the bar — black uniform, brown undershirt, and navy pants — like he dressed himself in the dark before he came into work. His freckled biceps strain against the short sleeves as he folds them across the polished wood. 

There are two glasses half-full of amber liquid before him. He lifts one in his right hand and eyes you over the top of it. “How long has it been?” he quips with narrowed eyes before taking a quick sip.

You blink away the shock of seeing him here, all casual, like he wasn’t just elbows deep in a trauma with you.

“About…” You lilt and glance at the clock behind the bar. “Half an hour ago, I think?”

His mouth curves with a slow, suspicious smile as his steady gaze refuses to waver. “What are you doing here all by yourself, huh? Gotta hot date I don’t know about?”

You scoff a quiet laugh and turn away, looking down at your untouched glass as you spin it in an anxious hand. “Yeah— If that’s what you wanna call watching Trinity and Mel butcher Alanis Morisette’s entire catalog…”

Your head tilts to your shoulder to flash him a lazy grin, which falters at the edge when you catch his unflinching stare. You clear your throat, remember that you’re talking to an attending, and stammer out, “Uh, what— What about you?”

Jack bounces a lazy shoulder and lifts the glass in his right hand. “This was the nearest place to get a good whiskey, so…” he trails off before taking another sip.

His eyes never leave yours as he peers at you from over the rim of the glass, studying you almost, analyzing you in a way that makes your skin feel too tight.

Your nose scrunches in protest of his staring. “Why are you looking at me like that?” you wonder through a breathless chuckle.

“I don’t know…” he admits, quieter now. “It’s just the first time I’ve seen you out of your scrubs…”

His light eyes flicker over your form again — from your bare shoulders and exposed chest, to where your dress clings to your ass and stomach. 

“It’s different…” he hums. “A good different…”

Heat crawls up your neck. You turn away on instinct, finding it very suddenly difficult to meet his stare, as a disbelieving laugh slips from your mouth.

“What are you laughing at?” Jack presses with a chuckle of his own.

“Nothing,” you dismiss with a shake of your head. “I just… I think you might be a little tipsy there, Dr. Abbot…”

“This is only my second glass, I’ll have you know,” he argues, playfully offended. “What? You think I can’t handle my alcohol.”

He straightens slightly and takes a step closer. Still leaving several inches of space between you, though it takes a lot of strength from you not to slide off your bar stool entirely.

“No! I just—” You stumble over yourself as the words tangle on your tongue. “I just feel like you probably wouldn’t be talking to me like this otherwise.”

“I talk to you every day,” he scoffs.

“Well, yeah, but you don’t flirt with me every day.”

His brows raise as something short of amusement flickers across his face. “Oh. So you think I’m flirting with you?”

An awkward silence drops like a leaden weight upon you, like an anvil in one of those ancient cartoons. It knocks the breath out of you accordingly.

“…No,” you answer after a few long moments. “Of course not.”

Your grip tightens on your drink as you turn away from him again. You hardly think twice before bringing it impulsively to your mouth, downing two long sips of the watered-down gin and tonic. Your face screws at the bitter taste and at the burning sensation on your tongue, which turns into a dull sparkle when it settles in the pit of your stomach.

“Well, I was, so…” Jack quips, too casual for his own good. “I guess I’m gonna have to try a little harder now, aren’t I?”

His eyes cut to you, expecting you to laugh at him, or to stammer out another one of your painfully shy replies. You forget to respond entirely, though, too focused on the way the alcohol singes your tongue. (You spend a long moment debating whether or not it’s numb or swelling in your throat with a thousand-yard stare.)

Your silence is not reassuring.

“Unless—” Jack’s voice tightens slightly as he clears his throat. His charming resolve slips as he stammers, “Unless you don’t want me to. Obviously. Then I can just, you know, fuck off—”

“No, it’s not that!” you blurt. “It’s just…”

He leans in, just slightly. “Just what?”

You hesitate for a moment, calculating the words, though they seem to slip off your tingling tongue before you can stop them.

“I feel like I haven’t… learned how to be a real person yet, you know?” you confess with a sheepish, lopsided grin. “Like… People my age are supposed to go out for drinks, and sing karaoke with their friends, and flirt with cute guys—”

You don’t notice your slip-up, but Jack does, and he hides his smile behind his glass.

“But I think I’ve just been working so much that… That I don’t know how to do anything but work, you know?”

“Yeah…” he hums softly. “Trust me. I know the feeling—”

There’s a distant call of his name. A faint “Abbot,” half-swallowed by the thrumming music and surrounding conversation. Your head turns in the direction of the sound to find Dr. Al-Hashimi appearing from the crowd. Her fluffy brown curls are out of their usual clip, languishing now at her shoulders. Her lavender jacket is gone, too, to reveal her lean body beneath her slim scrub top.

You blink owlishly at her for a few moments, unused to the sight of her outside the white walls of the E.D.

“You were supposed to be bringing me a drink,” the woman quips drily, smiling as she reaches for the touched whiskey next to Abbot. “Not holding it hostage.”

“Shit…” Jack exhales. “I’m sorry. I-I got distracted…”

“Dr. Al,” you greet with a waver in your voice. “I… I didn’t know you were here.”

“Yeah, well…” she shrugs. “I heard this was the best place to get a glass of whiskey, so…”

You nod slowly, suddenly unsure of yourself — of what to do with your hands, your voice, with Jack. You swallow hard as your eyes flit wildly between the two attendings standing before you. You struggle to shake the feeling that you’ve interrupted something.

“I’ll, uh— I guess I’ll get out of your hair then…”

You muster an artificial smile and abandon your gin and tonic as you slide off the bar stool.

Jack calls your name, but it gets lost in the crowd that swallows you whole as you disappear out of sight.

You stomach through one and a half more songs that Mel and Trinity shout into the void of the private karaoke room. They take a quick break from “You Oughta Know” to sing a strikingly heartfelt rendition of “Head Over Feet” that very nearly brings a tear to your eye. 

It’s not their sloppy singing, exactly, but rather the reminder of how alone you feel just now — the only audience member on the pleather sofa, bathed in the strobing neon glow from the overhead lights, watching the fun from afar while your friends forge an unlikely bond. 

While Jack and Dr. Al laugh over drinks together— 

You rise abruptly and catch them between verses to tell them you’re heading out for the night. Their protests come wrapped in song.

“But we’re having so much fun!” Trinity whines in drunken slurs, then locks in when the chorus hits. “You’ve already won me over, in spite of me! So don’t be alarmed if I fall, head over feet—!”

The song follows you the entire way out of the bar, where the night air outside washes over you like fine silk. You catch yourself humming the tune as you shrug on the brown bomber jacket you borrowed from Trinity’s closet — just in case you felt the need to hide. You falter when your fingers brush something in the front pocket.

You reach in with a pensive twist to your features, surprised to find a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a silver lighter shoved inside. You stare at it for several long moments and wonder briefly what it would feel like to smoke one. (You’re unable to shake the impulsive thought from your brain until you’ve done it.)

You pull one cig free and stick the orange filter between your lips. You flick the lighter three times before it finally strikes. You hold your free hand over the flame like they do in the movies and inhale when it finally lights.

You regret it instantly. 

Grey smoke billows from your mouth as you cough. You double over on the worn sidewalk like a total loser, eyes watering and chest burning as your lungs rebel against your very poor life choices.

“Those things kill, you know—?” Jack’s voice cuts in again.

(He has a way of finding you in the most embarrassing situations, it seems.)

You blink away the tears in your eyes and turn to find the older man standing just a few feet away with his hands in his pockets. He watches you attentively, with something close to amusement twisting his scruffy face.

“I can tell—” you rasp as your coughing fit ebbs. “There’s no way this is enjoyable for people.”

“Eh,” he shrugs. “It’s not so bad when you get used to it.”

His sneakers scuff the cracked pavement as he saunters over to you, holding his hand out with a glittering look in his eye. “Can I?”

You don’t think twice before passing him the lit cigarette.

“By all means...”

Jack pinches the stick between his thumb and forefinger. He places his mouth around the filter, inhales once, holds the breath, and exhales through his nose a second or more later. 

You can’t seem to stop staring at the silver hair on his tilted chin; or the tendons in his corded neck; or the singular vein in his freckled forearm when he snuffs the cigarette out on the brick wall. He drops it into the receptacle there when he’s done.

“So…” He exhales the remaining smoke from his mouth, which leaves in grey wisps that hang in the air between you for a few lingering moments. “I guess you’re headed out now?”

“Yeah…” you sigh. “Guess so…”

He observes the empty sidewalk for a moment before wondering casually, “Want me to walk you home?”

“No, it’s okay,” you shrug. “You’re busy, and I… I only live, like, a block down the road, so—”

“So, then, it’ll be quick?” Jack presses with raised brows.

Your eyes narrow. “…You’re not gonna take no for an answer here, are you?”

Jack shakes his head, lips smoothing into a knowing grin. “Not this time, kid. No.”

The walk back to your place feels borderline suffocating, though you can’t exactly place why. The air is made of thick satin as the heat of the day washes away, leaving something silken and breathable in its wake, as the wind ripples in your dress. Everything smells very distinctly of summer — of dewy grass, and gunpowder from distant fireworks, and the faint sweetness of something that’s just been barbecued. 

You can hear the fireworks crackling somewhere in the distance, though you struggle to see them from the buildings overhead. You can feel each thundered boom in your chest, along with the heavy bass of a passing car playing music far too loud as it barrels by.

There’s something oddly peaceful about it. Intimate, even, as your shoulder brushes Jack’s broader one with each step. The silence is not particularly awkward, but you can’t shake the feeling that you should say something. You rack your brain for a conversation starter, and end up blurting out the one thing you didn’t want to say out loud— 

“So…” you lilt, tripping over the conversation like a loose wire. “You and Dr. Al…?”

“…Are very good coworkers, yeah,” Jack nods, silver curls turning gold beneath the amber streetlights. He catches your uncertain gaze and shrugs. “She had a tough first day, you know? Figured I’d treat her to a few drinks.”

“That’s nice…” you murmur with an averted gaze.

“It was nothing,” Jack assures you.

Your apartment building comes into view around the corner, painted a garish canary yellow with vivid orange doors, aptly named Sunset Tower. It used to be a motel, you assume from the layout, probably before you were born; and was renovated into an apartment complex likely not too long after you were born.

You don’t think twice before starting up the rusty staircase to your third-floor apartment — not until you notice the slight hitch in Jack’s step as he follows behind you, favoring his prosthetic limb more than he realizes. It must be hurting him, you figure, after being on it for hours at the PTMC. 

“Shit,” you huff. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.”

“Told me about what?” Jack scoffs despite his grimacing as he swings his leg another step. “I can handle a few stairs…”

“I can’t make it up on my own, if you—”

“Hey,” he snaps, a little harsher than he means to, as he glances in your direction. A far-off firework glimmers in your gaze, soft and sympathetic around the edges in a way that makes his chest ache. “I’m good. Don’t worry about me, alright?”

You continue the ascent despite your better judgment, despite the way Jack’s steps lose rhythm just beside you. You catch him stumbling in the corner of your eye when he steps up a beat too early. His prosthetic twists unnaturally, angering the already raging skin of his amputated knee. 

You’re at his side without blinking. Your hands reach for his arm, steady him with your fingers cradling his wrist and elbow. 

Jack nearly protests, but stops himself short.

You hold onto him the rest of the way up.

Your place is exactly how he imagined it would be — not that he’d been picturing what the inside of your apartment looked like, of course, because he’s not a total creep. He just finds a very apt representation of you wedged with the quaint walls of the old, old building. It’s cluttered but not messy; with numerous blankets and books and potted plants strewn about. There are half-used candles littered on just about every surface, filling the air with a sweet scent of musky-vanilla-raspberry.

The grass green couch pushed against the wall caves under his weight when you ease him down onto it. It smells like a mixture of your perfume and the side of the road you must’ve pulled it from when you moved in.

“Wow…” Jack hums, if only to conceal his wincing as he adjusts himself on the cushion. “Nice place…”

“No, it’s not,” you scoff an awkward laugh and stand to full height above him, adjusting the skirt of your dress from where it had ridden up. “Do you, uh— Need anything?” 

“No. I’m good.”

“‘Cause I have some first aid supplies if your prosthetic is bothering you—”

“Really. I’m good,” he echoes. “You don’t mind if I take it off, though, do you?”

“Of course not!” you blurt. “I’ll, um… I’ll go get you some water.”

You scurry the short distance to the kitchen. The hissing faucet pervades the silence as you fill two glasses at the sink, along with the soft clanking of the heavy prosthetic as Jack unscrews it from the limb. You find him massaging the scar when you return.

“Do you— Do you need me to call you an Uber, or…?”

Jack tilts his chin to smile up at you. A playful laugh tumbles from his mouth. “Wow… Trying to get rid of me already, huh?”

Your face floods with horror. “No! O-Of course not! I just— With your leg, I— I don’t want you to walk all the way home, you know?”

“I think I can make it, sweetheart,” he tells you, and only vaguely notices his slip-up. “I just needed a second… Thank you—” He nods in appreciation when you set the water down on the coffee table in front of him.

You keep several inches between you on the sunken couches as you sit gingerly at his side — very palpably tense, like you’re a stranger in your own home. You wring your clammy hands together in your lap as a long silence stretches thin between you.

“And I wasn’t— I wasn’t trying to… kick you out. Or anything,” you add, softer now.

“I know, kid,” Jack assures.

“Good…” you breathe a sigh of relief. “‘Cause I— I don’t want you to leave… Wait, that sounded weird— I just meant that… I like your company. I’m not, like, trying to hold you hostage or whatever, I swear.”

Another awkward laugh spills from your mouth.

Jack’s lip quirks with a smile as he sits up straight again. “I wouldn’t mind it if you were, to be honest…” he hums, only halfway joking. “But unfortunately, I do have SWAT early in the morning, so… If you could free me around 6 a.m,  that’d be great.”

“Oh, right,” you scoff and bring your water to your mouth. “The side hustle where you get shot at for fun?”

“It’s good to have a hobby,” Jack shrugs and leans back against the sofa, throwing a strong arm around the back of it, as he studies you with narrowed eyes. “What do you do for fun, hm? Outside of work, I mean.”

You think for a long moment, spinning the glass between your fingers. “…I once watched Love Island for thirty-one straight hours. That was pretty fun.”

Jack snorts. “So what I’m hearing is, you don’t have any hobbies?”

“Work is my hobby.”

“So what do you do to… unwind?”

“…Have panic attacks in the supply closet at work,” you confess. “What about you?”

“Get shot at,” Jack quips in the same gritty tone.

“Well, at least you get to do something outside of the E.D…” you monotone with a far-off stare. “This is the first time in months I’ve been somewhere other than here and the PTMC. I mean, I have my groceries delivered now— I’m too boring to even go shopping...”

“What do you mean?” he scoffs. “You’re young— You should be going out every weekend.”

“Well, I don’t…” you huff mournfully and slouch back against the sofa. The thin sleeve of your velvet dress slips off your shoulder, giving Jack a brief glance of the top of your breast before you adjust it back over your collarbone again.

“What about dates?” he presses with his chin to his shoulder. “You don’t go on any of the apps?”

“Well, first of all, no one calls it the apps. And second of all, god no,” you laugh drily, then flash him a sheepish look from the corner of your eye. “What about you?”

“Nah…” Jack shakes his head. “I haven’t been on a date in about… Eight years—”

“Eight years?!” you blurt before he can properly get the words out, leaning forward with wide eyes. “Jesus. How does a guy like you go around without getting hit on for eight whole years?”

(You’re starting to think those three sips of gin from before are getting to you now.)

“Well, it’s a lot easier than you think,” the older man deadpans. ‘Cause it’s not like he was actively avoiding dates; he just wasn’t exactly seeking them out. 

He lost the urge to after his wife died, and then, when the urge to live came back around, he’d catch himself flirting every now and then, but never wanting to do much more than that. Then he blinked, and eight years had passed without him noticing.

Eight years with nothing but his own hand to get himself off — though, it only starts to seem pathetic when you look at it that way.

“What about you?”

“What about me?” you scoff. “The last time a guy showed even a modicum of interest in me was… in med school, probably.”

“Okay, well, that’s just not true,” Jack argues. “That vitrectomy patient from earlier definitely had a crush on you.”

Your eyes narrow in a cynical squint. “He was drunk. With half a bottle rocket stuck in his eye. That hardly counts.”

“Well, I’ve had… About a whiskey and a half,” Jack calculates. “Do I still count?”

The air thins in an instant, or maybe his words have just knocked it all straight out of your lungs.

Your skin burns red hot beneath the dress that feels suddenly way too tight, ‘cause you think he must be joking — that taking the piss out of your obvious crush on him is his idea of playing around.

“That’s not funny,” you tell him with a wavering smile.

“I’m not trying to be funny,” the man insists with a scoff. “I haven’t been funny since 1994.”

Another laugh sputters from your mouth. A real one this time — not the fake ones you’ve been giving him just to fill the silence, or to try to seem less nervous than you really are. It makes him smile wider than he probably realizes.

“There you go…” Jack hums with a proud nod.

“There I go, what?”

“You’re unwinding…”

You scoff, still grinning wide despite yourself. “Am I?”

“Yeah,” he hums. “And you’re doing a great job so far— a solid B-minus.”

“B-minus?” you echo. “I’ve had a 4.0 GPA since I was in fourth grade.”

“Well…” Jack shrugs with a knowing grin. “Better step it up then, kid.”

Something inside you tips in that moment. It’s his teasing, maybe, or just the way he’s looking at you. Either way, you catch yourself leaning forward before your brain has properly thought it through. You close the distance between you in a flicker — brushing a chaste kiss to his mouth before pulling away just as fast.

You can feel your pulse pounding in your throat as you quip, “What does that get me?”

Jack blinks for a second, momentarily caught off guard. He fights the urge to lick his lips, to try and actually taste you. “Probably a couple HR violations?” he jokes after a few moments.

Your stomach drops. You find yourself praying that this old couch swallows you whole, or that the world would just end altogether, because even that would be a kinder fate than this.

“Oh. Shit. I-I thought that— I thought we were... Fuck, I totally misread this whole thing—”

You turn away entirely and drop your face in your hands, utterly mortified. 

His laughter doesn’t make it any better.

You feel the sofa caving beneath you as Jack shifts to your side. His hands are warm and softly calloused as they cradle your wrists in a firm and gentle grip, urging them downward so he can see your face again. He ducks his head to meet your wet eyes and flashes you a reassuring smile.

“You didn’t misread a damn thing,” he assures you with a shake of his head, voice lower and smoother than honey. “Of course, I want to kiss you— I always want to kiss you.”

The mournful twist in your features never wavers. “Then why don’t you?”

“Because it’d be wrong,” he shrugs. “I’m your attending. I wouldn’t want anyone thinking that I— that I pressured you into something.”

“Well… We both know you didn’t, right?” you argue softly, eyes glittering with hope as they dart back and forth between his. “And, I mean… It’s not like anyone else would have to know. We’re not getting married, we’re just… unwinding. Right?”

“…Yeah,” Jack hums, softer now, with something mischievous squinting his gaze. “Right...”

You’re not making it easy for him.

Jack’s trying not to cum in his pants before you’ve ever even touched him, and you’re making it damn near impossible. 

He drags you into his lap when you lean in to kiss him again — for real this time, licking sweetly into his mouth so he can taste you truly — and you knee him right in the thigh before you can straddle him properly. You pull away with a smack when he groans in pain against your mouth.

“Shit…” you pant with his spit still on your lips. “I’m sorry.”

Jack shakes his head until the words catch up to him. “It’s okay,” he assures through uneven breaths, knotting his fingers in your hair to pull you into him once more. He kisses you again, hard, like it’s muscle memory for him — from a life he hasn’t let himself live in a long, long time.

He cradles one hand over the crown of your head and the other just over your spine, where your dress dips down in the back. He keeps your warm weight pressed flush against him while the kiss turns languid and heavy, full of tongue and teeth and spit. You curl your fingers into his greying curls to keep him impossibly close all the while.

You feel his chest hitch with a startled breath beneath you when you grind down over his lap. Your velvet dress rises over your hips from the angle as you move down his thighs and up again — you can feel the ghost of his erection hardening beneath his scrubs with every pass. 

There’s a noticeable hesitance in the way you move. It’s not graceful or entirely practiced. It’s laced with a palpable uncertainty, rather, as you struggle to navigate the honeyed moment you’ve stumbled so suddenly into.

And Jack can hardly take it. ‘Cause hasn’t let himself want like this in years; he hasn’t let himself reach out for anything other than his grief or his work. For so long, his life has been defined by restraint and the careful art of not needing anything. And now you’re here, moving clumsily on top of him, completely undoing him.

It hits him all at once, how suddenly sensitive he is, after so long ignoring the touch of another. The friction, the pressure; the smell of you, the taste of you. It’s all too much. He knows he won’t last long if he keeps going this way, so he pulls back.

And he hates himself for it.

“Hey—” He clears his throat when the word comes out a little rough. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. His glassy eyes dart back and forth between both of yours as he peers up at you through a layer of honey. “Hey, you… You have condoms, right?”

You blink back at him for a long moment, slightly dazed at the sight of your spit on his rosy mouth. You nod with a stuttered breath. “Uh, yeah. Yeah— I think— Somewhere…”

(There’s an unopened box collecting dust under the sink in the bathroom, but he doesn’t need to know that.)

He mourns your warmth when you slide off his lap, rushing off down the hall with your dress still caught around your hips. The sight of your plain cotton underwear cradling the curve of your ass makes his chest tighten as you disappear down the dim hallway. You toe off your shoes halfway down, and the sound of your padding footsteps echoes in the quiet.

“Jesus Christ…” Jack huffs and slouches further into the couch. 

He drags his hands down his face and tries to regulate his breathing, tries to think of anything other than the aching erection in his pants. He stares up at the ceiling and attempts to will his body into something resembling composure when you return.

Your dress has fallen back down over your hips, but the right sleeve is still slipping down your shoulder when you stand before him. You’re not sure what to do with the condom in your hand, so you toss it to him over the coffee table. Jack catches it against his chest.

“Take that dress off…” he tells you with a voice like honey. “I wanna see you.”

You try and fail to reach for the zipper, which Mel had helped you with at Trinity’s place before you left for the bar. So, instead, you worm your arms out of the sleeves and shove the fabric down your hips with trembling hands. It hits the floor around your bare feet with a dull thud, leaving you in a heart-patterned bra you’ve had since high school and a pair of plain pink panties.

You’re hardly a thing worth looking at, really, but Jack didn’t seem to get that memo.

He beckons you forward with heavy eyes. “C’mere…” he murmurs.

You take slow, tentative steps towards him.

His calloused hands are warm and slightly trembling when they curl around the backs of your thighs. He leans in to press his mouth to the silk bow in the middle of your underwear, and his mouth waters at the wet spot gathering in the center of the cotton.

His scruffy chin brushes your stomach when he turns to look up at you, lidded eyes glimmering with a desire you didn’t know you were capable of drawing out of a person.

“I wanna make you cum with my mouth,” Jack murmurs. “Can I?”

You nod wordlessly, and can’t shake the feeling that you’re dreaming when his pointer finger hooks through the hem of your panties. You feel a little cold when he slides the cotton to the side, only for him to press his warm mouth there a second later. 

Your knees threaten to buckle when his tongue slots through your silken folds, and Jack doesn’t miss a beat. He braces your ass in one wide hand while his other slips down to the bend of your knee, urging you to prop your foot on the couch beside him. Your moan swells throughout your empty apartment at the new angle, which allows him to lick at your sensitive clit with greater precision.

He forgets to take things slow with you, too busy trying to make up for this time. He drags an orgasm out of you like the world’s soon to end, and the last thing he wants to do on this earth is to taste you on his tongue. 

You cum on his mouth with your head tipped back and with your fingers knotted in his hair. He’s wearing your glittering slick down to his chin when he’s done with you.

You fall gracelessly into his lap when your legs turn to jell-o. You straddle his waist, ball his shirt into your fists, and bury your burning face into his neck — still whimpering as your high is slow to ebb. 

Jack cradles you against him the entire length of your comedown, running his warm hands up and down your spine. His scruff brushes the delicate skin of your shoulder when he presses a chaste kiss there.

“That wasn’t too much, was it?” he pants into your ear.

You shake your head until the words catch up to you. “No… No, it was— It was good…” you stammer through uneven breaths, and pull just far enough away to meet his eyes. “I wanna ride you now… Is that okay?”

And who is Jack to deny you of a damn thing?

You brace yourself on his shoulder with one hand and use your free one to line his bulbous tip at the entrance of your weeping pussy. His cock drools an embarrassing amount of pearly precum — he can feel it all underneath the condom — and he’s momentarily grateful that you can’t see any of it. 

You exhale a wavering, punched-out breath as you sink down over him and take a long moment to get used to the distant stinging sensation.

Jack’s grateful for that, too.

His jaw hardens to choke down the groan that rumbles in the bottom of his throat. He tilts his head against the back of the couch and squeezes his eyes shut to fight away the overwhelming desire to explode entirely. He holds you in place when you try to move again, with fingers that threaten to leave bruises on your thighs.

“You okay?” you pant, eyes darting wildly over the pained twist on his scruffy features.

Jack nods, jaw clenched tight. His words come out half-strangled. 

“Yeah, yeah. I just… I wasn’t lying about the whole eight-year thing.” He exhales a hard breath through his nose that’s supposed to be a laugh, though there isn’t really a smile to accompany it. “I don’t wanna… I don’t wanna cum too soon, you know? I wanna— make it good for you. That’s all.”

Your fingers brush over his temple and through his silver curls, in a touch so gentle it nearly makes him cum right then.

“It’s already good for me,” you assure him. “I want it to be good for you, too.”

You grind over him with the same hesitance from before, down his thighs and back again, slowly finding your rhythm. Jack’s hands grip hard at your hips, like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. He can just barely find the strength to keep his eyes open to watch you chase your orgasm on top of him.

His eyes flit from your blissed-out features to where his cock disappears inside of you. The thatch of curls above his cock glistens with your honey — he can feel it wetting the hem of his scrubs from where they’re shoved beneath his heavy balls. You’re bound to cum just as quickly as he is, no doubt. 

He can feel it in the way your pussy flutters around his twitching length — in the way your pacing falters slightly on top of him.

“Nuh-huh. Don’t run away from me,” Jack mutters in your ear as he shifts underneath you, slouching further to hit somewhere deep inside of you. He cradles your head with one hand and grips hard at your ass with another, helping you move on top of him. 

Your whine gets buried in his sweat-slick neck.

Jack smiles into your hair. “Yeah. There it is, honey. There you go…”

He feels a little proud of himself when he manages to hold off just long enough to feel you cumming around him, twitching against his chest and tugging hard at his silver curls. He follows right after — going rigid underneath you a second later as his cock jerks wildly within your fluttering confines.

His groan mixes with your whining as you milk him of his orgasm, in a sinful symphony that swells throughout your silent apartment.

Then the room goes quiet, with only the sound of your heavy breathing to fill it. You rise and fall with each of Jack’s panted breaths beneath you. Your limbs are loose and borderline boneless; tension ebbs from your body like an unwinding thread. You think you’d turn into a puddle on top of him without his hands smoothing up and down your back, molding you back together again.

It’s the only way Jack can stay anchored, really — with his hands on you, and with your weight settled on top of him. It’s foreign and familiar all the same: the strange absence of urgency he feels underneath you. The way his body, usually wound tight with panic, dissolves in time with yours. For the first time in eight years, he feels his heartbeat finally steady.

Until a far-off firework rattles the walls and sends the two of you jerking against each other.

The honeyed moment shatters in an instant. Jack holds you tighter when you flinch on top of him, laughing through a grumbling moan as you clench instinctively around his softening cock. 

“You okay?” Jack mumbles against you, before pressing a brief kiss to your temple.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” you nod, half-breathless, as you pull away from him for the first time in several minutes. 

You blink away the haze of your dwindling orgasm while Jack swipes drool from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. You lean instinctively into his palm and exhale a breathless laugh. 

“I just… I don’t know what normal people do in this situation…” you confess through uneven pants. “Like, I feel like we should… high-five or something.” 

Jack scoffs a tired breath but doesn’t say a word.

There’s a fleeting moment, then, where you worry you’re maybe being too much. Your stomach aches with it, too, because you think your stupid half-joke would’ve ruined the moment for anyone else. Anyone other than Jack. His hand slips from your back and lifts lazily for a high-five without a second thought. 

You cage your bottom lip between your teeth and clap your palm against his.

Your breathless laughter fills the quiet apartment.

“We make a good team, don’t we, Doc?” Jack hums with heavy eyes.

“Well, you make a good teacher…” you answer sheepishly, pulling at a rogue thread in his scrub top. “You know, helping me unwind, or whatever…”

“Right, well…” Jack trails off, mouth curling into a sly half-smirk as his eyes narrow into thin slits. Your stomach pools with red-hot warmth once more at the look he gives you, then, and at the words that spill from his lips like honey. “I think I still got a few more lessons in the chamber, sweetheart…”

[sammy-bryant]

Shawn Hatosy and Jake Weary will be at the Motor City Comic Con in November!!

[fanficwritinggirl]

{Home This Time - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}

The moment you have all been waiting for...

You had learned not to trust dates until they became doors.

Dates moved. Dates changed. Dates got written down in official language and then undone by someone behind a desk who did not understand that maybe could keep a woman awake for three nights in a row.

So when Andrew called and sounded different, you did not let yourself hope right away.

You were sitting in the nursery with the lights low, folding tiny pyjamas from the laundry basket while Andie slept in her toddler bed, one arm flung above her head like she had survived a battle. Which, considering bath time, she sort of had.

The approved player sat on the shelf beside the stack of books Andrew had recorded over the last year. The duck one. The bear one. The moon one. The rabbit one he still claimed was stupid, even though Andie carried it around by one corner like it was sacred text.

The wooden duck watched from the high shelf. Still crooked. Still safe from Andie’s mouth.

The phone rang at 8:41.

You grabbed it before the second ring.

The automated voice began. You pressed one. Static. A click.

Then Andrew.

“Hey.”

You stopped folding. One word. That was all it took.

Something about his voice sat wrong in the room. Not bad. Not frightened. Just too careful.

“What happened?”

A pause.

“Nothing bad.”

Your chest tightened. “That is my line.”

He huffed softly, barely a laugh. Not enough to make you relax.

“Andrew.”

He was quiet long enough that your hand found the edge of the rug and held on.

“They gave me a date.”

The room went still. Not quiet. Still.

You stared at the toddler bed. Andie slept on, entirely unaware that the world had tilted.

“A date,” you repeated.

“Yeah.”

“For…”

You could not finish.

Andrew did not answer immediately. You heard prison noise behind him. Someone talking too loudly. A door. A distant scrape of metal.

Then, low and careful, he said, “Release.”

Your hand went to your mouth.

You had imagined this sentence. Of course you had. In bed. In the car. Standing in the kitchen with Andie on your hip. During visits. During phone calls. During every ordinary Tuesday where his absence sat beside you like another piece of furniture.

But imagining and hearing were not the same.

“Baby,” Andrew said.

Your eyes filled. “When?”

“Two weeks.”

You closed your eyes.

Two weeks.

Not someday. Not eventually. Not if a committee approved another hearing.

Two weeks.

“You’re coming home?” you whispered.

The line went quiet. The word was too big.

Home.

Finally, he said, “Yeah.”

A pause. Then, because he was Andrew and hope scared him more than most things, he added, “If nothing changes.”

Your face crumpled.

“If nothing changes,” you repeated.

“I don’t want you to—”

“Hope?”

He did not answer.

You wiped under one eye with the back of your hand. Too late. Hope was already there. Terrible and bright and standing in the middle of the nursery with its shoes on.

“Andrew.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to hope.”

His breath caught.

“I know things can change,” you said. “I know dates move. I know not to pack the whole world into one sentence. But I’m going to hope. I can’t not.”

He was quiet, then rougher, “Okay.”

Your laugh broke through the tears. “Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re letting me hope?”

“You’d do it anyway.”

“I absolutely would.”

A real breath of laughter came through the line this time. Small. Shaky. Yours.

You pressed your fingers to your mouth, smiling through tears.

“She asleep?” he asked.

You looked at Andie. “Yes.”

“She okay?”

“She’s perfect. She said Dada to the laundry basket today.”

Andrew went quiet. Then, suspiciously, “Why?”

“It was tall and brooding.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It was a little funny.”

“It was a basket.”

“It had your energy.”

“I don’t have basket energy.”

“You do when you stand in doorways looking tortured.”

“I don’t do that.”

“Andrew.”

He went silent in a way that told you he was choosing not to argue because he knew you were right.

“Andie also said Dada to the ceiling fan.”

“That I understand.”

“You understand the ceiling fan but not the laundry basket?”

“The ceiling fan moves.”

You laughed again, softer this time. It felt good. To laugh with him about something as ordinary as Andie assigning fatherhood to household objects.

Two weeks.

You looked around the nursery: the green walls, the books, the photos, the duck, the little bed. The life he had been part of in pieces.

“I told her tonight,” you said.

Andrew went quiet. “Told her what?”

“That Dada’s coming home.”

The silence on the other end was immediate. Not empty. Full.

“I don’t think she understood.”

“I did,” he said.

Your eyes closed. “Oh, baby.”

He breathed unevenly for a second. Then he asked, “What did she do?”

“Clapped because I had a spoon.”

A wet, broken laugh came through the line.

“She is very food motivated right now,” you said.

“Good.”

“It doesn’t mean she understands parole.”

“No.”

“But I said it anyway.”

Andrew was quiet. “Say it again.”

Your heart folded.

You looked toward Andie’s bed, at the little rise and fall of her back.

Then you whispered, “Dada’s coming home.”

Andrew’s breathing broke.

You pressed your hand over your mouth and cried silently.

There were some sentences that changed the shape of a room.

That was one.

After a while, he asked, “The duck still on the shelf?”

“High shelf. Your daughter tried to eat it.”

“I’m still mad.”

“I know.”

“The gate?”

“Crooked.”

“Craig?”

“Yes.”

“Secure?”

“Technically.”

“That means crooked.”

“That is exactly what I said.”

His voice softened around the next question. “My books?”

You looked at the stack. Duck. Bear. Moon. Rabbit. A whole row of him.

“On the shelf,” you said. “Some in her basket downstairs because she drags them around now.”

“The rabbit one?”

“Especially the rabbit one.”

“I knew it.”

“You hate that book.”

“It has good structure.”

You laughed into your sleeve. “There he is.”

Andrew went quiet for a second.

“I’m trying to picture it,” he said.

“The house?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve seen pictures.”

“I know.” He breathed out. “But walking in is different.”

Your eyes burned again.

“Yes,” you whispered. “It is.”

“What if she doesn’t know what to do with me there?”

The question came so quietly you almost missed the fear inside it.

You looked at Andie, sleeping with one socked foot peeking out from under the blanket.

“Then we let her learn.”

“What if she thinks I belong in the phone?”

Your face crumpled.

“She knows you belong more places than that.”

“She knows my voice.”

“She knows your voice. Your face. Your hands through glass. Your arms from visits. Your books. Your photo. The way everyone in this house says your name.”

He did not answer.

“She knows you’re Dada,” you whispered. “She might not understand that you’re coming home all at once. She’s fourteen months, Andrew. She still gets angry when bananas break in half. But you’re not arriving from nowhere. You’re coming home to a place that has been holding space for you.”

The line went still.

Then Andrew’s voice came back rough.

“Baby.”

“It’s true.”

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“You don’t have to know all of it before you walk through the door.”

“What if I do it wrong?”

“Then we do it wrong together.”

That got him. You heard it in his breath. Together had always been one of the words that hurt the most when there were walls between you.

Now it was waiting at the end of two weeks.

“Together,” he repeated.

“Yeah.”

The call timer beeped faintly.

You hated that sound. Even now. Especially now.

“I love you,” you said.

His answer was immediate. “I love you.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know.”

“You?”

“Yeah.”

“Good scared?”

“I don’t know.”

You smiled through tears. “Still?”

“Still.”

“That’s okay.”

“Two weeks,” he said.

“Two weeks.”

“If nothing changes.”

“If nothing changes.”

“And if it does—”

“Then we keep going until the next door opens.”

He went quiet. Then, barely, “Okay.”

The final warning beeped.

“Andrew?”

“Yeah?”

“Dada’s coming home.”

His breath broke.

The line clicked off before he could answer.

You lowered the phone into your lap and sat in the green nursery, crying quietly while your daughter slept through the sound of the world changing.

Two weeks became ten days. Ten days became five. Five became tomorrow.

Tomorrow became a morning you were too afraid to name until it was already happening.

You woke before Andie. That never happened.

For a few seconds, you lay still in the half-light, staring at the ceiling.

Then the date landed.

Today.

Not a phone call. Not a visit. Not a special approval. Not one hour.

Today.

You got out of bed slowly, like sudden movement might startle the universe into taking it back.

Down the hall, Andie was already awake when you opened the nursery door, sitting in her little bed with wild hair, her soft duck under one arm.

She grinned at you.

“Mama.”

Your heart did the usual useless thing. “Hi, baby.”

“Da?”

You stopped.

Then smiled through the sudden blur in your eyes.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Dada.”

Andie bounced once.

“Da-da-da.”

You crossed the room and lifted her out, holding her close. Her body was warm and solid against yours. Bigger than she had been. So much bigger. The weight of fourteen months in your arms. Of first cries and first smiles and first birthdays and all the nights Andrew had lived in the room through a voice on a recording.

“Dada’s coming home today,” you told her.

Andie patted your face.

“Da.”

“Yes,” you said, kissing her cheek. “Exactly.”

Downstairs, Craig was already in the kitchen with a list on the counter.

Of course he was.

Deran sat at the table with coffee, looking like he had slept badly and would rather be skinned than admit why.

Craig looked up the second you entered. “You okay?”

You looked at him. “No.”

Deran nodded into his coffee. “Good. Honest.”

Craig gave him a look.

Andie reached toward Deran.

“Up.”

Deran softened so fast it was almost funny. He stood and took her carefully.

“There she is,” he said, low.

Andie grabbed his chain.

“No. Not that. We talked about this.”

She tugged harder.

Deran let her.

Craig looked back down at his list. “Car seat checked.”

“She is not the one going to pick him up,” you said.

“Still checked.”

“What else is on there?”

“Bag packed.”

“What bag?”

“Emergency toddler bag.”

“For me picking up my husband?”

“For after. In case you’re gone longer than planned.”

You stared at him. He stared back.

Deran lifted one shoulder. “Let him have the list.”

You softened.

You were going alone to pick Andrew up. That had been the decision. Not because Craig and Deran did not matter. They did. Painfully. But Andrew walking out needed to belong first to the two of you.

Husband and wife.

No glass. No guard. No Andie yet.

Just the two people who had carried each other through phone lines and visiting rooms and paper-thin hope.

You reached for Craig’s hand and squeezed once.

“Thank you.”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

Deran looked pointedly at the ceiling.

“You both are very fragile today,” you said.

Craig let go of your hand. “Go get dressed.”

“Bossy.”

“You married Pope. You like bossy.”

Deran snorted.

You pointed at both of them. “I hate this family.”

Andie clapped.

“Da!”

You laughed, crying already.

Deran looked down at her.

“Yeah, kid,” he said quietly. “He’s coming.”

The room went still again.

Then Craig turned away and started aggressively wiping an already clean counter.

You went upstairs before all of you fell apart in the kitchen.

You dressed carefully. Not fancy. That would have been wrong. Jeans. Soft shirt. Andrew’s flannel over it because you wanted him to see it, because you wanted him to know you had kept wearing pieces of him until he could come back and take up space himself.

At the door, you kissed Andie three times. She tolerated two and objected to the third by pushing your face away.

“Rude.”

“Da,” she said.

“I know.”

Craig balanced her on his hip. “She’ll be fine.”

“I know.”

“You drive normal.”

“I will.”

“No crying so hard you can’t see.”

You stared at him.

Deran looked over. “That’s fair.”

“I am leaving before one of you says something else medically or emotionally offensive.”

Craig’s mouth twitched.

At the door, you turned back. Andie was watching you.

“Dada?” she asked.

You smiled through tears.

“I’m bringing him home.”

The prison looked different from the outside when you knew you were not walking in.

Every visit had trained your body for entry. ID. Security. Doors. Waiting. Glass. Phones. Leaving without him.

But today, you parked outside and stayed there.

Hands gripping the steering wheel. Engine off. Sunlight bright across the dashboard.

You did not get out right away. You were afraid if you moved, the morning would crack.

A door opened somewhere beyond the fence.

Not him.

Another person. A guard. A man you did not know.

Your phone sat silent in the cup holder.

No call. No automated voice. No static.

Just waiting.

Then the door opened again.

Andrew walked out carrying one small bag.

For a second, your body did not understand.

There he was.

No glass. No prison phone. No orange chair. No guard speaking time limits into the room.

Just Andrew in regular clothes that looked strange on him after so long seeing him in prison-issued fabric. He looked thinner than he had before all this. Older, maybe. Tired in a way sleep would not fix quickly.

But he was there.

Outside.

His eyes found your car immediately.

Then you.

You were already out before you remembered opening the door.

Neither of you moved for one breath.

Then you did.

You crossed the distance too fast. Andrew dropped the bag before you reached him, and his arms came around you so hard the whole world finally made a sound you could breathe inside.

You hit his chest with a sob.

His hand locked at the back of your head. The other arm wrapped around your back.

Not careful like the contact visits. Not timed. Not restrained by a guard at the door.

He held you like he was allowed.

Like no one was coming to tell him to stop.

You clung to him, his shirt bunched in your fists, his face pressed into your hair.

“Baby,” he whispered.

You sobbed harder.

“I’ve got you.”

“You’re out.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re out.”

“Yeah.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were red. So were yours, probably.

You lifted both hands to his face, touching him like you were making sure he had not become another version of a photograph.

His jaw. His cheek. The roughness of his skin.

Real.

Andrew’s eyes closed at your touch.

“No one’s counting,” you whispered.

His arms tightened around you.

“I know.”

That broke both of you.

He kissed you then. Not gentle enough to be careful. Not rough enough to hurt. Just desperate. Shaking. Real.

Months and months of glass and watched rooms and brief, stolen contact collapsed into one kiss in a prison parking lot.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. Both of you were breathing hard. Crying. Laughing a little because it was too much to hold any other way.

“You have to come home now,” you whispered.

His eyes opened. There was fear there. And hope. And something almost too fragile to name.

“Yeah,” he said.

You smiled through tears. “Good.”

Andrew was quiet on the drive home.

Not empty quiet. Overwhelmed quiet.

The outside world was loud in ways you had stopped noticing. Cars. Music from other windows. People crossing streets. A dog barking near a corner. Sunlight flashing off glass. Nobody telling him where to stand. Nobody locking doors behind him.

Andrew sat in the passenger seat with one hand gripping yours and the other resting against his thigh, fingers flexing every so often like he was checking his own body for instructions.

You did not fill the silence. You drove with one hand and held him with the other.

After ten minutes, he asked, “She walking today?”

You smiled. “Badly, yes.”

His mouth twitched. “Running?”

“Also badly.”

“Talking?”

“Mostly ordering people around.”

“Like you.”

“Like you.”

He huffed softly.

“She still says Dada to objects?”

“Less than before.”

“Good.”

“Only very important objects now.”

He looked at you.

“The coffee machine.”

“That’s fair.”

“And Craig’s shoe.”

His eyebrows drew together. “Why Craig’s shoe?”

“No one knows.”

Andrew nodded slowly, like he accepted that his daughter’s inner life was complex.

“Does she know?”

“That you’re coming?”

He nodded.

“She knows something. I told her this morning.”

“What did she do?”

“Patted my face and said Da.”

His eyes went wet immediately.

You lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles.

Andrew looked down at your mouth on his hand and went very still.

“We can do that now,” you said softly.

“What?”

“Touch.”

His jaw worked.

“Yeah.”

“You can touch me in the car.”

He huffed, but it broke halfway through.

His hand slid carefully from yours to your knee. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just there.

Warm.

Steady.

A miracle.

By the time you turned onto your street, his hand had tightened again.

You pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine.

The house sat in front of you. Ordinary. Impossible.

The curtains in the front room were open. One of Andie’s toys was visible near the window. The yellow sun magnet still held a photo to the fridge inside. The gate was probably still crooked. The nursery was green.

Home.

Andrew stared at it.

After a long moment, he said, “That’s the house.”

You almost smiled, but didn’t.

“Yes.”

“I know that.”

“I know.”

“I’ve seen it.”

“Yes.”

“Not like this.”

Your eyes burned.

“No,” you whispered. “Not like this.”

He sat there another moment.

Then he opened the door.

You met him at the front of the car and took his hand again before walking up the path.

At the door, he stopped.

You felt it. His whole body braced.

“Andrew.”

His eyes stayed on the door.

“What if I don’t fit?”

Your heart broke quietly.

You turned toward him and squeezed his hand.

“You already do. This house has been full of you for fourteen months. You’re not asking it to make room now. You’re coming home to the room that was always yours.”

Andrew looked at the door again.

Then nodded once.

You opened it.

Andie was in the living room.

One sock missing. Of course.

She stood with one hand on the coffee table, the other holding the stupid rabbit book by a chewed corner.

Craig was sitting on the floor near the baby gate, pretending to fix it. Deran was on the sofa, pretending not to watch the front door with his entire body.

Both men went still when you stepped inside.

Then Andrew came in behind you.

No one spoke.

For a second, everything held.

Craig stood slowly. Deran’s expression shifted and shut down just as fast.

Andrew looked at them. They looked at him.

There were years in that silence. Things none of you had space for yet.

Then Andie dropped the rabbit book.

Everyone’s eyes went to her.

She stared at Andrew.

Her brow furrowed. Tiny. Serious.

The exact expression that had ruined him the first time he saw her newborn face.

Andrew did not move.

He lowered himself slowly into a crouch by the door, like every muscle in his body was fighting the urge to reach too soon.

“Hey, baby girl,” he said.

Andie blinked.

Your hand went to your mouth.

Her eyes moved over him.

Face. Hands. Mouth. Voice.

Something clicked.

Maybe not all the way.

Maybe enough.

“Dada?” she said.

Andrew’s face broke.

He nodded once.

“Yeah.”

The room became very quiet.

Andie looked at you. You were crying too hard to be useful.

She looked back at Andrew.

Then she took one step.

Wobbly. Determined.

Another.

Her bare foot slapped against the floor.

Andrew’s hands lifted slightly, ready but not grabbing.

Andie made a small sound of effort and toddled toward him with the dramatic concentration of a person crossing mountains.

Halfway there, she nearly tipped sideways.

Craig twitched.

Deran grabbed his sleeve.

“Let her,” Deran whispered.

So they did.

Andrew stayed crouched, tears sliding down his face.

Andie reached him. She stopped inches away and stared.

Then she reached one hand toward his face.

Andrew closed his eyes when her tiny palm touched his cheek.

As if the touch had gone straight through him.

“Dada,” she said.

Not a question this time.

A statement.

Andrew made a sound that broke all of you.

Then he gathered her into his arms.

Carefully at first. Then closer when she grabbed his shirt and leaned into him like she had decided he was acceptable furniture.

He stood with her against his chest.

His daughter.

In his arms.

At home.

You leaned against the wall, one hand over your mouth, sobbing silently.

Craig looked at the ceiling. Deran turned toward the window.

Cowards.

Andrew held Andie like he had forgotten there was anyone else in the room.

“I’m home,” he whispered.

Andie patted his face.

“Da.”

Andrew looked at you over her head.

His face was destroyed.

“I’m home,” he said again.

You walked to him. His free arm came around you before you even reached him.

You folded into his side. Andie between you. Andrew’s hand at your back. Your face pressed to his shoulder.

No guard. No countdown. No glass.

Home.

Craig cleared his throat from somewhere behind you.

“I’m gonna…” He gestured at the kitchen.

Deran stood. “Yeah. Same.”

Neither of them moved.

You laughed through tears.

Andrew looked at them.

“Hey,” he said.

One word. Not enough. Too much.

Craig nodded, eyes red. “Hey.”

Deran shoved his hands into his pockets. “About time.”

Andrew’s mouth twitched. “Yeah.”

Andie grabbed his ear.

He winced.

You laughed. “Gentle.”

Andrew looked at her.

“She’s okay.”

“She is pulling your ear.”

“She can.”

“You are going to be impossible.”

“I know.”

Craig exhaled something like a laugh.

Deran looked down, smiling despite himself.

Andrew moved through the house like it was both familiar and not.

Because it was.

He had seen every corner in photographs. Heard every sound through phone calls. Knew which step creaked because you had once stepped on it during a call and he had asked about it. Knew the baby gate was crooked because he had been told many times. Knew the kitchen window caught morning light.

But seeing it was different.

Standing in it was different.

Touching it was different.

Andrew held Andie on his hip while you walked him slowly through the rooms. She did not want to be put down yet.

Neither did he.

In the living room, he stopped at the low shelf.

His photo was there. The one from the glass visit. The stupid rabbit book lay on the floor where Andie had dropped it. The approved player sat in the basket with the other recordings.

He crouched carefully, Andie still in his arms, and picked up the player.

“You still use it?”

You smiled. “Every day.”

His eyes flicked up. “Still?”

“Still.”

Andie tried to grab the player.

“No,” he said softly.

She frowned at him.

He stared.

“She’s mad.”

“She has been told no by Dada. Historic moment.”

Andie said, “No.”

Andrew looked betrayed.

You laughed. “She knows that one.”

“Who taught her that?”

“Everyone.”

He looked at Andie.

She smiled.

“No,” she said again, cheerful now.

Andrew blinked. “You’re very proud of yourself.”

Andie patted his chest.

He melted.

Immediately.

No dignity.

You took him upstairs.

The nursery door was open.

Andrew stopped in the hallway.

You rested a hand on his back.

“You okay?”

His eyes stayed on the room.

“Yeah.”

It did not sound true.

You did not push.

The green room waited. Soft walls. Creaky chair. Little bed. Books. Baskets. Blankets. The high shelf with the wooden duck.

Andrew stepped inside slowly.

Andie pointed immediately.

“Duck.”

His head snapped toward her.

Your mouth fell open. “Excuse me?”

Andie pointed again, delighted by the reaction.

“Duck.”

Andrew looked at you.

You were already crying.

“She has never said that clearly before,” you said.

Andrew stared at the wooden duck. Then at Andie.

“You waited?”

Andie smiled. “Duck.”

He laughed. It came out broken.

“She’s showing off,” you said.

“She is,” he whispered.

He carried her to the shelf and lifted her just enough to see the wooden duck, not close enough for her to grab it.

“That’s your duck,” he said.

Andie reached.

“No eating it,” he added.

You laughed through tears. “She still wants to eat it.”

“I know.”

“She has history with that duck.”

“So do I.”

His voice went softer on that one.

You stepped beside him. The three of you looked at the small carved duck with its wrong beak. The first thing he had made for her. The first piece of his hands that reached home before he could.

Andrew’s throat moved.

“You kept me here,” he said.

You looked at him.

He was staring around the nursery. The books. The photos. The chair. The duck. The player. The evidence of him woven into every soft corner.

“You were always here,” you said.

His eyes came to yours. “No.”

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You weren’t here in the way we wanted,” you said. “But you were in her bedtime. In her books. In the way she said Dada to half the furniture before she understood what it meant. You were on the fridge. On the shelf. In this room. In me.”

Andrew’s face changed.

You reached for his hand.

He gave it to you immediately.

“You were always here,” you repeated.

His fingers closed around yours.

This time, he let himself believe a piece of it.

You saw it happen.

Not all the way.

Enough.

Andie yawned, huge and dramatic.

Andrew looked at her immediately. “She tired?”

“Yes.”

“It’s early.”

“She had a big day.”

He looked panicked. “What do we do?”

You smiled.

“Bedtime.”

“Now?”

“Soon.”

“I don’t know bedtime.”

“You know parts.”

“I know recordings.”

“You know her.”

He looked doubtful.

You squeezed his hand.

“Let her teach you.”

Bedtime was chaos.

Of course it was.

Andrew had imagined it would be soft and quiet and meaningful.

It was meaningful.

It was not quiet.

Andie threw one sock into the hallway. She tried to crawl away during the pyjama change. She yelled “No” when Andrew handed her the stuffed duck, then immediately cried when he took it back. She stuck her foot in the sleeve of her sleep sack. She laughed when you sneezed. She called the lamp Dada.

Andrew looked wounded.

You nearly dropped the nappy from laughing.

“She knows you’re you,” you promised.

“She called the lamp Dada.”

“The lamp is tall and brooding.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It is extremely funny.”

Craig and Deran stayed downstairs, allegedly giving you privacy, though Craig had already come halfway up the stairs twice to ask if everything was okay.

The third time, you yelled, “We are parenting badly but safely.”

He yelled back, “Okay.”

Andrew looked at you.

“Badly?”

“With love.”

He considered that. Then nodded.

“Okay.”

Eventually, Andie was clean, changed, and in pyjamas with tiny stars on them. Her hair curled slightly at the back of her head, damp from the bath. Her cheeks were pink. Her eyes heavy.

You sat in the rocking chair out of habit.

Then paused.

Andrew stood near the shelf, holding the duck book.

You looked at him.

He looked at you.

“Do you want to?” you asked.

His hand tightened on the book.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“She might not settle.”

“She might not.”

“I might do it wrong.”

“You probably will.”

His eyes lifted.

You smiled softly.

“So will I. Constantly. Welcome home.”

He huffed a laugh.

You handed Andie to him.

She went willingly, sleepy and boneless now, one hand immediately gripping his shirt.

Andrew looked down at her.

Then at you.

“Sit,” you whispered.

He sat in the rocking chair.

The chair creaked.

His eyes flicked down.

You smiled. “Told you.”

“Needs oil.”

“Welcome to your first house project.”

Andie curled against his chest. Not asleep. Listening.

Andrew opened the duck book.

The real one.

Not a recording. Not his voice coming through a little speaker on a shelf.

Him.

In the room.

His daughter in his lap.

You leaned against the doorframe because if you sat too close, you were going to fall apart loudly, and Andie had only just stopped yelling at the sleep sack.

Andrew took a breath.

Then began.

“Hi, Andie.”

You pressed your hand to your mouth.

He stopped and looked up. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re crying.”

“A little.”

“Bad?”

“No.”

“Good crying?”

“Home crying.”

His face softened.

He looked back down at Andie.

“Hi, baby girl,” he whispered. “It’s me.”

Andie went completely still.

Her little head turned toward his chest.

Andrew’s eyes lifted to yours.

“She knows this one.”

You nodded, crying harder.

“She knows you.”

His mouth trembled.

Then he looked down and started reading.

Slowly.

Softly.

The same rhythm she had heard for months.

But different now.

Warmer. Closer.

His voice did not crackle. No static. No review process. No prison phone cutting out at the end.

It only had to cross the small space between his mouth and her sleepy head.

Andie’s eyes grew heavy. Her fist loosened in his shirt.

Andrew kept reading.

The duck got lost. The duck was brave. The duck found its way home.

By the final page, Andie was asleep against him, cheek pressed to his chest, one hand curled under her chin.

Andrew did not move.

He stared down at her like he was afraid breathing too deeply might undo it.

You stepped closer.

Quietly.

He looked up, eyes full.

“She’s asleep,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“On me.”

“I know.”

He looked back down.

“I don’t know what to do.”

You smiled through tears.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Just hold her.”

His throat moved. He nodded once.

You sat carefully on the floor beside the chair, your hand resting on his knee.

Andrew’s free hand came down over yours.

No hesitation now.

He held you there while he held her.

Downstairs, Craig and Deran were quiet.

The house was quiet.

Not empty quiet.

Not the old quiet.

Home quiet.

Full of breath and warmth and baby toys and crooked gates and stupid rabbit books and men downstairs pretending not to cry.

Andrew looked around the nursery.

The green walls. The duck. The books. The chair. You. Andie.

His life, waiting.

Not perfect. Not easy. Not untouched by everything that had happened.

But here.

His thumb moved over your knuckles.

“I’m home,” he said.

You leaned your cheek against his knee, eyes closing.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You are.”

For the first time, Andrew’s voice did not have to fight through wires, walls, or glass.

It only had to cross the small space between his mouth and his daughter’s sleeping head.

And this time, when the story ended, no line clicked off.

No guard knocked.

No timer ran out.

The duck found its way home.

And so did he.

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[acatnamedpusheen]

Keep It In The Closet

Jack Abbot x fem!resident!reader smut MDI

----------

Word Count: 3.5K

Summary: You crush over your older attending doctor and one day you end up confessing to him, which leads to a heated session at the hospital's supply closet.

Warnings: Controversial age gap (reader is in her 20s), inappropriate work relationship, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex and pulling out method (don't do that), poorly written, english not being my first language, inevitable grammatical errors, barely proof read, my inability to write short sentences

A/N: So, umm I'm down BAD for Shawn Hatosy (yes I'm super late to the party) and I felt the need to write some shitty self indulgent fic. But here is where it gets better because I've only watched the very first episode of The Pitt because I have this fear of medical/trauma stuff and felt like passing out while watching. With that being said, my perception of Jack Abbot is based on the 30 seconds of screen time he had on that episode, the tons of tiktok edits I've watched and the fics I've read in here. So, please excuse any inaccuracies regarding the way I've written him and the hospital setting in general. In conclusion, stay mad stay mystified. :")

P.s: In case anyone's wondering about the title it's from the Michael Jackson song.

----------

If somebody had asked you where you'd see yourself 4 months into your residency at the hospital, 'bent over against the wall of the supply closet getting fucked by your attending' would definitely not have been a possible answer.

And that's mainly because you never expected to find yourself in this kind of relationship with a man almost twice your age who happened to be your supervisor too.

But Dr. Abbot was different. He was impossible to not be attracted to. With that unique confidence and competence of his that made handling the entire night shift and its patients look easy. And that physique? Oh god... Those perfect salt and pepper curls, his sharp hazel eyes and those insane biceps you could see flexing with his every move. He had you feeling in a trance whenever you were in his presence.

Little did you know at first, however, that he was more or less on the same page. He'd noticed you straight away the very first day you came to the hospital. He sure had been sex deprived for a great while, yet it wasn't something he was seeking after, especially while being caught up in such demanding work schedule. Until you joined his team and had him feeling like a schoolboy all over again. Such pretty little thing, he'd think to himself, biting his lip, when his eyes were fixed on you from a safe distance. He knew this was inappropriate, disgusting even, to be seeing you in such way while being both older than you and in an authoritative position. But he couldn't fight those sinful thoughts each time his gaze would land on you and your perfect features. Or the irritability that stemmed from pure jealousy when he'd catch sight of any other male on the shift trying to hit on you.

Another thing you didn't really know, was how this dangerous subtle flirting between you was initiated. It had probably started with Jack never failing to praise you when you where handling a case correctly, with or without his instructions. To which you made sure to reply with a bat of your lashes and a seemingly harmless 'Thank you dr. Abbot.' that drove Jack insane and had him wishing he could have you right then and there. Then there were times when he'd be pushing you subtly more than others to do better. Making sure he pointed out a mistake in your charting or a patient's treatment. An those where the times where you'd hear him saying something like:

"Think it through." "Check this one more time." in that stern voice of his that never left any space for arguement.

Then it became a bit more evident when he'd leave snacks or coffee by your stuff in the break room.

"Figured you needed it." he'd reply with that nonchalant tone laced with genuine consideration when you'd ask him about it.

Then the boundaries where pushed even further when his hand started lingering a fraction of a second longer than necessary, yet enough for you to notice, on your lower back or your shoulder as he'd brush past you. The first time you felt him so close to you, the hairs on the back of your neck prickled and time seemed to have slowed down before he moved away and you were thrown back into the crazy pace of the ER.

From that moment on, you only craved him and his touch more. You kept imagining how those skilled hands of his would feel on your bare skin, exploring, touching, pleasuring you. Sure enough your gaze gave all that away when you were eyeing Jack during a confident reply to one of his witty comments, but maybe just maybe this was exactly what you wanted.

Until it began being obvious enough for Dana and Trinity to notice and probably any other person who could see the way yours and Jack's demeanor changed when you were around each other.

"You'll get your heart broken, you know, it will not end well." Dana had told you with a tired pessimistic tone one day after seeing you swoon over Jack for the umpteenth time.

"What are you even talking about?" you paused your charting, your head snapping to look at her standing next to you.

"You, going after your attending... Not the most responsible thing to do." she gave your desk a pat for emphasis before walking away. There was nothing absurd in her words, you just didn't want to admit it. Especially seeing how Jack seemed to be playing along with you.

Trinity was the next in line to 'scold' you for your controversial choices, a couple of days later.

"I mean, I get it and at the same time I don't." she said, her eyes following yours that were fixed on Jack handling a patient in some room opposite you. "He's not for you and you're not for him. This won't lead anywhere." to which you simply sighed still not looking at her.

"Why don't you go on Tinder? Find a couple dates your age and you'll see this was weird all along." she finally got you to face her with a fed up expression.

"What? I've had 3 relationships thanks to that app" she defended herself.

"Well I don't see any of them having lasted..." you pointed out.

"That's not the point, the point is that you need someone your age ok?"

And thank god for that patient being brought in that exact moment, saving you from having to continue the conversation.

Her and Dana's words kept playing in your mind though and you found yourself reusing that dusty old tinder account you'd opened ages ago.

Resulting in you talking to dumb guy after dumb guy and going to boring date after boring date. An attempt to prove to yourself that your little infatuation was just a phase and you were perfectly capable of pulling guys your age and enjoy their company.

But none of them could make you feel throughout an entire night the way Jack did with just a single glance or brush of his hand.

A handful of such dates later, you were getting tired, bored but most importantly you had ended up thinking about Jack more than you did before, if that was even possible, and it was taking a toll on you.

"What's gotten into you today?" Jack's slightly gravelly voice startled you as he entered the break room one day at an unusually quiet part of the shift, around 3-4am. You kept your back facing him as you leaned against the counter. Apparently your attempts to compose yourself and be professional had been rather unsuccessful and deep down you were painfully aware of the fact that you seemed off that day.

Of course Jack had picked up on it immediately. Your lack of patience, the fact that you were on edge and the complete absence of those brief flirtatious looks you always reserved for him.

You couldn't deny how sick and tired you were of trying. Trying to distract yourself from how down bad you were for him. Trying to find men your age so you could have something that felt a bit more normal, more appropriate.

"I'm fine." your response came sharply as you turned to face him.

"Don't lie to me sweetheart, cause the way you're acting out there says otherwise." he stayed exactly were he was, gazing at you as he moved his hands behind his back. His tone firm, yet not scolding, leaving you space to explain your situation. Seeing you avoid his eyes and keep quiet as if searching for a good enough excuse to have him out of your way as soon as possible, however, he decided to insist.

"Is it one of those assholes you've been finding online?"

He got his answer once he saw your eyes widening and upon seeing how you were trying to collect your thoughts and make sense of it all, he added:

"I heard you and Santos talking about it a few times." earning him a deep sigh and an eye roll on your behalf.

"God, I'm sorry for that..." you quickly became aware of how awkward it must have been for Jack to hear those conversations with Trinity.

"Nothing to be sorry for." he reassured you as he contemplated his next words, the ones that were more important. "But I want to know if anyone has been inappropriate..." he trailed off thinking he was probably being too nosy, demanding too much information from a part of your life in which he wasn't included.

"No, no, no reason to worry about anything like that." the nervous laugh and the way you kept avoiding his eyes, however, was telling him exactly the opposite.

"So there is something to be worried about?" two strides is all he needed to reach you. And now it felt like he was suddenly too close for your sanity.

"Jack..." you began without any clear thought of what you were going to say. But oh how his name sounded off your lips. You only referred to him that way during rare moments of the shift you shared alone, yet he longed to hear his first name in your sweet voice more often.

"Look, I won't force you to talk if you don't want to, but if there's anything going on just know that you can always talk to me." his genuine concern was evident. After all, he had been through enough in his life to want to protect the people he cared for as early on as possible.

You remained silent, just getting lost into his deep hazel gaze for a quick second. Wanting to tell him everything and nothing at the same time. Perhaps this was finally your chance to chose the first option.

"Have you ever badly wanted something, that you could not have and should not even be wanting to have...?" you knew that once those words were spoken out loud, there was no going back.

You kept going.

"And you try to find any substitute you can to forget about it and move on..." your pulse was quickening, your voice threatening to lose its steadiness. "Yet nothing works because nothing can compare and you're just left feeling hopeless and desperate?" you weren't sure if this subtle confession was more liberating than nerve wracking as you waited for Jack's reply.

"More times than I would like to admit." his expression softened yet his answer felt calculated and intentional just like his every move when he was out there saving lives.

"And what's your solution?" you could swear that at some point he must have taken another step towards you because now it felt like he was standing impossibly close. Or was it you who involuntarily had moved, pulled in by his scent- a mix of sandalwood, coffee and something entirely him?

"Depends on what it is that you want." Jack was no novice, he was well aware of the direction this conversation was taking.

"You promise not to think any less of me if I tell you?" the thumping of your heart was so intense you were sure it could be heard across the room at this point.

"Sweetheart, that would take a lot more if it were to happen, trust me." there he went again calling you that dulcet name, with that reassuring tone that drove you insane, as if it was the most natural thing to do.

"You. I want you." you almost hadn't let him finish speaking before you finally confessed. A number of diffrent scenarios were playing in your mind during the miliseconds that followed. Jack could very simply reject you. The whole shift could find out about this conversation. Hell you might even have to change shifts or hospital altogether.

But none of it was in Jack's response, because that didn't come in the form of words, but through a hungry and long awaited crash of his lips on yours.

Your mind instantly enetered autopilot not being able to comprehend the situation. Your body moved of its own accord as you kissed him back and your hands found purchase on his strong shoulders, the moment you felt his grip on your waist.

It was maddening, dizzying, the way his lips molded with yours, but he broke the kiss just as he had initiated it. Reminding you both that you were in a room that anyone could walk in any minute.

So you agreed to move things to the nearby supply closet, which could be locked from the inside. Still risking people looking for you but at least not walking in on such scandalous scene.

Once the door was locked safely, Jack was backing you up against it, resuming the feverish kisses that were soon travelling down your neck. You couldn't stop tracing his toned body, from his freckled arms, to his scrub cladded shoulders and the curls on the nape of his neck.

"Tell me to stop and I will." his husky voice brought you back to reality, as he squeezed your hips in an attempt to wait for your reply before allowing himself to indulge and explore your body further.

"I don't won't you to stop." you panted pulling him impossibly closer, You wanted every inch of him against you. Next thing you knew, with the grip he had on your hips, he was pulling you to back you up against the nearest empty wall.

"I know this is probably wrong, what we're doing, but I've been waiting for it since the moment I layed eyes on you." you whined at his words combined with the hand that slid to apply pressure on your clothed core.

"Show me. Show me what you were thinking about." growing needier by the second you moved in unison with his hand, chasing the friction, all while letting him ravish your neck.

"I would need more time than we currently have, but I could start giving you a taste if you'd spread your legs a bit for me." the hand that had been cupping you moved past your waistband once you gave him more space. He earned a gasp the moment two of his fingers started spreading your arousal, toying lightly with your clit then gliding all the way to nudge at your entrance.

Truth was Jack wanted you on his bed, all spread out for him so he could spend all the time in the world getting to know your body. Feeling your skin against his palms and how different it was on your thighs, your breasts, your pussy. Paying attention to how you reacted to his touch as he changed the spot, the pressure, the rythm.

Such thing was not possible in the restricted space of the supply closet, but he was determined to make you both feel good after months of pent up sexual tension.

"May I?" the pads of his digits circled your entrance with a medical precision to request permission to continue their venture.

"Please..." voice almost shaky with need, you bucked your hips to get him to move, maintaining a strong grip on his shoulders to keep yourself grounded. When he finally did move, a deep exhale tore through you in unison with his low groan.

"Is that what you wanted all along? For me to stretch that tight little cunt of yours with my fingers?" he was curling and pumping his digits in a way that had your knees going weak. "Because I definitely did." he added a thumb on your clit and shushed the moan that left your lips immediately after. "Shh shh. Stay quiet for me. Don't want anyone hearing us." and his lips went back to devouring yours, his stubble adding a heavenly edge to the kisses.

"I always imagined how you would feel inside me." your mind was clouded with pleasure, as your hand reached for his clothed bulge eliciting a hiss against your lips once you began palming him.

"Be patient, sweetheart, I need to get you ready first." he was evidently growing impatient himself. Your delicate hand on his painfully hard cock making his breath labored.

Soon, you were grabbing his wrist to stop the relentless pace of his fingering moments away from your orgasm. If you were to come whithin your given time restriction, you much preferred it to be on his cock.

"What am I gonna do with you, hm?" was all he murmured upon hearing your request, voice straining with desire. But before he allowed himself to continue he made sure to lick clean the fingers that were glistening with your arousal. His lust filled gaze never leaving yours as a content groan rumbled deep within his chest upon tasting you. "Now turn around, hands on the wall." he comanded using the same tone he did when giving you instructions during a case on the shift. Naturally you obeyed, palms coming in contact with the hard surface of the wall, your back arching so your still clothed ass was on full display for Jack.

He wasted no time in lowering your pants and underwear until they pooled at your feet. One rough hand reaching to knead your backside, while the other freed his cock and pumped a few times. A pathetic whine of his name left your lips when his tip slid on your wet folds. "Use your words, tell me what you need." he urged you in a commanding manner while squeezing your hips.

"I need you..." you tried to chase the friction of him against your pussy.

"Need me to do what?" it was ridiculously easy to hold you still until he got an answer.

"I need you to fuck me." a pause "Please..." you added before he asked.

"There we go, that's my good girl." that was the moment he finally started pushing inside you, having you both trying to supress the most explicit sounds. Halfway in he paused to check in on you. "Is this okay?" "Yes." you sighed getting accustomed to the deliciously intense stretch.

That was all he needed to carefully slide all the way in until he bottomed out. He stopped once again, giving you time and letting you both feel each other as close as you've ever been. When his mouth found its spot on the side of your neck for the umpteenth time, he started touching his way up your torso, under your scrubs, until he reached your bra cladded breasts and kneaded them, causing your pussy to clench.

That worked as his signal to begin moving with languid deep strokes that he soon was speeding up seeing the way you were pushing back, aching for more. "Does that feel good?" part of the pleasure for him was making sure you were comfortable and enjoying it as much as he was.

"Good girl, you're taking me so well." he added after your reassurance, picking up the pace and withdrawing one of his hands from your breasts to bring it to your swollen clit.

The sight was obscene - you, a resident doctor bent over against the wall of the hospital's supply closet, arched like a cat while Jack, your attending was thrusting in and out of you, with his hands on your most private parts.

And it was about to get even more obscene as your orgasm was undeniably approaching. Jack was close too, with the way he was struggling to keep quiet and his thrusts were getting desperate.

"Come for me sweetheart. Come on, you did so well, let me see you." he knew you were close by the uncontrolable flutter of your walls around him.

The soft praises that he practically whimpered in your ear combined with the sweet pressure of his cock and the circling of your clit had you reaching your orgasm with a string of profanities mixed with Jack's name falling from your lips. Your nails clawed at the wall as your vision turned white and Jack held his own release through gritted teeth to help you ride yours. Seconds later, he was pulling out and releasing in his tight fist with a guttural groan.

"Next time, I'm buying you dinner first." he was the first one to break the silence as you were catching your breaths, trying to get cleaned up and dressed to return to the chaos of the ER as soon as possible. "And then you're coming to my place, to treat you the way you deserve." a new excitement started blooming within you hearing him say that.

"That's right sweetheart. So I better not see you running after random assholes." he was reaching for the door, his professional demeanor slowly returning.

"Alright doc." you gave him a playfull smirk to which he replied with a quick cheeky wink before exiting and closing the door so no one caught you together. Leaving you in that post-sex high and with a promise that had your head spinning.

[acatnamedpusheen]

Keep It In The Closet

Jack Abbot x fem!resident!reader smut MDI

----------

Word Count: 3.5K

Summary: You crush over your older attending doctor and one day you end up confessing to him, which leads to a heated session at the hospital's supply closet.

Warnings: Controversial age gap (reader is in her 20s), inappropriate work relationship, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex and pulling out method (don't do that), poorly written, english not being my first language, inevitable grammatical errors, barely proof read, my inability to write short sentences

A/N: So, umm I'm down BAD for Shawn Hatosy (yes I'm super late to the party) and I felt the need to write some shitty self indulgent fic. But here is where it gets better because I've only watched the very first episode of The Pitt because I have this fear of medical/trauma stuff and felt like passing out while watching. With that being said, my perception of Jack Abbot is based on the 30 seconds of screen time he had on that episode, the tons of tiktok edits I've watched and the fics I've read in here. So, please excuse any inaccuracies regarding the way I've written him and the hospital setting in general. In conclusion, stay mad stay mystified. :")

P.s: In case anyone's wondering about the title it's from the Michael Jackson song.

----------

If somebody had asked you where you'd see yourself 4 months into your residency at the hospital, 'bent over against the wall of the supply closet getting fucked by your attending' would definitely not have been a possible answer.

And that's mainly because you never expected to find yourself in this kind of relationship with a man almost twice your age who happened to be your supervisor too.

But Dr. Abbot was different. He was impossible to not be attracted to. With that unique confidence and competence of his that made handling the entire night shift and its patients look easy. And that physique? Oh god... Those perfect salt and pepper curls, his sharp hazel eyes and those insane biceps you could see flexing with his every move. He had you feeling in a trance whenever you were in his presence.

Little did you know at first, however, that he was more or less on the same page. He'd noticed you straight away the very first day you came to the hospital. He sure had been sex deprived for a great while, yet it wasn't something he was seeking after, especially while being caught up in such demanding work schedule. Until you joined his team and had him feeling like a schoolboy all over again. Such pretty little thing, he'd think to himself, biting his lip, when his eyes were fixed on you from a safe distance. He knew this was inappropriate, disgusting even, to be seeing you in such way while being both older than you and in an authoritative position. But he couldn't fight those sinful thoughts each time his gaze would land on you and your perfect features. Or the irritability that stemmed from pure jealousy when he'd catch sight of any other male on the shift trying to hit on you.

Another thing you didn't really know, was how this dangerous subtle flirting between you was initiated. It had probably started with Jack never failing to praise you when you where handling a case correctly, with or without his instructions. To which you made sure to reply with a bat of your lashes and a seemingly harmless 'Thank you dr. Abbot.' that drove Jack insane and had him wishing he could have you right then and there. Then there were times when he'd be pushing you subtly more than others to do better. Making sure he pointed out a mistake in your charting or a patient's treatment. An those where the times where you'd hear him saying something like:

"Think it through." "Check this one more time." in that stern voice of his that never left any space for arguement.

Then it became a bit more evident when he'd leave snacks or coffee by your stuff in the break room.

"Figured you needed it." he'd reply with that nonchalant tone laced with genuine consideration when you'd ask him about it.

Then the boundaries where pushed even further when his hand started lingering a fraction of a second longer than necessary, yet enough for you to notice, on your lower back or your shoulder as he'd brush past you. The first time you felt him so close to you, the hairs on the back of your neck prickled and time seemed to have slowed down before he moved away and you were thrown back into the crazy pace of the ER.

From that moment on, you only craved him and his touch more. You kept imagining how those skilled hands of his would feel on your bare skin, exploring, touching, pleasuring you. Sure enough your gaze gave all that away when you were eyeing Jack during a confident reply to one of his witty comments, but maybe just maybe this was exactly what you wanted.

Until it began being obvious enough for Dana and Trinity to notice and probably any other person who could see the way yours and Jack's demeanor changed when you were around each other.

"You'll get your heart broken, you know, it will not end well." Dana had told you with a tired pessimistic tone one day after seeing you swoon over Jack for the umpteenth time.

"What are you even talking about?" you paused your charting, your head snapping to look at her standing next to you.

"You, going after your attending... Not the most responsible thing to do." she gave your desk a pat for emphasis before walking away. There was nothing absurd in her words, you just didn't want to admit it. Especially seeing how Jack seemed to be playing along with you.

Trinity was the next in line to 'scold' you for your controversial choices, a couple of days later.

"I mean, I get it and at the same time I don't." she said, her eyes following yours that were fixed on Jack handling a patient in some room opposite you. "He's not for you and you're not for him. This won't lead anywhere." to which you simply sighed still not looking at her.

"Why don't you go on Tinder? Find a couple dates your age and you'll see this was weird all along." she finally got you to face her with a fed up expression.

"What? I've had 3 relationships thanks to that app" she defended herself.

"Well I don't see any of them having lasted..." you pointed out.

"That's not the point, the point is that you need someone your age ok?"

And thank god for that patient being brought in that exact moment, saving you from having to continue the conversation.

Her and Dana's words kept playing in your mind though and you found yourself reusing that dusty old tinder account you'd opened ages ago.

Resulting in you talking to dumb guy after dumb guy and going to boring date after boring date. An attempt to prove to yourself that your little infatuation was just a phase and you were perfectly capable of pulling guys your age and enjoy their company.

But none of them could make you feel throughout an entire night the way Jack did with just a single glance or brush of his hand.

A handful of such dates later, you were getting tired, bored but most importantly you had ended up thinking about Jack more than you did before, if that was even possible, and it was taking a toll on you.

"What's gotten into you today?" Jack's slightly gravelly voice startled you as he entered the break room one day at an unusually quiet part of the shift, around 3-4am. You kept your back facing him as you leaned against the counter. Apparently your attempts to compose yourself and be professional had been rather unsuccessful and deep down you were painfully aware of the fact that you seemed off that day.

Of course Jack had picked up on it immediately. Your lack of patience, the fact that you were on edge and the complete absence of those brief flirtatious looks you always reserved for him.

You couldn't deny how sick and tired you were of trying. Trying to distract yourself from how down bad you were for him. Trying to find men your age so you could have something that felt a bit more normal, more appropriate.

"I'm fine." your response came sharply as you turned to face him.

"Don't lie to me sweetheart, cause the way you're acting out there says otherwise." he stayed exactly were he was, gazing at you as he moved his hands behind his back. His tone firm, yet not scolding, leaving you space to explain your situation. Seeing you avoid his eyes and keep quiet as if searching for a good enough excuse to have him out of your way as soon as possible, however, he decided to insist.

"Is it one of those assholes you've been finding online?"

He got his answer once he saw your eyes widening and upon seeing how you were trying to collect your thoughts and make sense of it all, he added:

"I heard you and Santos talking about it a few times." earning him a deep sigh and an eye roll on your behalf.

"God, I'm sorry for that..." you quickly became aware of how awkward it must have been for Jack to hear those conversations with Trinity.

"Nothing to be sorry for." he reassured you as he contemplated his next words, the ones that were more important. "But I want to know if anyone has been inappropriate..." he trailed off thinking he was probably being too nosy, demanding too much information from a part of your life in which he wasn't included.

"No, no, no reason to worry about anything like that." the nervous laugh and the way you kept avoiding his eyes, however, was telling him exactly the opposite.

"So there is something to be worried about?" two strides is all he needed to reach you. And now it felt like he was suddenly too close for your sanity.

"Jack..." you began without any clear thought of what you were going to say. But oh how his name sounded off your lips. You only referred to him that way during rare moments of the shift you shared alone, yet he longed to hear his first name in your sweet voice more often.

"Look, I won't force you to talk if you don't want to, but if there's anything going on just know that you can always talk to me." his genuine concern was evident. After all, he had been through enough in his life to want to protect the people he cared for as early on as possible.

You remained silent, just getting lost into his deep hazel gaze for a quick second. Wanting to tell him everything and nothing at the same time. Perhaps this was finally your chance to chose the first option.

"Have you ever badly wanted something, that you could not have and should not even be wanting to have...?" you knew that once those words were spoken out loud, there was no going back.

You kept going.

"And you try to find any substitute you can to forget about it and move on..." your pulse was quickening, your voice threatening to lose its steadiness. "Yet nothing works because nothing can compare and you're just left feeling hopeless and desperate?" you weren't sure if this subtle confession was more liberating than nerve wracking as you waited for Jack's reply.

"More times than I would like to admit." his expression softened yet his answer felt calculated and intentional just like his every move when he was out there saving lives.

"And what's your solution?" you could swear that at some point he must have taken another step towards you because now it felt like he was standing impossibly close. Or was it you who involuntarily had moved, pulled in by his scent- a mix of sandalwood, coffee and something entirely him?

"Depends on what it is that you want." Jack was no novice, he was well aware of the direction this conversation was taking.

"You promise not to think any less of me if I tell you?" the thumping of your heart was so intense you were sure it could be heard across the room at this point.

"Sweetheart, that would take a lot more if it were to happen, trust me." there he went again calling you that dulcet name, with that reassuring tone that drove you insane, as if it was the most natural thing to do.

"You. I want you." you almost hadn't let him finish speaking before you finally confessed. A number of diffrent scenarios were playing in your mind during the miliseconds that followed. Jack could very simply reject you. The whole shift could find out about this conversation. Hell you might even have to change shifts or hospital altogether.

But none of it was in Jack's response, because that didn't come in the form of words, but through a hungry and long awaited crash of his lips on yours.

Your mind instantly enetered autopilot not being able to comprehend the situation. Your body moved of its own accord as you kissed him back and your hands found purchase on his strong shoulders, the moment you felt his grip on your waist.

It was maddening, dizzying, the way his lips molded with yours, but he broke the kiss just as he had initiated it. Reminding you both that you were in a room that anyone could walk in any minute.

So you agreed to move things to the nearby supply closet, which could be locked from the inside. Still risking people looking for you but at least not walking in on such scandalous scene.

Once the door was locked safely, Jack was backing you up against it, resuming the feverish kisses that were soon travelling down your neck. You couldn't stop tracing his toned body, from his freckled arms, to his scrub cladded shoulders and the curls on the nape of his neck.

"Tell me to stop and I will." his husky voice brought you back to reality, as he squeezed your hips in an attempt to wait for your reply before allowing himself to indulge and explore your body further.

"I don't won't you to stop." you panted pulling him impossibly closer, You wanted every inch of him against you. Next thing you knew, with the grip he had on your hips, he was pulling you to back you up against the nearest empty wall.

"I know this is probably wrong, what we're doing, but I've been waiting for it since the moment I layed eyes on you." you whined at his words combined with the hand that slid to apply pressure on your clothed core.

"Show me. Show me what you were thinking about." growing needier by the second you moved in unison with his hand, chasing the friction, all while letting him ravish your neck.

"I would need more time than we currently have, but I could start giving you a taste if you'd spread your legs a bit for me." the hand that had been cupping you moved past your waistband once you gave him more space. He earned a gasp the moment two of his fingers started spreading your arousal, toying lightly with your clit then gliding all the way to nudge at your entrance.

Truth was Jack wanted you on his bed, all spread out for him so he could spend all the time in the world getting to know your body. Feeling your skin against his palms and how different it was on your thighs, your breasts, your pussy. Paying attention to how you reacted to his touch as he changed the spot, the pressure, the rythm.

Such thing was not possible in the restricted space of the supply closet, but he was determined to make you both feel good after months of pent up sexual tension.

"May I?" the pads of his digits circled your entrance with a medical precision to request permission to continue their venture.

"Please..." voice almost shaky with need, you bucked your hips to get him to move, maintaining a strong grip on his shoulders to keep yourself grounded. When he finally did move, a deep exhale tore through you in unison with his low groan.

"Is that what you wanted all along? For me to stretch that tight little cunt of yours with my fingers?" he was curling and pumping his digits in a way that had your knees going weak. "Because I definitely did." he added a thumb on your clit and shushed the moan that left your lips immediately after. "Shh shh. Stay quiet for me. Don't want anyone hearing us." and his lips went back to devouring yours, his stubble adding a heavenly edge to the kisses.

"I always imagined how you would feel inside me." your mind was clouded with pleasure, as your hand reached for his clothed bulge eliciting a hiss against your lips once you began palming him.

"Be patient, sweetheart, I need to get you ready first." he was evidently growing impatient himself. Your delicate hand on his painfully hard cock making his breath labored.

Soon, you were grabbing his wrist to stop the relentless pace of his fingering moments away from your orgasm. If you were to come whithin your given time restriction, you much preferred it to be on his cock.

"What am I gonna do with you, hm?" was all he murmured upon hearing your request, voice straining with desire. But before he allowed himself to continue he made sure to lick clean the fingers that were glistening with your arousal. His lust filled gaze never leaving yours as a content groan rumbled deep within his chest upon tasting you. "Now turn around, hands on the wall." he comanded using the same tone he did when giving you instructions during a case on the shift. Naturally you obeyed, palms coming in contact with the hard surface of the wall, your back arching so your still clothed ass was on full display for Jack.

He wasted no time in lowering your pants and underwear until they pooled at your feet. One rough hand reaching to knead your backside, while the other freed his cock and pumped a few times. A pathetic whine of his name left your lips when his tip slid on your wet folds. "Use your words, tell me what you need." he urged you in a commanding manner while squeezing your hips.

"I need you..." you tried to chase the friction of him against your pussy.

"Need me to do what?" it was ridiculously easy to hold you still until he got an answer.

"I need you to fuck me." a pause "Please..." you added before he asked.

"There we go, that's my good girl." that was the moment he finally started pushing inside you, having you both trying to supress the most explicit sounds. Halfway in he paused to check in on you. "Is this okay?" "Yes." you sighed getting accustomed to the deliciously intense stretch.

That was all he needed to carefully slide all the way in until he bottomed out. He stopped once again, giving you time and letting you both feel each other as close as you've ever been. When his mouth found its spot on the side of your neck for the umpteenth time, he started touching his way up your torso, under your scrubs, until he reached your bra cladded breasts and kneaded them, causing your pussy to clench.

That worked as his signal to begin moving with languid deep strokes that he soon was speeding up seeing the way you were pushing back, aching for more. "Does that feel good?" part of the pleasure for him was making sure you were comfortable and enjoying it as much as he was.

"Good girl, you're taking me so well." he added after your reassurance, picking up the pace and withdrawing one of his hands from your breasts to bring it to your swollen clit.

The sight was obscene - you, a resident doctor bent over against the wall of the hospital's supply closet, arched like a cat while Jack, your attending was thrusting in and out of you, with his hands on your most private parts.

And it was about to get even more obscene as your orgasm was undeniably approaching. Jack was close too, with the way he was struggling to keep quiet and his thrusts were getting desperate.

"Come for me sweetheart. Come on, you did so well, let me see you." he knew you were close by the uncontrolable flutter of your walls around him.

The soft praises that he practically whimpered in your ear combined with the sweet pressure of his cock and the circling of your clit had you reaching your orgasm with a string of profanities mixed with Jack's name falling from your lips. Your nails clawed at the wall as your vision turned white and Jack held his own release through gritted teeth to help you ride yours. Seconds later, he was pulling out and releasing in his tight fist with a guttural groan.

"Next time, I'm buying you dinner first." he was the first one to break the silence as you were catching your breaths, trying to get cleaned up and dressed to return to the chaos of the ER as soon as possible. "And then you're coming to my place, to treat you the way you deserve." a new excitement started blooming within you hearing him say that.

"That's right sweetheart. So I better not see you running after random assholes." he was reaching for the door, his professional demeanor slowly returning.

"Alright doc." you gave him a playfull smirk to which he replied with a quick cheeky wink before exiting and closing the door so no one caught you together. Leaving you in that post-sex high and with a promise that had your head spinning.

[laymedowntosleep13]

~Mine to Keep Pt 5~

*Andrew Pope Cody/F!reader*

(Please check out my page for first 4 parts)

Summary: You and Pope deal with the aftermath of the church job and secrets come out.

Warnings: *SPOILERS* 18+ MDNI. Explicit sexual content including vaginal fingering oral sex m receiving and f receiving, unprotected pinv, cream pie, semi public sex, drug use, alcohol consumption, soft dom pope if you squint, Sub Pope if you squint,brief religion mentions, feminine reader with blonde hair briefly mentioned, physical violence, physical and verbal abuse, canon Smurf behaviour, pregnancy and discussion of pregnancy (I will apologize in advance if I missed anything I am new to this)

Notes: Hey friends! This part isn’t as long as the others but I hope you love it all the same. I am currently working on part 6 and I have fully decided what direction I am going yet but I can promise you Pope is getting the happy ending he deserves. As always be kind and leave me some love!

Word Count: 5.6K

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A couple of nights later you are getting ready for Derans bar opening. You are giving the bar top one last cursory wipe before people are due to start showing up. You watch as Deran paces back and forth in front of you. “You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor if you keep doing that” you tell him dryly.

He stops and turns to you running his hands through his hair. “Why is no one here yet? The sun is down the surfers should be out of the water by now” he begins pacing again.

You look towards the clock and it’s barely past 9pm “Der the sun is barely down give people some time” you try to comfort him. He sighs heavily coming behind the bar and grabbing a beer. You smirk at him “don’t consume all the merchandise before we’ve even had a customer”

Suddenly you can hear voices outside the door and you watch as people begin to start trickling in off the beach. You grab Derans arm giving him a wide grin and begin taking people’s orders.

Pope, Craig and Baz follow in behind the beach goers each taking a seat at the bar. Deran comes over to them giving them each a beer “on the house” he tells them.

Pope smirks at him “it’s not on the house this beer cost me 16 grand” he jokes giving Deran a light punch in the arm. Pope looks down the bar and sees you smiling at customers as you take orders and pour drinks completely in your element. You catch his eye and wink at him as you continue on with your customers. Pope smiles getting up to go over to you when Deran pushes him back down in his seat.

“Stay the fuck there” Deran tells him “She’s not your girlfriend tonight she’s my bartender and she’s got a job to do” Pope pins him with a withering look and Deran sighs “Please, at least for tonight. Let’s see how well she does before people get scared off knowing she’s yours”

Pope gives him a long look and nods bringing his beer to his lips. He could keep an eye on you from here. He watches you with the customers, they love you. You have an easy smile and the way you flip your hair over your shoulder has all of the guys lining up drooling. Pope watches one guy get brave hanging around longer than necessary.

You’re busy pouring drinks and taking orders when one customer starts being more insistent than others. You try to be barely polite just giving him smiles when necessary but this seems to spur him on. “Hey gorgeous how about you have a drink with me” he says with a cocky smile.

You look back at him with a practiced smile “Well I’m kinda busy working right now so I can’t but I’m happy to get you another” you tell him in a bright voice brushing past him.

He reaches out and grabs your wrist in a tight hold. “How about you just be nice and have a drink with me” he says in a sharp tone. You glance over at Pope and you can see him starting to get up but you see Deran force him to sit back down. You swear if looks could kill Deran would be six feet under.

You take a deep breath turning back to the man “Sir I am going to ask you nicely once to let me go” you say in a sweet voice.

The man gives you a cold smile “Have a drink with me and I’ll let you go sweetheart”

You let out a sigh and say to him in a fake sad voice “I warned you” you grab the back of the man’s head and slam his face into the bar top with a sickening crunch.

The man wails “You broke my nose you fucking bitch!”

You give him a sweet smile as blood pours down his face “Well maybe now you’ll remember to not touch a woman without her consent” you watch as Deran grabs him throwing him out of the bar.

Pope comes up to you then grabbing your arm gingerly “Did he hurt you?” he asks softly turning your wrist over looking for bruises.

You smile up at him “No baby you taught me well” you tell him. When you first started living with the Cody’s you had insisted on learning self defence and Pope made sure you would never be defenceless against a man again.

He gives you a smirk leaning across the bar and planting a messy kiss on your lips. He pulls back whispering in your ear “Watching you do that made me want to bend you over this bar in front of everyone”

You feel your cheeks heat at his words and you bite your lip fighting back a moan. Deran comes back and witnesses the scene between the two of you “Pope get the fuck away from my bartender before I hose you down with the beverage gun” he barks.

Pope flips him off before backing away going back to sit with Baz. As he sits back at the table Baz smirks at him. “What?” Pope grunts out.

Baz’s smirk deepens “Nothin man I’ve just never seen you like this with anyone”

Pope tips back his beer “Like what?

Baz chuckles “So disgustingly in love”

Pope glances at him over his beer and shrugs. He would do anything to give you the world you deserved because he knew you deserved better than him even if you didn’t believe that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next couple of weeks went by suspiciously quietly. You worked at the bar and the guys worked on laundering the money from the church.

You and Pope spent a lot of time looking after Lena now that Cath was gone. You both knew Baz couldn’t bother to be a father and now that Lucy was back in the picture he was even more absent.

You had just gotten Lena to bed and Pope was cleaning up the kitchen when Baz called. Smurf had been arrested. Someone had tipped off the authorities and they took her in.

Pope hung up the phone and you sat on the couch together quietly “What do we do?” You ask softly.

“We leave her there to rot” he says gruffly.

You look over at him slowly “Are you ok?” You ask “I know she’s a terrible person but she’s still your mom”

He just scoffs shaking his head standing pulling you with him. He looks down at you cupping your face “I don’t want to talk about Smurf right now” he rasps out before crushing his lips to yours.

You gasp surprised at the turn in his demeanour. He takes your gasp as an invitation to trace his tongue along yours as he lets out a deep groan. You break away “Andy, maybe this isn’t the right-“ you start.

He drops his forehead to yours “Please” he begs in a broken voice “Please baby”.

You acquiesce bringing his lips back to yours. You turn the two of you so you can push Pope back on the couch. He looks up at you his gaze heavy. “Take your cock out” you command him in a throaty voice. He listens immediately unbuckling his jeans breathing heavily as he pulls himself out of his boxers. “I’m going to take my clothes off” you tell him “and you’re going to fuck your hand while I do it”

He whimpers and nods eagerly. You slowly and sensually start to peel yourself out of your clothes. Once you’re in nothing but your lace thong you drop to your knees in between Popes thighs watching as he continues to stroke himself. “You can stop now baby” you coo “I’m going to take care of you now” you lean forward taking this head of his cock into your mouth as he lets out a deep throaty groan.

He lets you set the pace as you take him deeper and deeper swirling your tongue around him. You can feel him starting to twitch in your mouth and you know he’s getting close. You lift yourself off him with pop looking up at him with heavily lidded eyes. “Use my mouth Andy” you tell him “use me to make yourself cum”

He whimpers shaking his head “Can’t” he grunts “I don’t want to hurt you”

“You won’t baby, it’s ok” you whisper.

He groans fisting your hair as he brings your mouth back to his throbbing cock. He fucks your mouth roughly making you gag as tears run down your face. Your cunt throbs you love when he’s rough with you. Drool runs down your chin he forces your nose to his pubic bone as he spills down your throat choking on a groan. You lick every inch of his cock making sure you don’t miss a drop of his cum as he pets your hair.

You let him fall from your mouth and he pulls you up into his lap kissing you deeply. “Fuck I love you” he groans. He slides his fingers between your legs smirking “you get this wet from sucking my cock baby?”

You nod moaning into his shoulder trying to keep quiet. He makes you stand up as he kneels on the floor pulling your thong down your legs. He sits with his back against the couch so he can lean his head against the couch cushions “C’mon baby you’re gonna ride my face until I’m drowning in you”

You walk forward tentatively bracing your knees on either side of his face bracing yourself against the back of the couch. He pulls you down by your thighs so you’re fully seated on his mouth. He licks a thick stripe through your folds and you let out a breathy moan. He eats you like a man starved as you grind down on his mouth. You can feel your orgasm building as he fucks you with his tongue. “Fuck Andy” you gasp out “I’m gonna cum” he groans under you sucking your clit into his mouth. You shatter burying your face into the couch as you cry out so you don’t wake up Lena. He licks and sucks as you come down. You flop to the side and he climbs up beside you.

Pope wraps a blanket around you pressing sweet kisses to your lips and cheeks. Your eyes are heavy as you lean into him. You barely feel it when he lifts you gently putting you to bed pressing a kiss to your forehead before turning to go back to the couch. You grab his hand “Andy don’t go” you whisper “just stay in here”

He looks around the room swallowing thickly “I can’t” and he turns and leaves the room leaving you alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day you’re all sitting in the living at Smurfs, Baz with Lucy, J with Nicki, Deran and Craig sitting uncomfortably in the tension away from everyone and you with Popes arm around you.

Baz breaks the silence first “What’s she doing here” he asks gesturing to Nikki.

J glares at Baz “I could ask the same about her” he says nodding at Lucy.

Baz’s lip curls “I want her here”

“Well I want her here” he snaps back.

The tension in the room is thick as they discuss the money that Smurf had been hiding from them. The money that was now in Baz’s possession. You listened to Baz and J snipe at each other until the tension broke and Baz launches himself at J.

Pope is the one to break it up “Enough!” He yells. You both look up and see Lena in the kitchen watching all of this unfold. You rush forward picking her up. “Enough.” Pope says again dangerously quiet.

The two of you sit outside with Lena as she plays with chalk on the pool deck. You can see Popes jaw clenching and unclenching. The back door opens and you see Baz and Lucy step out. “Cmon Lena you’re going to Alison’s” Baz says. Lena gets up slowly giving you and Pope a hug before she leaves with the two of them.

Deran wanders out the back door “Scout I need you to open the bar I got something I gotta do” he says looking at the ground.

You purse your lips raising an eyebrow “Something named Adrian?” You ask dryly.

He rolls his eyes knowing he’s caught “Can you open the bar or not?”

“Yeah I’ll open the damn bar but I’m not closing it” you tell him.

He waves you off “That’s fine Tessa is closing tonight”

You look over at Pope he’s staring blankly at the pool fidgeting with his hands. “Hey” you say softly “You ok?”

He glances at you quickly. “Fine” he grunts out “you should get ready for work” he stands up kissing the top of your head and walking back into the house.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few hours later you’re pouring drinks when the second bartender comes in and you greet her brightly. She smiles and gets to work. You start getting ready to leave when you see Pope walk in looking panicked. He stops in front of you “I need to talk to you”

You nod pulling him back into Derans office “what’s going on Andy?” You ask worriedly.

“Do you believe in forgiveness?” He asks his voice cracking.

You shake your head confused “What?”

He takes a deep shaky breath “If someone does something awful” he starts “do you believe they can be forgiven?”

A feeling of dread settles in your gut “Andy what happened?”

A sob broke free from his chest “I didn’t want to hurt her” he cries “Smurf told me she was going to talk to the police. She was never going to talk! She lied to me!” He wailed.

Pope falls to his knees on the ground leaning his forehead against your stomach sobs heaving from his chest. You drop to his level holding his face in your hands “Andrew what are you talking about?” You ask shakily “Who did you hurt?”

His face crumples “Cath” he croaks out “Smurf told me she was going to the cops about us I was trying to protect us. I held a pillow over her face until she stopped moving.”

Your breath catches in your throat and your eyes widen. You knew he wouldn’t have done anything to Cath without Smurfs influence, if he didn’t feel threatened. “Andy….” You whisper. Just then the door to the office opened slightly.

“Hey Scout” Tessa says “Sorry to interrupt but I need your help for a sec”

You take a deep breath saying as steadily as you can “ok I’ll be right there” she nods and leaves. You look back at Pope “I’ll be right back ok?” He doesn’t look at you as you leave the room.

You finish with Tessa and rush back to the office to find it empty. Your heart hammers in your chest as you run around the bar looking for Pope but he’s gone.

You run out to your car dialling his number over and over again and each it time it goes to voicemail. You punch the steering wheel. “Fuck!” You scream. You try calling the other Cody’s and no one answers. So you start driving around hoping and praying that you might find him.

Eventually your phone rings and it’s J. You answer the phone quickly you can hear music blasting “J tell me you have seen Pope” you say to him.

“I just got off the phone with him he’s on the way here something happened with Lena…”

You pull up to the house and run inside. You run into the living room in time to see Pope grab a shot gun from the fireplace. You curse under your breath. You find Deran and Craig in the kitchen and they see what you see and immediately run with you outside.

Pope pulls the plugs for the speakers cocking the gun “GET.OUT.” He yells. People start scattering running for the exits.

You run over to Pope grabbing the gun out of his hands. He looks down at you his eyes haunted. You feel your anger bubble over and you slap him across the face. “How dare you do that to me” you say to him lowly. “I called and called I couldn’t reach you I thought you did something Andy I was so fucking scared” you feel the tears spill over and track down your cheeks.

He pulls you into his arms holding you tightly “I’m sorry” he whispers “I’m so sorry”

You take a shaky breath pulling back from him to look him in the eye “I forgive you Andy” you whisper. His face crumples and he sobs into your shoulder.

Once you have both calmed down you go to find Lena. You find her sleeping in Smurfs bed with Lucy sitting in a chair scrolling on her phone. You look at Lucy and ask “What the fuck happened?”

Lucy gives you a bored look “she just wandered off she’s fine”

Pope looks at Lucy Fury in his eyes “get the fuck out” he growls. Lucy leaves and Pope takes over the chair she was sitting in. “I’m gonna stay here tonight” he mutters.

You nod pulling up a chair beside him “Me too” you tell him softly leaning your head on his shoulder and taking his hand. He turns kissing the top of your head. You can feel your heart rate slowing and your eyes getting heavy as the adrenaline from the night finally crashes. Pope starts rubbing his thumb up and down across the back of your hand and the comforting motion lulls you into a dreamless sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Smurf told Baz about Cath a few days later. You were working at the bar when Pope came rushing in. He grabbed you, Deran and Craig pulling you aside. “If something happens to me I need you to promise you’ll take care of Lena” he says to you and Deran solemnly.

Your brow furrows “Pope what are you talking about?”

He glances at you “Baz knows. Shits about to go down”

Your eyes widen “Andy…” you whisper.

He rushes over to you kissing you deeply “No matter what happens” he says roughly “you are the best thing that ever happened me. I love you more than anything”

Tears prick the back of your eyes “Andy please” you beg. He kisses you one more time and runs out the door.

You break down in sobs as Deran holds you. Neither him or Craig fully understand what is happening but they know something is very very wrong.

Deran sends you home at that point. You walk into Smurfs and find Baz sitting there with a gun. “I don’t wanna hurt you Scout but I will if I have to” he tells you calmly.

You swallow roughly “What do you want from me Baz?”

He gets up pointing the gun at you “You’re gonna get in the car. And we’re going to Popes”

You know you have no way to fight him so you do what he says. He keeps the gun trained on you the entire drive over. You walk into Popes apartment and find him sitting on the edge of his patio. “Pope” you say quietly.

He spins around his eyes widening as he takes in Baz with the gun to your head. “Baz leave her out of this” he growls.

“You took away Cath this only seems fair don’t you think?” Baz replies.

“You took Cath from me first!” Pope yells “I do everything for all of you and no one ever thinks about me! Not one of you ever thought about me!”

You heave a sob. “Baz please” you beg.

“Kill me” Pope says calmly. “Kill me because if you kill her I have nothing left to live for anyway”

“Andy no!” You scream sobbing.

Baz pulls the gun away from your head as he rushes to Pope wrapping his arms around him “I know it was Smurf. You’re my brother and I will always take care of you. I forgive you Pope. I forgive you.”

You drop to your knees trying to catch your breath as you watch the brothers hold each other and cry. You see Baz break away from Pope to come pick you up off the ground and pull you his chest “I’m sorry Scout I’m so sorry” you hug him back already forgiving him because you understood.

You separate from Baz rushing to Pope wrapping your arms around his neck. He holds you tightly. Presses kisses wherever he could reach. You turn to look between the brothers “are we good here?” You ask.

Baz nods and so does Pope. And for the first time that day you are able to take a deep breath.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning you get back to Smurfs after dropping off Lena at school. Baz and Lucy were down in Mexico looking for places to live so you and Pope were babysitting.

You see Pope standing in the driveway talking to cops and your stomach drops. Was someone caught? Were you under investigation? You take a deep calming breath before getting out of the car. You walk towards them affecting an easy demeanour “is everything ok?” You ask. Popes eyes meet yours and you can tell something has happened. “What’s going on?”

“Ma’am do you live here?” One of the officers ask.

You look at her “Yes I do, Andrew is my boyfriend what’s happening?”

Pope speaks up then “Baz is dead” he says flatly.

Your heart drops “What?” You ask incredulously.

The officer speaks up again “I am sorry ma’am, he was shot and succumbed to his injuries last night”

You can feel the tears spilling down your cheeks though you didn’t know when you had started crying. “Thank you officers” you say.

They nod making their way back to their car. You turn to Pope who’s standing there incredibly still. You step towards him not saying a word just wrapping your arms around him “baby I’m so sorry”

He steps out of your arms “We have to find J and Deran.” He says stiffly. He walks into the house and you follow. You can hear him yelling at Nikki apparently J had gone out for a run.

You had picked up Deran and J and had grabbed Lena from school and were back at the house still trying to get ahold of Craig who is down in Mexico with Wren.

Lucy’s car is in the driveway and Pope tells J and Nikki to stay in the truck with Lena. You follow him into the backyard to find Lucy sitting on a lounger crying.

“Were you with him?” Pope asks coldly.

Lucy fixes him with a withering stare “of course I was but I couldn’t stay I would be in handcuffs right now”

“So you just left him there to bleed out!” Pope roars.

“I didn’t have a choice!” Lucy yells back.

You put a steadying hand on Popes arm “I don’t like it either but she’s right”

Lucy lets out a shaky breath “I just can’t believe Baz is dead”

“Daddy’s dead?” A small voice asks behind you.

You spin and see J standing with Lena. Your heartbreaks as you see the realization come across her little face

Pope spins on them “How hard is it to stay in the truck?” He barks scooping up Lena and walking away.

You spend the afternoon trying to console Lena. She’s an orphan now and you have no idea how to deal with that. She finally passes out and you find Pope in the kitchen.

“She’s asleep” you tell him. He looks at you and nods. “Baby please talk to me” you implore “you’ve hardly said a word all day”

“I don’t know what you want me to say” he says gruffly.

“Your brother died Andy. You must be feeling a lot of things right now” you say to him. “Let me help you hold some of those feelings” you say softly wrapping your arms around him from behind.

He grips the edge of the counter tightly “I have so much anger and rage and the only thing that will help is finding the fuckers who did this” he says roughly.

At that moment Craig comes crashing through the door. Deran and J wander in to see what the commotion is. You separate from Pope and the three brothers drift together their faces crumpling as they hold each other through the grief.

J comes to stand beside you feeling out of place. “He was my dad” he whispers to you.

You look at him sadly wrapping your arm around his shoulders. “I don’t know that he would have been a good dad if Smurf had given him the opportunity” you tell him “But I believe he would have tried”

He nods leaning his head against your shoulder. You all stand there for a long time just allowing the grief to breathe for as long as it needs to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A couple of days later after the paddle out for Baz’s memorial you’re back at Baz’s house with Pope and Lena. Lena is playing in her room quietly while you and Pope are cleaning up.

“Move in here” Pope says suddenly.

You pause what you’re doing shock on your face “What?”

“I love you and Lena loves you and you’re here all the time anyways just move in here” he says. “She deserves an actual family” he says softly “we can be that”

You look at him lovingly “Andy I love how big your heart is” you tell him “And I love you so damn much and I love Lena but we can’t just step in and try to replace her parents”

He works his jaw “So you’re saying no?”

You shake you’re head “No I’m not saying no, I’m just saying let’s not rush into trying to be her parents” you explain “I will move in but for right now we’re just her caretakers not her parents yeah?”

He gives you a small smile “I can agree to that”

You smile back and give him a small kiss “Good”

The next day Pope brings Lena home from school with a note. She’s been getting into fights at school and they won’t let her come back until she gets grief therapy.

You and Pope stand on the deck while Lena plays inside so you can discuss it without her hearing. “She doesn’t need a shrink” Pope says.

“Baby she lost both of her parents maybe it won’t be such a bad thing” you try to reason.

He waves the note at you “they’ve been picking on her because her parents are dead what kind of fucking kid does that”

You shrug “Kids suck I don’t know what to tell you but she can’t just not go to school”

Pope let’s out a frustrated sigh “okay”

You nod going back in the house and Pope calls Lena out of her room. Lena sits at the kitchen counter looking the two of you.

Pope starts “We have to find you a doctor so you can go back to school”

“Why?” She asks “Am I sick?”

You let out a small smile as Pope continues “it’s not that kind of doctor, it’s the kind of doctor that you talk to about things that bother you”

“Have you ever had that kind of doctor?” She asks him.

“I have” he hedges.

“Did it help?” She digs

“Not really” he shrugs.

You wipe a hand down your face. “Ok Lena honey why don’t you go wash up for dinner ok?” She hops down and you hear the bathroom door close down the hall “that was so incredibly not helpful” you tell Pope.

“What if she went to a different school?” He says to you.

You turn to him leaning against the counter “what do you mean?”

“What if she went to a private school instead?” He explains.

You cross your arms mulling it over. “It could be better for her.” You admit.

He nods reaching into his pocket and pulling out school brochures. You narrow your eyes at him “you’ve had those on stand by the entire time?” You ask.

He shrugs “I wanted to ask you first”

It’s at that moment Lena climbs back into her seat. You and Pope share a glance and decide now is as good a time as any. “Lena” you start “would you like to go to a different school?”

She looks between the two of you before nodding slowly. Pope lets out a relieved breath and puts the brochures in front of her “You get to pick one” he tells her.

She looks them over “but these are for rich kids” she says quietly.

Pope smiles at her “well what do you think you are?”

She lets out a big smile at that and you feel like your heart may burst. The feeling is short lived when you feel a wave of nausea come over you, it had been happening frequently lately but at the moment you found it very hard to care.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few days later you were hanging out at the bar with Deran helping him clean while Pope took Lena to her first day at her new school. You had gotten a few texts from him, apparently they had made him move from in front of the school claiming it was “creepy”. The annoyed tone of the text made you smile.

Deran was in the kitchen making the two of you lunch when you caught a wiff of what he was cooking and your stomach turned “Der what are you making?” You ask him covering your nose.

He looks at you through the kitchen window brows furrowed “Fajitas, your favorite why?”

You wander into the kitchen to see for yourself and sure enough all of the fixings for your favourite meal were there. And it smelled awful. “Did something go bad?” You ask him covering your nose again “Because it smells terrible”

He gives you questioning look “Scout it smells like sautéed peppers and onions and steak” he plates the food and pushes it in front of you.

You take a cursory bite. And immediately run to the sink and heave up the contents of your stomach. Deran rushes over to you pulling your hair back as you retch over the sink.

Once you’ve finished he forces you to sit and gets you a glass of water. You sit there with the cold glass pressed against your head as he watches you concerned. “You love fajitas” he muses “it’s all I could get you to eat the first month Pope was in prison”

You shake your head. “I have no idea what happened I felt fine and then I didn’t” you explain.

Deran goes to the plate taking an experimental bite. He chews thoughtfully and swallows “it tastes fine to me” he shrugs.

The smell of peppers and onions wafts towards you again making you gag. “I have to get out of this room” you say going to the bathroom and splashing cold water on your face. The nausea is beginning to pass so you sit on the bathroom floor in case it comes back.

Deran comes to check on you sitting on the floor across from you. “You hungover?” He asks. You level him with a look and shake your head. He runs a hand along his beard deep in thought “You pregnant?” He smirks.

You glare at him about to shake your head no again when you pause. You start to count backwards in your head. 7 weeks. You hadn’t had your period in 7 weeks. You gasp covering your mouth and look at Deran eyes wide.

His eyes widen as they meet yours “Oh fuck” he mumbles.

“I’m 3 weeks late” you whisper. “Everything has been so crazy I hadn’t even realized-“ you break off tears springing to your eyes. “Pope is gonna lose his mind” you croak.

Deran moves to sit beside you wrapping his arm around your shoulders. “We don’t know anything for sure yet, we can go get you a test” he reassures you “but I can promise you if you are pregnant Pope is gonna be so fucking happy because he loves you so damn much”

You lean your head against his shoulder tears spilling over. He lets you cry for a while before he forces you up and takes you to the nearest pharmacy.

A short while later you’re back on the bathroom floor with Deran. This time there’s a pregnancy test on the edge of the sink and a timer on your phone between you. You tap your foot restlessly as the longest 3 minutes of your life tick by.

Deran glances at you “No matter what happens you know we’re gonna look after you right?” He says softly.

You give him a small smile “I know” at that moment the time on your phone beeps and you reach forward shutting it off.

Both of you slowly stand and inch to the edge of the sink. You take a deep breath picking up the test with shaky hands. You flip it over and see two very clear pink lines.

Your breath leaves you in a gasp as you drop the test in the sink. Deran pulls you into his chest in a tight hug murmuring reassurances. You step out of his arms picking up the test again. “Holy shit” you whisper “I’m having a baby” your hand goes to your stomach and suddenly you can picture a beautiful baby with curly auburn hair and blue eyes. You feel a smile stretch across your face as you look at Deran. “I’m having a baby” you say again in a stronger voice.

Deran smiles back at you “Yah Scout you’re having a baby”

It was then that Popes figure filled the bathroom doorway “You’re what?”

[feralforsilverfoxes]

-feral horny growling and screaming -

[helga1031]

What they said!