Honey’s Blog 🎀

just a girl who loves fictional men 😔🎀

[mcybank]

In This Corner ! — Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody

pairing — underground fighter!andrew ‘pope’ cody x fem!reader

summary — pope cody’s got himself a girl he’s sweet on who works on him between rounds, and there’s no part of him that can imagine the thought of leaving you.

warnings — ( 14.5k words ) 18+ MINORS DNI !! explicit sexual content ( p in v, m!receiving oral, pope’s got a size kink, marking, scratching, praise kink, softdom!pope, slightly needy!pope? he’s also rly awkward during sex) slow burn-ish, no physical appearance described of reader (small hands + general size difference noted in relation to pope, no other physical descriptors) obsessive!pope, guns and threat at gunpoint, financial exploitation of reader - she’s paying off a debt by working, brief harassment scene, hurt/comfort and hurt/no comfort, violence, blood + injuries, emotional ending, incarceration, brief mentions of drug use, absent parent, protective!pope, reader’s guarded / slow to trust, unwanted touching (not from pope), pope has a heavy savior complex in this, no use of y/n, pope’s pov, canon-compliant (ish) but it’s pre-season one.

notes — this one got a little away from me and i’m already Sorry it’s a shawn hatosy summer!!! also i’m laughing to myself ab this fic bc the original plot was gonna be so different but this is just the way the cookie crumbled while writing + experimented with a different writing style bc i just think pope’s pov would feel like a lot at once

Craig had made some pretty stupid decisions in his life. He blew his money on blow and bikes most of the time, but once in a blue moon, he made decisions that really cut it, like putting in over three grand into Pope across a single night. Money Craig didn’t even have, money he’d borrowed off a man people didn’t borrow off, because he watched Pope punch a bag by the pool and put a body on the concrete in a parking lot behind a bar and decided his older brother was an investment. 

It was, as it turned out. Pope won. Craig got his three grand back and then some, and that was how the basement off Atlantic became a regular thing, because Craig had a taste for it now and Pope had a use for cash that didn’t run through Smurf’s shady fingers first. 

The crowd there was the worst he’d stood in front of, and he’d grown up in Smurf’s living room, so that was a measurement that meant something. Men who bet money they needed and meant to take the loss of someone’s skin. The air thick enough to chew, smoke and sweat and the bitterness of a room full of people who’d collectively decided this was the night their luck was going to turn. 

Pope wanted to lose just so they’d fuck off. 

It was run by a guy named Leo who’d met Craig at a party, late, both of them lit and certain they were about to make each other rich. Leo had the basement, the crowd, the connections that made cops uninterested, and a way of talking that made one-track-minded guys like Craig feel like they were cut in on something even as he was lifting your wallet. Pope didn’t trust him. Pope didn’t trust anybody, but he distrusted Leo with a specificity that felt like respect. 

Leo ran the place like a man who’d thought about every cent in a dollar twice. Nothing in that basement was there by accident, which was how Pope knew, eventually, that you weren’t either. 

The first night he didn’t put it together. He came up out of the third round with his ears ringing and his knuckles screaming and somebody pressed a wet rag to the back of his neck, and his body did what it always did. He came around with his elbow up and the words already out of his mouth. “Get the fuck off me.” 

You went still. You were crouched down close enough that he could see you’d done your eyes earlier in the night and they’d worn through, smudged soft at the corners, and that should have made you look tired and instead made you look like you’d been left out in the weather, gentled by it. There was a smear of someone else’s blood drying brown along your jaw—not yours, you didn’t have a mark on you, you were the only clean thing in a room built for ruining people—and you hadn’t wiped it off because your hands had been busy all night being careful with men who were far from deserving it. 

“Okay,” you said, and that was all. You stayed crouched in front of him, an arm’s length back now, holding the rag out where he could take it himself if he wanted it. 

He felt like garbage. It all arrived once, the way it did with him, fine one second and then sick with it. You couldn’t have been much more than a bucket and tape to anybody else in that room, just the girl who patched them up, and he’d snapped at you like you were one of the men in the room baying for his blood. 

He took the rag off your hands. 

And you just went back to it. You pulled his hand into both of yours like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just shown you the worst of himself in the first ten seconds of knowing you, and started cleaning the wreck of his knuckles with a little furrow between your brows. Devotional, almost. Like his hand had been lent to you and you were supposed to return it in good condition. 

It was then he realized Leo had gotten way too lucky with you. He was sure you were used as nothing but a front. You were something soft to put at the edge of all that ugliness so men had a reason to keep their money in the room a little longer. A girl who patched up fighters, sure, but mostly a thing for them to look at, to crowd, to reach for between rounds. 

Pope wouldn’t admit it to Craig, or any of his brothers, ever, that the only reason he came back the next time was to see you again. He knew his words and then his sudden muteness probably made you read him as one more man to be careful around. He’d handed you that impression himself, and now he had to live inside it. 

The second night, you didn’t tend to him. There was another girl near the bucket—older, harder, a cigarette tucked behind her ear and no softness in her hands at all—and she did his corner between rounds like she was wiping off a dusty counter. Pope sat there and let her and looked for you over her shoulder the whole time, which was how he found you across the room, working the cash, the cigar box against your chest as your lips moved over the count. 

Pope hardly believed in coincidences. He was sure he’d snapped and you’d adjusted by putting a body between yourself and the man who’d shown his teeth. It was the smart thing. It was exactly what he’d have told you to do if he were anyone other than the man it was being done to. It sat in his chest all night like a swallowed stone, the understanding that he’d gotten precisely what he deserved and hated every second of it. 

He won. He always did; that was the whole problem with him, the thing that made his Craig rich now and him useful to Smurf and left Pope standing in basements full of people who wanted to watch him hurt somebody. The crowd howled, money changed hands, and Pope barely heard whatever Leo was saying because he was watching you seal the night’s take into a zip bag and press the air out of it with the flat of your hand carefully. 

He found you after, by the stairs, when the room had thinned to the stragglers and the smell of it had gone stale. He came up slow, hands where you could see them. 

“You drew the short straw last week,” he said, the words coming out of him too rehearsed, because that’s what he’d been doing since he noticed you and while getting his guts punched. “Patching me up.”

You looked up at him. Up close, your worn-soft eyes were tired. “I just asked Kate to take your corner tonight.”

So, not a coincidence. He’d already known, yet it did something ugly to him. He already had people who he’d known his entire life scared of him—brothers who were career criminals—and he’d made peace with it, like he had to with everything he couldn’t change. But it landed differently from you, because you didn’t have the years to back the wariness up. 

“Right,” he said, because what else was there to say?

You tilted your head, just slightly, and scanned his face like you were checking it for swelling. He knew there was none, not today. He still held still. He realized he’d have held still for anything you wanted to do to his face.

Whatever you were looking for, it seemed like you hadn’t found it. Or maybe you had. Your gaze caught on his mouth, under his jaw, and you clicked your tongue. 

“You’re not —” You shook your head faintly. “It’s easier,” you said finally, “to not get in the way of guys like you. That’s all. It’s nothing personal.” 

Guys like you. Jesus. He wanted to ask you what that meant, even though he knew. He was guys like him. He’d spent thirty-some years being exactly that. But he wanted, with an intensity that made no sense, to be not that to you. 

Any other guy would have let it go. A smarter man, a less stupid one, would’ve said that was a fair enough explanation and left you to your transparent zip bags and never come back to you unless you did to him. 

“It is though,” Pope said, voice too rough. “Personal. I wasn’t—right, after the third round.” The words, his voice, everything came out clumsy, and he briefly wondered if his eyes had dropped down his face and his nose had turned upside down. “You don’t have to put Kate—or whoever there. I’m not gonna—” He wasn’t sure how he wanted to end the sentence. “I’d rather it was you.” 

He suddenly felt like a complete idiot all over again when he watched your brows furrow slightly and your lips press together as you looked at him almost sadly. Then you let out a disbelieving chuckle as you shook your head as you twisted your neck slightly to look around. 

“Is this gonna be a problem?” you said, lowering your voice, glancing off to the side. Checking, he realized, who was still on the stairs, who might be close enough to hear. 

That was its own answer to a question he hadn’t been able to ask yet. It told him there were people you didn’t want knowing this, even though there was hardly a ‘this.’

“What?” Pope asked, playing dumb just so he could hear the words from you.

“You.” You brought your eyes back to him, and he felt slightly shaken as you pinned him with a glare that seemed almost gentle. “Saying things like that.” Your voice stayed even, but there was an edge working into it now. “I do my job here. I keep my head down—that’s better for me, okay?”

He didn’t get that. Not really. But he heard the need in it. 

“Nobody’s gonna bother you,” he said roughly. It came out flat and certain, it always did when he was truly sure of himself. “Not while I’m here.” 

You just looked at him like that again. “Go home, Pope—”

“Andrew,” he said, and he didn’t even know why he did. 

He hated that name just as much as Pope. It was just another thing Smurf had handed him that never fit anywhere in his growing life. To the room he was Pope. On the cards he counted, he was Pope. He’d been Pope so long he sometimes forgot there was anything under it. But he didn’t want to be Pope to you. Pope was guys like him. Pope was the thing on the cards coked-up wishful men put their money on. He had no clean self to offer you—God knew he didn’t—but he had the name hardly anybody used often, and so he gave you that, stupidly, like it’d be worth something to you. 

His pulse climbed into his throat. He had the sick, racing feeling he got right before things went sideways, the one that had been wrong about as often as it was right and that he'd never once been able to switch off. 

“Andrew,” you said, testing it quietly in your mouth, where Pope felt everything landed differently for some reason. And then you looked at him again, and said, “Go home, Andrew.” 

Thankfully, by some grace of God, Pope realized he may not have done it all wrong when you came to patch him up after the first round the following week. You dropped down onto the concrete in front of him with the bucket and the brown bottle and a roll of tape gone soft at the edges from your thumb. 

You took his hand like nothing had been said, as though the conversation on the stairs had been filed somewhere and this was the conclusion you’d come to on your own time, and Pope felt that he should let that be, instead of pointing it out. He’d learned that much, and tamped down the feeling like his entire week had paid off. 

“You lead with right too much,” you said, looking at his hands. “When you’re tired. You drop the left and lead with the right. That’s how they got your eyebrow.” 

Pope parted his lips and blinked. “You watch me?” 

“I watch the cash.” You pressed the tape down over his knuckle. “Fights are what make them move, but yeah.” You shrugged, and it was stiff. “You drop your left.”

Pope stayed silent for a moment, then asked, dumbly, “You a fighter?” 

It was meant to land as dry, a joke, but it never quite did with him. 

You let out the smallest of chuckles. “I watch men get hit everyday.” 

Pope swallowed, not sure how to respond to that. So he watched the top of your head instead, the part in your hair, the concentration you put into doing a job that probably paid no extra if you did it well. You wrapped him efficiently, all business now, and Pope felt that you’d closed a door he hadn’t realized you’d opened. 

It should have frustrated him. Instead, it made him want to earn that inch back slow, the way you’d coax anything that didn’t trust easy. He knew that wanting. He had it about a dog once, a half-feral thing that lived in the corners of the Cody Compound for a summer, that he’d fed in silence for weeks before it let him near. He’d never told anyone about that dog. He thought about it now, crouched-down you and careful tape, and didn’t enjoy what it told him about himself. 

“You’re done,” you said, and stood briskly. 

“Hey,” he said, the word coming out before he could think it. “Thanks.” 

You looked at him a second, and whatever you found in him, it earned him the corner of a smile. You must not have been used to being thanked very often. Pope flexed his wrapped hand, feeling something close to proudness. He wasn’t sure for what, exactly, but it felt good for the moment.

For three weeks, you rationed out small jokes that he was almost sure you didn’t realize were jokes, taped him up, and left Pope driving home with whatever you’d given him that night turning over in his chest. 

His fight hadn’t started yet. He leaned up against the support post by the stairs, hood up, trying to do everything he could to make himself look very still and very boring so the crowd would forget to look at him. From there, he had a clean line of the cash table, which meant he had a clean line on you, which was the actual reason he’d stood there. 

There was a man at your table. Big, going soft in the middle, a Lakers cap on backward and loose, oozing the sleazy confidence of someone past four beers and good judgement. He’d been talking to you a while, Pope noticed. You were wearing a smile aimed past his shoulder—a small, pleasant, and all around absent thing—and Pope watched you do it with a protective switch under his thumb. 

The man reached over and tucked a bill into your bra, slowly, like it was funny. Two fingers folded the bill below your collarbone, and you went rigid, smile staying in place while everything behind it moving.

You went somewhere way back behind your own eyes the way Pope had watched you go a dozen times, and the man laughed at his own joke and left his hand there a beat too long. 

The trouble with Pope was that most of the time, he never decided. One second he was against the post and the next he had the man’s wrist in his hand and he was bending it back off you, almost politely.

“Wrong,” Pope drawled, plucking the bill out of your collar with his free hand and pressed it to the man’s palm. He closed the man’s fingers over them. “Cash goes in the box.”

“The hell’re you —” The man turned to get a real look at him, and got the whole of him. The hood and the wrapped hands and Pope’s uncanny stillness, and Pope watched the recognition arrive, and the bluster went out of him like the air on your sealed bags. “Pope—hey, man. No harm. No harm.”

“Sure.” Pope let go of the wrist and the guy immediately melted back into the crowd. The whole thing had taken maybe nine seconds and Pope’s pulse hadn’t even climbed, which it should’ve, but some animal thing under him had considered this easy. 

“Why would you do that?” you said, voice quieting. 

“He had his hands on you.” His voice came out defensive, which he hated, because it made him understand that he’d done something wrong before he could even process it. “I’m not standing here watching some creep—”

“That was Reyes,” you said, like it meant something. It didn’t, not to Pope, and your face did something between fury and despair as he realized this. “He runs paper for Leo. You just—” You pressed your lips together and looked around quickly, the same way you’d done on the stairs except this time he could see real fear attached in it. “I don’t—I don’t need people thinking a Cody’s got a thing for me,” you finished, quieter. “You don’t.” 

“What if I—”

“You don’t, okay?” It came out sharper than you’d intended, and he saw how you caught it. “It’s fine. It’s no big deal.” You were already looking away, gathering the cash box against your chest, busying yourself. “I really am better when people don’t worry about me, Andrew.” 

You tucked a piece of hair back, gave him a quick, tired ghost of a smile that didn't reach anything, and stepped back into the crowd with your box like the last nine seconds could be put away with everything else you put away.

There was that horrible feeling tightening in his stomach again. He knew he’d done the right thing, but there was a frustration in him of being right about the wrong thing. The thing he’d done to help you had immediately become another thing for you to be frightened of, clean up, another man’s decision landing on your plate.

You’d probably spent your entire life cleaning up after other people’s choices and he’d just handed you one more.

He fought ugly and won ugly, which was somehow worse than losing altogether. The crowd got what it paid for and then some, and Pope walked out with a rib that clicked when he breathed and a cut over the eye he’d earned by leading with the right all night like the idiot you’d warned him not to be. 

He collected off Leo without a word. Pope wasn’t even sure why the guy even bothered to grin and laugh and talk to him while he counted the money; Pope had said around two words to him and won him more than two grand.

He didn’t bother hearing the compliments—the fake, complimenting bit to make sure he came back—and took his roll of cash and shoved it inside his pocket and left out the back. 

He went up the concrete steps, into the lot behind the building where the air was at least air instead of four hundred people breathing the same lungful. 

He leaned against the cinderblock wall in the dark, in the orange wash of one working lot light, and pressed the heel of his hand under the bad rib and breathed shallow and concentrated on not being anywhere, on going behind his own eyes the way he'd watched you do it, somewhere the night couldn't reach him.

The door opened and shut carefully, and the latter action made him not need to look to know. 

“You walked out without letting anybody look at that,” you said. 

“I’m fine.”

“No, I can tell,” you said drily, almost amused. Your footsteps came across the lot and stopped a few feet off, not crowding him—you never crowded him—and giving him the room he hadn’t asked for and needed anyway. “I basically heard your ribs.”

He huffed something close to a laugh. It pulled at the rib and he stopped. 

Your hands hovered around his body, like you were asking for permission to take a look without saying the words.

“Are you okay?” he asked, forcing the words out roughly. Because he needed to, it’d been gnawing at him for too long. “Is he hurting you?”

Your hands when still where they hovered. You took the rag instead, wet it from the bottle, and reached up to the cut over his eye as though he’d never asked the question. 

“Hold still,” you said. 

“That’s not—” He caught your wrist, palm loose around it, but he caught it. “I asked you something.” 

In the orange light, Pope could see the smudge of your makeup, dark and worn through around your eyes, and the rings on your fingers catching the light each time your hand moved. You let him hold your wrist without pulling away, your eyes dropping to his chest like you’d decided against looking at his face.

He could feel your pulse under his thumb, thrumming. He let go of your wrist with a sigh, and you stepped back into the work, dabbing at the cut, close enough he could feel the warmth coming off you. 

You said, after a moment, evenly, “Don’t try to help me.”

“Don’t try to help me.” 

“I didn’t say—”

“It’s written all over your face.” 

You pressed the rag a little harder than the cut needed and let you, kept his face still, watching yours. You narrowed your eyes at him when he didn’t react to the pressure, as though his stillness annoyed you. Pope didn’t know how you hadn’t realized he’d let you do anything. He’d let you press the rag as hard as you wanted and he’d sit there and take it. He’d stopped having a choice about it a while ago.

That, and the fact that your hands, so small compared to the enormity of him, were the furthest things from the worst he’d taken. 

“Are you trying to hurt me?” he asked, amused despite it all. 

“If I were, you’d know.” But the corner of your mouth tugged, just barely, before you caught it and put it away. You eased up on the rag. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be.”

For a second, it felt easier between you two again. Then, you remembered yourself, and he watched as your lips pursed. 

“I mean it, though,” you said. “Don’t. Whatever you’re sitting there cooking up.”

“You don’t know what I’m cooking up.” 

“Andrew,” you said his name flatly, and he felt like a dog at how quickly it got his neck to tilt up to meet your eyes. You hadn’t even spoke and he was looking at you like you’d asked him a question he wanted to get correct. 

“You’re not the first one to try this,” you said softly. “It always goes the same way.” 

“Yeah?” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Tell me, then.” 

“Either he gets in over his head and screws up.” You wiped the last streak of blood from his brow, your hand coming to rest light against his face to hold him still. He leaned into your palm, the warmth of your hand and him moving into it like it was the most natural thing he’d ever done. 

One of your rings sat cool against his cheekbone and he felt that, too, the small contrast of it, cool metal and warm palm, and he was very aware you were still talking and he was having trouble with that. 

“ —or he sticks around for long enough to figure out it’s too much trouble, gets bored, and quits. He leaves, and either way I’m standing here worse than before,” you said, conversationally, and he did believe it was a tale as old as time for you. 

“I won’t get bored,” he managed to say. “I’m good at what I do.” 

“They all say that, too.” You smiled that sad, soft smile again. 

You took your hand back off his face and he felt the loss of it like air. He was already thinking about how to get you to put it back, which was probably the most pathetic thought he’d ever had, and he’d had some bad ones.

“When do you fight next? You shouldn’t, for a while. For your ribs.” 

He let you change the topic. He noticed you did that often.

“Next week, probably,” he said. “My brother’s already running his mouth about it.”

“Tell your brother your ribs are hurt.” You crouched to gather the bottle, the rag, the soft-edged tape, packing them back into the bucket.

“Where do you go? After this,” he asked.

He watched the careful machinery turn—watched you weigh whether it was a real question or a way in—and then something in you must've been too tired to keep the door shut, because you let it swing.

“Home. My mom’s,” you said. “She’s around, just—not a lot.” You gathered the bucket against your hip. “So it’s me and my brother mostly. He’s eleven.”

The whole shape of you tilted and resettled in the space of the word. Why you watched every dollar like it held something up. You weren't just keeping your own head down. You had a kid behind you, in the blind spot, where the room couldn't reach him.

“He know you’re here?” Pope asked.

“He thinks I wait tables.” The corner of your mouth went up, rueful. “Thinks I’m terrible at it. The tips are all over the place, so.” You shrugged. 

Pope cleared his throat. “Are they?” 

“This week, yeah,” you said. 

“Do you want to?” Pope found himself asking, “Wait tables.” 

You looked at him for a long moment that he almost thought you wouldn’t answer. “It’d be nice, I guess. To have steady cashflow and all that.” 

“Leo pays you enough?”

You shifted the bucket against your hips. “He doesn’t really—” You stopped yourself, then started again. “The tips are what they are.”

Pope hummed. “That cover everything?”

You looked at him sideways, catching what he was doing. “Most weeks,” you said hesitantly.

“This week?”

You looked off past him, and he watched you decide whether to say it. “My brother’s shoes split,” you said finally, and it’d come out in a small voice. “Bottom’s gone right through it, so.” You shrugged, making a small face as you pinched your eyes shut, like you hated saying it.  

Pope took the roll out of the jacket, thumbed off a fold of it without counting and held it out.

You looked at it, then at him. “No.” 

“For the kid.”

“Andrew.” 

“Take it.” He kept his hand out. “It’s shoes.” 

“That’s not—” You stopped. Your jaw worked. He could see all of it going on behind your face, the pride and the rule and the thing you'd spent the last few minutes telling him. “That’s just what I told you not to do.” 

“You said not to help you.” He pushed his hand further toward you. “This is shoes for a kid I never met.”

He watched your eyes rise to look at the sky and you shook your head. “You’re making this really hard.” 

He tipped his chin down. “Just take it. I don’t need it.”

You took it slow, your fingers closing over his for a second before they took the bills, and you didn't say thank you—he was glad, thanking him would’ve made it a transaction—you just held on to his hand a beat longer than you needed to, and breathed out, shaky, and let it go.

“Please don’t make this a thing,” you said, voice thick. “I can’t—I can’t say no to the money. I wish I could.” You looked at the bills in your hand. “I don’t wanna take things from you.” 

He felt himself shrug, eyeing the top of your head as you looked down. “I’d let you.” 

He’d meant to keep that to himself. Or he hadn’t. He didn’t really care, though. The money itself was nothing; what he’d just handed you was a rounding error, less than what his brothers dropped in a single night without blinking. It was the kind of number that moved in the Cody household without anyone thinking to count it; money they’d find between the cushions from five years ago. 

He had more coming in than he knew what to do with and nowhere clean to put it. You had a kid to help out with and yourself to take care of, and the situation was so simple it almost made him angry. 

It became a thing without either of you calling it one. It was a thing, in Pope’s mind, obviously, but he was sure that telling you would’ve spooked you and he wasn’t ready for that. 

You’d started taping him differently. Early on you’d wrapped him all brisk and businesslike, done before he’d thought of anything to say. He had to watch his words in general, but he had to try even harder with you, for he never wanted to say the wrong thing. Somewhere in those weeks, you slowed. You took longer than the wrap needed—smoothing the tape down twice when once would’ve held just fine, turning his hand over in both of yours to check the knuckles you’d already checked—and Pope started to pretend he didn’t notice. 

He’d sit on the folding chair with his hand lent out to you and watch the top of your head and feel his pulse come down out of his throat, slow, the dog talked off the thing. One night, he let his thumb find the inside of your wrist while you worked, resting there against the thrum of you.

He started taking on more fights and ending them earlier. He told himself it was because of his ribs, the cash, any of the reasons a man might want a thing over with. All of it when the reason was that when the basement emptied after, it was just the two of you, and Pope had started living for the after the same way men lived for the fight.

You started watching the fights now—not the cash, him—and he knew because one night he had a bad one, a hook he missed that snapped his head around. He looked for your face before he looked for anything else, and found you already wincing. 

Your hand had come up halfway to your mouth. You caught yourself and dropped it. But he’d seen it and carried it home for a week, a proof of what, he didn’t know.

Pope really, really hated asking Craig anything. He knew that he’d make him pay the toll one way or another. Sometimes by talking for forty minutes about something nobody asked about, or remembering the question to bring it up at the worst possible time. So Pope sat on it for a week; he iced the rib, didn’t fight, and drove past the ring twice without going in. He knew it was fucking pathetic.

Pope found Craig by the pool, sunburnt and shirtless and rolling something on a paper plate. 

“You know the girl,” Pope started, “at the ring, the one who does the cash?” 

He found that he wanted to keep your name to himself, in case Craig hadn’t already caught onto it. 

“Which one?” Craig asked without looking up.

“The one that does the cash, man.”

“There’s like three girls.” He licked the paper and twisted the end. “You gotta be more specific. There’s the older chick, the mean—”

“Younger. Quiet.” Pope forced his voice to stay even. “Patches people up.”

Craig looked up at him then, a slow grin spreading. “Ohhhh.” 

“Don’t.”

“No. No.” Craig held his hands up, waving them slightly, delighted. “Can’t believe you’re asking me about a girl, man.” 

“Forget it.” Pope turned to go.

“Hey—hey,” Craig said, standing from the lounger. “I’m messin’ with you. C’mon. What do you wanna know about her?” 

“Why’s she there?” 

Craig shrugged. “Pretty sure she owes Leo.”

“She owes Leo?” Pope asked, letting the surprise show in his voice. “For what?”

“Pretty sure she’s collateral.” Craig lit the thing, talking around it. “Some guy that was around. Dad. Stepdad. Who knows?” He waved the smoke out of his face. “Pretty sure she’s just workin’ the square until it pays itself off.”

“How much?” Pope asked immediately.

Craig rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Don’t be stupid, man.”

“Just say it.”

“I’m not his accountant,” Craig said. “And she’s not worth it. It won’t work, and I’m pretty sure she’s been working there longer than she hasn’t.” 

Pope ignored that. “It’s not even hers,” he said, quietly, almost to himself. “She’s down there holding it for a guy who took off. Kid at home, no money, and she’s—”

He stopped talking once he noticed the amused and incredulous expression on Craig’s face. 

Craig’s hand moved to the side, waving vaguely in confusion. “She’s got a kid?”

“It’s her brother.”

“Jesus—how much have you talked to this chick?” Craig dragged a hand down his face. “Real talk. You go pay the guy off—say you even can, say he gives you a number and it’s a real one, which it won’t be—you know what happens? He realizes Pope Cody just dropped twenty grand on a girl who pours drinks and puts bandages on people.” He spread his hands. “Best case. Best case, man. We don’t know what else the guy’s got her doing. She’s been there a long time. Girls don’t stay in places like that just counting cash.” 

Pope felt his teeth grind. “She counts cash and she patches people up,” he said, tipping his chin down slightly to pin Craig with a glare. “That’s what she does.” 

Craig looked at him for a moment and shrugged. “Alright, man.” 

“And even if she—she doesn’t just do that. It doesn’t—” 

Pope’s jaw worked, and he had to look away from Craig. He had no words for it. It didn’t matter what you did in the basement, what Leo had you doing or what Craig was implying. You were still you, and Pope knew that. 

If the situation was larger, then Pope saw it as more of a reason to get you out, not less. That was the thing Craig wouldn’t understand. 

“It doesn’t change anything. For me,” Pope said flatly. “She shouldn’t be there, that’s all.” 

Craig’s lips opened like he wanted to say something, then caught the look on Pope’s face, and said, “Yeah, man. She probably shouldn’t.”

He’d hoped that Craig would never have to meet you, at least not in the way he did. 

It happened on a night Craig hadn’t wanted him there at all. Craig had come for the first few of Pope’s fight, and realized he actually didn’t have to see his older brother take down a man twice to know the money was good. He could simply hand over the bet and go do anything else with his night. So most weeks, he dropped his cash with people and disappeared upstairs and reappeared only to collect. 

This week, he hung around the edge of the ring, three beers in, restless, and that was how he was standing right there when Pope took a cut over the cheekbone bad enough you came down to the corner with your supplies before the round was properly called.

Craig noticed it. The dumb piece of shit. One second Pope had your hands on his face, turned away from the crowd so nobody would notice your closeness, and the next he could feel the exact attention of his brother sharpening as he moved down to catch the interaction.

You were too deep in the work to notice Craig, lips pressed flat, that furrow between your brows, going fast because the round was coming. “This one’s gonna scar if you keep splitting it open,” you murmured, tipping his head toward the light. “You’re doing it on purpose at this point. You’re gonna ruin this face.” 

“What do you think about this face?” Pope said before he could think the words through. 

You rolled your eyes, lifting a hand off his face just to smack his shoulder lightly before it went right back to the cut.

“You talk too much when you’re losing blood,” you lied, but the corner of your mouth had gone soft. “Hold still.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“You’re fishing.” You pressed the butterfly closed over his cheekbone, your thumb lingering there a half-second past the job, warm against his face, and you dropped your voice even though there was nobody close enough to hear. “Ask me again when you’re not bleeding on me and I’ll think about it.” 

He felt his mouth want to move closer to yours then, and he tamped down the urge. But he must’ve let something through because when his eyes flicked up over your shoulder, there was Craig, beer halfway to his mouth, forgotten. 

You followed his eyes, found Craig, and Craig found you. Your hand came off his face and your spine went straight. “You know him?” you asked, quietly, gathering your bottle and tape as you stepped back to a safe distance. 

Pope caught your wrist. “My brother. He’s nobody. He’s dumb.”

Your eyes went over the crowd that was distracted. “You tell him anything?”

“There somethin’ to say?” he asked, raising a brow that made him wince. 

You gave him a flat look, unimpressed by the deflection. “Don’t try to be cute.”

Pope generally blamed his anger on a rage that had been planted in him from a tender age. Smurf had put it there the way you put a seed in dirt—patient, deliberate, knowing exactly what it’d grow into—and then spent thirty years acting surprised at the sheer size of it. He never thought about it. Thinking about it wouldn’t beat it away. It was just there—low and perpetual—like a pilot light he’d learned to turn down because the alternative was what happened in the ring when he forgot to. 

He forgot to that night. It had nothing to do with the guy across from him. The guy was a nobody—some gym rat Leo had matched him with, all shoulders and bad footwork—and Pope would, on any other day, put him down clean in two rounds because there was no reason to make it ugly. But Pope had spent a week with a number he didn’t own and a plan he couldn’t run with yours and Craig’s voice saying ‘don’t.’ The whole impossibility of you had stacked up in his sternum with nowhere to go, and when the guy clipped him, caught him good across the mouth first, something in Pope just opened the valve. 

He didn’t remember most of it after, and that was how he knew it was bad. The parts that came back later were wrong-angled and too bright (the kid’s head snapping, the wet sound, the way the crowd’s noise changed, going from hungry to something quieter, pulled back). Crowds like this roared throughout all of it unless they were watching a man go somewhere they wanted to stay back from. 

Somebody got between them. There were hands on his chest and a referee he had no idea even existed shouting something and the guy on the concrete not getting up the way he was supposed to. Pope was standing over it with his chest heaving and knuckles split open through the wrap and no memory of the ninety seconds at all.

The crowd parted for him when he started walking and that should’ve told him something, the way grown men stepped out of his way. He'd looked for you on the way through.

He'd looked for you the way he always did, automatically, and he'd found you at the edge of the cash table with the box held up against your chest, and you'd been looking right back at him.

Pope was distantly and too closely—both at the same time, two things too large for him—able to register you hadn’t looked at him the way you usually did.

You'd looked at him the way the crowd had. You’d gone still and careful, your eyes wide and fixed on him like he was the thing in the room, the dangerous thing, and you'd held that box to your chest like it could go between you and him. Just for a second. Just one. Then you'd caught yourself and your face had closed over it, gone professional. 

He went upstairs, and into the gap behind the stairs where there was a cot and a mop sink. It smelled like bleach. He put his head against the cinderblock and slid down it to the floor and tried to get his breathing under whatever was happening in his chest. 

Pope let himself sit on the floor with his hands ruined, the pilot light still guttering too high, and he let the worst story about himself tell itself all the way through. You’d finally seen the actual thing. You’d patched him up and made jokes and told him things about yourself, and then you had to watch him nearly kill somebody over nothing, and now you knew. Now you looked at him the way everybody did, just the way his mother had intended. 

He heard the door open, and he had to shake his head even though he wasn’t sure you could see it. 

“Don’t,” he said, and his voice came out wrecked. “You don’t have to help me or anything. Go help the guy.”

“Andrew—”

“I mean it.” His hands hung between his knees, split and shaking, and he kept his eyes on them. “Go check on him. I don’t—I don’t need it.”

He heard the door shut behind you, and then your footsteps came across the little room. “He’s up,” you said. “He’s fine. He’s got people. Concussed, probably, but he’ll be fine.” You paused, then added, “I came back here for you.” 

That made his chest pull tighter. “Shouldn’t have.” 

You set the bucket down by his feet, and then you were crouching in front of him, and he could see the toes of those wrong gray shoes in the edge of his vision and still couldn't make himself look higher. “Can I have your hands?” 

“No.”

“They’re split to the bone. Andrew, give ‘em here.” 

He didn’t. The muscle in his jaw ticked as he sat there, and before he could stop himself, he asked, “Are you scared of me?”

You stayed silent for a second, and he felt his chest seize. Then, he felt your hand—cold to the touch—against his face, turning it gently so he’d look at you. He kept his eyes trained to the ground. 

“Look at me,” you said quietly. When he refused again, your thumb slid against his cheekbone. “I’m not.”

When he said nothing, you continued, “You scared me a little out there. But look at you, you’re hiding behind the stairs. C’mon. Scariest man alive.” 

He huffed and let his eyes come up anyway, finally, and you were just looking at him. “You mean that?” 

Your bottom lip pushed the top, and you looked at him as you tilted your head. “Yeah. I mean it.” 

The plainness of the words got him. You said that as though it cost you nothing to mean it when it was the most expensive thing anyone had handed him in years. You had no idea the things he’d done so many times they stopped feeling like anything at all. You’d seen one bad night. And he wanted to tell you that maybe you should have been scared.

He kept his mouth shut. He looked at you looking at him and decided, quietly and completely, that he was going to spend whatever time he had making sure you never had a reason to find out you were wrong.

You were close. You’d been close the entire time, crouched between his knees with your hand cold on his face, and he’d been waiting for you to flinch that he hadn’t realized how close you were.

He felt it now. Like always, he didn’t decide. The same broken wiring in him was pointing somewhere new, because one second he was looking at your mouth and the next his hand had come up, ruined knuckles and all, and curved around the back of your neck. 

He stopped a breath short to give you an inch, some last careful piece left in him left it up to you, hung there close enough that he could feel your breath go uneven, waiting to see if you’d close it. 

You did, soft, slower than he’d expected. He’d always been waiting for quickness and hardness, things that got over with, and instead your mouth settled against his and stayed. Your hand came up light along his jaw, and the split in his lip stung but he didn’t move away from it. He was sure he couldn’t have this without paying for it. 

His hand was still at the back of your neck, knuckles wrecked, and he held you there carefully, just keeping you close. His thumb moved once behind your ear. You made a small sound against his mouth and he felt it more than heard it, felt it go down through his chest.

Your fingers curling at the collar of his shirt, your breath warm and uneven against his cheek between kisses.

His rib ached when he leaned into you. He leaned in anyway. He could feel the warmth of you all down his front, your weight tipped against his knees, your other hand finding his ruined one where it sat between you and holding it. 

It felt like such a stark difference to how you usually held his hand, to clean it, Pope distantly thought.

You broke off to breathe, but neither of you went far. Your forehead hovered over his, and your breath stayed uneven against his mouth. He let his hands hesitantly drift down to your waist, letting his palms run over the shape of you. 

You let them, your waist, the dip of it, the warmth coming up through your shirt, and you watched him do it with your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

“Do you like this?” Pope asked, hesitance creeping into his voice despite how hard he tried to push it out. He hated how it came out, like he had no trust in himself. But he had to know—had to hear it—because he’d just spent too long thinking you’d seen the worst of him, and now you were warm in his hands and he couldn’t quite square the two.

Your mouth curved, soft, and you tipped your forehead down against his. 

“Yeah, Andrew,” you said, like it was obvious. “I like it.” 

Your thumb moved along his cheekbone, and he let his lashes flutter slightly at the feel of your skin against so many parts of him all at once. 

“Been liking you a while,” you added, lower, a little dry, a little shy. “If you wanna know.”

Pope’s hand tightened at your waist. “How long?” 

“Not saying,” you said, smiling when you kissed him again, and he felt it against his mouth, and that was better than the answer would've been anyway.

He kissed you slow at first and then not slow, his hand sliding up your spine to press you closer, the other still spread wide and certain at your hip. 

You shifted down into him and he broke off with a rough breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his grip going tight to hold you still.

“Hang on,” he managed to say, low against your collarbone. All the wanting you stacked up behind his ribs with nowhere left to go, and you were so warm and so real on his lap, and he was trying not to be what he always was, too much, too fast. 

“We don’t have to—” you started.

“I know,” he said, voice rough. He lifted his head to look at you. “I wanna. I just—” He pushed his lips around, trying to find the right words. “I don’t want you doing anything back here. In this building.” His thumb moved at your hip. “You’re better than this place.” 

Your hands pressed against his chest, and he registered the smallness of them against his broad frame, and you pulled yourself back slightly and let out a staggered breath. For a second, you looked at him. Stunned, almost, like the words hadn’t landed anywhere familiar, like nobody’d ever told you that before. He watched it cross your face quickly.

One of your hands left his chest and slid up, slid back, fingers pushing slow into the short hair at the nape of his neck, your nails digging light against his scalp. Your fingers worked through his hair and curled at the base of it, and the newness of the touch—the pure uselessness of it, a touch that wasn’t for anything—went through him like a current. 

It got a low and rough sound out of him and his eyes slid shut. His face went hot at the helplessness of it, a man his size coming apart under fingers in his hair, but he couldn't stop it and he didn't pull away. He pressed back into your hand instead, into the slow drag of your nails, chasing it.

“So are you,” you said quietly after a moment.

He fluttered his eyes open halfway. 

“Better than this place,” you clarified.

Pope’s mouth twitched, wanting to tell you he wasn’t. He wanted to tell you every single bad thing he’d ever done. He wanted to lay all of it down between you so you'd see he didn't belong anywhere clean, least of all up against you, you who had never chosen to work in this shithole, you who’d probably never hurt a goddamn fly. 

The words stayed sealed, because he had a feeling you’d hand them all back if he tried. 

“Come on,” he said instead. He shifted under you, wanting to ease into the position while having to force himself to move. “Get your stuff and clock out. I’ll drive you.”

You blinked. “Where?” 

He let out a short-lived laugh. “Wherever you want to go.”

You looked at him like he’d just done a trick. “I have to be home,” you said slowly. “My brother waits up.” 

“Alright.” Pope eased you off his lap, and got a hand against the cinderblock. “So I’ll take you home.”

“You don’t have to—” You were saying from the ground.

“C’mon.” 

He held a hand out to you, then you took it and let him pull you up.

Pope was uncomfortable about everything. His entire life, he’d been uncomfortable, whether it was in his own skin, in his house, in rooms full of people. So it came as no surprise when he had no fucking clue what to do with you. He hadn’t thought this far; he’d wanted to get you the hell out, not get you. And now you were here—or as here as you could’ve been—and he didn’t have the next part. Nobody had ever handed him a good thing and let him keep it. He kept waiting for the catch, turning his pockets out for the cost of it, and the cost wasn’t coming. And that was uncomfortable, waiting for a hit that never landed. 

So he did the only thing he thought he could’ve done, which was keep it quiet and keep it close. 

The cab of his truck. The back room after the basement emptied. Your mouth on his, his hands learning you slow, because he wanted to—Pope wanted to learn you the way other men wanted to win. It was the only ambition he’d ever had that belonged all to him. He wanted the map of you. He wanted to remember the exact spot in your ear that made your breath catch, that he’d found once on accident and gone back to like a man returning to the one warm room in a house that was freezing. The way you said his name, the real one—Andrew—that fit in nobody else’s mouth but yours. 

Pope had to be clear with himself about the fact that it was nothing like a life, even in his own head, because hoping for more than the thing in front of him was how you got hurt. 

When the basement ran late and your house was a long quiet drive, sometimes you’d let him take you back to his place instead, and you’d sleep there. You would actually sleep, hard and deep, in a way you’d once told him you couldn’t at your own home. 

He watched you sleep. He knew it was a strange thing to do but he did it anyway; propped on an elbow in the gray lights off the blinds, because it was the only time your face went all soft. Awake, even with him, you kept some of it back, the watching, the careful, the part of you that—like him—was always waiting for the next bad thing. 

Asleep, you let it all go. You looked younger, and Pope thought this was how you would’ve looked all the time had the world dealt you a different house. 

He must’ve shifted, or his breathing must’ve changed, because your eyes cracked open. You found him in the dark, found him watching you, and your mouth curved, slow and sleep-heavy.

“Creep,” you mumbled into the pillow. 

“Yeah,” Pope said in a whisper. 

You shifted toward him, unhurried, still half in sleep, and your hand came up to his jaw as your fingers traced the line of it. 

“You don’t sleep,” you murmured. You’d noticed it weeks ago.

“No.”

“C’mere, then,” you said, rough, tugging lightly at his jaw, and he came. 

He kissed you slow.

He always started slow—it was the only speed he trusted himself at—and you let him have it slow for a minute, warm and half-asleep against his mouth. Then you weren’t half-asleep anymore, he felt the change in you as your hand slid back into his hair and curled and pulled. The sound that the pull had dragged out of him was embarrassing.

“Quiet,” you breathed against his mouth, throwing his own word back at him—I can be quiet, he’d said once—and he huffed a rough laugh into the crook of your neck and got a hand spread wide and certain against the small of your back to pull you flush against him. 

Your leg hooked over his and your breath went uneven against his ear, and Pope allowed himself to stop thinking.

He dragged his mouth down your throat, slow, to the soft place that made your breath catch, the spot he'd mapped weeks ago and gone back to since like the one warm room in a freezing house. Got there. He felt you go boneless and then not boneless, your fingers tightening in his hair, your hips shifting against his, and he made a low sound into your skin and pressed you down into the mattress with the careful weight of him.

“Andrew,” you said, rough against his collarbone. 

“Yes?” He lifted his head to look at you, and found you already looking at him. 

Your hair was loose around your face and your lips were swollen and your eyes were dark. Pope felt a sort of satisfaction he’d never felt before knowing he’d done that, that you’d come to his bed neat and composed and he’d taken you apart this much already.

Your hand still in his hair tugged him down to your ear. “Take my shirt off.” 

He went still for a second, eyes closing at the words, then he regained himself and pulled back enough to look at you. 

You lifted your arms. He got it over your head and dropped it somewhere and then he just stopped, brain short-circuiting as his body immediately reacted, shifting underneath you. His hand came up and hovered over your bare waist, not quite touching, just close. Deciding where to start.

His hand settled finally, warm and certain against your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breasts. He let out a shaky breath. “You’re so pretty,” he murmured. 

You let out a soft breath, and he let his thumb move, again, slow, up and he rubbed over the swell of your breasts through the bra, watching your face with his whole attention.

He pushed himself up onto one elbow to get a better look at you and you let him, lying there with your hair spread out and your eyes on his face. He took his time, and he could tell it made you want to squirm, and his free hand settled on your hip, holding you still. 

“Come here,” you said softly, reaching for him. 

“In a minute.” His thumb traced the underwire of your bra, following the curve of it. His eyes followed his own hand and his jaw was tight the way it got when he was concentrating. 

“Andrew.” 

“Give me a minute.” His mouth came down on your sternum and pressed there, warm, just breathing for a second, his hand still moving over your ribs, your waist, the dip of it. His lips moved to the curve of your breast, the soft skin at the edge of the fabric, and you felt his breath go unsteady against you.

“Can I—” he started.

“Yes.”

He reached around you, unclipped it with one hand—slightly clumsy, which was so unlike him—and drew it off you slowly, and then he just stopped again, forgetting how to move when he looked at you.

His mouth found you properly then, warm and slow, and you let your head tip back and your hand tighten in his hair and he made a low sound against you.

He worked his way back up to your throat, your jaw, found your mouth again, and kissed you slow until your hands were pulling at him and your hips were shifting and you’d stopped being patient entirely. 

You pressed at his chest. He went, rolling onto his back and taking you with him, and you sat up over him in the gray light and watched his face as you settled your weight down against him, and his hands went to your thighs and gripped and his eyes went briefly shut.

You leaned down and kissed him once, soft. Then his jaw, his throat, the way he'd done to you, finding the places that changed his breathing.

His hands moved up your back, down again, restless, unable to settle. You felt him swallow when your mouth reached his collarbone.

You moved lower. His stomach tightened under your mouth and his hand came up to your hair, resting there, heavy and warm, the way he did everything when he was trying to hold himself back. You looked up at him from where you were and found him already looking down at you, jaw tight, throat working.

“Are you—”

“Mhm.” 

You got his briefs off and he lifted his hips to help you without being asked, which made you press your lips together against a smile. You settled between his thighs and took him inside your hand first, and he let out a shaky, breathless sound as your fingers tightened around his length, small fingers tugging slightly. 

You shifted down, and pressed your lips to the inside of his thigh first, just to feel him react, Pope understood. His whole leg went rigid under your lips. You stayed there a moment, and his fingers curled in your hair out of impatience he wasn’t proud of at all.

“C’mon, hey—”

You did it again, the other side, taking your time, and heard him exhale hard through his nose.

Then, you started from the bottom, tongue gliding over him, base to tip, and Pope’s jaw dropped open and stopped pretending he wanted any sort of control in this situation. 

His hands fisted in your hair. Not pushing—he wasn’t going to do that—but holding on, because he really, really needed something to hold onto and you were it, you were all of it, had been all of it for months, and now you had your mouth on him and your small hand wrapped around the base of him while looking through your lashes at him like you knew exactly what you were doing to him—you absolutely did—and he wanted to do nothing about it except lie there and take it.

You took him into your mouth properly and his hips came off the mattress before he caught them, hand pressing down against his own stomach, jaw locked.

“Christ—” It came out mangled, just sound.

You set a pace that was sure to kill him, so deliberate with everything and focused attention on him entirely, and he had the distant thought that he’d never been on the receiving end of attention like this. His thighs tensed around you and his free hand found the sheets.

You pulled off just enough to say ‘don’t’ when his forearm moved toward his face, and he dropped it back, exposed, staring at the ceiling, throat working. Your hand worked what your mouth couldn’t, and he felt his vision go slightly sideways, hand in your hair tightening involuntarily, fingers curling against your scalp. 

“Let me—” He stopped when he noticed how wrecked he sounded, barely his own voice. His grip tugged you up. “Can you—Can I—”

He stumbled over the words, but you still moved up. 

You settled over him, knees either sides of his hips, and he got his hands on your waist immediately. His chest was heaving and he was sure he looked completely undone.

“Can I—” he tried again. His thumb moved against your hip, pleadingly. “I need to—” He tried again. “Will you—”

You looked down at him. “Are you asking me something?” 

“Yeah.” His jaw tightened. “Trying to.” 

“So ask.” 

He took in a sharp breath, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass. “Can I be inside you?” 

You held his eyes a second. “Yeah,” you said. “Yeah.”

The sound he let out at that was quiet and involuntary and you felt it in your sternum. His eyes closed for just a second, like he needed that, you saying it had done something to him before anything had even happened yet.

You reached between you and his breath caught audibly, hands tightening on your hips, feeling it happen, needing to feel it happen somewhere in his palms.

You sank down onto him slow and his head went back and his throat worked and his hands on your hips pulled you down the last inch with a low, helpless sound that he clearly hadn't planned on making.

He’d never felt this way before, so all-encompassed. You were so warm and close in way the months of wanting had never prepared him for, your hands braced on his chest, your weight settled on his lap, and he could feel your pulse where you were joined and his own pulse and everywhere else.

He stayed there a second, both hands spread wide on your hips, breathing. 

“You okay?” you asked, quiet.

“One second.”

You gave him the second. He sat up after that, and his arm banded around your waist and pulled you flush against him and that made you gasp, hands grabbing at his shoulders, his neck.

He was so much bigger than you like this, your knees hardly finding the mattress either side of him, and he held you there, mouth finding your throat.

“Do you like this?” he asked into your skin.

“Yes—yeah,” you said, slightly breathless. 

He bit down lightly at your pulse point, just enough, and your nails raked down his back in response, and the sound that got out of him was dark and satisfied, his hips rolling up into you slow and deliberate.

His hips set a pace after that, one hand spread flat against your lower back holding you exactly where he wanted you, the other gripping your hip, guiding you down to meet each roll of his hips. You could feel everything. He made sure of it, and he knew by the way your walls clamped down on him.

“Andrew—”

“Feels so good,” he said through a groan, mouth set on your throat. “You feel so good.” 

Your nails found his back again and he groaned into your neck and his hips stuttered, losing the rhythm for just a second before he found it again, deeper this time, and you made a sound against his shoulder that you felt him collect, felt him file away, his arm tightening around you in response.

“That good?” he murmured.

“It’s—” you started, breath catching. 

“Yeah?” His hand moved from your hip to the small of your back, adjusting the angle, pressing you down onto him, and whatever you'd been trying to say dissolved entirely into something that wasn't words at all. “There?” 

“Jesus, Andrew—” you said, a punch in your words as he pushed you down onto him. “Where’d you learn this?”

He pulled back to look at your face, and the look on his was almost amused, almost, underneath all the want. “Just wanna make you feel good,” he said, “with me.” 

Your hands coming up to his face without deciding to, cupping his jaw, and he turned into it immediately, that same helpless lean he always did when you put your hands on his face, like he couldn't help it, like you'd found the one soft spot in him nobody else had ever found.

You kissed him then, different from the others — slower, more deliberate, saying something you didn't have words for yet, and he kissed you back the same way, his pace going slow and deep and unhurried, like the night had gotten longer suddenly, like neither of you were going anywhere.

His forehead dropped to yours when you broke off, both of you breathing uneven, his hand moving up your spine, vertebra by vertebra, just feeling you.

“You with me?” he murmured.

“Yeah,” you said. “I am.”

His hand pressed you further into him, like there was any space. “Promise me.” 

It came out rougher than he meant, needier than he'd have liked, and he felt it land between you in the dark and couldn't take it back and didn't try.

You looked up at him. Whatever you found in his face made yours go soft. “Promise,” you said.

He exhaled against your mouth and his hips rolled forward and you made a small sound and your hands slid up into his hair, pulling, and whatever had gone tender between you tipped back into heat, his pace picking up, deeper now, one hand gripping the headboard above you and the other finding your hip, holding you where he wanted you.

Pope had come to the basement earlier, before his fight. He had no good reason for it—the fight was in an hour, the place was half-empty, the crowd still trickling in—but he’d gotten restless at the apartment and figured he’d find you early, steal a few minutes before the room filled up. 

He came down the concrete stairs and heard Leo’s voice before he saw anything, and the sound of it stopped Pope three steps from the bottom. Pope had never once in his life heard the guy yell, lose control, and the voice coming up was low and almost patient, like you’d talk to a child or a dog. 

“ —count it again,” Leo was saying. “‘Cause I counted it, and I’m coming up short. That’s a problem, you know that, right?”

“I counted it three times,” you said, your voice flat and so, so careful it gnawed at him. “It’s all here. I swear, it’s all—”

“Don’t swear to me, sweetheart. Count.” 

Pope came down the last steps quiet. You were at the cash table with the box open in front of you and your hands unsteady on the bills. Leo was standing close to you, like that was the point—looming, using the size of himself—as he crowded you back against the table. He was making you do the math all out in a flat, dead voice, your shoulders up around your ears, and Pope watched you flinch when Leo shifted his weight even though the guy hadn’t done anything.

“You’re light,” Leo said, soft. “You’re light and you’re trying to swear. You know what happens to my count when one of my girls gets light.” He let his words hang, tilting his head. “It comes out of the square. Adds to it. You’re going backwards, sweetheart, after all this time. Going the wrong direction.”

Leo reached and took your jaw in his hand—almost gently, tipping your face up out of the count—and your body went still, and that was the second you saw Pope behind Leo’s shoulder. 

“Don’t touch her,” Pope said, without thinking about it. 

Leo turned, unhurried, his hand still loose at your jaw before he let it drop, on his own time. He was making a point of it, Pope realized. “It’s off.” He spread the hand, easy, showing him. “See? We’re just talking. Business.” 

Then, he turned to look at you, chin tipping down. “You really messing around with this guy? I thought it was just people making shit up.” 

“People talk—” you started to say.

“You were just waitin’ around for some rich guy to come along?” He looked at you, shaking his head. “That it?” Then, he turned to Pope. “She could’ve gotten out a lot earlier—you know that right?” He shook his head, like he was disappointed. “Could’ve taken the back room, cut the number down to nothing in a couple months. Easy. Plenty of guys asking. But no, she just wanted to do it the long way.” He tipped his chin at Pope, lazy. “—And then go and give it away to you. For free.”

Pope’s pulse should’ve been climbing. It had gone flat and slow and cold. “Watch your mouth.”

“Or what?” He asked, almost fond. “You gonna—”

The gun was out before he decided to pull it. His hand went to the small of his back and came around and then the thing was there, level, steady, muzzle a few inches off Leo’s forehead. 

The guy stopped smiling. He didn’t flinch—Pope gave him that—but he went very slow, very careful, his hands drifting up off his sides. His palms were loose and open.

“Okay,” Leo said, quiet now. “Okay. Easy.”

“Are you kidding me?” Pope muttered, shaking his head. “You don’t have a damn gun on you?” 

“I don’t need a gun in my own place,” he said through gritted teeth. His eyes flicked to the stairs, then back to the muzzle. “You wanna put that down before you get stupid over nothing?”

He’d half-hoped that Leo would’ve been carrying, show any sign that he felt afraid. “Her number. Say it.”

“That’s not—” He huffed, almost a laugh, disbelieving. “That’s not how—there’s a process to this, there’s people I gotta answer to.”

Pope’s lips flattened, eyes flicking to the ceiling, annoyed. “You know I’ll do it, man. I don’t care enough not to.” 

Leo’s smile dropped then. “Half the room’s had their hands on her, you know that? She’s not somebody’s girlfriend, man. The second she doesn’t need either of us, she’s not looking back at you any more than she’s looking back at me.” 

Pope let out a short chuckle. “Now you’re getting whatever I’ve got in my pocket or I’m shooting. Your call.” 

“You’re making a mistake,” the guy said, his last call, Pope realized. “You can’t pull a gun on me and —”

“That’s tomorrow’s problem.” Pope’s hand stayed still. “Right now, you take the money, she’s square, she walks.” His head tipped, slight. “Say yes, man. You’re a smart guy. Say yes.” Pope nudged the gun slightly further into his head. He leaned his head closer to the guy’s ear, voice dropping into a register that would’ve been too low for you to hear. “I’ve put people down for less than this. You know that.”

Leo took a beat. “Fine.” The word came out flat, bitten-off. “Fine. The money. She’s square. Get it out slow, I don’t want your fucking hand movin’ fast near me.”

Pope reached into his jacket with his off hand—the gun never leaving Leo's face—and pulled the roll, the whole fight roll, thick and rubber-banded, and tossed it onto the table by the box. It landed heavy. Leo didn't look at it. He kept his eyes on Pope, and his hands stayed up, and the deal sat there in the dead air between them, made.

Leo looked at it, and a long moment passed. He let out a short, disbelieving breath through his nose. “That’s it?” 

“You should’ve said yes the first time. You knew I was good for it,” Pope said. “Say it,” he added. “She’s good. Tell her so she hears it.” 

“You’re square,” he said to you, the words ugly. “You don’t owe me shit. Don’t come back.” A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Either of you.” 

Pope held the gun where it was a beat longer than he had to—long enough to make it clear the leaving was his idea, not Leo's permission—and then he lowered it, slow, and stepped back, and reached out without looking and found your wrist.

“Let’s go,” Pope said roughly to you. 

You didn’t move at first. He had to tug your forearm once, and then you came, stumbling off the spot you’d been rooted to, and he put himself between you and Leo and walked you up the concrete stairs and out the side door into the lot, into the air that was finally air, with the gun cooling against his back and your pulse hammering under his fingers where he still had your wrist.

Pope let out a shaky breath as he tipped his neck back to look at the sky. He’d assumed that one day, he would’ve figured it out, how to help you—it would have been cleaner, probably, and wouldn’t have happened right in front of you—and he hadn’t thought it’d be fucking today. 

He still had your wrist. He made himself let it go, and turned to look at you. You were looking at nothing, at the chain-link past the lot, your arms coming to wrap around yourself, holding your elbows.

“Get in the car,” he said to you. 

You stayed still.

Pope shook his head once, pressing his lips together. He nodded at the truck. “C’mon. Just get in the truck.”

You stayed rooted there in the orange light, arms folded over yourself, shaking your head faintly—not at him, not a no exactly, just somewhere else, somewhere he couldn't reach you. He felt the impatience climb in him, the adrenaline still draining, the gun still warm against his back and the tomorrow-problem already stacking up behind his ribs, and it came out rougher than he meant.

“Just—get in the damn car.” He dragged his palm down his face and exhaled. 

You went around to the passenger side and shut the door. He got in beside you, and for a second, neither of you said anything. He pulled out the lot and drove the way he always did with you, to his apartment. You sat against the window with your knees pulled up and your arms still around yourself, and he kept glancing over, waiting for it, the thing he could feel build up.

“You mad at me?” he asked, the words coming out choked, almost like he was forcing them out. 

You took in a breath and looked out the window. “Are you gonna be fine?”

He snorted. “Yeah. Don’t worry ‘bout me. I’m safe.” 

You nodded, even though he could tell you didn’t believe it. He wanted to tell you that he was probably the most safe guy in Oceanside, part of a family that would make sure nothing happened to anyone in it, even if they all may hate each other deep down. 

“I didn’t want it to happen like this,” you said a moment later. “I wanted to do it myself.” 

Pope knew what you meant, but he wanted you to talk more, just so he could justify it. “Yeah?”

“I was gonna work it down to nothing,” you continued. “And one day it’d just be done, and I’d—walk out. And it’d be cause I did it. Me. The one thing that was gonna be mine.” 

“You weren’t getting out.” When you snapped your head to look at him, eyebrows furrowed, he forced to keep himself looking at the road. “I’m sorry, but you were never getting out. Don’t be dumb. I know you wanted to.” 

“Don’t call me dumb.”

“Then don’t be.” He shook his head. “You’re paying off a debt that’s not even yours when you could be—what? Working anywhere that gives you an actual paycheck. He wasn’t gonna let you have that. There’s no fucking contract making sure he lets you out.” 

You looked back at the window, jaw tight. “I didn’t want you buying me,” you said quietly. “That’s exactly the thing I didn’t want. Now I’m—I don’t want to owe you, Andrew. I like you.”

“You don’t owe me,” he said, voice rough, trying to ignore what the words did to his chest.

“That’s not how—”

“It’s how it works with me,” he said flatly. “I didn’t buy you. Don’t say shit like that. I bought you out.” His hands tightened on the wheel. “There’s nothing you owe me.”

“I wanted it to be clean,” you said, and Pope almost wanted to shut you up. “Us. I wanted to get out and just be—someone you liked. Not somebody you had to save or something like that.”

“Well, that’s too bad, then,” he rasped. “You can come with me. You can go wherever you want. You’re out, you can choose.” He killed the engine as the car reached his apartment. “You are someone I like already. I never liked who you had to be, but I like you—this, whatever it is. Alright?”

A part of Pope knew he shouldn’t have taken the job. Robberies were always a mess, but Baz had a fondness for them. And Baz had a kid and a whole life balanced on not going inside, and Pope had a girl who he wasn’t even sure was his girl, and no good reason in the world to be holding the bag when it went wrong.

So now there was a phone bolted to a cinderblock wall and a line of men behind him and a number he’d memorized. Thank God he’d memorized. 

It rang twice. 

“Hello?” 

The sound of your voice did something itchy to his sternum. He’d last heard it three weeks ago, before the job, when you’d been half-asleep against his shoulder in the truck outside your place. You’d told him to call you when he got home. 

“Andrew?” you asked immediately, like just an exhalation of his breath, you could recognize. “You’re in jail?” 

He forced out a dry chuckle, because the opposite would’ve gotten him kicked. “Folsom County.” 

“Jesus—why?”

“Robbery. It was a—a family thing—” He kept it short. The line was recorded; half of what he wanted to say, he couldn’t, and the other half, he wouldn’t. Especially not to you, not like this, with a guard at his back and a clock ticking somewhere. 

“Can I visit you?” you asked immediately. The hope in your words tightened something in his chest so hard he had to close his eyes to loosen it even a fraction. “How long are you in there for?” 

“No—don’t. Hey, listen,” he said, voice shaking and he hated it. “You—you gotta be safe, okay? If anything happens, I need you to look for—”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t take care of you from here,” he said through gritted teeth. “I need to make sure you’ll be okay.”

“How long are you in for?” you asked, weary, like you’d read somewhere between the lines and realized that you were going to hate the answer.

“Six years,” he said, letting out another sigh. Then, because he couldn’t help himself when he heard you go silent on the other end, he said, “I’m sorry.” He pressed the phone harder against his ear, as if that did anything. 

“Fuck—fuck, Andrew. Six years—?” you said, voice so sharp he could feel it cut through him. He heard you breath, trying to collect yourself. “Okay. Okay—I can come there, to you. Visit you and stuff, alright?”

“You’re not living the next six years meeting me behind a glass, alright?” 

“I don’t care about that.” 

“I do.” It came out rougher than he’d intended. He pressed his forehead to the cold block, eyes shut as his free hand came up to tug at his hair. The line of men and the guards and the whole gray space fell away from him for a second, and it was just your voice in his ear and him trying, failing, to do one right thing for you. “You just got out—I’m not putting you back in. You got out, and you—you can do whatever you want.”

“I don’t want it without you,” you said, voice breaking clean down the middle, and it about took him out at the knees, standing there in his county blues with a telephone crushed to his ear. 

“You’re not thinking right,” he said, trying to get the words out slowly, like saying it that way would make you believe them. “You’re not waiting for me for six years. You know how long that is?” 

Pope was at a loss in this; he’d never had to push someone away before. Every person he’d needed gone, before he even knew he did, he’d made himself ugly enough to push it out. He didn’t have the ugly to use on you; he’d used up every bad thing in front of you already and you’d stayed anyway, and now he had nothing left to drive you away with except the truth, which was that Pope loved you too much to let you do this to yourself.

He couldn’t say that either because maybe then you’d really never leave.

You only breathed on the other end, and he could hear the hitch of your voice when you started to try saying something, then stopped. 

“I won’t like it,” he said, quieter now, “if you wait for me.”

It was a lie and you both heard it. He didn’t try to sell it harder and let it sit there, all wrong, and moved on before you could call him out from it, because he had something he needed you to have more than he needed to win the argument.

“Listen,” he said, forcing his voice to steady. “You got something to write with? Or open something on your phone to get it.” 

“Andrew—”

“Please.” 

Something in his voice must’ve reached you, because he heard you shift. 

“Okay,” you said, voice thick. “Okay.”

He recited the number, slow and twice, so you’d have it right. “That’s Baz. Alright? Barry Blackwell—write that down, too. My brother.” His teeth gritted. “You don’t ever have to call it, but you keep it. And if anything ever—” His jaw worked, and he pinched his eyes shut at the horrible thoughts. “If money gets tight or if people come sniffing around even though they shouldn’t. If you get caught up in anything—somebody gives you trouble, or anything, the car dies, whatever it is. You call him. You say you’re mine, say Pope said to call. He’ll help.” 

“I don’t want your brother to—”

He didn’t want his brother to, either. Baz had a bad track record with people Pope considered his, people Pope loved. He pressed his molars together at the thought of Baz with you, of all people. Despite how much love he held for his brother, he didn’t like the thought. Six years was a long, long time. 

Six years was long enough to forget a voice, long enough for the thing you’d been holding in your hands to shift without noticing, long enough for a warm and present man to become more real than a memory behind a glass. Baz wouldn’t. But he can’t imagine Baz ever meeting you and not seeing what Pope loved about you, what everyone could love about you. 

“It’s the only way I can do anything for you,” he said quickly, making sure you’d understand. “It’ll make me happy.”

He heard you choke slightly on the other end. “Can you call me, then? If I can’t visit you.” 

He wanted to say yes. It would've cost him nothing in the moment and it would've ruined you slow, six years of you living from phone call to phone call, your whole life arranged around fifteen minutes of a recorded line, waiting on a man in a cage. And he knew he’d rightfully deserved to be caged. He’d seen what waiting did to you. He’d pulled a gun to get you out from under exactly that.

“No,” he said. “You stay out. You got out. Stay out of all of it, including me.”

And a part of him believed he was doing you a favor, despite it all. He’d never quite gotten you all the way like he’d wanted—merged your life into his and his yours—and maybe that was for the better. As long as you were wrapped up with him, you would’ve been wrapped up with his family, the jobs, the heists, the next county lockup waiting for him somewhere down the line. 

Your little brother deserved a sister who could come home clean, someone who didn’t have a Cody-shaped problem following her through the door. He’d been told he was the worst of them; he was built up for a purpose and it wasn’t the kind of thing you brought home. Pope cared about you enough to know that; it was hard not to realize it, standing in prison. 

He heard you say a jumble of words in one breath, and he couldn’t quite catch any over the ringing in his own ears. The guard said he had sixty seconds left.

“I’d do it again, I swear,” he said, fast, before your voice cut off. “I’m sorry I couldn’t—it was short.”

Your breath stopped for a second, then you asked, forcing an even voice, “How will I know you’re okay?” 

“I’ll be fine. I got people watching my back, I swear.” 

“Please, just—”

“Bye,” he said, forcing his voice gentle. “Take care of yourself, okay? And the kid.” 

The sound you made—wet and broken, landing like a wound he’d probably carry for six years—was the last of you he let himself take. He set the receiver down slow, like slow made it kinder, before you could say his name again. Because he never would've managed it if you'd said his name again.

The line went dead under his palm.

[hirukochan]

Semper Fi Masterlist

A Jack Abbot x fem!reader fic

Jack Abbot finds himself feeling oddly protective over the new night shift attending. He tells himself it's natural. You were the young widow of a Marine, a military spouse who brought the greatest sacrifice for her country - your husband. He watched you push on with gritted teeth, haunted by your own demons and trauma, all for the little girl depending on you. It was only natural. Any serviceman would feel an obligation towards your well-being. Any serviceman would want to know you were safe... happy... So how come, he can't help but feel like he is stealing another man's life?

Ao3

Current total word count: 70k

No use of y/n

Tag/Content: 18+, slow burn sexually explicit content, older man/younger (29 y/o) woman, grief, loss, ptsd, yearning, Jack Abbot would be a great girl dad and you can't change my mind, reader is an alt!girly with tats and piercings (more tags to follow as I work on the fic)

teaser

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

[honeysblogx]

His Little Wildflower

chapter 4

summary: Pope arrives in Charming and finally comes face-to-face with Jax Teller. When he reveals the truth about Willow, Jax is forced to come to terms with the fact that he has a six-year-old daughter he never knew existed. Meanwhile, Willow remains completely unaware that her life is about to change forever.

The clubhouse was quieter than Pope expected.

A few men sat around drinking coffee.

Others worked on motorcycles outside.

Everyone seemed to know who Jax Teller was the second he walked into a room.

Pope followed him into a small office at the back of the building.

The door shut behind them.

Jax crossed his arms.

"You said this was about Julia."

Pope nodded.

For a second neither man spoke.

Jax looked uneasy.

Like hearing Julia's name after all these years had already brought back memories he wasn't ready for.

"How is she?" Jax finally asked.

Pope looked down.

The answer hit harder than he'd expected.

"She died."

The color drained from Jax's face.

"What?"

"Overdose."

Silence.

Jax slowly sat down.

Staring at the floor.

Pope let him process it.

The room stayed quiet for nearly a minute.

Finally Jax rubbed a hand over his face.

"Damn it, Julia."

His voice cracked.

Pope understood.

Julia had a way of getting under people's skin.

Even years later.

"When?"

"A couple weeks ago."

Jax nodded slowly.

His jaw clenched.

"You came all the way here to tell me that?"

"No."

Jax looked up.

Pope hesitated.

Then finally spoke.

"She had a daughter."

Everything stopped.

The room.

The air.

Even Jax himself.

"What?"

Pope held his gaze.

"She had a little girl."

Jax stared.

Then laughed once.

A nervous laugh.

Like maybe he'd heard wrong.

"What are you talking about?"

"Julia had a daughter."

Jax stood.

"No."

Pope didn't move.

"She's six."

The silence that followed felt endless.

"Six?" Jax whispered.

Pope nodded.

Jax's eyes widened.

Slowly.

Painfully.

The math clicked.

The timeline.

The years.

Everything.

His breathing changed.

"When was she born?"

“ March 24th” Pope told him.

Jax sat back down.

Hard.

Like his legs stopped working.

"Jesus Christ."

The words barely came out.

Pope watched him.

"Her name's Willow."

Jax closed his eyes.

Willow.

His daughter had a name.

His daughter.

The words didn't even feel real.

"Does she know?"

"No."

Jax laughed bitterly.

"Of course she doesn't."

Pope stayed quiet.

"Julia never told me."

The hurt in his voice was impossible to miss.

"She never called."

His hands shook.

"Never wrote."

Pope nodded.

"I know."

Jax looked furious.

Heartbroken.

Lost.

All at the same time.

"I would've been there."

Pope believed him.

That was the problem.

He actually believed him.

"She knows about me?"

"No."

Jax let out a breath.

A shaky one.

Then he looked at Pope.

"What's she like?"

That question caught Pope off guard.

"What?"

"My daughter."

The words sounded strange coming from him.

Like he was trying them out.

Seeing how they felt.

"What's she like?"

For the first time since arriving, Pope smiled.

A little.

"She's loud."

Jax laughed.

"Sounds like Julia."

"Talks nonstop."

"Definitely Julia."

"Doesn't like pickles."

Jax barked out a laugh.

"Neither did her mother."

Pope found himself smiling too.

"Calls me Uncle Andrew."

Jax blinked.

"What?"

"Refuses to call me Pope."

A grin spread across Jax's face.

"That's hilarious."

"Yeah."

For a moment both men laughed.

Then reality returned.

Jax became serious again.

"Where is she?"

"With us."

"With the Codys?"

Pope nodded.

Jax looked worried immediately.

"She's safe."

"Yeah."

"Jay's taking care of her."

Jax rubbed his face.

Trying to process everything.

A daughter.

A six-year-old daughter.

One he'd never known existed.

Finally he looked at Pope.

"I want to meet her."

Pope expected that.

"Yeah."

Jax stood.

Immediately.

Like the decision had already been made.

"I wanna see her."

"Not today."

Jax frowned.

"What?"

"She just buried her mom."

The words landed.

Hard.

Pope continued.

"She's hurting."

Jax looked away.

Guilt filled his expression.

Even though none of this was his fault.

"She needs time."

Jax nodded reluctantly.

"Okay."

Pope stood too.

"I'll talk to the family."

"You think they'll let me?"

The question surprised him.

Jax sounded nervous.

Like a father.

Not a biker.

Not a vice president.

Just a dad.

Pope thought about Willow.

About her smile.

Her laugh.

The way she'd buried her face in his shirt at the funeral.

Then he thought about the look on Jax's face.

The devastation.

The hope.

The fear.

"Yeah," Pope said finally.

"I think she deserves to know her father."

Jax swallowed hard.

Neither man spoke for a moment.

Then a voice came from outside.

The office door opened.

A huge man with long hair stepped inside.

"Everything good?"

Pope immediately recognized him.

Opie.

Jax looked over.

Then back at Pope.

And for the first time said the words out loud.

"I have a daughter."

Opie's eyes widened.

"What?"

Jax laughed.

Half shocked.

Half emotional.

"I have a daughter."

Outside the office, another biker with a Scottish accent poked his head in.

"What's all this then?"

Jax looked completely overwhelmed.

A smile slowly spreading across his face.

"My daughter."

Chibs stared.

Then looked at Pope.

Then back at Jax.

"Ye serious?"

Jax nodded.

Still looking stunned.

Still looking like he couldn't quite believe it.

Pope headed toward the door.

His job here was done.

"Wait."

Pope stopped.

Jax looked at him.

"When you see her..."

His voice softened.

"Tell her I'd like to meet her."

For the first time since arriving in Charming, Pope nodded.

"I will."

And as he walked back toward his truck, he found himself thinking about Willow.

About the little girl who had no idea her whole world was about to change.

Again.

Taglist

@marvelsbipolarnerd

@chanelwidag

[honeysblogx]

His Little Wildflower

Chapter 3

summary: As Willow begins settling into life with the Codys, she grows closer to Craig, Deran, Lena, and Jay. While the family slowly finds a place for Julia's daughter, Pope can't stop thinking about the secret Jay revealed. Determined to find answers, he heads to Charming in search of Jax Teller.

It had been almost a week since the funeral.

A week since Willow had arrived at the Cody house.

A week since Pope had found himself looking for a little blonde head every time he walked into a room.

The kid was everywhere.

She was currently running around the backyard with Lena, both girls soaking wet from the pool.

"You can't catch me!" Willow squealed.

Lena immediately took off after her.

"Get back here!"

Their laughter echoed through the yard.

Pope sat at the patio table pretending to read something while secretly keeping an eye on them.

Not that he'd ever admit it.

"You're staring."

Pope looked up.

Craig was grinning.

"I'm not."

"You totally are."

"I'm reading."

Craig looked down at the paper.

"That's upside down."

Pope glared.

Craig laughed so hard he nearly spilled his beer.

Across the yard, Willow suddenly tripped over her own feet.

Pope was halfway out of his chair before she even hit the ground.

The little girl landed with a dramatic gasp.

Then immediately sat up.

"I'm okay!"

Craig burst out laughing.

"You moved faster than Smurf when somebody mentions money."

"Shut up."

"You like the kid."

"No."

"You do."

"No."

"You totally do."

Pope threw a towel at his head.

"Craig."

"I'm just saying."

Before Pope could answer, Willow came running over.

"Uncle Andy!"

His attention immediately shifted.

"What?"

"Craig said he can teach me how to jump into the pool."

Craig nearly choked.

"I did?"

"You did now."

Willow grabbed Craig's hand.

"Come on!"

Craig looked at Pope.

Pope shrugged.

"Good luck."

Twenty minutes later, Craig was teaching Willow how to do cannonballs.

Or at least his version of teaching.

"Jump!"

Willow looked nervous.

"What if I sink?"

"You won't sink."

"How do you know?"

Craig pointed at himself.

"Look at me."

She squinted.

"Okay."

"Do I look smart?"

She immediately shook her head no.

Pope snorted into his coffee.

Craig looked offended.

"Wow."

"But you look fun."

"See?" Craig said proudly.

"That wasn't a compliment."

"It counts."

Eventually Willow jumped.

The splash was tiny.

But her smile was huge.

"I DID IT!"

Craig threw both arms into the air.

"THAT'S MY NIECE!"

The entire backyard laughed.

Later that afternoon Deran found himself stuck supervising both girls while everyone else disappeared.

A responsibility he absolutely did not ask for.

Willow sat beside him on the deck.

"Uncle Deran?"

"What?"

"Why do you always look grumpy?"

Deran nearly choked on his drink.

"I don't."

"You do."

"No I don't."

"You do."

"No."

"Okay."

He frowned.

"You're agreeing too easily."

Willow smiled.

"Mommy said people get more grumpy when they're wrong."

From the pool, Craig started laughing.

Deran threw a pool noodle at his head.

That evening Jay found Willow sitting on the edge of the pool.

The sun was setting.

Orange light reflected across the water.

She held Piggy Bear against her chest.

Jay sat beside her.

"You okay?"

She nodded.

"You miss Mom?"

Her eyes immediately filled with tears.

"A little."

Jay wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"I miss her too."

For a while they sat quietly.

Watching the boats.

Watching the waves.

Neither noticed Pope standing on the porch watching them.

Or the fact that he looked just as sad.

That night everyone was asleep.

Except Pope.

He stood in the kitchen staring at the computer.

One address.

One name.

Jax Teller.

Pope wrote down the address and folded the paper and shoved it into his pocket.

Then grabbed his keys.

If Jax Teller was really Willow's father...

He deserved to know.

The drive to Charming took hours.

The closer Pope got, the more uncertain he became.

What exactly was he supposed to say?

Hey.

You have a daughter.

She's six.

Her mom died.

Good luck.

Even for him that sounded terrible.

The clubhouse appeared just after sunrise.

Rows of motorcycles sat outside.

Pope parked.

Got out.

And headed toward the entrance.

A few bikers immediately looked his way.

One of them stepped forward.

Tall.

Dark hair.

Scottish accent.

"Can I help ye?"

Pope stared at him.

"I'm looking for Jax Teller."

The biker frowned.

"Who wants him?"

"Pope Cody."

The biker's eyebrows shot up.

"Cody?"

Another voice spoke from behind him.

"What the hell is a Cody doing in Charming?"

Pope turned.

And found himself face-to-face with Jax Teller.

The man looked older than the photos Jay had shown him.

But it was definitely him.

Pope studied him for a second.

Then spoke.

"I need to talk to you about Julia."

Jax froze.

And suddenly the atmosphere changed.

"Come inside."

Pope followed him.

Already knowing neither of their lives would be the same when this conversation ended.

Taglist

@marvelsbipolarnerd

@chanelwidag

[imabbotbeliever]

Slurpees, Concussions, and All Things Sweet: Part 2

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 (coming soon!)

pairing: f!reader x jack abbot

word count: 3k

summary: after meeting jack as your knight in shining armour or swat gear you finally pluck up the courage to send him a text to take him up on his offer for a cup of coffee. what follows is a sweet afternoon exchanging stories and pastries; jacks confidence and sweetness melting you into a comfortable bashful mess. a lotta fluff ensues.

tags: fluff and lots of it, anxious reader, self concious reader, smooth jack abbot, did i mention fluff, slow burn, no use of y/n.

a/n: this was so fun to write omg! i loved writing sweet jack, and i def have a few ideas on how to expand on this story. its a bit self indulgent for us anxious girlies who just wanna been seen, but hey isn't that the point of writing fan fic!

dividers: lace from @pixopix reblogs from @strangergraphics!

The piece of paper with Dr. Abbot’s number on it stayed firmly in your pocket for over a week, edges fraying to soft corners as you played with it absent mindedly while you waited in line at the grocery store, or when you stood at the elevator exchanging pleasantries with your coworkers. You’re not too sure why you haven’t texted him yet, he was the one to initiate it, flirting and of course giving you his number, so why is your brain hellbent on convincing you he made a mistake. Sure, you initially left it a few days, letting the stress of getting caught in the crossfires of a robbery calm down, letting your body recalibrate and the wound on your forehead heal. But once a few days passed, you started to doubt yourself, that pesky critic sitting at the back of your brain creeping forward, offering you reasons to not follow through with texting him; namely that he was just riding an adrenaline high when he brought you to the hospital and seemingly reciprocated your flirty jokes, that he wasn’t thinking straight when he passed you his number and that he would cringe at your text when it finally came through regretting giving you his number in the first place. One evening after work, exactly ten days after your trip to the ER, you’re sat on your couch after work, listening to the rain patter against the windows, the TV glow bleeding a warm light across your otherwise dark apartment. It’s another evening spent cuddled up with your dog, Mitzy, who is 65 pounds of unadulterated labrador love, wrapped together in a plush blanket, the perfect image of female loneliness when you decide to push the critic right to the back of your brain. You pick up your phone in a moment of unfound confidence,  shooting off a stream of texts to Dr. Abbot before you can think twice, once sent you throw your phone across the couch, earning an unimpressed gruff from Mitzy, who curls into your side even more. You pet her head, talking to her as if she could actually reply “He better not air me out Mitzy, I swear to God”, all it earns from her is a slight lift of her head at the sound of her name and a huff as she settles back down, her dramatics earn an eye roll from you in response. Your attention is glued to your TV, focusing on watching reruns of your favourite comfort show with an unnecessary level of attention in an effort to keep your attention off your phone. The dim light of the TV and the warmth of Mitzy at your side keeps your mind off of your texts to Dr. Abbot, lending you to start dosing off on the couch to the soft sound of the rain bouncing off the windows. 

A few hours pass before a ping comes from under a pillow on the other side of the couch, waking you up from your light slumber, your TV show now onto the next season making you hazard a guess of being in asleep for at least a couple of hours. A jolt of panic runs through your body, scrambling to get your phone to see if it was Jack you push Mitzy’s head off your lap and reach under the pillow and grab your phone. A wave of relief rushes your body as you read his reply, the pit of your stomach full of excited butterflies, a little giggle reaching your throat as you hop off your couch. You're sure if he saw you right now he’d get the ick completely, you dancing around hopping from foot to foot, mismatched socks, faded sweat pants and a t-shirt with one to many stains on it to be deemed suitable for public outings anymore, all just because he replied. Mitzy slopes off the couch, and you crouch down to pet her, whispering in that silly voice you do with her when you're alone “guess who’s mama just got a date!”. You shoot off a text to Dr. Abbot - Jack - before you get a chance to let your mind get in your way again, and slip off to bed, warm fuzzy feeling settling in your stomach.

Over the next few days you and Jack organise a time and place for the coffee date which  between opposing schedules, SWAT chaos and general life was no easy feat, but you settle on an early afternoon Sunday, on an off day for Jack so he, in his own words, can be on top form for you. In an effort to put in the same amount of effort, your standing at the counter in your bathroom on Sunday morning, you’re giving yourself a pep-talk in the mirror, attempting to convince yourself that you will match up to the memory he has of you, that you most definitely won’t fumble over your words like you always do. With the attempt seeming a bit fruitless, you turn up your music a little bit louder, the bass reverberating in your ears slightly and turn your efforts to curling your hair, flatting out the stray hairs and tying the top half off your face. You continue the preening, building a metaphorical armor with your eyeliner and lipstick, smiling tightly at yourself in the mirror. With a heavy sigh, you finish off your look with a spritz of perfume, click off the music, pop Mitzy a quick hug and a treat, and head out the door. You turn onto the corner of the street where you agreed to meet, deciding to walk, seeing as its only a few blocks away, wind in your hair as you enjoy the light summer air. As you turn onto the corner you instantly spot the back of Jack about half way down the block, outside the coffee shop waiting for you, and God he looks effortlessly devine, somehow even better out of the SWAT uniform. His broad back is donned in a form fitting black t-shirt matched with a pair of dark wash jeans and a brown pair of combat boots, it all melds into a casual yet devastating look, especially matched with those perfectly combed silver curls. Your breath practically catches in your chest when he turns to look for you, as if he can sense you behind him, he spots you walking down the street, he shoots you a sweet smile, chin tilted up slightly and a hand raised to wave at you. Almost automatically, you smile back, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear and look toward the ground, you may as well paint the word bashful across your forehead, based on how quickly you start going red. Jack meets you half way down the street, saving you the awkward walk to meet him. Murmuring a low “hey” he reads your body language, holding his open for a hug but not forcing you to cross that physical line. You blush a small bit more, internally cursing yourself for your inability to keep your cool, saying hello back to him and leaning in for a quick hug, knowing that you’ll feel better for breaking that physical barrier so early on. 

As you walk into the coffee shop, Jack holding the door open for you, he’s so close to you that he brushes against your arm, eliciting a rush of goosebumps up your arm as you head inside, your brain already short circuiting from his attention and kindness. In an attempt to break the silence that is starting to stretch between you as you stand in line to order, Jack offers up a simple question, 

“Let me guess your coffee order, go on, m’see if I have a good read of you.”

You laugh softly, meeting his eye with a sweet glint in your own 

“Oh go on so, I’m not going to lie though, its pretty easy”

Humming and taking a beat for dramatic affect he replies with a quip of an eye brow, looking straight ahead rather than at you 

“Hm, cappachino, oat milk, no chocolate on top”

“Close, latte, oat milk, but if I was to get a cappuccino, I would skip the chocolate on top”

Slightly impressed by his quickness you add 

“- let me guess, black filter coffee, if the beans they have on offer are good, if not, americano, milk, one sugar”

An amused guff leaves his mouth, turning to the counter, ordering and paying for you both with no fanfare, with a subtle level of nonchalantness that can only be read as attractive. Coffees in hand, you slide into a booth, conversation starting to flow between the two of you. Jack takes it upon himself to cut the two pastries he ordered in half, swapping halves onto the other plate, so you can share them both. He doesn’t do it in a manner that comes across as controlling, rather in a manner that simply seems to read your nervousness, wanting to give you as much space to get comfortable in spending time with him. It’s your turn to offer up a few questions, to follow up on Jack’s stream of questions about your job and what brought you to Pittsburg. 

“So, was the whole emergency room doctor, not enough of an adrenaline rush for you no, had to add SWAT into the mix?”

He takes a second to ponder on the question, one that has you cringing for asking, after seeing how seriously he’s taken to answering it. 

“Well, my therapist said I needed a hobby” he takes a beat “and you know it kind of reminds me of my army medic days if I’m being honest; somewhere it seems kinda warped in my brain to miss the rush of it.”

It's most definitely not the answer you're anticipating, slightly taken aback from the honesty he's placed on the table, after a second, it settles in you, the honesty is comforting, putting you at ease. Leaning back into your seat, you relax your shoulders slightly and ask

“Woah, army -”

“Sorry, I should correct you, army medic, but yeah, I don’t love talking about it, but you know I think you deserve to know early on”

And with that he gestures down at his leg under the table, pulling up his pant leg slightly and gesturing to his prosthetic. He smiles tightly at you, eyes clouded with a sense of trepidation trying to read your reaction. You smile back at him and reach across to touch his hand, and in a desperate attempt to break the tension, just a small bit, you smirk at him and say - 

“A man that goes to therapy? That’s hot.”

With that Jack leans back in the booth, pulling away from your touch, reaching to the back of the seat stretching out his chest, giving you a full view of his chest, taunt under the stretch of his t-shirt as he lets out a hearty laugh. His whole upper body rises and falls with the rhythm of the laugh, relaxing at the humour in your response. You try your best to ignore how the sight in front of you causes a low warm heat to form in the bottom of your stomach. He stares at you for a moment too long, glancing between you and the hand that's still outstretched on the table, noticing his look, you pull your hand back underneath the table, picking at your cuticles. Jack looks into your eyes again with an intensity that you assume comes from having people’s literal lives in your hands. 

“I have to ask, are you always that calm after getting hit over the head with a gun? You know, most people are a mess after something like that happens”

Smiling up at him you respond quickly, feeling comfortable enough to be honest. 

“Well my therapist says I’m always in my head, so I kinda think the shock of it all took me so far out of my head that I didn’t really have time to overthink, or I suppose think at all about what was happening”

Jack raises his chin up smirking at you, mentally filing away the information of you being and overthinker for later, affirming his suspicions about your anxious tendencies.

“Huh, a woman that goes to therapy - hot.”

You both break out into an easy fit of laughter and the conversation flows with an ease for the rest of the afternoon. You sit back, eyes flitting down to the table to break from his, unable to fully handle how coolly confident he is. You trade questions back and forth, about your families, Jack with a sister and a brother, you with a sister; hobbies, ones that extend past getting shot at for fun, you both sharing a common interest in reading and cooking; favourite places to visit, yours being the sea if you have the chance, lakes when you can, his being woods, where the chaos of the city can’t reach him. Eventually, your cups are empty, after a refill and the pastries are nothing but crumbs on your plate, you reach a comfortable silence. The warmth of the afternoon sun hitting Jack just perfectly, highlighting the red glint in his hair, which you file away to ask about at a later point. Breaking the silence, Jack lets out a satisfied sigh looking at you again with a soft level of affection in his eyes. 

“Sweetheart, sorry if this comes across as too forward, but you look so gorgeous today. I mean - I - you were gorgeous even with a slurpee icing your head, but, woah this, green is really your colour”

All you can do is go bright red, with the heat rushing up to your cheeks, letting out a giggle, eyes glued to the table, the vinyl tablecloth suddenly having your full attention, you let out a breathy “ thanks” as your eyes glance up slightly to catch his gaze. As if he senses your overwhelm like a mind reader, Jack throws his head to the door,

“Wanna go for a quick walk, as much fun as I’m having, I back on nights tomorrow, so I gotta go home and catch a nap this afternoon to keep some kinda semblance of a normal sleep pattern”

You nod eagerly at the suggestion, throwing your coat over the green midi dress Jack seemed to thoroughly enjoy and head out the door, leading the way down toward the park nearby. 

Walking in sync with each other, the conversation switches to music, one of your favourite topics, it brings out an enthusiastic side of you as you walk around the park, speaking at speed about the different bands you like, and the gigs you’ve been to recently. Jack listens intently, watching your mouth as you disappear into your own world. While you are busy building a list of similar tastes of music on the basis of Jack’s affirmative or questioning hums; you don’t notice him bending down to pick a handful of wildflowers until you finish your lap around the park. Jack coughs to bring your attention back to him, shoving his hand out in front of his ears pink, suddenly feeling self conscious about his clique choice of flower picking. You let out a soft laugh and tease him about his self consciousness, taking the flowers into your hand as you head out of the park, noting how your skin feels like its being lit on fire when you touch his fingers in yours. Not wanting the date to end, you both figure you’re heading in the same direction; as you get close to your block, Jack points to the right of your block, gesturing to his direction home, smiling sweetily, pointing in the opposite direction, you the state obvious and cringe immediately, your nervousness seeping back in. 

“Well this is me”

Jack stares back at you, murmuring a quiet yeah in response to you. He takes a step back, his confidence stance at odds with the tension that is building in the air. You can tell by Jack’s focus on your mouth that there is a thought brewing in the back of his mind about kissing you. Your pulse quickens, rising to your ears, the overwhelm of the situation overpowering any confidence you had built over the course of the date. You shift your weight from side to side, gripping at the sleeves of your coat, unable to get a full sentence out, eyes locking with Jack’s, he takes the lead again, his confidence faltering slightly. 

“Well, I’ve really enjoyed this afternoon sweetheart, thank you, truly”

“Me too Jack, I’ll see you soon?”

Smiling at you, withholding his desire, but hiding it pretty badly, he pulls his shoulders back and croaks out a quick 

“Of course sweetheart, text me when you get home?”

And after you murmur a soft yes, you hug Jack warmly, taking a deep breath into his shoulder and part ways, practically floating home. You do text Jack when you get home, which seems to open the flood gates of texting back and forth, he texts you that its good to know you were home; he looks for a picture of Mitzy and reacts enthusiastically; you send a picture of a book you recommended to him. He goes a bit radio silent in the middle of the day, later appologising in the late afternoon, blaming his sleep schedule. Shortly before Jack’s shift starts he asks to call you, just to check in and you fall into easy conversation, as if you’ve known each other for years, in a lull in conversation, you brave the question thats been lingering in the back of your head since the end of the date yesterday. 

“You almost kissed me yesterday” 

“Well, it sounds like somebody is disappointed that I didn’t”

Humming happily in response, a hand reaches out to Mitzy, who is sat at your feet, for moral support. 

“Well, I guess I’ve got some making up to do, don’t I?”

a/n: eep i hope you liked this! let me know if you wanna see more of soft jack abbot!

[honeysblogx]

His Little Wildflower

Chapter 2: Goodbyes

summary: Julia's funeral proves to be harder on Willow than she expected. Unable to sit through it any longer, she slips away to the parking lot where Andrew finds her. The two spend the afternoon together, sharing lunch and talking about Julia, giving Willow a small break from the sadness of the day. But after a conversation about Willow's father, Pope learns a secret from Jay that could change everything.

I hated funerals.

Not that I'd ever been to one before.

But I hated this one.

Everyone was dressed in black.

Everyone was sad.

And everyone kept looking at me with those eyes.

The eyes that made me want to hide.

I sat between Jay and Grandma Smurf while people talked about Mommy.

Some cried.

Some laughed when they told stories.

I didn't understand how they could laugh today.

Mommy wasn't coming back.

So why was anyone laughing?

I squeezed Piggy Bear tighter.

My chest hurt.

The pastor kept talking.

Talking.

Talking.

I stared at the flowers sitting on top of Mommy's coffin.

There were so many.

Pink ones.

White ones.

Yellow ones.

Mommy would've liked the yellow ones.

She always said yellow was a happy color.

My eyes started burning.

I wanted to go home.

I wanted Mommy.

I wanted someone to wake me up and tell me this wasn't real.

A tear rolled down my cheek.

Then another.

Then another.

I looked over at Jay.

He was crying too.

That somehow made everything worse.

Without saying anything, I walked away from the group.

Nobody noticed.

Everyone was watching the pastor.

I quietly walked away.

Past the graves.

Past the flowers.

Past all the people.

Until I reached the parking lot.

I climbed onto the curb beside Smurf's car and hugged my knees to my chest.

Piggy Bear rested in my lap.

The sun felt warm on my face.

The funeral felt far away.

I liked it better out here.

At least nobody was staring.

A few minutes passed before I heard footsteps.

I already knew who it was.

"Hey."

uncle Andrew.

I looked up.

He stood beside the car wearing a black button-up shirt.

His hands were shoved awkwardly into his pockets.

"You run away?"

I shrugged.

"Maybe."

He sat beside me on the curb.

For a while neither of us talked.

I kinda liked that.

Everyone else kept trying to make me feel better.

Uncle Andrew just sat there.

Finally I whispered.

"I don't like it."

"Yeah."

"They keep talking about Mommy."

"That's usually what happens."

I frowned.

"Why?"

He thought about it.

"So people don't forget."

I looked down at Piggy Bear.

"I won't forget."

"No."

His voice softened.

"I don't think you will."

More tears filled my eyes.

"I miss her."

Uncle Andrew swallowed hard.

"I know."

I leaned against his arm.

He froze for half a second.

Then relaxed.

"Can we go home?"

"Not yet."

I groaned.

He almost smiled. but I caught the twitch up his mouth.

"How about lunch?"

My head snapped up.

"Lunch?"

"Yeah."

"Like right now?"

"Yeah."

I considered it seriously.

"Can we have fries?"

"Probably."

"Chicken nuggets?"

"Probably."

"Chocolate milk?"

He snorted. A soft one, but it was there.

"Definitely."

I smiled for the first time all day.

Uncle Andrew stood and offered me his hand.

"Come on."

A little while later Andrew told Smurf and Jay he was taking me to get food.

Jay looked relieved.

Smurf looked surprised.

But neither stopped us.

Soon we were sitting in a booth at a burger place.

I had chicken nuggets.

Fries.

Chocolate milk.

And a giant cookie.

Uncle Andrew had coffee.

Just coffee.

It was black. he didn’t even buy any milk or sugar in it.

"That's not lunch."

He looked up.

"What?"

"You only got coffee."

"I'm eating later."

I narrowed my eyes.

"That's silly."

He nodded.

"Probably."

I dipped a fry in ketchup.

"Uncle Andrew?"

"Yeah?"

"You sad too?"

His fingers tightened around his coffee cup.

"A little."

"Cause Mommy died?"

He nodded.

I thought about that.

"Were you best friends?"

His eyes got distant.

"Something like that."

I didn't really understand.

But I nodded anyway.

After a few minutes uncle Andrew spoke again.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Okay."

"Do you know who your dad is?"

I blinked.

"No."

Mommy never talked about him.

Not really.

Andrew watched me carefully.

"Never?"

I shook my head.

"Mommy said he was special."

"Special?"

"Yeah."

I shoved another nugget into my mouth.

"She told Jay who he was."

Andrew sat up straighter.

"She did?"

I nodded.

"One time."

"What did Jay say?"

"He promised Mommy he wouldn't tell me until I was older."

Andrew went quiet.

Really quiet.

I could practically see him thinking.

I finished my fries.

Then held up the empty container.

"Can I have more?"

He looked down.

The container was empty.

The cookie was gone too.

So was the chocolate milk.

"Jesus."

I grinned.

"I'm hungry."

For the first time all day Andrew let a small smile twitch its way on his face.

It was there for a second. But it was a real one.

"Yeah. I can see that."

When they got home, Lena immediately ran over.

"Willow! Come play!"

I looked at Andrew.

"Can I?"

"Yeah."

I grabbed Piggy Bear and ran after Lena.

Neither of us noticed Andrew watching until we disappeared around the side of the house.

Then he turned.

And headed inside.

Jay was sitting at the kitchen island.

The second he saw Pope walking toward him, his expression changed.

"You okay?"

Pope ignored the question.

"You knew."

Jay stared.

"Knew what?"

"Her father."

Silence.

Pope leaned against the counter.

"She told me Julia told you."

Jay looked down.

For a moment neither spoke.

Then Jay sighed.

"Yeah."

Pope waited.

Jay rubbed a hand over his face.

"If I tell you..."

"What?"

"It stays between us."

Pope nodded.

"Fine."

Another long silence.

Then Jay finally spoke.

"Her dad's name is Jax Teller."

Pope frowned.

The name sounded familiar.

"Who's that?"

Jay looked up.

"President of SAMCRO."

Pope's expression darkened immediately.

The Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club.

Even he knew who they were.

"You're serious?"

Jay nodded.

"Mom told me before she died."

Pope stared at him.

Trying to process it.

A biker.

A Son.

Willow's father was a Teller.

Outside, he could hear Willow laughing with Lena through the open window.

Completely unaware of the storm surrounding her.

Pope looked toward the sound.

Toward the little girl who'd already somehow managed to wedge herself into his heart.

And for the first time, he wondered if one day she'd ask the questions neither he nor Jay were ready to answer.

Taglist

@chanelwidag

[honeysblogx]

His Little Wildflower

Summary:After losing her mom, six-year-old Willow is brought to the Cody house with her older brother, Jay. Surrounded by strangers she suddenly has to call family, Willow struggles to understand everything that's changing around her. But while the rest of the Codys see Julia's daughter, Pope sees a little girl who needs someone in her corner. As an unexpected bond forms between them, Willow may end up changing Pope's life just as much as he changes hers.

Willow's POV

"hey willow, wake up"

i wake up to jay shaking me.

"Jay its early why you waking me up?" i mumble staring at my older brother.

"Uhh…we got to go wills, Where gonna go stay with grandma smurf for a while"

"whos that?… why cant we stay with mommy?" i whisper

I can feel my eyes well up with hot tears. I dont want to leave mommy, whos gonna take care of her?

"wills mommy left okay, now grandma smurf has a pool, and are uncles will be there okay. so lets get your stuff and lets go."

"Okay" hot tears roll down my fat cheeks

I grab my bear pigs, thats the only thing i have from my dad. Mom said he gave it to me when i was a baby still in the hospital.

I take it everywhere with me.

After jay gets my shoes on he carries me down the stairs. Once where there i saw a older lady with a short blond bob.

"Hey baby who is this?" she smiles at me

I turn my face into jays neck.

"This is willow shes my sister, mom had her six years ago"

"Well hi willow, my names grandma smurf" she rubs my back

i turn towards her and look at her, frowning. who the hecks name is smurf

"your names smurf? thats a silly name" i whisper

she snorts "yeah a silly name huh? why dont we get you in the car and we can go back home to my place and you can go swimming with jay and your uncles? And your cousin lena should be their. shes your age you guys can play around together. hmm does that sound fun?"

" can we have icecream too grandma smurf?" i look at her hopefully

"yeah baby we can have icecream. You got a bathing suit baby?"

"uhh no she doesnt but she has shorts and a t shirt she can swim in" jay says

"no shes a cali girl, we cans top by the store and ill buy her a swimsuit and some more clothes if thats all she has" she says while looking down at my small hello kitty backpack and my beat up shoes.

"yeah okay"

we walk to her car and jay sets me down and buckles me up.

After the store we drive to grandma smurfs house.

"okay jay your uncles should be here so lets go introduce you and baby willow here, and then ill go in the kitchen and start on dinner. Willow baby how does hamburgers sound?" she glances back at me from the front seat.

"that sounds yummy, but i dont like pickles grandma smurf" i say while looking out the window at all the cool cars and bikes.

"okay baby no pickles" she laughs while getting out the car.

we get out and walk through the side gate until where met with three guys and a little girl all sitting by the pool.

I turned my head into jays neck.

"boys i want you guys to meet baby wilow julias daughter your neice." grandma smurfs says

"No way Julia had a girl? When?" the guy with long hair asked as he climbed out of the pool.

"Six years ago," Jay answered quietly.

The man's eyes widened as he stared at me. "Holy shit."

"Language, Deran," Smurf snapped.

"Sorry."

The other man sitting by the pool let out a laugh. He had shorter hair and tattoos all over his arms.

"Well damn, kid. Guess we're your uncles."

I peeked around Jay's shoulder.

"You got names?" I asked softly.

The tattooed man grinned.

"Craig."

The long-haired man pointed at himself.

"Deran."

The little girl jumped up from her chair.

"I'm Lena!"

I smiled a little.

"Hi."

Lena immediately ran over.

"Do you wanna see the pool?"

I looked up at Jay.

"Can I?"

Jay nodded.

"Stay where I can see you."

Lena grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the water.

"Come on!"

The adults watched us go.

"She's tiny," Craig muttered.

"Looks just like Julia when she was little," Smurf said quietly.

Jay stood awkwardly beside them.

Nobody mentioned Mom.

Nobody mentioned what happened.

I wasn't paying attention anyway.

I was too busy looking at the giant pool.

"Whoa..." I whispered.

Lena giggled.

"Want to put your feet in?"

Before I could answer, another voice came from behind us.

"What's all the noise?"

I turned around.

A tall man was walking down from the house.

He looked different than the others.

Quieter.

His dark hair was messy and he had serious eyes.

Everyone seemed to stop talking when he appeared.

Even Craig.

The man looked at Jay first.

Then his eyes landed on me.

For a second nobody said anything.

I squeezed Piggy Bear tighter.

The man slowly walked closer.

"Who's that?" I whispered to Lena.

"My Uncle Pope."

The man stopped in front of us.

His eyes moved over my face.

Something changed in his expression.

Something softer.

Almost sad.

Smurf stepped forward.

"Pope, this is Willow. Julia's daughter."

His jaw tightened.

I didn't understand why.

The grown-ups had been acting weird all day.

Pope crouched down until he was eye level with me.

"Hi."

His voice was quieter than everyone else's.

I stared at him.

He stared back.

Then he held out his hand.

"I'm your Uncle Pope."

I frowned.

"My mommy said your name was Andrew."

Craig immediately started laughing.

Deran covered his mouth.

Even Smurf looked amused.

Pope blinked.

"Yeah."

"Then why'd you say Pope?"

"It's a nickname."

I thought about that.

"No."

"No?"

I shook my head.

"I'm gonna call you Andrew."

Craig nearly fell out of his chair laughing.

"Oh my God."

"Shut up, Craig," Pope muttered.

I pointed at him.

"See? Andrew."

For the first time, the serious man smiled.

A real smile.

Small.

But it was there.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah. You can call me Andrew."

I smiled proudly.

"I like Andrew better."

"Good."

Lena grabbed my arm again.

"Come see the pool!"

Before she could drag me away, Pope noticed Piggy Bear tucked under my arm.

"Who's that?"

I looked down at my stuffed animal.

"Piggy Bear."

He nodded seriously.

"That's a good name."

"I know."

Pope glanced at Jay.

"She carry that everywhere?"

Jay nodded.

"Since she was a baby."

Pope looked back at me.

"You hungry?"

I nodded immediately.

"Grandma Smurf said hamburgers."

That earned another laugh from Craig.

"Yeah, sounds about right."

A little while later everyone sat around the patio table eating dinner.

Lena and I sat together.

I talked about cartoons.

My favorite ice cream.

How much I hated pickles.

Nobody talked about grown-up stuff around me.

For a little while it almost felt normal.

Almost.

Then after dinner, Jay asked me if I wanted to walk with him.

We wandered down toward the beach behind the house.

The sky was turning orange.

I held his hand while carrying Piggy Bear in the other.

"Jay?"

"Yeah?"

"When are we going home?"

He went quiet.

Too quiet.

I looked up at him.

His eyes looked shiny.

Like he was trying not to cry.

My stomach hurt.

"Jay?"

He stopped walking.

Then he crouched down in front of me.

"Willow... there's something I gotta tell you."

I didn't like the sound of that.

"What?"

Jay swallowed hard.

"Mom's not coming back."

I stared at him.

"What do you mean?"

His voice cracked.

"Mom died, Wills."

The world suddenly felt strange.

Wrong.

"No."

My heart started pounding.

"No."

Tears filled my eyes.

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

"No!"

I stepped backward.

"No, no, no!"

My chest hurt.

I couldn't breathe.

I turned and ran.

I didn't know where I was going.

I just ran.

Past the pool.

Past Lena.

Past Craig and Deran.

Past Smurf.

Tears blurred everything.

Then I crashed into somebody.

Strong arms immediately caught me before I could fall.

"Hey."

I looked up.

Andrew.

My Uncle Pope.

Andrew.

I grabbed onto his shirt and burst into tears.

"Mommy!" I sobbed.

His entire body froze.

For a second he didn't move.

Then his arms wrapped around me.

Carefully.

Like I might break.

I buried my face against his chest.

"Mommy left me."

Pope closed his eyes.

I felt his hand gently rub my back.

"No."

His voice was rough.

"She didn't leave you."

I cried harder.

He just held me.

Didn't tell me to stop.

Didn't tell me everything was okay.

Because it wasn't.

He just stayed there.

Holding me.

Like he'd decided he wasn't letting go.

Not now.

Not ever.

If you want to be added to the taglist please commet. Next post is coming soon!!

[shadeofpeach]

I'm scared

Pairing: Andrew Pope Cody x pregnant!reader

Warnings: angst, pregnancy, diabetic reader, hypoglycemia, medical emergencies, paramedics/IV, vomiting, sickness, heavy comfort.

Summary: When a severe bout of nausea makes it impossible to keep food down, a crashing low blood sugar force pregnant reader to call an ambulance alone in the middle of the night.

Based on this request

The clock read 3:48 AM. It had been a messy job, the kind that stretched out over six hours in a windowless warehouse where cell reception went to die. Smurf had been breathing down his neck.

Andrew just wanted to take a shower and pull you against his chest until the noise in his own head quieted down.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

The moment it caught a signal, it shuddered.

His chest immediately tighten.

16 missed calls.

All from you.

4 unread text messages.

Andrew's thumb hovered, trembling slightly as he clicked the notifications.

His throat went completely dry.

1:30 AM: I think messed up. Took too much fast-acting before dinner and I’m crashing really fast. 1:43 AM: I drank like four juice glass and ate some sweets but the arrow is straight down. 2.13 AM: still 43 mg/dL. Andrew I’m scared what if it's the baby :( 2:50 AM: Throwing up. I'm calling emergency

He didn't even make it to the front porch before the flashing red and blue lights cut through the night fog. An ambulance was parked crookedly across the driveway, its rear doors thrown wide open.

"Fuck, fuck," Andrew muttered. "Fuck, no."

He burst through the front door. The living room was empty, the coffee table had been pushed aside, a box of sweets overturned on the rug.

He followed the sound of murmuring voices down the hallway and into the bedroom.

The scene made him stop dead in his tracks, his frame filling the doorway.

A paramedic was kneeling by the side of the bed, a spiked bag of IV fluids hanging from the lampshade. Another paramedic was carefully taping a catheter into the back of your hand, a dark bruise already forming on your forearm where they had missed the first time.

You were propped up on the pillows. Your skin was pale, with a cold sweat that made your hair stick to your forehead in damp clumps. Your eyes were half open, glazed and unfocused, rolling toward the ceiling. A small emesis bag was clutched in your trembling, non-IV hand.

This wasn’t just a bad blood sugar day. The tiny life growing inside you had turned your body into a battleground. For weeks, the nausea episodes had been brutal, but tonight, it had turned catastrophic. You had taken your insulin expecting to eat, but the severe nausea had hit. Everything went up. Every time you tried to correct the crashing numbers with juice or sweets, your body violently rejected it.

Your glucose monitor had been screaming a frantic alarm, signaling your blood sugar had plummeted past 40 mg/dL with a double arrow pointing straight down. With Andrew out on a job, you had been utterly alone, suffocating in panic.

"What's happening? What are you doing to her?" Andrew’s voice was low. His eyes were darting from the IV line to your pale face, then down to your belly.

"Andrew," you sobbed.

The female paramedic stood up, putting herself between Andrew and the bed. "Sir, are you the partner? She called us. Her blood sugar dropped into a critical range. She’s pregnant and suffering from severe vomiting, she can’t keep anything down. Every time she tries to correct a low, she throws it back up, which is a severe emergency for both her and the pregnancy."

Andrew didn't look at the medic. He didn't care about her explanations. He pushed past hrr and dropped heavily onto his knees right beside the mattress. He grabbed your free hand, squeezing it.

"I'm here, baby. I'm sorry," he whispered. He pressed his forehead against your knuckles. The weight of his guilt was crushing him. "I didn't see the phone. I'm sorry."

"I tried, Andrew," you whispered, a tear slipping down your cheek. "I tried to eat. I tried to keep it down for the baby, but it just kept coming back up. I got so scared... I thought I was gonna pass out or something was wrong with the baby."

"I know, I know. You did the right thing," he murmured, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles. He looked up at the paramedic, demanding. "Is the baby okay? Is she okay?"

"We've started a dextrose infusion to bring her numbers up safely without forcing her stomach to digest anything," the male paramedic explained, adjusting the roller clamp on the IV tubing. "Her blood sugar is up to 70 now and climbing. But because she’s pregnant and unable to retain fluids, she is at a very high risk for another crash. We highly recommend transporting her to the hospital so OB/GYN can evaluate her."

"No," you breathed, a wave of panic hitting you. The thought of being in a hospital room made your chest tighten. "Andrew, please. Don't make me go."

Andrew looked at you, then down at the IV line tape on your hand. His jaw clenched, a possessive instinct taking over. He could protect you here. He could control things here.

"She stays," Andrew said, his voice flat, leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. He stood up. "Tell me what I need to do. I'll monitor her. I'll make sure she stays stable."

The paramedics exchanged a tense look. They checked your vitals again. Your heart rate was coming down; your color was slowly returning as the IV sugar did its job.

"If she stays against medical advice, you need to sign these refusal forms," the female paramedic said quietly, pulling a tablet from her bag. "The anti-nausea medication we gave her through the IV should last for a few hours. You need to try giving her small sips of water every fifteen minutes once we leave. If she throws up even once more, or if her monitor alarms again, you cannot handle this at home. She will need to be admitted. Do you understand?"

"I understand," Andrew said, his voice tight. He took the stylus and scrawled his signature on the screen, his hand surprisingly steady for how fast his adrenaline was pumping.

It took another ten minutes for the medics to pack up their gear, leave extra supplies on the nightstand, and finally exit the house. The quiet that settled over the bedroom afterward was heavy.

"Hey," he whispered. With care, mindful of the taped IV site on the back of your hand, he slid into the bed beside you. He pulled you against his chest, wrapping his arms around you until you were entirely enclosed in his embrace.

You let out a shaky breath, burying your face into the crook of his neck. The familiar scent of him instantly soothed the knots of panic in your chest.

"I'm sorry I frightened you," you murmured against his skin, your voice still a little raspy but stronger now that the dextrose was fully doing its job.

"Don't do that," Andrew muttered, pressing a kiss into your hair. "Don't apologize. You did everything right. You kept our baby safe. You kept you safe. I’m the one who should’ve been here."

"You're here now," you reminded him softly.

He didn't argue. He reached over to the nightstand where the paramedics had left a bottle of light colored sports drink. He carefully unscrewed the cap, guiding the bottle to your lips.

"Small sips, okay? Just a little bit," he instructed, his eyes focused on you as you took two tiny swallows. He watched your face closely, waiting to see if your stomach would reject it, but the IV anti-nausea medication was holding strong. When you gave him a small nod, a relief washed over his face. He set the bottle back down and settled back into the pillows, pulling you right back into his warmth.

His hand slid beneath the duvet, moving down until his palm rested against your stomach. It was still early enough that there wasn't a noticeable bump, but to Andrew, the gravity of what was growing inside you was immense. He kept his hand perfectly still, as if he could shield the baby from the chaotic world outside with his palm alone.

"I called out of the next job while the medics were packing up," he whispered, his lips brushing the crown of your head. "Texted Smurf. Told her I'm out for the week. I don't care what she says."

You blinked up at him, surprised. "Andrew, the boys—"

"The boys can handle it. Or they can't. I don't care," he said. "You and the baby. That's it. That's all that matters to me right now. I'm staying right here. I'm going to make you breakfast tomorrow, whatever you think you can keep down. Toast, tea, whatever you want."

A smile touched your lips. "Toast sounds good."

"Okay," he murmured, his thumb beginning a slow stroke against your hip. "Then we'll do toast."

You closed your eyes. The terror of the midnight was replaced entirely by the protective safety of his arms.

The bedroom fell into a deep quiet. The anti-nausea medication had finally allowed your body to rest, and exhaustion had claimed you completely. Your features relaxed, the tension draining from your face as you drifted into a deep sleep.

Andrew didn’t close his eyes. He couldn't. The adrenaline was still humming faintly in his veins.

Careful not to disturb you, he shifted slightly, adjusting his weight so you were pillowed comfortably against his shoulder. His hand stayed right where it was, slipping under the soft cotton of your shirt to rest directly against the bare skin of your stomach.

His hand looked massive against your skin, but the way he pressed his palm flat was so unbelievably gentle it was as if he were holding a fragile glass.

He began to move his thumb in tiny and slow circles, feeling the warmth of your skin.

He looked down at your sleeping face, verifying one more time that you were breathing easily, before he leaned his head down. He lowered his face until his lips were just inches away from your stomach.

"Hey," he breathed, the sound catching in his throat. It was the first time he had spoken directly to the pregnancy. "It’s me. It’s your dad."

He paused. The word dad felt foreign on his tongue, heavy and terrifying, but as he stared at your peaceful face, a fierce wave of pride swallowed the fear.

"I'm sorry about tonight," he whispered. "I wasn't here when it got bad. But I’m here now. I promise you, I’m always gonna be here. I’m never gonna let anything happen to you. Or your mom."

He rested his cheek lightly against your upper hip, his hand splaying wider across your lower belly, feeling the slight rise and fall of your breath. For a man who had been raised in the manipulative shadow of Smurf, a man who had been taught that family was a business and loyalty was paid in blood, this felt entirely different. This was clean. This was pure.

"You're gonna have a good life," Pope murmured, his voice vibrated right against your skin. "You’re gonna have a room with windows that gets the sun. You’re gonna have toys, and whatever you want to eat, and... and we're gonna keep you safe. No one is ever gonna hurt you."

He closed his eyes for a moment, just breathing you both in. The thought of a little girl or a little boy with your eyes, running around the house made him feel new things. A warmth filled the empty spaces he had carried for decades.

He lifted his head back up, pressing a soft kiss to your belly, right over the tiny heartbeat he couldn't wait to hear.

"Just grow big," he whispered, settling back into the pillows and pulling you closer against his side. "We're waiting for you."

He kept his hand against your little bump, the slow rhythm of his thumb never stopping as he watched over the two of you.

-'🖤⛓ ⁠*⁠.⁠‧₊˚

animal kingdom masterlist

[miasvelvetvoid]

bambi series,

summary: One secret changes everything. As the Cody family’s carefully buried truths come to light, you find yourself caught between running from the people you love and fighting for them. In the end, loving Pope Cody doesn’t just change your life, it changes the entire family. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: sexual content/smut, abusive relationship (not andrew), bestie!deran trope, not timeline specific, fix it fic, some parts are dark, mentions of SA/grooming, parental abuse, smurf and baz, manipulation, j redemption arc, murder, violence, canon show themes, substance use, drinking, gun use, possessive!pope, jealous!pope, soft boy!pope, discussions of mental health, warnings are chapter dependent. total word count: 49.3k amalia’s love note: finally started a masterlist for this series lol, love yall

doe-eyed running to my tranquility (smut, angst)

After escaping your abusive boyfriend, you get pulled into the dangerous world of the Cody family and unexpectedly become the center of Pope Cody’s obsessive attention. As dark secrets unravel around you, Pope grows fiercely protective, pulling you deeper into his chaotic life until the line between safety and danger disappears completely.

take what you want (smut, fluff, angst)

After a job goes wrong, Pope disappears for four days, hiding his injuries and burying himself in silence. But when you finally confront him, you realize his biggest problem isn’t violence, it’s that he doesn’t believe he’s allowed to want or need anything. So you show him exactly how badly you want him to take what’s his.

i love the sick (angst, dark)

What starts as a simple night watching Lena turns into something far more dangerous when Baz leaves you at Smurf’s overnight. As Smurf slowly tightens her grip, quietly isolating you from the outside world, J is the only one who notices the pattern for what it really is and for the first time, he steps between you and his family. The night cracks open the fragile balance you’ve built with the Codys, exposing a darker, more volatile side of Pope Cody that leaves your relationship hanging by a thread and forces long-buried truths dangerously close to the surface.

all my morals shot (smut, dark, angst)

One secret sends you running from the Cody family, but escaping Pope Cody proves impossible. As buried truths come to light and old wounds turn into reckless choices, you’re forced to confront the feelings you’ve been trying to outrun. Meanwhile, Smurf realizes too late that you’ve become a threat, not because you’re using Pope, but because you’re the first person who truly chooses him. And no matter how hard you run, Pope always finds his way back to you.

mirror (fluff, angst)

Vignettes from your years-long friendship with Deran Cody, and the long-overdue conversation that finally puts the pieces back together.

nothing at all (dark, angst)

A phone call from your father cracks open wounds you thought had long since healed. As you struggle to keep yourself together, Pope shows you the terrifying truth about loving a man who would do absolutely anything for you.

queen of nothing (angst, dark, smut)

As the Cody boys begin seeking comfort and guidance from you instead of Smurf, her resentment grows into something far more dangerous. Meanwhile, Pope’s fear of abandonment threatens the future of your relationship just as things are finally starting to feel real. Oh, and where the hell is Baz? Because whatever he’s up to, it can’t be good.

© 2026 all rights reserved - miasvelvetvoid. do not modify, plagiarize, feed my work to AI, repost or claim any of my work as your own without permission.

[fanficwritinggirl]

{The Sound Of Home - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}

Comment to be added to tag list.

The phone rang at 8:03.

You had been pretending not to stare at it since 7:45.

The kettle had boiled and gone quiet. The mug beside it sat untouched, tea darkening slowly because you had forgotten the milk. There was a half-folded basket of laundry on the sofa, a stack of baby books on the coffee table, and three different paint samples drying in uneven squares on the nursery wall upstairs.

Soft green.

Softer green.

Green that looked nice in the tin and alarming on plaster.

Andrew had chosen green.

Not in a bossy way. Not in the way people chose things when they expected to be listened to.

He had suggested it like he was afraid the wanting itself might be too much.

Soft. Like trees.

So now there were paint samples on the wall and one of his old flannels hanging over the back of a chair in the bedroom because you had worn it that morning and couldn't bring yourself to put it in the wash yet.

The phone rang again.

You grabbed it too fast.

"Hello?"

A small pause.

Then the automated voice came on.

You have a prepaid call from an inmate at—

You closed your eyes.

You hated that voice.

You hated the pause before his name. Hated the way it made something private sound like paperwork.

—Andrew Cody.

Your hand tightened around the phone.

To accept this call, press one.

You pressed one before the recording finished.

There was a click.

A distant shuffle.

Then his voice.

"Hey."

Your whole body softened.

It embarrassed you sometimes, how quickly it happened. One word from him and the house changed shape around you. It stopped being empty. Stopped being too quiet. Stopped being a place you were trying to survive alone.

"Hey," you said.

"You okay?"

You smiled despite yourself and leaned back against the kitchen counter. "That's your opener every time."

"Answer it every time."

"I'm okay."

"You sure?"

"Andrew."

"What?"

"You got two words into this call before interrogating me."

"I said hey first."

You laughed softly.

There was a beat of silence on his end.

You knew that silence.

He was listening to the laugh. Holding onto it. Saving it for later.

Your smile faded a little.

"I miss you," you said.

The words came out before you could decide whether they were too heavy for the first minute.

Andrew was quiet.

Behind him, you could hear voices. The scrape of a chair. Someone coughing. The prison had a sound to it, even over the phone. Hard edges. Men trying to sound bigger than they felt. Doors in the distance. Guards talking like no one around them was human enough to be gentle with.

Then Andrew said, "I miss you too."

He did not say it easily.

That made it mean more.

You looked around the kitchen. At the tea. At the laundry. At the little grocery list magneted to the fridge.

Milk.

Crackers.

Prenatal vitamins.

Paint tape.

Your eyes burned suddenly.

"I painted samples today," you said quickly, because if you sat inside the missing too long, you would crack open.

"For the room?"

"Yeah."

"The green?"

"The greens. Plural. Because apparently there are four thousand versions of soft green."

Andrew was quiet for a second.

Then, very seriously, "Don't pick the alarming one."

A startled laugh jumped out of you.

You pressed a hand over your mouth.

"What?" he asked.

"How do you know one of them is alarming?"

"You said it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like one of them made you mad."

You looked toward the stairs. "It looks like soup."

"Soup?"

"Bad soup."

"Don't pick bad soup."

"I wasn't planning on it."

"Good."

You smiled down at the floor.

For a minute, it almost felt normal.

Almost.

Like he was just somewhere else. At the store. In another room. On his way home.

Not wearing prison clothes. Not standing under fluorescent lights with a time limit ticking down above him. Not trapped somewhere you couldn't reach.

You swallowed.

"I wish you could see them."

"I will."

"The paint?"

"Pictures."

"They'll let you have pictures?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"If they think green walls are a security threat."

You laughed again, but it hurt this time.

Andrew heard it.

Of course he did.

"Baby."

Your face crumpled a little.

"I'm okay," you said, even though your voice had already betrayed you.

"No, you're not."

"I am."

"Don't do that."

You closed your eyes.

His voice had gone low. Not angry. Not sharp. Just Andrew. Trying to get to the truth because anything else made him feel too far away to help.

"I'm tired," you admitted.

"How tired?"

"Just normal pregnant tired."

"How tired?" he repeated.

You sighed and rubbed at your forehead. "The kind where I cried because I dropped a spoon earlier."

Silence.

Then, carefully, "Did it break?"

You blinked.

Then you laughed.

"No, Andrew. The spoon did not break."

"Then why'd you cry?"

"I don't know. Because it fell."

"That's it?"

"Yes."

"On the floor?"

"That's where spoons usually go when dropped."

"You're being mean."

"I'm pregnant."

"That's not a reason."

"It is currently my reason for everything."

He made a small sound, almost amused.

You loved that sound.

You missed it with your whole body.

"I would've picked it up," he said.

The words were simple.

Too simple.

That was why they landed so hard.

You looked at the floor where the spoon had fallen hours earlier. You had picked it up yourself. Of course you had. You were capable of picking up a spoon. You were capable of laundry and appointments and driving yourself to the store when crackers ran out.

But you were tired of being capable alone.

"I know," you whispered.

Andrew went quiet.

You could hear him breathing.

"I should be there," he said.

You turned and leaned both elbows on the counter, lowering your head. "I know."

"I should've been there to pick up the spoon."

A tear slipped down your cheek.

"It was a very dramatic spoon."

"Still."

You laughed wetly.

He didn't.

"I think about it," he said.

You stilled.

"What?"

"All of it."

Your fingers tightened around the phone.

"What do you think about?"

He didn't answer right away.

When he did, his voice was quieter.

"You in the kitchen. You going upstairs too slow because you're tired. You carrying laundry when you shouldn't. You trying to reach things from the top shelf even though I told you not to do that before."

You smiled through tears. "I'm not an invalid."

"You're short."

"I am average height."

"You climb counters."

"I do not climb counters."

"You used to."

"One time."

"Three times."

You rolled your eyes. "You remember that?"

"I remember everything you do that almost kills me."

"That did not almost kill you."

"It did."

"You're ridiculous."

"You're carrying my baby and climbing counters."

"I haven't climbed a counter since before the baby existed."

"You better not."

There was something in his voice. Humor, yes, but fear underneath it. Always fear. Andrew's love came with sharp edges because the world had taught him softness was something you protected with your teeth.

"I'm being careful," you said.

"Promise?"

"I promise."

He exhaled.

You let the silence settle for a second.

Then you looked toward the living room, where a little paper bag sat on the coffee table.

"I bought something today," you said.

"For you?"

"For the baby."

"What?"

You walked into the living room, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder, and picked up the bag. "A onesie."

Andrew was silent.

"It's tiny," you said, pulling it out. "Like, stupid tiny. I don't understand how anything human fits in this."

"What color?"

"Cream."

He made a small approving sound.

"It has ducks on it."

Another pause.

Then, "Ducks?"

"Tiny yellow ducks."

"Why ducks?"

"Because it was cute."

"Babies like ducks?"

"I don't know, Andrew. The baby is currently the size of an avocado. They don't have strong opinions yet."

He was quiet for a second.

"The size of an avocado?"

You smiled softly.

"Yeah. This week, apparently."

"An avocado."

"Mm-hmm."

He seemed to sit with that.

You could almost see him. Head slightly bowed. Brow furrowed. Trying to imagine it. Trying to make the baby real through fruit comparisons and scan photos and your voice describing things he couldn't touch.

"That's bigger," he said.

"Yeah."

"Than twelve weeks."

"Yes."

"How many now?"

"Sixteen."

He breathed out.

"Sixteen," he repeated.

"Four months."

"Four months," he said, quieter.

The background noise on his end grew louder for a moment. Someone shouted something. A guard barked back. The phone crackled.

You gripped the onesie in your hand.

"Is it bad there tonight?"

"No."

"Andrew."

"It's just loud."

"You safe?"

A pause.

Then, softer, "Yeah."

You hated that you had to ask.

You hated that safe was relative.

You hated that your baby's father was in a place where you had to listen for danger in the space between his words.

"Are you really?" you asked.

"I'm okay."

You wanted to believe him.

You chose to believe him because sometimes marriage was not knowing and trusting anyway.

"Good," you whispered.

Another small silence.

Then Andrew asked, "You wearing my shirt?"

You looked down.

The flannel was upstairs, but you were wearing one of his old black T-shirts. It stretched differently over your stomach now.

"How did you know?"

"You get quiet when you are."

Your throat tightened.

"That's weirdly observant."

"It's you."

You sat down slowly on the sofa.

The laundry basket shifted beside you, little folded towels slumping against your thigh.

"I wear your clothes too much," you admitted.

"No, you don't."

"I do. It's probably unhealthy."

"It's not."

"You don't know that."

"I like it."

Your face softened.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

His voice dropped, almost too low to hear. "Makes me feel like I'm there."

You pressed the little duck onesie against your chest.

"You are," you said.

"Not enough."

"No. Not enough."

Andrew was quiet.

You had learned not to soften every truth for him. He hated lies more than pain. Pain, at least, he knew what to do with.

"But you're here in some ways," you said. "Your shirt. Your handwriting on the letters. The scan photo copy on the fridge. The green paint. The way I can't look at the top shelf without hearing you in my head telling me to get down."

"That's good."

"It's annoying."

"It's safe."

"It's bossy."

"Safe," he repeated.

You smiled faintly. "Fine."

The call timer beeped faintly in the background.

Your stomach sank.

"How long?" you asked.

"Ten."

Ten minutes.

It sounded like nothing.

It was everything.

You looked down at your stomach. One hand moved there automatically.

You had started doing that more now. Not because you could feel much yet. Sometimes there was a flutter, maybe. Or maybe it was just your body settling. Gas, the pregnancy book had said helpfully, which felt deeply unromantic.

But still.

You touched your stomach all the time.

Like reassurance.

Like a greeting.

Like proof.

Andrew's voice changed.

"You doing it?"

You blinked. "Doing what?"

"Touching your stomach."

Your eyes filled.

"How do you know these things?"

"You breathe different."

"That is unsettling."

"It's not."

"It is a little."

"I know you."

You looked down at your hand.

Then an idea came to you so suddenly it made your heart trip.

"Andrew?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you want to talk to them?"

The line went silent.

Not normal silent.

Full silent.

Even the prison noise seemed to fall back for a moment.

"To the baby?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"They can't hear me yet."

"Maybe not properly. But I can."

He didn't say anything.

You waited.

This was how it worked with him sometimes. You had to give him room to walk toward the feeling without staring too hard.

Finally, he said, "What do I say?"

"Anything."

"That's not helpful."

You smiled through tears. "Say hi."

He breathed in.

You shifted the phone from your ear and pressed it gently against your stomach.

The T-shirt was soft under your hand. His shirt. Your belly. His voice waiting on the other end of a prison phone.

For a second, all of it felt impossible.

Then you said, "Okay. You're on."

There was no sound.

You imagined him standing there, phone in hand, eyes down, shoulders tight, terrified of doing it wrong.

Then, very quietly, Andrew said, "Hey."

Your face crumpled instantly.

His voice was rough. Careful. Like he was speaking to something sleeping.

"It's me," he said.

He stopped.

You pressed the phone closer and covered your mouth with your free hand.

"I'm..." He exhaled shakily. "I'm your dad."

The sob hit before you could stop it.

Andrew heard it.

"Are you crying?"

You pulled the phone back up fast. "No."

"You are."

"I'm fine. Keep going."

"I'm not doing it if you're crying."

"They're good tears."

"You said that last time."

"And it was true then too."

He hesitated.

You pressed the phone back to your stomach.

"Keep going," you whispered.

Andrew was quiet for another second.

Then his voice came back.

"Your mom cries a lot right now."

A laugh burst out of you through the tears.

"She says it's because of you."

You gasped. "Andrew."

"She's probably right," he continued, and you could hear something softer in his voice now. Something almost brave. "But don't feel bad. She cries when spoons fall too."

You were laughing and crying at once now, which was not dignified, but dignity had left sometime around week nine.

Andrew paused.

Then he said, "She's taking care of you. She's good at that. Better than anyone."

Your laughter faded.

You looked down at your stomach, tears falling freely.

"She's stubborn," he said. "Don't get that from her."

You rolled your eyes, smiling.

"Or me," he added. "Don't get that from me either."

He went quiet again.

When he spoke next, his voice was lower.

"I'm not there right now."

Your hand tightened around the phone.

"I want to be," he said. "More than anything. But I'm not. So you listen to her, okay? Don't make her too sick. Don't make her too tired. She'll pretend she's fine when she isn't, so you gotta be easy on her."

You pressed your lips together.

"I'm gonna call," he continued. "And write. And your mom's gonna tell me things. About you. About what you need. About what she needs. And I'm gonna... I'm gonna try to be good at this before I get to hold you."

The room blurred.

You could hardly breathe.

"I love you," Andrew said.

His voice broke.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

"I love you before I know your name."

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

The whole house seemed to hold still around you.

Then you brought the phone back to your ear.

Andrew was breathing unevenly.

"You okay?" you asked gently.

He let out something almost like a laugh. "That's my question."

"Answer it every time."

He was quiet.

Then, honestly, "No."

Your heart twisted.

"Andrew."

"I'm okay," he corrected, but his voice shook. "I just..."

"I know."

"I want to touch you."

You closed your eyes.

"I know."

"I want to put my hand there."

"I know."

"I want to feel them move."

"You will."

"What if I don't?"

"You will someday."

The distinction hurt.

You both heard it.

Someday.

Not necessarily the first time. Not necessarily when the baby kicked hard enough to make you gasp. Not necessarily when your stomach changed shape under your palm and you reached instinctively for a hand that wasn't there.

Someday.

Andrew swallowed hard. "Tell me when it happens."

"I will."

"Even if it's little."

"Especially if it's little."

He breathed out.

You leaned back against the sofa cushions and looked around the living room. His boots by the door because you had never moved them. The book he had never finished on the side table. The tiny duck onesie in your lap.

"I wish you could see the house right now," you said.

"What's it look like?"

"A mess."

"Because of the laundry?"

"That and the baby books."

"You reading all of them?"

"I'm trying."

"You don't have to know everything."

"That's rich coming from you, Mr. 'Write Down Egg Hatred.'"

"That was important."

"It was not."

"You still hate eggs?"

"Yes."

"Then it was important."

You laughed softly.

"I bought one book for you," you said.

"For me?"

"Yeah. It's called something like New Dad Survival Guide."

He went very still. You could hear it somehow.

"I can't have books sent unless they come from approved places."

"I know. I checked."

"You checked?"

"Of course I checked."

There was a long pause.

"You got me a dad book?"

Your throat tightened at his voice.

Small.

Disbelieving.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because you're a dad."

He didn't answer.

You stared down at the onesie.

"Andrew?"

"I'm here."

"You okay?"

"No," he said again, and this time there was a little breath of humor in it. "You keep doing things."

"What things?"

"Making it real."

Your eyes softened.

"It is real."

"I know."

"But?"

"But sometimes in here it feels..." He stopped. "Far away."

You nodded even though he couldn't see.

"I know."

"Then you say things like dad book and baby room and ducks, and it's..." His voice thinned. "It's real again."

You looked down at your stomach.

"It's real here all the time," you whispered.

"I know."

"Sometimes that's beautiful."

He was quiet.

"And sometimes it's lonely."

You heard him inhale.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not saying that to hurt you."

"I know."

"I just need you to know."

"I want to know."

You closed your eyes.

That was the promise, wasn't it?

Not that he could fix it.

Just that he wanted to know.

There had been a time when Andrew hid from pain by making himself unreachable. He still did sometimes. But not with this. Not with you. Not with the baby.

He was reaching from inside a cage with both hands.

And God, you loved him for trying.

The call timer beeped again.

"Two minutes," he said.

You hated how calm he sounded saying it.

Like he had trained himself not to react to things being taken from him.

"Okay," you whispered.

"Put me on again."

Your breath caught. "Yeah?"

"Please."

You moved the phone back to your stomach.

Andrew didn't hesitate as long this time.

"Hey," he said again, softer. "It's me."

You smiled through tears.

"I gotta go soon. I don't want to." His voice caught. "But I'll call again. And I'll write. And your mom's gonna paint your room green, but not the soup one."

You laughed silently, pressing your hand over your mouth.

"And she bought you ducks," he said. "I don't know why. But she loves them, so you probably will too."

Your heart felt too big for your chest.

Another pause.

Then, so quietly it almost vanished into the static, he said, "Take care of her for me until I can."

Your tears slipped down onto his shirt.

"I love you," he whispered.

The line beeped.

You brought the phone back to your ear quickly.

"Andrew."

"I love you," he said, faster now. "I love you. Eat something. Lock the door. Don't carry the laundry upstairs all at once."

You let out a broken laugh. "I love you too."

"I mean it."

"I know."

"And don't pick soup green."

"I won't."

"And—"

The line clicked.

Silence.

No goodbye.

No soft ending.

Just gone.

You stood in the middle of the living room with the phone still pressed to your ear, listening to the dead line like maybe love could come back through if you waited hard enough.

It didn't.

The house settled around you.

The fridge hummed.

A car passed outside.

The baby books sat open and unread.

You lowered the phone slowly.

For a second, the emptiness rushed in so hard you had to sit forward, elbows on your knees, one hand pressed against your stomach.

Then you felt it.

Maybe.

A flutter.

So small you could have imagined it.

You froze.

Your breath caught.

There it was again.

Barely anything.

A flicker beneath your palm.

Not a kick.

Not yet.

Just a little movement, soft as a secret.

Your face crumpled.

"Oh," you whispered.

You laughed once, wet and stunned.

Then again, because of course.

Of course it happened thirty seconds after the call ended.

Of course Andrew had missed it by half a minute.

You pressed your hand more firmly to your stomach, tears falling onto his shirt.

"Your timing," you whispered, "is terrible."

The flutter came once more.

You cried then.

Not because it was sad.

Not only because it was sad.

Because Andrew had said take care of her for me until I can, and something inside you had answered.

Because there was a soft green room waiting upstairs.

Because there was a cream onesie with tiny ducks in your lap.

Because somewhere, on the other side of walls and wire and locked doors, Andrew Cody had called himself a dad and sounded like he was trying to believe he was allowed to be one.

You picked up your phone again with shaking hands.

The prison number wouldn't work if you called it back.

You knew that.

Still, you opened your messages and typed one he would not receive until later, when someone checked the system or when he called again or when the world decided to be kind for once.

You just missed it. Baby moved. Tiny flutter. I think they liked your voice.

You stared at the message.

Then added:

Not soup green. I promise.

You sent it.

Then you sat there in the quiet house, one hand over your stomach, wearing Andrew's shirt, and let yourself smile.

Not because everything was okay.

It wasn't.

But because for one brief, impossible moment, his voice had filled the room.

And the baby had moved like they knew him.

[st-abbot]

Timebomb - Jack Abbot

(III) Ticking Down

Hey :) Here is part 3 of the series that I decided to roll out tonight before bed. I hope you guys enjoy! Reblogs and comments are very appreciated ♥

This is a strictly no AI writing blog. Please do not feed my writing in any AI system either.

Series masterlist

Pairing: Jack Abbot x f!reader

Word count: 4,250

Chapter warnings: Dark humour, talks of mental struggles, talk of grief, Robby and Dana being protective of reader, Robby making promises he has no intention of keeping, Robby and Reader in the same room are a menace to society and to Dana's peace of mind specifically, Jack is mentioned (it's his show after all) but not in there physically.

Chapter Summary: You adjust (or try to adjust) living on your own for the first time in a decade. Dana and Robby can't help but notice you're far from okay.

< Previous

It was like he had a sixth sense, feeling when you were approaching with food, because never once did he not happen to walk past the Ambulance bay doors when you walked in with something for him.

Not once.

“Robby, catch!”

As if it was an innate instinct, Robby's arm shot up to catch the sandwich flying his way as he briskly moved around his ER, turning around and walking backward once the package was securely in his hands.

He pointed at you, the pesto turkey sandwich firmly in his grasp. “I love you Sweets”

You grinned as you watched him disappear towards his new emergency. “Waterfront or Garden for the wedding?"

He gave you a face like you've asked him the dumbest, most obvious question in the entire world. “Waterfront!” He shouted back before he went out of view.

You chuckled and shook your head as Dana came to stand before you, eyes drawn towards where Robby disappeared.

“Honey, if you keep suggesting marriage, one day the fool's gonna take you up on it”

You laughed. “Eh, wouldn't be so bad now would it?”

She raised an eyebrow.

You made an excited face as you crossed your arms against your chest. “I could be his trophy wife”

Now that elicited a proper reaction from her as she scoffed a laugh. “No you couldn't”

You gasped. “What? You don't think I could make a good Mrs. Dr. Robby?”

“Aside from the fact that you two'd drive each other to clinical insanity,” She gave you a pointed stare, then grinned. “You still need two things to be a trophy wife— sitting still and being pretty. Now, you’re pretty enough sweetheart, but it's the sitting still part I'm not convinced about”

“Ugh, you're right” You sighed dramatically, letting your hands drop to your side. “Besides, if I became a miserable trophy wife, who'd get you sandwiches huh?”

Her eyes lit up in realization as you passed the second sandwich you had acquired today to her. A Caprese on rosemary focaccia from one of her favourite shops. The advantage of being a long practising EMT in the city was that the people you helped often treated you well in return, offering you all kinds of compensation for your troubles. It happened that half an hour ago, you were given a bunch of sandwiches after helping the owner after he fainted due to having not eaten a damn thing that day yet.

You had taken a habit to smuggle some of your loot back to PTMC to feed your two favourite people whenever you could.

“Kid, you're godsend” She sighed as she unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. Judging by her facial expression, it hit the spot.

“Did I hear something about Dr. Robby getting married?”

You turned around in surprise as a new voice entered the conversation.

“No, he's not” Dana replied for you, mouthful of sandwich.

“Not yet” You corrected with a smirk, and she slapped your shoulder. It didn't help the young woman's confusion. “I'm just joking. No wedding. Just a dumb bit to make Dana's life harder”

She nodded slowly, not convinced, as Dana glared daggers at you.

“Sweets, you've met Dr. Santos right?”

Your eyes went to Dana as she changed the subject with a clipped tone. They then widened and returned to the young woman as you snapped your fingers. “Santos! I know that name. Nice to meet you when I'm not bleeding out”

“Likewise” She extended her hand, which you shook. “Paramedic?”

“EMT”

“Nice” She nodded. “Hey, how do I get one of those?”

Your eyes followed hers to Dana's sandwich, which she protectively pulled back closer. Your gaze returned to Santos again, extremely serious.

“You gotta save my life to get sandwich privileges”

Without even missing a beat, she replied, “I kinda already did”

You paused.

“Kid's got a point” Dana glanced at you, amused.

“Fair enough” You conceded. “Well now that's awkward. I'm all out of sandwiches. Talk about talking big and not delivering, am I right?”

Dana laughed as she shook her head.

“Dr. Santos!”

She looked up at being called from the other side of the ER, then quickly excused herself and jogged toward whatever required her attention. You watched her run across the room as you crossed your arms against your chest, then turned back to Dana, who already was staring through you.

“How are you doing kid?”

The mask slipped at the question just long enough for her to notice.

“And don't bullshit me. You look exhausted”

You nodded. “Yeah, I've been picking up longer shifts, doing a lot of 18 hours lately”

She sighed disapprovingly.

“It's been tough” You confided. You didn't need to mention what you were referring to, she already knew about the catastrophic way your… partnership with Jack ended a few months ago. Still, you carefully pivoted the conversation to avoid delving too much into emotional vulnerability stuff. “I need to save money to buy an actual bed and those things are crazy expensive. I hadn't slept consistently on a pull out couch since I was 24, my back is destroyed”

Most of your nights since those days had been spend in Jack's second bedroom on an actual bed. The return to springs and metal pipes digging in your back had been particularly difficult and your sleep quality had taken a major hit.

“And groceries, fuck me those are expensive” You added.

“You're not running on ramen and frozen pizza are ya?” She frowned.

You paused. “Noooo” You trailed off, unconvincingly. You weren't, per se—not in the way she imagined it. “There's canned beans in the mix. For fiber n' stuff”

That seemed to appease her for now. “You better not be wheeled in here for colon cancer, you hear me?” She ordered. “And your shift is over. Go back home and sleep”

You gave her a two fingers salute as you began backing away. “Yes ma'am”

She shook her head she she watched you go, knowing you'd find your way in her ER sooner than later anyway.

•••••••••••••

8 pm at Marty's?

You stared at your phone with wide eyes, not having expected Robby to text you out of the blue for a meetup half an hour later. Despite having known each other for more than a decade, only on a very few rare instances did you have one on one hangouts that hadn't started as a group thing that slowly thinned out, and even less initiated by him without any prior indicator of his intention to do so.

You had an idea of why, however.

You sighed, then texted back.

Sure

meet you there

You changed from your house clothes and slipped on black jeans and the first clean shirt you could find—fuck, you were so behind on your laundry. Quick fix of your hair so it didn't reflect as much how messy your life was, then grabbed your leather jacket, your helmet and your keys.

You found in the parking garage your sport bike, an old thing your husband had bought you with his first army paycheck. Each year that passed brought more tear and wear on the thing, but you couldn't find it in you get rid of it. Instead, you kept repatching it and pretending it was fine.

The was an irony in there you willingly ignored.

You clipped your helmet on and climbed on, then turned on the engine and left. Marty's was on the other side of the city—much closer to PTMC than your place was—but you didn't mind, the drive there wasn't too bad outside of rush hours. You took your time, taking the scenic road and enjoying the sunset, knowing Robby's 8 pm were really at least 8:30.

You were proven correct when Robby appeared around the corner as you finished paying the street parking on the machine at 8:35.

“Sorry for being late” He said in lieu of a greeting. “Something I had to fix before clocking out”

You smiled sympathetically. “All good Robby. Just came in myself”

You shared a quick hug and walked in the almost deserted bar. You supposed Tuesday nights weren't exactly a popular time to be hanging out in a semi respectable dive bar.

“I've got it” Robby stopped you from going to order, which made you raise an eyebrow. You two weren't the type to just buy the other a drink outside of special occasions. “Still drinking your usual?”

You nodded slowly, suspiciously. He played innocent, smiling at you and making a beeline for the bar. You grumbled under your breath and grabbed a booth out of the way, setting your helmet and jacket on the bench beside you. A few minutes later, he rejoined you at the table with two glasses, one which he pushed to you.

“Thanks”

“My pleasure” He nodded like any of this was normal, then took a sip. “Yeah sorry for the delay, just a bit of a mess with the computers that made the handoff hell”

You chuckled, relaxing a bit in your seat and finally bringing your drink to your lips. “I swear you can never catch a break”

He scoffed. “Just another Tuesday in the Pitt”

You took another sip in sync with him. “How's your fresh batch of residents? Still full of life and hope?”

You had heard of their first shift on the job—hell, you had been yourself part of the teaching experience as practice dummy without even knowing it. You had been quite impressed with their composure when you had learned it was their first day on the job.

His eyebrows raised as he stared into nothing, then he nodded slowly. “They're doing better that I would have expected. They're tough”

“I've only met Santos, I like her” You said. “She's got spirit”

A small smile stretched on his lips. “She reminds me of you”

You gave him an exaggerated wince. “For her sake I hope she doesn't turn out like me”

His stare alone called out your bullshit. “Like someone strong and competent who saves lives?”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the glazing. “You know what I mean”

Of course he knew what you meant, because he was the exact same. Burying himself into his work until he dropped, so that his mind was either too preoccupied or too exhausted to face the fact that everything else around him was unraveling fast. Projecting to the world the illusion that you had it together, when in fact, you were scrambling for the pieces of yourself scattered on the floor.

He shook his head, looking at the wall then back down to the table. He took a long, long sip of his drink then sighed.

“You doing okay?”

There it is.

You tensed up again, squinting your eyes. “Robby”

“Just answer the question Sweets”

“Oh okay” You nodded. “Yeah, this is an intervention, alright”

It was his turn to roll his eyes. “Don't be difficult. I'm concerned”

“Dana told you, didn't she?”

“Don't blame her” He warned.

Fucking Dana.

“I'm fine” You brushed off.

He laughed at the ridiculousness of your statement, it sounded strained. “Isn't that the biggest fucking lie in the world” He shook his head, going for another sip. “Spare me the pretending. None of us are fine, you and I the least”

You gripped your glass tighter, the let go and deflated in the booth. You dragged a hand over your face, and suddenly looked much more tired than a few seconds ago. That was Robby's tough love, his own weird way to try and help. He'd never be the therapist friend, holding your hand and nodding sympathetically to everything you let out. No, that wasn't his way. He called you out over and over again until he cracked the mask, purification in fire. And hell, if he wasn't the one person who could understand it all.

It was like antiseptic on an open wound, painful but ultimately necessary.

As if sensing you wordlessly conceding grounds, he met you halfway.

“Dana mentioned money was tight” He held out the first branch. “Are you able to make ends meet? If not, I can help—”

You sighed and shook your head. “I'm f—” You paused at his deadpan stare and reconsidered your choice of words. “I'll make it work, I need to make it work by myself” You took a deep breath, then added in a whisper as you avoided his eyes. “I hadn't realized how dependent I had become on… him”

His gaze softened a bit.

“And not just financially” You kept rambling. Thankfully, Robby had become an expert in listening, truly listening. “I… fuck—”

You hesitated, knowing the next words would be hard to breathe life into. Hard to make real. But the realization that keeping it in any longer would drive you insane hit you like a freight train.

Breathe in, breathe out.

“That day…” You didn't need to mention which day you were talking about. “I lost my entire support system in what, 15 minutes? It was gone, just like that. It felt like falling from the sky without a parachute. And it was fucking scary, Robby. It still is. I'm terrified”

The feeling hit home in him too. He knew all too well the freefall, the terror it elicited.

“I'm sorry” He finally spoke. “If I hadn't told you to go for it…” He swallowed hard.

You shook your head. “Not your fault. No” You denied. “The bubble would have burst one day or another”

Only a few weeks after the shock passed did you realized you had been on a collision course bound for the wall. Whatever you had with Jack might very well have been quietly toxic, gone unnoticed in blissful domesticity that hadn't been disturbed since Sienna died.

All of the grief of the last 12 years that you had pushed back had been covered neatly by an Abbot shaped blanket, left to fester and spread with you willfully ignoring it. It was easy to pretend you were fine when Jack also did it, when he provided comfort in the idea you weren't running away from your feelings alone. Alas, it was neither healthy, nor sustainable.

It didn't mean you weren't hating every second of it though. He had hurt you, and maybe you weren't ready just yet to forgive him for it. But damn, you missed the comfort of him, but you also missed the friend, the human connection that came with him.

“Still” He mumbled, swirling the liquid in his glass around. “It doesn't hurt any less”

“Feels like a hot iron in my throat every day” You mumbled, shooting back the rest of your drink.

“Amen to that” He mimicked you. “Another?”

You groaned and shuffled to reach for your wallet. “I got it”

He stood up before you could split in your of your back pocket. “Nope”

“Sit your ass down” You warned. “It's my turn to buy”

“Can't make me” He ignored your last statement, already halfway to the bar.

You welcomed his smug face back with an unimpressed, annoyed one. With an innocent smile that was really anything but, he slowly, deliberately pushed the drink in your direction. You eyed it down, then raised an eyebrow at him.

He kept his annoying little smile as he drank from his own.

“Do you think I don't see what you're doing, Robinavitch?”

“I don't know?” He feigned confusion. “What am I doing?”

“I can pay for my own drinks”

“Never said you couldn't”

“You are impossible”

“Eh” He shrugged, unbothered by the revelation. “Not the worst thing I've been called today”

You finally cracked, letting out a small laugh of disbelief. If you had been looking at him, you'd have caught the flash of relief passing through his eyes as he confirmed that you'd be okay, eventually.

It was tearing him apart that you, someone he had grown incredibly protective of over the years of you bringing him banged up but alive patients through the bay doors, had such a devastating fallout with Jack, whom he considered his brother, his best friend—titles he did not give out lightly.

He knew Jack loved you, was in love with you, otherwise he'd never have suggested you confess your feelings to him. The two of you made sense; you had shared experiences, shared grief, and a reverent respect for the ones you lost along the way. Stars rarely aligned like that, and he couldn't bear to watch it all reach stalemate.

If Robby was too damaged to have his happy ending, he'd make damn sure Jack and you at least had a shot at it.

“Has he… contacted you since that day?”

You remained silent for a moment, then shook your head. Jack hadn’t texted or called, and you had gone out of your way to avoid PTMC during the night shift or its adjacent hours Jack may be lurking around.

He swallowed, knowing his next suggestion would be threading in meddling territory. “Want me to talk to him?”

“Fuck no” Your reply came instantly, and he raised his hands in surrender.

“I'm just sayin', I could knock some sense into him—”

“Robby” You wanted to mean it as a warning, but it came much whinier than you had intended.

“—I'm sure he'd listen—”

“Robby, I said no” You repeated, firm this time. It was enough to stop his talking. “Jack made it abundantly clear he does not want me, so please let's leave it at that. I'm not gonna lose my dignity along with everything else”

Something sad overtook his features, and you did not like it one bit. He looked at you like you were a wounded puppy, overflowing with pity and heartbreak.

“Sweets” He sighed, passing a hand down his face. “You know that's not true”

You looked down at your drink, fidgeting with your fingers around the glass. A heavy melancholy loomed in your soul, like he reopened a wound that had just started to heal.

“Yeah well, you weren't there that day” You mumbled, shaking your head. “He didn't say those words to you”

He just kept his eyes on you and you couldn't stand it. You furiously rubbed at your eyes to make sure no tears would come, then shook your head again

“We need to talk about something else” You spoke before he could pursue this further. “Anything. Work, not work, your sad dating life—”

He scoffed in offense, immediately reading the room and moving on like he had already forgotten the previous conversation.

“—literally anything else”

“Well I'll have you know,” He began, exaggerating his words in a pointed way that told you he was laying it thick on purpose. He spoke slow, leaving you enough time to recompose yourself. You wouldn't mention this kindness again, and neither would he. “I had a date last week”

You raised an eyebrow as your mind latched on this new topic. “Oh?”

“Lovely woman” He nodded. “Smart, beautiful, easygoing. We had a lot of fun”

You hummed, poorly hiding the semblance of a grin. “I didn't know you knew how to have fun. But hey good for you for learning new stuff at your age”

He gave you a playful eye roll. “Ha ha, you're hilarious. But you should keep in mind you'll get there sooner than later Sweets” Then, his eyes found yours with an insistent, challenging stare as he pointed at your head. “Yeah that's right, I've seen those gray hairs come out— And you already can't keep up with the kid's lingo anymore. You're practically one of us already”

You couldn't help but bark a laugh loud enough to echo around the bar. You covered your mouth, reducing the noise to a giggle or two. The sudden image of you and Robby in a grumpy old people's club was somehow the funniest thing you've imagined all week.

What a nightmare you two would be in a retirement home.

“Do I get exclusive club membership discounts?” You finally asked, then took a sip.

“Two for one on coffins and they give you the shovel to dig your grave with”

You choked on your drink. He only raised his drink in a toast and finished it, entirely too smug about his joke.

“Well—” You coughed, then cleared your throat as you tried to stifle your laughter. “That took a dark turn”

He looked like the was holding back from doubling down with, if you had to guess, a comment about it not being as dark as the inside of one of those coffins. And by the mischievous glint suddenly lightning up his eyes, he must have known you had finished the punchline by yourself anyway.

To be fair, you were almost tempted to speak it out loud before he could. Dark humour was often an outlet that both you and him used entirely too leisurely, and that one's comedic timing was impeccable as it could get. Yet, there was something about it now that made you pause.

“Hey Robby” You began, frowning. “How are you doing?”

He looked like a deer caught in the headlights at your curve ball for a whole second before he switched to the defensive, pointing an accusing finger to you.

“Oh hell no. Don't you dare turn the tables on me”

You leaned in to hiss, “Oh not so fun when it's you in the spotlight right?”

“Shut up Sweets”

You softened your features a bit too quickly. “Don't be difficult, I'm concerned”

He made a displeased face. “That's low”

“That's never stopped me before”

He held the staring match for a moment, refusing to let you win. It had been your check-in hangout, he hadn't come prepare to open up. How he let you have the upper hand so easily, without even noticing it was beyond him.

He let out a long, tired breath, dropping his gaze down to his his empty drink. It was like he had a whole conversation going on in his head that he was badly losing. He didn't think he was even ready to understand what was even going on with him.

He was just not ready.

And then, he spoke in a very timid, vulnerable even, voice that was extremely uncharacteristic of him.

“Raincheck?”

Even you knew not to push your luck.

You reached out to his folded hand in front of him and gave them a little squeeze. “Alright. But I'm here for you ok? I want to be there for you, whatever's going on”

A small smile that didn't reach his eyes grew on his mouth. “I know Sweets”

“I might let you off the hook now,” You began, staring him down. “But only if you promise me you'll reach out if you hit a critical point. Ideally even before”

You could see the argument forming on his tongue before he even worded it. I'm the one who needs to look out for you, I don't need you to be concerned for me, I don't want to unload my burdens on you- you have enough— You could hear it all already. Yet, you didn't back down.

“You're too stubborn for your own good, you know that?”

You gave him a blinding yet slightly threatening smile. “Learned from the best”

He groaned. “Fine, fine. I promise. God damn, woman”

You could be gloating about this, winning one on Dr. Robby was not an easy feat. But you decided not to, considering him just considering it enough to make that promise was enough relief to let it go.

(Whether or not he'd actually follow up on it remained to be seen, but it was a good start).

Like he was desperately looking for an escape, his eyes suddenly scanned around the empty bar, and stopped on the dusty pool tables in the back. “Hey, wanna play pool?”

You blinked a couple of time. “Neither of us know how to properly play”

You recalled last time you were around a pool table, you had been paired with him to play against a couple of his then residents, who had baited the group with betting tables and rankings.

To say you had been obliterated was an understatement, as clearly both you and him had learned a very different set of rules, apparently, neither of which was the actual right way to play. You had spent your game arguing both among yourselves and with people around the table and getting on everyone's nerves in an impressively concerted way for how disorganized you actually were, until you unavoidably lost the match and retreated to a table far away to grumble about it.

He would never admit it, but seeing his name at the very bottom of the ranking that was left pinned up in the break room for weeks after drove him completely mad. Neither of you had failed either to remind the other of this defeat the whole time.

You believed this was when the crew decided to never, ever pair you up again for any group activity.

He was already standing up, then finished his drink. “C'mon, it'll be fun”

“Famous last words” You rolled your eyes, but your amusement was still obvious.

You finished your drink too, then followed him to the old table.

“Alright Robinavitch, game on”

•••••••••••••

Next [upcoming]

[feral4youu]

ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ɪɴ ᴍʏ ʀᴏᴏᴍ, ɪ ᴍɪꜱꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ

Summary: You loved Robby enough to build a life around him once. The kind of life you thought people only talked about. Then things changed slowly, and then all at once, until the man beside you no longer felt familiar. Time apart was supposed to make things easier. Instead, a series of circumstances forces the two of you back into the same room, where everything left unsaid is still waiting.

Pairing: Husband! Robby x Wife! reader

WC: 6.5k

Warnings: 18+, smut, stressful work life, mentions of depression, not accurate lmao, strained marriage, arguments, lying, toxic dynamics, inappropriate workplace behavior, jack and mckay are two of reader’s close friends, mentions of a previous miscarriage, mentions of langdon’s addiction, fade to black at the end.

(this was my first robby fic, i hope i captured him well lol)

Working in the Pitt was its own kind of hell, a hell where life was sucked out of you. No fun, no laughs, only stress.

Before Michael, all you knew was work, home, and the few hours of sleep that you allowed yourself after your shift.

It was a cliche thing to say, but you always swore that your life brightened some when he came into it. He had a way about him, a way about him that made you feel at ease.

How the hell your marriage ended up in a spot where you were heavily considering divorce was beyond you. It had been another night of you trying to be there for him, but it turned into a fight— it always did. Your words were always wrong and rotten, no matter how softly they were spoken or how sweet they were laced.

Robby was a ticking time bomb and you weren’t going to let him drag you down with him. It was so unfair, because he acted as if you didn’t struggle too— like you didn’t also have a lot on your plate at work. It was all about him and his feelings.

The thought of your marriage being at that point was foreign, ridiculous even. You loved him and he loved you, how could things sour when that mattered most? How could you give up on him?

Robby was the man that couldn’t see yourself without, the one that made you smile at work, the one that would drop anything to be there for you.

Why would you abandon him when he just needed help?

God, you felt so fucking guilty for even considering it. The guilt gnawed at you every time you thought about it, you were being unfair.

He just needed space, is what you told yourself— hoping that it would turn out differently.

When the two of you got together it was with the help of Jack, he kept giving hints about how you’d do well together and how you two were looking for the same thing. How both of you had been alone for quite some time.

You brushed him off, because you weren’t looking for anything or anyone. You were okay with being by yourself and you had been okay with that for a really long time.

When you finally caved and said yes to the “blind date”, Jack joked that it would be it — you’d never be single again. Robby would be the one for you, the one that would make you change your mind.

You would roll your eyes and mock him, but he was right.

“Fuck.” You whined, your ass bouncing on his cock.

He smacked your ass, biting his lip.

“There you go, sweetheart.” He coached.

It had been so long since you had been touched, Robby was only the second person that you had ever slept with. It felt so fucking good, but you’d told yourself beforehand that it wouldn’t go that far. You didn’t plan to fuck him after the third date, you just couldn’t help yourself— he was so charming.

“I’m gonna cum—“

“Fuck, Robby.” You rasped, your pussy clenching around his cock.

“That’s it baby.” He groaned, his tongue sliding into your mouth as he kissed you again.

You kept riding him, riding out your orgasm while his cock twitched inside you.

“I’m so fucking close.” He panted.

You loved this, every fucking moment of it. “You can cum inside me, I’m on the pill.”

He looked at you, “you sure?”

You nodded.

It didn’t take long before Robby’s deep, guttural groans filled the air— his cum coating your walls.

The two of you stayed in each other’s arms, falling asleep together and waking up together the next morning.

You knew then that Jack was right, Robby was it.

A year later the two of you were married, married at the cathedral that you’d picked out.

It was perfect in every way imaginable and you had smiled more than you ever had in your life. The way that Robby looked at you, held your hand through every moment, whispered cute things into your ear— he was your soulmate.

Your wedding wasn’t big, but it had everyone who mattered there. It was exactly what the two of you had envisioned and talked about on numerous occasions.

Shortly after the wedding, the two of you started house hunting. You both sold your houses and wanted a space that was picked by both of you, something where you could potentially start a family.

Having children was something that you never considered, something that you had written off years ago. I mean, the Pitt was your life— it was all that you had time for. However, experiencing love and being loved made you feel differently about it.

Before you got married, the two of you were also on opposite shifts—just barely able to spend time together. With a little persuasion, you joined the day shift, which made things ten times easier for both of you.

Years later…

You took the empty chair at the nurses station, wanting to rest your feet. The emergency room was buzzing with patients, talking, and machines beeping— you could barely hear yourself think.

“Don’t go to sleep on us.” Dana spoke, nudging you as you blinked slowly.

You wanted to cry internally and externally, “I couldn’t even if I tried.”

The entire day had been more non-stop than usual and you were exhausted, truthfully beyond exhausted.

You glanced at your watch and stood up from the chair, dragging yourself to the next task— going to the bathroom for peace and quiet. On the way to the bathroom, you caught Robby once again grilling Samira for being too slow.

You watched as she walked away, looking like a bit more of her confidence had been shaved off.

Robby walked out of the room, putting hand sanitizer on his hands.

Things between the two of you were already tense, but you were going to say something— you had to. Not just because he was your husband, but his behavior and attitude was getting ridiculous. The low point in your marriage was an all new low, lower than it had ever been. You believed that it was something every marriage went through, something your marriage would overcome— but as the nights passed your confidence dwindled. Your patience for his treatment of you and everyone else thinned.

His behavior at home had been carried with him at work, the one thing he always warned everyone about. It was downright embarrassing to you and him.

He was losing himself right before your eyes— snappy with everyone, sleeping less, and talking less. You were losing your husband and you couldn’t stop it. You wanted to guide him through it and be there for him, but he only pushed you farther away. It had gotten to the point where you drove your own car to work and that you could barely work with him, without arguing.

He was affecting you and your career, he was ruining you.

You walked beside him, “can we have a word?”

He scoffed, the lines near his eyes deepening.

“Here we go—“

“Again.” He muttered.

You walked in front of him, halting his steps and trying not to let his words make you angry.

“Robby, you cannot keep treating Samira that way.” You gently reminded him.

“Dr. Mohan.” He corrected you.

Your brows furrowed, a confused look on your face.

“What?”

He pressed his hands together in front of him, his lips pursed and brows slightly raised.

“She is Dr.Mohan. We are professionals and she is not your friend, she is Dr. Mohan.”

You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief.

“We are professionals, you’re right— but that isn’t a lesson that I need.”

He pulled his shoulders back in offense, pointing his finger at himself.

“Are you trying to say that I need a fucking lesson in professionalism? That’s rich.”

“Robby.. what I’m saying is that—“

“Your treatment of her, constantly nagging and knocking her down a peg.. is unprofessional and comes off sexist.” You stammered.

He stared at you in disbelief.

“You, my lovely wife— are unbelievable.”

“I only say this out of concern, Michael. I love you, but—“

“Just because we are married does not mean that you can talk to me this way, I am still your superior. You need to remember your place and get back to work, we do not have time for bullshit.” He gritted.

You were admittedly startled by his tone, it sent shivers down your spine. The way that he so casually brushed you and your concern off, the way that he pulled the authority card.

It was as if the rose colored glasses that you had on and the excuses for him instantly vanished, that was it— the final straw. It wasn’t something big or catastrophic like you had imagined, it was that.

Your eyes watered as you stared at your husband, the eyes of your coworkers on both of you.

Robby stared at you and you didn’t even recognize him, his eyes no longer held the sanctuary that you used to get lost in.

You leaned close to him, making sure that he could hear you perfectly.

“I can’t do this anymore, Michael.. I thought that I could and that I could tolerate your cruelty, but I can’t.”

His brows raised, “my cruelty?”

“You need to get your shit out of the house and be gone by the time that I am at home.” You added.

Your words were sharp and short, no more apologies and excuses— just straight to the point.

He feigned a smile and nodded, walking away without saying anything.

You turned around to see everyone staring after it was obvious the two of you were arguing.

“What the fuck is everyone looking at?” You yelled, tears finally falling from your eyes.

Dana stared at you a moment longer, before averting her gaze.

“She’s right people, this isn’t a zoo— get back to work!”

Although you appreciated her effort to keep eyes off of you and your failing marriage, everyone knew— it was obvious. Everyone noticed how things between the two of you seemed strained, how easily Robby snapped, or how it seemed like your light dimmed.

You loved him, but this was ridiculous and it just couldn’t continue— not this way.

After your shift, you went home and he was gone— along with his things. He didn’t even hesitate.

You stayed later for charting, hoping for anything from him— but there was nothing. You didn’t know what hurt worse, him not trying or him treating you that way.

When you got home, you realized that you still had a vial in your pocket and needed to return it. You drove back to the hospital, hoping to be in and out.

“Back so soon?” Dana questioned as she prepared to walk out of the door herself.

You held the vial in your hand, showing her. “I needed to return this.”

Dana stopped you in your tracks as you went to walk past her, her hand on your shoulder and her eyes giving you a look that you knew all too well.

“What was that with Robby earlier?”

You fidgeted with the vial, fighting back the tears that wanted to fall from your eyes again.

“He’s.. uh, just having a day— I guess.”

She leaned in closer to you, her brow slightly raised.

“He shouldn’t be like that with you, that isn’t okay and you don’t deserve it.”

You nodded, biting the inside of your lip.

“Tell me about it.”

Dana rubbed your shoulder and gave it a pat before she continued on her way while you continued on yours.

It was embarrassing, embarrassing that your marriage couldn’t even struggle in private— that everyone knew.

The emergency room had quieted some from earlier, but not by much. Dr. Abbott and Mateo were approaching the desk when you walked by, your mind completely focused on the task at hand and nothing else.

You were in the middle of returning the vial when Jack came to the side of you.

“What are you doing back here?” He asked.

You took a deep breath, your eyes red from crying and hands unable to stop shaking.

“I just brought back that vial, I realized I still had it in my pocket.”

He stared at you, his eyes raking over you and your appearance.

“Talk to me.”

Your brow raised, “about?”

He leaned against the wall, glancing around and making sure that the two of you were alone.

“I’ve heard about it, I mean everyone has— tell me what happened.”

You wiped your mouth, a sigh of defeat escaping your lips— your eyes sore from crying.

Jack grabbed your hand and guided you into a nearby empty room, shutting the door behind him.

“He’s just.. he’s slipping. I don’t know what’s going on, but nothing I say is right or okay. He’s an asshole most of the time, like I don’t even recognize him.. my own fucking husband.” You stammered.

Jack watched you, he watched how you also looked like you were falling apart and how you seemed completely alone.

“Why did he argue with you in front of people? What brought that about?”

You wiped your tears, shaking your head.

“He was scolding Dr. Mohan again. It’s like he’s always on her ass about one thing or another and she’s trying, she’s fucking trying.” You choked.

Jack tilted his head slightly and walked closer to you, pulling you into a hug.

“Hey, hey— it’s going to be okay. He’s going to be okay and so will you.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

You pulled away, sniffing.

“Don’t, this isn’t your mess to clean up and I don’t want him getting upset over this too.”

“I don’t like him treating you this way. I won’t tolerate it.”

“It’ll be fine, just trust me.” You pleaded.

He rubbed your arm, “are you positive?”

You nodded, pulling a paper towel from the dispenser to blow your nose.

“Have you—“

“Have you told him about the medical emergency that you had?”

You turned to Jack, your mind clouded by the hum of the light overhead and everything else.

“Oh, the miscarriage?”

He folded his arms, leaning against the counter— his brow raised.

“No.. no. I just didn’t think he’d handle it well—“

“You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone, that is not okay.” Jack interrupted.

You shrugged, your lips pursed.

“I didn’t go through it alone, I had you and McKay.”

“You needed your husband, not just us. He should’ve been there, he would’ve wanted to be there.”

“What was I supposed to do, Jack? Hmm?—“

“Tell my already suicidal husband that during his own meanness and selfish worries, I had a miscarriage. The baby that we once talked about, I lost?”

He nodded, “yes.”

You laughed in disagreement, “that totally would’ve gone well.”

“Maybe, it would’ve changed things for him— made him actually seek out help.”

“It would’ve just changed how soon he’d put a gun in his mouth.” You digressed.

“He will get through this, he will.” Jack spoke, his voice coming out softer for reassurance.

“I told him to pack his things after earlier.. I told him to be gone before I got home.”

“Well, was he gone?” Jack questioned.

“Yeah, most of his things were gone.” You sighed.

“Is that what you wanted?”

You threw your hands up in defeat, “I don’t know. I don’t know what I want anymore, Jack. I am just tired of the back and forth, of this, of..”

You stopped yourself before you could finish your sentence, but both of you knew what it meant.

Mateo opened the door, interrupting the conversation.

“I need you right now.”

Jack looked at him and back at you, “I’ll be right back.”

Once he left, you took a few minutes to calm down before driving back home— but you left before he came back to the room. You were tired and wanted to go home. You needed to go home.

When you got home, you took a shower and practically collapsed. You didn’t have the mental capacity or energy to think about Robby. You barely had the capacity to think about yourself.

The next morning you had overslept and were running behind. You glanced at your phone as you rushed to get ready.

Two missed calls from Robby and three texts from him.

Is everything okay?

Where are you? They said that you didn’t call out.

If I don’t hear from you in the next twenty minutes, I’m leaving work and coming to the house.

You were more flustered about being late than anything else, so texting Robby back was the last thing on your mind at that moment.

You rushed in, your eyes still red and puffy— your voice hoarse.

“There she is! We were worried.” Dana smiled.

You set down your tumbler on the desk. “I overslept, I didn’t mean to.”

Langdon looked up from his chart, staring at you and how you looked. He wanted to ask if you were okay, but you were already walking away before he could.

You were walking to the bathroom, hoping to pee quickly before diving in. Robby appeared out of what seemed like thin air, leaning against the bathroom door in front of you.

“You were late.. an hour late, what happened?”

You scratched your brow, “I overslept.”

He bit his lip, “is that all? Or is there something that you’re not telling me?”

You rolled your eyes, signaling for him to move from in front of the door.

“For Christ sake, Micheal— I just overslept because I was exhausted. I was sad and exhausted, nothing more.”

Robby nodded and moved out of your way, walking back the other direction.

Dealing with him and the stress of what he was dealing with was making you snappy, making you act ugly towards other people. You weren’t being yourself.

When you came out of the bathroom, you bumped into Mckay.

“Are you okay?”

You scoffed, “what do you think?”

“That’s fair. If you’re interested, I need your assistance with this patient. She accidentally almost cut three fingers off.”

You agreed, putting hand sanitizer on your hand as the two of you approached the room.

After observing the wounds yourself and talking with the patient, you pulled your gloves off— standing up from the stool.

“Can you have Yoyo come check this out? I’m certain that it’s going to need more than just stitches.” You spoke to Cassie.

She nodded, picking the phone up from the hook on the wall near her.

You exited the room, putting on more hand sanitizer— your thoughts interrupted by Santos approaching.

“Can I talk to you?”

“Sure, what’s up?” You replied.

She glanced around, her hands in her pocket— “privately.”

The two of you went into an empty room and you didn’t know what to expect, quite frankly you were a little afraid.

Santos stood there, hesitant to open her mouth and tell you why she needed to talk.

“Everything okay?” You questioned, staring at her and her lost expression.

“I think that Langdon is stealing drugs from the hospital.” She blurted.

Her words threw you for a loop, like a prank was being played.

“Langdon?—“

“Frank?”

She slowly nodded, “yes.”

You crossed your arms, your eyes blinking more in that minute than they had since you’d woken up.

“What makes you say that? That’s a serious accusation, Santos.”

“There have been a few discrepancies with benzos on two cases of his.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

“You’re absolutely positive?”

“Yes.”

You sighed. “Okay, I’ll handle it from here—“

“Thank you for reporting it.”

She stood there a minute longer before exiting.

When she left, you started to laugh. It wasn’t due to anything being humorous— but it was the cherry on top. Robby’s star pupil was potentially stealing drugs from the hospital and you were going to tell him, it was the last thing that you needed.

Robby was busy, so you sat down and did the notes on a chart. You were so overwhelmed from the information that you could barely think straight.

Time passed with more people coming into the ER, so you had been too busy to talk to Robby— too busy to do anything.

You shook your head, walking from the last patient you had spoken to when you saw him. He glanced up from his iPad, staring at you.

“I need to talk to you.” You mouthed.

He put down the iPad, pulled off his glasses and walked towards you at the end of the hallway. The two of you hadn’t talked about what happened yesterday and he had hoped that you would, just maybe not at that moment.

“What’s going on?”

You leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath.

“Santos came to me earlier and made a troubling accusation—“

Robby sarcastically smiled, thinking that it would be nonsense.

“I can’t wait to hear this.”

“She accused Langdon of stealing drugs from the hospital.”

His smile dropped, “what the fuck are you talking about?”

“She said that on two occasions there have been clear and obvious discrepancies with benzos.”

“And she’s sure?” He questioned, gritting his teeth— his hands on his head.

“About as sure as she can be.”

Robby’s hand smacked the wall as he walked away from you and didn’t say anything else.

“Robby!” You yelled, calling after him to no avail.

Robby disappeared around the corner and you let him, you were just too tired to chase after him and try talking to him. It wasn’t worth the fight.

You made your way back over to the desk, rummaging through one of the drawers to find a report to fill out. Your task was interrupted as they always were, Whittaker asking for a hand.

The thoughts in your mind came and went at such a rampant speed that you couldn’t keep track. If you weren’t thinking or worried about your husband, you were thinking about how you felt inadequate and wanted to give up.

It was tiring.

You made quick work of helping Whittaker and returned to filling out the report. The report was tedious and exhaustingly long, you had finished most of it when you saw Robby again..

“I filled out the report, most of it anyway. I’ll just need your signature and get it sent to HR.” You mentioned, now walking beside Robby.

He rubbed hand sanitizer into his hands, “that won’t be necessary.”

You tilted your head in confusion, “what won’t be necessary?”

“The report, I handled it. Langdon is gone and it’s unnecessary.”

You stopped in your tracks, your feet squeaking slightly against the floor.

“You’re joking, right?”

He glanced at you, “nope.”

You grabbed his hand and forced him into the newly empty room that was closest to you. The smell of disinfectant lingering in the air.

“What Langdon did was a crime, it should be reported.”

He folded his arms in front of him.

“Santos reported it to you, you told me, and I handled it. There’s nothing more to it.”

You scoffed, shaking your head.

“He stole drugs and you’re trying to salvage his fucking career? Trying to help him out?”

Robby took a deep breath, holding his eyes shut for a moment.

“I am the senior attending, I don’t have to explain shit to you! I said it was handled and I meant that.”

You bit the inside of your lip, stepping closer to him and closing the gap between the two of you.

“You once again cut slack for Langdon, but you’d never do the same for me, or McKay, or Mohan— why is that?”

“We move just a little slower or become a step behind, take a small break, or make the wrong decision and you’re immediately riding our ass. Your precious pupil is a drug addict and you still spare him!”

Tears welled in your eyes, your lip beginning to quiver.

“I am doing my job and I don’t appreciate you taking me away from it, because you want to be emotional— because you can’t leave your self esteem issues at the door.” He hissed.

Your mouth was agape and it felt like your heart stilled in your chest for a moment.

“Wow.. just when I thought that you couldn’t get any lower.” You mumbled.

You stormed out of the room, Robby called your name and sounded remorseful— but you didn’t even bother.

The shift was the shift that kept on giving, no break in sight for you or anyone that day— especially after the pittfest nightmare.

You were so tired after that shift that you could barely keep your eyes open, you even fell asleep in the shower.

It was one of the hardest shifts that you had worked in a while, but nothing was harder than dealing with your husband— accepting how he was now.

After everything, you realized that you needed a break— you took off a week and simultaneously put in a transfer to another hospital. You couldn’t work with Robby anymore or just at that hospital in general.

You needed space and a lot of it.

Are you not coming in today?

Nevermind, I heard that you took time off. Take care of yourself.

Did you really put in a transfer request? You’re leaving the hospital, because of me?

I am sorry, baby.

Please, talk to me. I want to talk.

You ignored every text that Robby sent and reading them was like a knife twisting in your stomach. Things could have been so different.

All he had to do was accept your help, but even that was an unreasonable ask.

During your time off, you spent a lot of time lounging around your house—sorting things and watching a bit of some tv show.

It was odd being completely alone at home, Robby’s things being gone— his scent still lingering. You had been with Robby for years, made your life around him and now you were preparing for a life without him. A life without the man that you spent years loving and accepting.

You sat on the couch in your pajamas, scrolling through the options on Netflix— hoping to find something that would distract you.

Your phone dinged with a text from Jack.

Are you doing okay?

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, because that was the million dollar question— were you okay?

I’m okay, as okay as I can possibly be lol. Thanks for checking in on me though!

He started typing, then stopped, and then started again.

I came in to fill in for you and Robby came to me shortly after our shift started.

You: Why? Was he okay?

He brought up what happened between the two of you, mentioned that he’d really fucked up.

You: I’m not sure what to say.

I didn’t know what to say either, I just hope this means that he’ll get the help he needs.

You: I hope so too, but we’ll see.

He misses you, I think more than he’s letting on.

You read Jack’s last text and didn’t respond, you weren’t sure what to say— not really.

It'd been two months since you left the Pitt, two months since you’d separated from Robby.

You had gotten used to the silence that lingered in your life now, used to not waking up beside Robby, used to the new hospital that you worked at.

At this hospital things were different, the unit wasn’t much of a “family” like you were at the Pitt. Each of you did your job and went home, that was it. Surprisingly, you didn’t mind it— not at much as you thought you would.

You sat in the lounge, mindlessly scrolling on your phone when a text came through from Robby.

I just want to warn you, I will be stopping by the house to grab something from the garage. I won’t be there long.

You: That’s fine, I’m not sure I’ll be there though. Do you still have your key?

Yes.

Things between you and Robby were stuck in limbo, they weren’t inherently improving nor were they getting worse.

It had been two months and you had cancelled three divorce consultations, unable to go through with it. The two of you barely talked and had been living separately, you couldn’t understand why you were hesitant.

He’d text you every now and then, checking in on you and letting you know that he missed you. Each text made your skin warm and made your stomach flutter, you still were in love with him— even when you shouldn’t have been.

You missed him— you missed seeing his face, feeling his arms around you, missed hearing his voice, and his snores in the bed beside you.

A text came through, this one from McKay.

Are you still coming over tonight? There’s so much that I have to tell you.

You: Can we do it tomorrow night, instead? I don’t feel well and there’s something that I need to handle.

Sure! No problem.

Thankfully, the work day didn’t drag on and was finished before you could even begin to complain. You wanted to go home, pour yourself a glass of wine, and fall asleep watching some shitty reality show.

When you got home, Robby wasn’t there— you had missed him. You did however find a bouquet of roses on the counter with a note attached.

These are for you, your favorite flower— but still nowhere as beautiful as you. I am sorry for how I treated you, what I ruined between us. I do hope that one day you’re able to forgive me. I love you more than anything. — Michael

You sat the card back onto the table, tears welling in your eyes. You picked up your phone, your finger hovering over the text thread between the two of you.

You: Thank you for the flowers.

You’re welcome, do you like them?

You: Yes.

You: Would you like to come over?

You held your breath after you sent that text, the feeling of regret already creeping into your stomach.

Everything okay? or do you want me over there for something else?

You: I just want to talk.

I’ll be there in thirty.

You liked his message and there was a lump in your throat, you were supposed to be keeping your distance from him— not inviting him over.

You turned off the lights, leaving only the lamp near the front door on— lighting the vanilla candle that also sat on the table.

While trying to process what you did, you took a hot shower— hoping that maybe you’d change your mind afterwards. The water rinsed over your skin, the steam filling the bathroom as you stood there deep in thought.

Could your marriage truly recover? Was this a mistake?

Once you were out of the shower, you threw on one of your baggy t-shirts and made your way back downstairs. You were going to tell Robby nevermind, but as soon your foot touched the last step— the doorbell rang.

Your heart raced as you walked to the door, your fingers sweating when you unlocked it and opened it.

Robby stood there, his eyes raking over your appearance— wet hair, his baggy college t-shirt, and no pants on.

“You wanted me to come over?” He asked, walking past you and down the hall.

You locked the door, your words hung in your throat as you followed him into the kitchen.

“Did you mean it—“

“Do you mean what you wrote on the notecard?” You mumbled.

He leaned against the kitchen counter.

“Every word of it.”

You held back the tears that threatened to leave your eyes.

“Why now? It’s been two months.”

“Two months of agony, two months of feeling like I cannot breathe, two months of feeling like the biggest asshole in the world.”

You bit your lip and just stood there, somehow he felt like your husband again— like the man that you’d fallen in love with years ago.

“You need help, Michael.. professional help that I cannot give.”

He nodded, a pained look on his face.

“I know.”

Somehow in the midst of talking, the two of you ended up closer than you should’ve been— his body against yours.

Robby titled his head, his eyes staring into yours while one his hands rested against your hip.

“I’m sorry for leaving you.” You muttered.

“You had to, baby. I don’t blame you one bit.” He replied softly.

His hand came up to your cheek, his thumb rubbing against it. You felt like you could melt into him, melt like you always did.

“I missed you.” He confessed.

“I missed you too.”

There was a silence, a heat between the two of your bodies.

He gently pressed his lips against yours, his hand cupping your face. He kissed you like he was scared he’d be punished for it, waiting for you to push him away— only you didn’t.

You kissed him back and you welcomed it.

The kiss deepened, your tongue sliding into his mouth.

“I missed you so much, baby.” He breathed in between kissing.

You pulled your lips from his, grabbing his hand and bringing him to the bedroom. As soon as you were in the room, his lips were back on yours.

He pulled off your t-shirt, leaving you completely naked.

“You look.. so beautiful.”

You pulled Robby’s shirt off, your fingers raking over his hairy stomach as he placed open mouthed kisses against your skin.

“I want you.” You whined.

He pulled off his pants, a wet spot on his boxers from precum.

You pulled down his boxers, wrapping your hand around his thick cock— slowly pumping it.

“Hmm, that feels good honey.”

He kissed you fiercely, full of hunger and need— guiding you back onto the bed.

You laid on your back, your legs spread open— watching as he came between your legs.

“Please, fuck me.”

He chuckled, his necklace dangling in your face.

He guided his cock to your entrance, his tub rubbing against your sensitive clit.

“You ready for me?”

You nodded, bringing your mouth to his.

He pushed inside you, a gasp leaving your mouth and a groan leaving his.

His cock filled you, every inch of him stretching you as you got used to him again.

“That’s it, baby.” He groaned, slowly thrusting in and out of you.

It felt good to feel him inside you again, to be close with him, and to feel love for him.

He was so deep inside you, it felt like he was in your stomach— taking your breath with every thrust.

Robby pushed your leg up slightly, his cock going even deeper.

“Fuck.” You whimpered.

Hearing you moan and watching you take every inch of him just about pushed him over the edge prematurely.

“That feels so good, Robby."

“Good, baby. I want to make you feel so good.” He breathed.

The intense feeling in your stomach began to build, your pussy already clenching around his cock.

“I’m so close, I’m so close.” You moaned.

He kissed you with a chuckle, his thrusts faster and messier.

“Me too—“

“Be a good girl and cum for me, honey.”

You loved hearing him talk to you like that, hearing him coach you through your orgasm.

Your orgasm washed over you like a violent tidal wave, his name spilling from your lips over and over again.

“Yeah, just like that, baby.”

Robby’s orgasm followed yours within seconds, his cock slamming into you one last time— his warm cum coating your walls.

Both of you laid there for a moment, reeling from the high that you rode— also now more confused than ever.

Robby pulled out of you, handing you his shirt.

“Do you want me to go?”

You pulled the shirt over your head, getting off the bed.

“You can stay, but you’ll have to leave in the morning.”

Robby stayed and you slept in his arms like you used to, some of the best sleep that you had gotten in a while. You knew that once the morning came, things would go back to how they were.

That night was a weak moment and it made what you said no less true, Robby needed help and the two of you couldn’t be together until he got it.

Weeks later..

Things between you and Robby had managed to somehow get worse, he hadn’t gotten help like he needed to and he was continuing to spiral.

You’d given up and just completely avoided him, even though it was painful. You really hoped that he would’ve taken your advice, that the time apart would have opened his eyes.

You sat on the couch, eating popcorn and decided to open a bottle of wine— a well needed drink.

This was your favorite wine, you’d often buy two bottles when you went to the store.

You glanced at the tv from the kitchen, watching the red wine pour into the glass.

The whiff of wine made your brows furrow, it smelled off. You brought the glass to your mouth, tasting it to be sure.

It tasted wrong and off like something had been done to it, you leaned over the sink spitting it out.

It wasn’t old and it hadn’t been opened, but it didn’t taste right and you couldn’t figure out why.

You stood at the sink, leaning against it and absentmindedly rinsing out the wine— your mind elsewhere.

That’s when it hit you, it felt like a shove to the chest. You grabbed your phone from the couch and pulled up your period app.

You were probably panicking, being ridiculous— there was no way that you were pregnant.

The app loaded and you were late, very fucking late.

“No, no, no.” You mumbled, rushing up the stairs to your bathroom.

You’d kept spare pregnancy tests in your bathroom and never got around to throwing them out once the two of you split.

The bathroom lights hummed as you stood there near the sink, staring at yourself in the mirror.

It was going to be negative, there’s no way it would be positive.

The timer on your phone went off and you took a deep breath, completely preparing for there to be another explanation.

You slowly turned over both pregnancy tests.

They were positive.

You held your head in defeat, tears falling from your eyes.

“Fuck.”

You had massively fucked up.

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated.

[st-abbot]

Timebomb - Jack Abbot

(II) Fallout

Hey :) Part 2 of Timebomb is now live. From the bottom of my heart.... I apologize.

... is what I would say if I was truly sorry. Hehe. Enjoy guys.

Reblogs and comments are very appreciated ♥

This is a strictly no AI writing blog. Please do not feed my writing in any AI system either.

Series masterlist

Pairing: Jack Abbot x f!reader

Word count: 3,070

Chapter warnings: Hurt no comfort, talk of dead loved ones, Jack is an asshole who is afraid of his own feelings and takes it out on reader, Jack and Reader's dead spouses haunting the narrative heavily, reader is a prone to do stupid shit as Jack lmao.

Chapter Summary: What started to be a soft day of recovery following the PittFest shooting turned into ashes in your mouth when you decided to heed Robby's advice and confess your feelings to Jack.

< Previous

Your dreams were plagued with automatic weapons, screams and blood. Nothing to want to stay in, nothing to stay asleep for. Yet, when a hand gently shook your shoulder, you woke up with a startled gasp, unwillingly tearing yourself away from the haven of your subconscious.

“Hey, easy”

Your heartbeat calmed down a few notches as your registered the voice speaking, soothing and grounding you in reality. Your eyes found Jack sitting on the side of your bed, sweatpants and cotton tshirt that smelled like fresh laundry and antiseptic.

“What's going on?”

He yawned. “You've been sleeping for a while, I just wanted to check in”

“Oh come on” You breathed out slowly. “Okay, what time is it?”

“Noon, almost. Just got back from my half shift”

“Jack” You groaned. “Go take a nap. You have a full shift soon”

He shrugged.

“Unbelievable” You mumbled. “I'm fine. Go rest”

“I'm not tired”

You leveled him with an unimpressed stare, which he answered by laying down next to you, resting his hands on his stomach. This in itself wasn't a rare occurrence—Jack and you were no stranger to this kind of intimacy. It was, you might even say, what most likely allowed the both of you to got through the death of Sienna. From movie nights cuddled up, to sleepovers in either bed, always respectful and platonic. It was comfort through proximity, knowing that there was always someone next to you to hold on to when seas got rough. It was an ear ready and willing to listen to any quiet confession made in the dead of the night when the world around you stood still.

But this time was different. You had dangerous ideas getting louder in your head, and being shot at on the line of duty rattled your feelings enough to feel like it was now or never. Your eyes trailed over his form, still sharp and firm after all these year, kept in absolute pristine condition like a vintage car. Even in those plain clothes, he looked painfully attractive, and you had to resist the urge to touch him all over.

“I'll tell you what,” He began, forcing your stare away from his chest back to his face. “I promise I'll take a nap once you eat and move around a bit. Deal?”

You blinked. “Do I have any say in it?”

He scoffed. “No”

You'd hit him in the chest if either of your arms weren't actually very sore. Apparently, he figured the same thing because the smug laugh that came out of him was made of pure triumph at your helplessness. You hated how much it impacted you, and you hated the realization you'd be willing to do pretty much anything to hear it again.

You realized you hadn't felt that way about someone in a long, long time.

“C'mon, I'll make you something for breakfast” He said, but made no move to leave the bed. “You hungry?”

You closed your eyes and snuggled deeper in your pillow. “No”

Your stomach, however, clearly digressed, because as soon as you were done talking, it rumbled like thunder. You could feel Jack's shit eating grin on you.

“I'm maybe a little bit hungry”

“Need help getting up?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

He breathed out a quiet fair enough and sat up straight again, then grabbed his crutch and pushed himself up. You took care to rise up slowly to help your brain as much as you could, then gradually made it to your feet. By the time you were up, Jack was already rummaging around in the kitchen, busying himself with the breakfast he promised.

You changed from your shorts to long sweatpants and put on a clean tshirt, then joined him. He had the presence of mind to leave the blinds partially shut to reduce the brightness of the sunlight in the apartment, and the kitchen lights were left on low setting.

You made a beeline for the fruits to cut on the kitchen island while he was busy on the stove.

“Sit” He ordered before you even reached for the cutting board, not even turning to face you. “I've got this”

You yawned. “You don't have your leg on and you've been on your feet enough--you're gonna be on your feet for twelve hours soon” You stated the obvious, still advancing towards your objective. “Lemme help”

Before you could even understand he moved, he spun around on his crutch with a level of agility that usually only happened in movies and snatched both the cutting board, then the knife from the island, hiding it around the stove where he could physically block you from accessing.

You blinked once, then twice. Damn concussed brain making you slow.

“Sit.” He repeated, slower and more pointedly this time. There was no room for negotiation.

“Ay ay Captain” You mumbled, painfully climbing on an island chair.

He chuckled and shook his head, his back still to you. “Lieutenant” He corrected. “And I believe that's Retired Lieutenant”

“Noted, Retired Lieutenant Abbot” You corrected. “What's for breakfast anyway?”

He looked over his shoulder, smiling. “Nothing too flashy”

You put your elbows on the island counter and very gently laid your chin on your hands, careful not to strain your injuries. “Nothing to flashy,” You repeated. “My favourite”

You watched as he multitasked the hell out of that breakfast, trying not to let it visibly affect you. Competence was extremely attractive, and well, Jack Abbot happened to be a very competent man.

Seemingly at everything, ever.

“Ha ha. Funny” He hummed as he cut the fruits, periodically pausing to take care of the pans on the stove top. “Patience is a virtue, you know?”

Yeah, so is kindness Jack, but you're killing me over here.

“Alright” You clicked your tongue. “Waiting patiently then”

He then mumbled something under his breath you didn't quite catch.

“What was that?”

You watched as a bolt of tension traveled up his back and into his shoulders, and the tips of his ears turned pink.

“Nothing”

“O-kay”

You fell into a comfortable silence after that, watching him move around like it's the most natural thing in the world. Before long, Jack slid a plate in front of you.

“Turkey bacon and eggs with pain doré”

You raised an eyebrows, amused. “So he's french now”

He grinned. “Juste un peu”

“Thank you” You smiled back at him. “For being my personal chef and looking after me”

His smile didn't fade, but a curious expression fell over his face. Like it was strange that you'd ever feel the need to thank him for it. “… Of course”

You ate in silence after that, until your plates were clean, and then some time after.

Were you stalling?

Maybe!

But with every stretching minutes of silence, you could feel your heartbeat get louder and faster. You knew what had to come, and it was as dreadful as it was exhilarating.

“Jack”

No turning back now.

“Yeah?”

Damn, you really should have thought about it for a little bit longer.

“Do you…” You began, then took a deep breath and doubled down. “Do you ever think about what's next?”

He frowned. To his credit, he really did seem like he tried to actually find an answer to your intentionally vague question. “How do you mean?”

Great start.

“Like… I don't know” You laughed nervously. “In life. Work. Social… Dating”

He tilted his head. That last word turned on a lightbulb in his eyes, but the general confusion remained. It was easy to catch where you were trying to steer that conversation with your legendary subtlety, but the why still remained a mystery to him.

“Are you…” He began with the caution of a man handling a time bomb. “… Seeing someone?”

He told himself the sudden pressure in his chest was unrelated to whatever your answer might be.

“No” You quickly replied.

He pretended that the subsequent relief was a trick of his mind.

Already hating himself for his next words, he managed to push out a semi strained “… Are you looking to date?”

You paused.

Uh oh.

You were too busy spiraling on your own drama to notice the strike of panic in his eyes.

You were taking too long to answer.

You were aware of that.

He was aware of that.

This was a bad idea.

Your stomach began to cramp that the cortisol being generously pumped in your system. You'd take being actively shot at over this any day.

“…Maybe?”

It came out strangled and pathetic. Still, you couldn't have predicted the hardest part was yet to come.

“Anyone in mind?”

He said it so nonchalantly, it took you off guards. You gaped for half a second, shutting your jaw shut when you noticed nothing about his expression was relaxed or teasing.

“Okay, don't do that Jack” You frowned in disbelief. “Don't mess with me now, I'm serious”

His expression matched yours as he crossed his arms against his chest. “I'm not messing with you”

Your heart plummeted in your chest. You'd have thought you'd be on the same page for that one, but this? This was devastating and you hadn't even gotten to the confession part yet.

“Jack” The way you said his name set alarm bells in his brain. “I'm talking about us”

Then, the worst that could happen, happened. You watched in real time as Jack shut down, pulled the plug on anything remotely resembling an emotion.

“I can't—” His voice was robotic, detached. Yet, for the trained ear, each word dragged its baggage of pain with it. “It's not right, I can't…”

A new type of embarrassment overcame you as you felt your face warm up like the sun. In all of your 15 minutes planning, incredibly but mostly stupidly, you hadn't thought that Jack might not be emotionally ready for a relationship yet. His loss was a bit fresher than yours, and everybody grieved at a different pace.

“Oh my god” You mumbled. “Jack I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to put you in this position—” You scrambled words for thoughts and thoughts for words.

Your justification was spoken at the same time as his.

“It's too soon since Sienna… Fuck I'm sorry—”

“Damian died for me, how could I go ahead with this?”

You froze. He didn't use your silence to correct his assessment.

“What?”

Your voice felt so fragile, like it was gonna break any second now. You barely recognized it as your own--usually carried by strength and steadiness.

He passed a hand over his face.

“This isn't about her” He mumbled, looking at anything but you.

You were too stunned to speak for a moment.

“You know this is wrong”

“No, no I don't” You slowly shook your head. You could feel the faint throbbing of the concussion, but it quickly faded into the background. “Why would it be wrong?”

“Because I ruined your life” He admitted in a mutter. “He'd still be there if it wasn't for me, you'd be happy together. You're willing to taint this?”

You couldn't believe your ears. How could he even think that? You had never blamed Jack for it, because you respected your husband enough to know he made his own decisions. His own stupid, reckless decisions that got him killed, but his nevertheless.

“Jack” The pain in your voice was enough to make him flinch. “I grieved Damian, I—”

“Clearly not enough” He crossed his arms against his chest. “For fuck's sake, you still wear his name”

It was like he had slapped you in the face. You stood there, mouth agape, shocked that he went that far. He had been well aware of your reasons for not changing your name back to one associating you with violent parents and a childhood of neglect, even if it meant clinging to the name of someone long gone. Jack had seen the scars, he had known the whole story, even things you'd hidden so deep you hadn't even had gotten to tell Damian.

You couldn't believe he had used that against you.

He seemed for a fleeting second like he wanted to take his words back, regret clouding his expression.

Yet he didn't.

“Wow” You mumbled, taking a step back. “That's low, Jack”

“Doesn't make me wrong”

You let out a dry chuckle as you felt shock being replaced by anger. So, so much anger all at once that overflew like milk on an unattended stove top.

“Actually, you know what? How dare you” It came out strained, but you you were determined not to cry. Not now. Not when you still weren’t done with this conversation. “How fucking dare you. You know I grieved him every night and day for years. I grieved him until I ran out of of fucking breath and will to live. The name's got nothing to do with where I'm at now—”

You took a deep breath to hide the sob that threaten to wreck over your body. You calmed your breathing down and looked down at your hands, shaking your head.

You spoke again when you regained control over your emotions, or as much of it as you could given the circumstances.

You had that conversation in depth with Damian. You knew there was a possibility that one day he wouldn't come back, and he insisted to talk about it before he was deployed. His wishes had been clear that he'd want you to pursue happiness and find that special someone again.

“I know he would have wanted me to be happy—he'd want me to move on, you know that— you know all of that”

… You told me that, too.

He chuckled humourlessly. “But not with me” Each word felt heavier than the last. “I'd be disrespecting his memory”

Rip my heart out of my chest while you're at it, yeah?

The words rolled out of your tongue before you could stop them. “What about respecting what I want?”

No answer.

Not even a glance your way.

The pain in your chest churned into bitter storm, reawakening the embers you had barely snuffed already.

“Damian's dead. He's gone and he isn't coming back” Each of your words hit the nail deeper. “You'd care more about a dead man's hypothetical feelings than mine?”

Jack held fast. “In this situation, yes”

You felt the ground give up under your feet. Everything you thought you knew had been dragged into the mud by the person the closest to you. You felt humiliated, infantilized, patronized. Like you were a silly girl with a crush instead of a grown woman with her own thoughts and feelings.

“Then what have we been doing?” You couldn't help your voice raising again. “What is this? What's been this?”

He kept his composure in the outside.

On the inside, however, he was unraveling faster that he could slow down the rope. You had caught him blind with this, he hadn't expected this discussion to happen today. He hadn't been prepared at all for it. He wanted to say the right thing and be the person you needed, he really did, but he couldn't.

So he did the only thing he could now.

Let you down before you got your hopes up.

“Nothing” His voice was so low that you almost missed it. “This was nothing”

He finally met your eyes. The light from him was gone, snuffed behind the mask that allowed him to lie to you in such a cruel way. It took everything in him to keep it up as he took in your absolutely shattered expression, deepened with his betrayal. He'd have to live forever with the knowledge he had done that.

“Fuck you Abbot”

He flinched.

It was all he'd return you on the matter.

You took another step back, tripping on the chair and almost sending yourself flying on the ground, but steadying yourself on the counter top with a hiss of pain before you could. You recoiled when he instinctively, most likely subconsciously reached out to help, as if he had any right to touch you at all. You grabbed your bag in the entrance and your key from the hook on the wall, opening the door. You paused in the doorstep, turning around one last time.

“Go to hell”

You slammed the door on your way out, leaving Jack alone inside. He hated to break you heart, fuck, he broke his own heart too in the process. There would be no coming back from this, he made sure the matter was closed and over with for good. It would be for the best, he kept telling himself.

No need to remind me, I already know this is where I'm going.

•••••••••••••

In retrospective, driving your motorcycle back to your apartment had been the stupidest thing you could do.

Between the bright midday light sensitivity, the concussion throwing your balance off, both of your arms injured and the angry tears blurring your eyes, you probably came closer to death than yesterday while you were faced with an active shooter. It was a miracle you even made it to the indoor parking lot, and even more up to your studio apartment you still had an active lease for on the fourth floor.

You were already exhausted, ready to collapse by the time you crossed the threshold. You took in the tidy space that had been left to collect dust for months as a nasty feeling of emptiness washed over you. For years now it had been used as a quiet space to go to when you or Jack needed to be alone with your thoughts, a space to meditate and calm down. Yet, the silence now had never been so suffocating.

And while cozy and homey, your studio lacked the warmth of a home…

Lacked the warmth of Jack.

Like a zombie, your feet took you to the couch, not finding the strength to open up the pull out bed from it. You crashed on the cushions, face down and let it all out.

You began crying, feeling the last ten years of your life catch up to you. Without Jack to hold it all at bay, all that grief came crashing down upon you, tearing your heart apart all over again.

You cried, and cried, until the darkness took you over and plunged you in the cold prison of your subconscious.

•••••••••••••

Next [Upcoming]

[dudewithastick]

Bad Luck Charm | Masterlist

Series Summary: From the moment you move in, Jack knows you will be trouble. He just didn't expect to get sucked into your chaotic life and become a main character in it, by sheer bad luck. Once involved, however, he isn't so sure he wants to escape all that much anymore.

Tags/Warnings: neighbor!reader, f!reader, reader uses she/her pronouns, age gap (reader doesn’t have a specific age, but the age gap will be thematized at some point), no use of Y/N, no use of any specific physical descriptions for reader, reader has the worst luck ever, reader needs therapy, reader is a people pleaser, awkward!reader, slow burn, more specific tags/warnings can be found in each chapter

English is not my first language, so please excuse any grammar mistakes or typos.

Add yourself to the Taglist Spotify Playlist Wattpad AO3

Chapters

01 - The one where Jack causes you to break your mirror. 02 - The one where Jack can't fall asleep because of you. 03 - The one where you get drunk and Jack takes care of you. 04 - The one where you think you slept with Jack. 05 - The one where Jack yells at you. 06 - The one where Jack clears things up and makes amends. 07 - The one where Jack worries when you don't show up anymore. 08 - The one where Jack offers to help you. 09 - The one where you tease Jack about his age. 10 - The one where you babysit and cosplay a chicken. 11 - The one where you get injured and Jack gets jealous. 12 - The one where Jack comes to your rescue when called. 13- The one where Jack grieves and takes out his pain on you. 14 - The one where Jack wants to reconcile, but you don't let him. 15 - The one where Jack can't reach you and snaps at your neighbor. 16 - The one where you let Jack finally apologize to you. 17 - The one where Jack subtly offers to be your sugar daddy. 18 - The one where you run into Jack while he is on a date. 19 - The one where you end up in the ER after a robbery. 20 - The one where Jack finally makes a (tiny) move. 21 - The one where you and Jack get in an accident and Robby thinks he knows best. 22 - The one where Jack sleeps over and you help each other overcome some insecurities.

Media

Reader Camera Roll Chapter 01-09 Reader Camera Roll Chapter 10-11 Reader Camera Roll Chapter 12-17 Reader Camera Roll Chapter 18-20

Blurbs

A/N: I don't really plan on this series having a definite ending point, because I don't really see it as a full story and more like a collection of snippets out of Jack's and reader's life and them growing together. Starting with their first meeting, ending someday when I have run out of ideas.

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I love hearing what you think, so feel free to let me know your ideas or random thoughts!

© 2026 dudewithastick

[illyrianbitch]

THE HONESTY EXTENDED UNIVERSE

AKA: BABY DADDY! AZ MASTERLIST

─────── · · STATUS: ON-GOING. VARIOUS ONE SHOTS! ♡

Pairing: Baby Daddy!Azriel x Fem! Illyrian! Reader

Summary: Watching your best friend mate with someone else was devastating enough. But when a night of seeking solace with an-equally bitter Azriel results in an unplanned pregnancy, you're forced to figure out how to co-parent with a male you barely know. Yet as your unlikely partnership unfolds, you begin to discover that sometimes the most beautiful things grow from the most unexpected circumstances.

Overview: SMUT/ EXPLICIT CONTENT, one night stand to co-parents to friends to lovers, pregnancy, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, mutual pining/unrequited love, slow burn, found family, healing trauma together, illyrian generational trauma, soft!Azriel, soft!Reader, bestie elain archeron, HEA! please check specific part warnings for more!

୨ৎ An Honest Mistake┃4.4k 18+

Lonely and bitter following Gwyn and Balthazar's mating ceremony, you and Azriel sleep together. As it turns out, one night is all it takes to change everything.

୨ৎ Sweet and Strange┃4.5k

Weeks after a one-night stand with Azriel left you pregnant, Elain Archeron becomes an unlikely friend. When Azriel discovers your secret, you both must confront an uncertain future.

୨ৎ Topics of Conversation┃6.6k

A dinner with the Inner Circle triggers unexpected resentment. Back at your apartment, you and Azriel have a heartfelt talk.

୨ৎ Something to Lose┃2.6k

Azriel struggles with the weight of impending fatherhood after a political meeting turns personal.

୨ৎ Brave New Beginnings┃8k

Azriel's reluctance to be honest about his protective surveillance clashes with your confusion over his mixed messages, finally forcing both of you toward genuine communication.

୨ৎ Out in the Open ┃4.6k

During a quiet morning with Azriel, the reality of your pregnancy meets the one person you've been avoiding.

୨ৎ Partners in Crime┃2.5k

Pregnancy hormones, unrequited feelings, and family dinners don't mix well. Luckily, Azriel understands the art of a strategic exit.

୨ৎ A Mother's Home┃4.1k FAV!

You take a trip to Rosehall to meet Azriel's mother. The visit unearths more than you expected.

୨ৎ Learning Curve┃3.8k

On his mother's porch, you and Azriel find yourselves talking about forgiveness

୨ৎ Soft Spots┃2.3k

Ice cream nights and sweet confessions.

୨ৎ Growing Pains┃7.9k

Azriel grapples with his possessive instincts when you find comfort with a new healer, forcing him to confront what friendship actually requires.

୨ৎ Measurements of Progress┃3.9k

A bad day prompts you to call Azriel over. The afternoon leads to conversations about your romantic histories.

Current Word Count: 55.2k

BONUS CONTENT

ONE SHOTS:

୨ৎ Sweet Treats┃1.7k HALLOWEEN AU

Six months pregnant, you and Azriel celebrate your first Halloween together.

CHAPTER MEMES:

The Plot of 'Growing Pains' Summarized Through Memes

Moments from 'Measurements of Progress' in Meme Format

ASKS, DISCUSSIONS, AND THOUGHTS:

#Honestverse tag or #baby daddy!az

RE: TAGLISTS: i no longer do taglists! please follow me on my library blog and turn on notifs to be alerted when a new fic is posted! ♡

[lunarayletters]

Our Jane Doe

Part 2 to More than a Jane Doe, thank you to whoever requested I continue this! I also had a request here to write about endometriosis so I included it in this fic.

Summary: Baby Jane Doe now lives with you and Jack as her foster parents. You wondered if you should finally find out if your symptoms matched up to endometriosis, because you were getting broody.

Word count: 3k?

Trigger warning: mention of infertility, mention of surgery, mature content

“Something smells nice” Jack said as he walked out of the shower, towel wrapped around his hips and you quickly shushed him, pressing a finger to your lips. 

“How long has she been asleep for?” He whispered as he wrapped his hands around you from behind.

“Not long” you whispered back, feeling yourself sink into his warm touch “what’s on your mind?”

He turned you in his arms and kissed you deeply, one hand reaching over to turn off the stove. “So many things” he murmured against your lips “but it all depends if you let me…”

You hummed back as you kissed him “I do trust you… so anything you want?”

He leaned closer  “you sure about that?” 

You quickly nodded — too turned on to speak in full sentences.

Jack lifted you onto the kitchen counter in one smooth motion and gently pushed you back until you were lying down. You had put on just a t-shirt specifically for him. His mouth was hot and relentless, and you wondered how long he had waited for this. A sharp gasp left your lips as his tongue dragged slowly over you, teasing, tasting. One of his hands pressed firmly against your stomach, holding you down as your hips tried to arch. “Quiet, baby,” he whispered, nipping at your inner thigh before diving back in. He knew your body perfectly. He noticed every little detail — especially the way your fingers loosened in his hair right after you came.

“Shall I make breakfast for you while you recover?” He teased as he pulled you back up towards him. 

You moved off the counter and unwrapped his towel and said “Not yet, sofa?” 

He didn’t hesitate to pull you towards him and started kissing your neck, but the crying of Peach quickly made him stop. You let out a small, ironic laugh and put your head against his chest. “I’ll get her, baby” you kissed him and rushed over to the bedroom.

Being newly coupled with a baby wasn’t easy. You were both desperate to keep your sex life alive, but you had to stay quiet. No matter how badly he sometimes made you want to scream.

“Good morning sunshine” you said in your baby voice that you think you had now perfected “did you sleep well? Yeah? You only woke me up like three times which was so nice of you” you giggled as you picked her up “so thank you baby”. 

You grabbed the nappy bag and walked back to the kitchen with her, whispering jokingly in her ear “Jacky’s boobies are out if you’re missing mine”. He quickly took her off you and put her onto his chest. It was a dangerously beautiful sight — him standing there shirtless in the kitchen, holding a baby like he’d been made for it. You tried your best not to let your mind wander, but you truly wished this could be your life, for a little while longer. 

— 

Today was not a good day for you. But as for Peach? She was an absolute angel.

She’d been living with you for a weeks now — weeks of not working but being her full-time foster mom. Weeks of nappy changes, bottle feeds, late-night cries. But weeks of loving her so incredibly much. You didn’t want to let her go so you asked if you could become her foster mom until she found her new adoptive family.

You wanted more time with her, just a bit more time. 

You wrapped yourself up in the heated blanket and pushed yourself deeper into the sofa as she slept in her cot. As you felt yourself doze off, the front door opened. 

“Hey sweetheart”

You gave him a weak thumbs-up from under the blanket. He let out a soft laugh and said “rough night with little one?” 

“No….” you whispered, the word barely making it out. Talking hurt. Everything hurt.

He quickly walked over “what happened? You don’t look well” He put his hand on your forehead, “you’re burning up”

“It’s the heated blanket warming me up, but I feel a hot flush coming on — oh my God”, you quickly flicked it off and felt yourself start to sweat. The sharp, twisting pain in your pelvis made you curl back into a tight foetal position.“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it”

He sat on the floor facing you and brushed your sweaty hair out of your face “period cramps?”

You nodded, eyes squeezed shut “A bad one too”

He leaned in and kissed your forehead then your nose “do you know what else helps with cramps?”

“How are you always turned on?” You let out a tired, playful groan.

“For you… always. It doesn’t help when you send me pictures of you whilst I’m stuck at work”

“Jack it's pictures of me and the baby, and i’m always fully dressed”

“But you have your tank top on and I…” He murmured agains you lips “… see the outline of everything. And then I think of all the things I can do and I have to wait hours before I get home to satisfy you” he kissed again. 

“I could be wearing a potato sack and you’d get turned on”

“Baby, I’d be figuring out a million ways to rip it off you” he said, stealing another kiss. He then noticed you weren’t yourself and not in a playful mood “ How bad? Have you taken anything?”

“Bad enough that I’ve been sick three times — including the pain relief”

“Why didn’t you call me sweetheart?”

“You were at work Jack, I couldn’t exactly call you and cry”

“Well of course you can. That’s what I’m here for” he rested his head on the sofa next to you “shall I go get more meds?”

“No, it’s not gonna touch it so what’s the point” you let a few tears run “I think I’ll sleep it off”

“Okay, only if you’re sure. Let’s get you to bed” 

He helped you up, but the moment you were vertical, a wave of pain shot down your legs. You wobbled and Jack’s grip tightened around your waist. “You sure it’s just period pains?”

“Positive” you lied.

He helped you to bed and the shivers started again — your body was not making up its mind. Peach was now fussing so he gently grabbed her out of her cot and put her onto his chest. 

“You both can stay here; I can do with the cuddle”

You watched him, memorising every detail. She sank right onto his chest and fit perfectly into his arms. It was most likely the hormones, but you didn’t try to hold in your cries. You felt a build of emotions, and it all came crashing down.

“Hey…hey what’s wrong?” He said softly “what’s upsetting you?”

“I’m just emotional and everything hurts. These stupid cramps don’t seem to be going away anytime soon, and I’ve been battling it for days now and —“

“Wh—hat days? You’ve been in this much pain for days? Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“I didn’t feel like complaining, and I’m used to the pain; I work through it all the time”

“Are you sure it’s just period pains, sweetheart?” 

You pushed yourself up against the headboard and gently took Peach from his arms, cradling her against your chest. Her warmth and soft baby scent gave you the courage you needed. “No… Jack I haven’t told you everything. But it’s not confirmed, and I didn’t go through with the testing. I think I have endometriosis, and it sucks”

“Baby, that’s not just period pains. Whoever made you believe that is an idiot. Why haven’t you gone for the testing?”

You shrugged “Fear of the unknown, fear of not getting a diagnosis. The surgery…recovery time isn’t easy… and also risk of damage to my organs.”

“And now that we have Peach it got you thinking…” he said quietly

“Exactly” your voice cracked “Jack what if I go in there and they say nothing’s wrong? That it’s all in my head?”

“Then we’ll find another doctor who will find the right diagnosis”

“And what if they don’t find anything wrong?”

“Do you think something is wrong?”

“Some days I think it is just period pains. But then I vomit… and I used to pass out from the pain, but I’ve learned to live through it. The pain isn’t in one location; sometimes it spreads. And it’s not just when I’m on my period…sometimes it’s all the time.”

“And that’s all the proof we need” he shifted closer and wrapped one arm around you, giving you a kiss on your temple “we’ll find the right answers okay? No matter how much it takes”

“What if I can’t have kids?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. But for now, let’s get you a diagnosis. And some pain meds. I’ll go get you some”

“They don’t work” you said defeatedly.

“Are you taking the strong ones?”

You shook your head.

Jack gave you a knowing look “Is it because you don’t want people thinking you’re taking heavy painkillers for ‘just period pains’?” He attempted air quotes, making you laugh despite everything.

“That was adorable Jack, but that’s not how you do air quotes”

He chuckled and shook his head as he left the room.

You turned your attention back to Peach, gently stroking her head while humming a lullaby. Your voice was softer now — you’d gotten much better at this. She gave you a tiny, sleepy smile that melted your heart. And so you cried some more. 

“Right, back with….” He had a hand full of things “iced cold water, the best pain meds on the house, some chocolate because it’s 8.30am and why not. Oh, and a hot water bottle”

“Well aren’t I the luckiest girl in the universe” you smiled as you gave him a kiss. 

“Now can I please have her?” 

“No, she’s mine” you teased, holding her a little closer. 

“You get all day with her that’s not fair! Right my turn”

“Aren’t you tired… don’t you need sleep?”

“Shhhh don’t listen to her “ he said as he grabbed her “she’s just grumpy because she’s jealous”

“Hey I’m not jealous!!” You moved too quickly and a sharp, electric pain shot through your pelvis.

He frowned, expression full of concern “When are we scheduling the laparoscopy then?”

“When we don’t have a baby on our hands, Jack” 

“I can take care of you both”

“I know you can, but it wouldn’t be ideal. I’d be off my feet for weeks. Social services probably wouldn’t love that.”

He hesitated but asked quietly “Any news on adoption?” 

Your heart sank at the question and you quietly said "no"

The truth was, you didn’t want anyone else adopting Peach. You wanted her. The thought of being her mom felt both terrifying and right. But your relationship with Jack was still so new, and you’d jumped headfirst into this with a baby in your arms.

Maybe scheduling the surgery might give you more insight, especially while you had her. You thought of many maybes and didn’t notice yourself fall asleep.

—

It turned out that people looking to adopt babies could be incredibly picky. You were baffled that so many turned Peach down simply because so little was known about her background. No one had any real information about her family’s medical history, and as a doctor, that fact drove you insane. 

But their loss worked in your favour because Peach stayed with you longer. Your bond with Jack grew stronger every single day, and somewhere along the way, you stopped caring about your job entirely. She was your main focus. 

You both lived with Jack, and he supported you financially without hesitation. It still shocked you how the government expected foster parents to step up while offering almost no financial help. You couldn’t help but wonder how many children were living in awful conditions because of it.

“….and we’ll remove as much as we can” Jack gently put a hand on your knee. You’d completely zoned our at your gynaecology appointment. 

“Sorry, could you say that again?”

“I said if we find endometriosis on certain organs, we will remove as much as we can. But if it is severe…we sometimes end up removing organs too.”

“Like a hysterectomy?”

He nodded.

You wished he had an ounce of sympathy saying that. 

“What do you think of that, sweetheart?” Jack asked softly. 

“Uh…” you pulled the baby closer onto your chest. “I don’t know how to think about it”

“The surgery is in a few days, but we would need you to make the decision soon. If we ….”

You saw his lips move but you really didn’t understand him. Your brain refused to acknowledge that a simple keyhole surgery could leave you with no organs. No uterus. No ovaries. Just empty. 

The ride home was quiet and Jack held your hand the whole way home. 

“Wanna tell me what’s going in in that beautiful mind of yours?”

“So many thoughts, but none of them make sense”

“Try me”

“Are you sure you want to do this? Be with someone who might never be able to carry your children. That you might adopt a baby you know nothing about, no family history, you don’t even know age or birthday or—“

“Hey hey sweetheart” he gripped your hand tighter “you’re spiralling. This isn’t you. What got you thinking that way?”

“I would want to adopt a baby, of course I would. I would adopt Peach in a heartbeat. I would quit my job and…” you tried to catch your breath as you voice cracked “… and I would just live with her. Take my organs, -— all of them, if it means I get to live a better life. I counted Jack, how many bad days I’ve had this month. I kept a log of all my symptoms. I am exhausted and done” you eventually sighed. 

“So do it” he said, a big grin spreading across his face. He glanced at you, then quickly pulled the car over to the side of the road. He turned to face you fully.

You stared at him, jaw dropping wide open. 

“Adopt peach and if you let me, I want to do that with you too. I would like a baby, of course I would! But I don’t care where the baby comes from!” He said excitedly.

“You’re crazy”

“Do you see yourself being a doctor, or a mom, or both?”

You were too scared to admit it but said it anyways “A mom, I think….” 

“Okay then. Quit your job and be that”

“The foster agency doesn’t pay me enough —“

He titled his head playfully. 

“Of course you’d pay for it”

“Attendings make a good wage, you know” he winked. 

“I know! I live at your apartment. I’ve seen what type of cheese you pick at the fancy supermarket. But you’re talking about financially supporting a baby and me.”

“I still don’t see the problem. Also its our apartment, and she’s going to be my baby too” he smiled.

“Jack!” you laughed, then quickly glanced back at Peach, who was still fast asleep “You’re talking about having a baby with me.”

“Again… what’s the problem? How long have we been best friends for?”

“A long time but—“

“And we haven’t been dating for too long, but do you see yourself having a child with anyone else?”

“No one in the world” you smiled and wiped your tears. He reached over and gave you a long, deep kiss. “The surgery is in three days, Jack”

“Perfect, let’s call the agency now”

“You are crazy!” You shrieked. 

“Baby brain” he tapped his temple and laughed “Also… ’m crazy in love”

You felt your heart skip many, many beats. You whispered as you leaned in “Do you know what would be crazy?”

“Getting married” he whispered back.

“That would be totally crazy”

“But not impossible….” He teased 

“One day, Jack Abbot, one day” you smiled and wrapped your hands around him “but for now, surgery and we have a baby to raise, if they let us”

—— 

You couldn’t bring yourself to decide what you wanted the surgeon to do, so you left the final call in the hands of the person you trusted most — Jack. You kissed him softly, then leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Peach’s forehead. The adoption agency still hadn’t gotten back to you after you put the application through. 

You closed your eyes and counted down just like they’d asked you. 

You hoped they’d find something wrong, which was difficult to admit. But after years of pain…years of agony. Years of being told it’s the price women have to pay… You hoped they’d give you answers...

And if they didn’t? You accepted that you would keep living with this undiagnosed chronic illness, no matter what anyone said....

You thought of Peach and Jack as you fell to sleep....

—

You opened your eyes and blinked slowly, instantly feeling nauseous. You moved your hands down to your abdomen, which was wrapped in bandages. You weren’t in too much pain but you felt… different. 

“Hey sweetheart, you’re awake”

You nodded, eyes finally adjusting. He gently raised the bed and gave you a gentle kiss on your forehead. “The surgeon should be here soon. I’m happy to have you back”

“Happy to be back” you gave him a weak smile. “Where’s peach?”

He pointed at the pram and she was fast asleep.

“There you are — how are you feeling?” The surgeon walked in… far too cheerful. 

“Bad” you let out a small laugh “can you tell me if you found anything?”

He looked at Jack first, then back at you, and you hated that you did that.

“We found endometriosis, which had grown onto the ovaries and fallopian tubes. We uh…”

“How bad?”

“It was severe, very severe in fact and…”

He was terrible at giving bad news, you thought. 

“So you’ve done a hysterectomy?”

He shook his head. “We removed the majority of it, but unfortunately, there is a risk it’s going to spread again. We…” he looked at Jack again “… decided to preserve your uterus and ovaries for now. There’s still a chance, unfortunately, it is a small one though ... that you could carry a child in the future. We can always schedule a hysterectomy later if the endometriosis returns or the pain becomes unmanageable again. This gives you time to think about it.”

You let out a small broken laugh “well… that’s unfortunate”

The surgeon continued talking about recovery timelines, medication, and follow-ups, but you stopped listening a while ago. All you wanted was to hold Peach. You wondered why a man with such little empathy had chosen a speciality dealing with women’s problems.

“I think we might be done here, doc” Jack cut in as he saw you stare in the distance. He nodded and left. 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. They’d asked me when you were in surgery and I thought of the best option for you, and I panicked, and then I thought of her and —“

You squeezed his hand “Jack, you’re spiralling. You did the right thing. I might actually get to live without this constant pain… and I still have a chance if I want a baby. That’s more than I hoped for”

“You got your diagnosis” he smiled as he brushed his fingers through your hair. 

“I got my diagnosis!” You repeated, breaking into a real smile this time “Do you think I could get away with ringing all the other doctors that told me nothing as wrong? And that I was being too emotional?” 

“We can start with that tomorrow but for now… someone wants to see you” 

Peach was slowly waking up so Jack gently lifted her from the pram. She was wearing an outfit you hadn’t seen before. 

“Hi baby” you whispered, trying to lift your arms up as much as possible. 

“Say hi to mama” he said. 

“Who put this outfit on you?” You asked her as he handed it over to you. She wore yellow leggings with a white baby grow that read I go where mommy goes.

You looked up at Jack, who was already tearing up. He gave you a small, tearful nod that said everything.

[oxalaia-quilombensis]

jack of all trades

wc: 5k

summary: your family vacation home is falling apart. lucky for you, the hottest man you've ever seen is here to save the day. you make it your personal mission to get him to do a little more than just home repairs. and boy do you succeed.

warnings: age gap (reader is in her early 30s, abbot is 50 because shawn hatosy is 50), power dynamics, AFAB reader with she/her pronouns, reader is wayyyyy bolder than I will ever be but I wanted to try writing someone very differently from how I usually do, reader is shorter than him, dbf!jack, strangers to lovers very fast, handyman!jack, insta lust, cowgirl, unprotected sex, oops my hand slipped and now lowkey d/s dynamics, spanking, panties in the mouth, jack is a little mean (but in my defense ive been reading so much Titus ff lately), inappropriate use of a kitchen, reader makes old jokes, references to viagra, fingering, naked woman clothed man, technically edging

an: while this is technically a dads-best-friend!jack fic, the idea of him knowing the reader since she was a child is a wee bit disgusting, so this is a little bit more of dads-best-buddy-from-the-military-who-I-have-heard-about-but-never-met-despite-living-in-the-same-city!jack

For every summer as long as you could remember, your whole family spent at least a week, all of you there together, at the family cabin on the shores of Cranberry Lake.

Well, cabin wasn’t quite the right word. The house was big, 5 bedrooms, 5 bathrooms, and 28 windows. You’d counted one summer when your teenage angst had you pouting indoors while everyone else laughed and splashed around.

Up until this year, it had always just been your parents, your two older brothers and whoever they’d been dating at the time, and you. You’d never brought boyfriends with you. No one you’d ever dated felt cabin-worthy. To you, that invite had become a sacred honor. Not even your best friend Trinity had been, despite your parents insisting she should come for a special weekend when the two of you had finished undergrad.

Your oldest brother, Alex, always brought his boyfriend, Liam, and the middle child, Cooper, liked to bring whichever girl he was dating the week they landed in Pittsburgh.

But your parents had never brought anyone along. 

They always claimed that cabin time was family time. 

But this year, that was changing.

“Hi, sweetie,” your mom had sent you that stereotypical ‘please call me’ text that had scared the shit out of you. Turns out, all she wanted to do was make this summer the most painful and torturous of your life. “Did you make it to the cabin?”

“Yep,” you set your wine glass on the coffee table. Through the large bay windows in the living room you could see the sun setting over the still waters. “About 2 hours ago.”

“That’s great. Did the gate work?” The hope was audible in her voice.

“No,” you snorted. As nice as the cabin was, winter had been especially hard on it this year. And even though everyone made an effort to come out individually for a few scattered weekends, nobody had been here since last October. The snow had only just melted a few weeks ago and left more than just the gate damaged. There were water spots, broken gutters, and weak spots on the wrap around porch, not to mention how fucked up the flower beds were.

“The gate did not work,” your mothers sigh was deep and dramatic as you spoke. “I had to push it open. Almost couldn’t. I really thought about turning around and going home.”

Her voice grew faint for a moment as she relayed your troubles to your dad, then she was back.

“Damn, well, then it’s good we’re having someone come take a look.”

“Oh,” this was the first you were hearing about a handyman paying you a visit. It wasn’t surprising, given you’d made the journey 3 and a half months before everyone else with the intent to stay the whole summer to handle the repairs, but your mom hadn’t mentioned making any appointments. “When is he coming?”

“Or she,” your mom corrected. “But fine, he is coming up this weekend.”

“Yeah, but when this weekend?” Your work was remote, you had weekends free, and you were the only family member still living in Pittsburgh so you were volun-told to assess the place.

And, sure, maybe you had zero plans for the next 2 days besides getting a headstart on a summer tan, but you still didn’t want to spend your first weekend sitting and waiting to have to babysit a grown man who was supposed to fix the front gate.

“Umm… maybe around 9:00 or 10:00 AM I think? But it depends on when he’s done with work your dad said,” that seemed a bit odd. “And then he’ll head out Sunday afternoon, I think.”

Since when do handymen stay the night? 

“Mom, what?”

“Did I cut out? Hello? Sweetie, can you hear me?” Her voice was so loud you had to yank the phone away from your ear.

“Ow, no mom I’m still here,” as much as you loved her, you could feel a headache building. “What do you mean the guy is gonna stay the weekend?”

“Oh I thought your dad told you,” she said, like that was an answer to your question.

“Clearly he didn’t,” you grumbled.

“Oh I’m sorry. I told him to text you,” in the background, you could hear your dad blubbering some excuse. “I guess the old man’s memory is going, too.”

You mom was 17 years younger than your dad, and ever since he bit the bullet and finally admitted he needed readers well into his 60s, your mom had been poking fun at him for it.

The thought almost brought a smile to your face but it was foiled by the evermounting frustration that your mom still has yet to explain what the hell was happening.

“Mom, please-”

“Alright, alright,” she finally started to give you the information. “Do you remember dad’s friend, Jack?”

“Dad’s got like 10 friends named Jack,” you were almost ready for a second glass of wine, and if she kept taking her sweet time explaining, you’d run out before the phone call ended.

“Ok, yes he does,” she laughed. “Jack Abbot, the doctor. Very sweet man. He needed a project, so your dad told him he could fix up the place!”

“The emergency doctor?” You vaguely remembered hearing the man’s name, but you didn’t think you’d ever actually seen him. At least not in person. There were a few dusty photos hanging in your dads office of him and his old army buddies and you could just remember your dad pointing him out once, telling you about his job and how he’d saved your dads life, but the memory was fuzzy.

“Yep, that’s the one!”

“Mom, I’ve never met this guy,” as if some old vet ruining your first weekend of peace wasn’t bad enough, he was a total stranger, too. 

“Oh,” she hummed. “I could have sworn he came to your dads 60th…”

‘Now who’s memory is going?’ Your dad shouted in the background before saying something else you couldn’t hear.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, grandpa. I guess he was busy. Oh well!”

Your mood soured with every word.

“Anyways, he’ll be popping up from the city whenever he’s got some free time to work on the place before your brothers and we come in August.”

Great. 

You’d asked your mother to give you Jack Abbot’s phone number so you could at least text to ask what his ETA was, but she’d forgotten and then did not answer a single text you sent her for the rest of the night.

So here you were, up since 8am on a Saturday to wait for some stranger to show up.

You were just cracking eggs into a bowl when you heard a knock at the front door. A quick glance at the clock told you it was 8:58. As petty as it was, you couldn’t help grumbling about how your mom was wrong as you made your way to the front door.

Time stopped for a moment as you jerked the heavy oak door open. Before you stood probably the most handsome man you’d seen since your freshman year math professor. A white t-shirt stretched over a broad chest with muscles so defined that your stomach swooped. Looking down didn’t help. The man was wearing jeans that were the perfect level of tightness, letting you clearly see his legs were just as toned without shrink wrapping him.

His face wasn’t much better. A full head of salt and pepper curls contrasting his light, hazel eyes. Wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes, but there was something of a youthful playfulness hidden across the rest of his stubbled face.

He looked very much like the handyman he was playing the part of. His hands looked strong and capable. The vision of those hands all over you in places they definitely shouldn’t be flashed through your mind alongside those of him, sweaty and panting, fixing… something. It didn’t matter what as long as he was doing it with those long, calloused fingers.

“Hi,” his voice was gruff around the edges. “I’m Jack.

You gave him your name. He didn’t reach out for a handshake and neither did you. Silence filled the entry way as you simply looked at each other. It wasn’t awkward, though. It was something heavier, almost as muggy as the air outside was. You could barely hear the birds or the waves on the shore over the blood rushing in your ears.

Suddenly, you were very dissatisfied with your choice of biker shorts and an oversized University of Pittsburgh sweatshirt. Why couldn’t you have worn something just a little more provocative? Maybe the cheeky underwear you’d slept in and that tight tank top that left not a single thing to the imagination.

“Your dad said the gate’s not working?”

 “Oh,” you startled a little when the silence was broken. “Uh, yeah for some reason it won’t open. I don’t know if it's the keypad or the motor or something but it just stopped working.”

“Yeah I noticed,” he looked over his shoulder. You followed his eyes to where his old truck was parked in the gravel driveway and just beyond that, to the half open gate. “Had to push it open. That fucker’s heavy.”

“Yeah, it is,” you snorted a laugh. Your eyes couldn’t help but roam his arms, taking in the biceps that were nearly bulging out of his shirt sleeves. “I bet you managed it juuuuust fine.”

His face briefly twisted up in shock when you winked at him before it was falling back to what seemed to be practiced neutrality. But you could swear that you saw his jaw clench ever so slightly.

“I managed,” his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “For an old man.”

You weren’t sure if he was scolding your brazen flirting by pointing out the fact that he was at least 20 years your senior or if he was testing your reaction to that reminder. Either way, you didn’t really care. Your irritation at his intrusion was quickly fading the longer you got to look at him.

“Maybe instead of old, you could think of yourself as… experienced,” your smile grew. “I’m sure you’re very experienced at opening things up and getting in there.”

Jack’s eyes widened as they tracked your insulation.

“And,” you couldn’t help but continue. Your eyes glanced down to his hands again. “With those hands… you look like you’d be real good at keypad maintenance.”

A slight flush had started to creep up his face and you desperately hoped you were the cause, not the steadily rising temperature of mid spring. 

What you could thank the outside temperature for, though, was the ever so slight sheen of sweat gathering on those big arms as he crossed them across his chest. Before the weekend was over, you were going to bite one of those biceps. 

Hopefully. 

“Anyone ever tell you, you’re a fucking brat?” He didn’t look pissed. He looked like he was fighting off a smirk.

“All the fucking time,” you leaned closer to him across the threshold. “But I think I like it the most when you say it.”

“Jesus Christ,” he ran a hand through his hair. “I just met you and you’re trying to kill me.”

“Nonsense. I’m not trying to kill you,” this time you stepped closer, less than 6 inches of space between the two of you. “That part’s coming later. I figured I’d go with smothered to death. What do you think?”

Feeling even bolder at the way his eyes raced over your form, you patted one hand against your thigh.

“I don’t know, I can hold my breath for a long time,” his hands had dropped to his sides. They looked like they were seconds away from grabbing your hips. You were leaning in further. “I’m willing to let you try, tho-”

Both of you jerked back as the phone in his pocket started to ring. He pulled it out and glanced at it.

“Fuck,” he mumbled at first before his voice returned to normal volume. “Fuck. It’s your dad.”

Shit. You’d forgotten about your parents. You’d also forgotten this man was friends with your dad. The previously shameless flirting now had you blushing, pinging back and forth between regret and a desire to push a little bit more.

But you didn’t have a chance because Jack was walking off the porch and back towards his car as he answered the phone.

Jack spent the next two hours working on the gate while pretending not to notice your eyes following him. Which was fucking hard, especially once you’d changed into the shortest distressed denim shorts he’d ever seen, paired with a little string bikini top barely covered by a sheer white tanktop.

It was obscene. 

At least you’d had on more clothes when you’d answered the door that morning. He wasn’t sure he would have survived that interaction if you’d been half naked like you were now.

He was 50 for god's sake. He shouldn’t have been fighting off an erection over some flirting. And all of it over his buddy’s daughter. A woman who was probably at least 20 years younger than him.

 But despite that, you’d still looked like you were one heartbeat away from jumping his bones before that phone rang. And he would have let you. Happily. 

And so he focused on the menial tasks he’d offered to do. 

Jack had been more or less banned from SWAT about a month ago after getting grazed by yet another bullet. The hospital staff and his therapist ganged up on him while he’d been recovering, finally getting him to admit that maybe it wasn’t the best hobby.

And then your dad called him. Mostly to catch up and ask how he was doing, but pretty quickly he just ended up complaining about the damage to his lake house. Jack volunteered to fix it up at no cost.

He had more money than he knew what to do with and a suddenly free schedule, so he talked your dad into letting him do it. What else was he supposed to do? 

Sleep? 

Relax?

He’d never been good at either of those things, but he had worked for a contractor all throughout his undergrad and med school summers. Home repair he was definitely good enough at. Exceptional, actually, considering his services were free.

So he tackled the gate. 

The motor was fried. Probably from all the snow melting. No matter what did it, he couldn’t actually fix it today. He had to order the parts.

Which meant he’d have to come back.

He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. 

Jack tried not to think about having to pay you repeated visits as he worked.

While he checked to see just how weak the wooden deck had gotten he did not think about how good you looked laying in the sun 15 feet away. He definitely did not think about his head between your legs when he tightened the leaking faucet in the kitchen. And he certainly did not imagine bending you over the kitchen table while he replaced a lightbulb in the hallway.

You found yourself in the kitchen, staring listlessly into the fridge as you tried to come up with something low effort for dinner that would still impress your house guest. Not that you needed to seduce him with food (you were pretty sure the sheer white t-shirt with no bra would do the trick), but you wanted to thank him.

You’d called your mom to get the rest of the details about Jack while he worked and she’d filled you in that he was doing all of this pro bono. She’d said some other things, but you’d been too busy staring at his ass in those jeans to pay too much attention.

So here you were, kicking yourself for your abysmal grocery shopping skills. Maybe the two of you could skip dinner and just get to know each other biblically until you passed out? Not likely, but the fantasy was certainly an enjoyable one as you fished out the chicken breasts and romaine.

A chicken caesar salad was always a safe bet, right?

Not that you had too many other options besides a frozen pizza. It would have to do.

As you got to work, you heard the front door shut.

“I’m making dinner!” You called out to him.

“What’re you making?” Jack sounded like he was a little out of breath. Not surprising given the man had worked nearly nonstop for almost 7 hours.

“Chicken caesar salad,” you set down the knife you were holding, turning to lean back against the counter and face him. A jolt of satisfaction ran through you as you watched his eyes drop to your breasts through the thin fabric of your top. “That alright with you?”

His gaze snapped up to meet yours. You could only hope your little smirk of satisfaction wasn’t too obvious.

“That sounds great,” he adjusted the strap of the backpack resting over his shoulder. “I’m gonna go shower.”

“Need any help, old man?” 

Jack’s eyes narrowed and he leaned against the door frame. His arms were crossed across his chest, only accentuating the curve of his biceps.

“Worried about my safety are you?” You watched as his eyes trailed you from head to toe. He was standing about 10 feet away, but the space in the kitchen seemed to shrink as his gaze left a trail of goosebumps across your body.

“Just don’t want you to break a hip,” you pushed off the counter, taking slow steps towards him. He stepped into the kitchen to meet you when you got close. Tentatively, one of your hands reached out to trail a finger over the hem of his jeans. “I’d really hate for them to be out of commission. Would really put a damper on my weekend plans.”

His hand grabbed your wrist, freezing you in place as you pouted up at him. He tilted his head as he looked down at you. A lazy smirk crawled across his face.

“You got a lot of plans for my hips?” It took very little force for him to use his hold on you to yank you into him. His hands caught your hips as he pressed your chest to his.

“Potentially,” you gave a coy little shrug as your own hands crept up his arms to tangle in his graying curls.

“Potentially,” he echoed. His tone almost sounded mocking as he was walking you backwards until you hit the cabinets. The strength in his grip surprised you as he lifted you up onto the counter almost effortlessly, sliding into the space between your legs. “I’d love to hear about these potential plans.”

“Well…” your voice trailed off into a gasp as his lips met the column of your neck. You let your eyes flutter shut, getting lost in the sensation while he held you close.

“C’mon,” he nipped at your ear as you gasped. “Tell me what you want.”

Your lips opened, words dying on the tip of your tongue as his hand trailed from your hips to pop the button on your shorts. His fingers slid down into them, applying dizzying pressure over your wet panties. They were probably ruined beyond repair, given you can feel how wet you were, practically leaking at the barest touch.  

“What’s wrong?” Jack’s hand not in your pants tangled in your hair, not pulling but simply holding you there as his face moved out of the crook of your neck. “Cat got your tongue?”

His smile was almost cruel as he began circling his fingers slowly. The rough material of the lace provided a disorienting sensation of pleasure as you fought to get yourself together enough to speak.

“Not so confident now, huh? I really thought it’d take a little more than this to get you to shut up.”

Jack manipulated your body like an expert. He lifted your hips, yanking down your shorts and underwear. They landed somewhere behind him as he threw them away. Before you could even really process that development, two long fingers were sliding inside of you as the rest of his hand cupped over your folds. It barely took him 30 seconds to figure out exactly how to curl his fingers in order to have you arching into him. Every brush of the pads of his fingers over that spongy spot inside you had the heel of his palm grinding against your clit.

“Jack!” It was almost embarrassing how whiny your voice sounded. The cry of his name seemed to echo in the quiet kitchen.

His face was buried back in your neck as he huffed a quiet laugh. The vibrations sent a shiver down your spine. The hand once holding your hair had drifted underneath your poor excuse for a shirt. The callouses on his fingertips felt fantastic against the sensitive skin of your nipples when he tweaked them before his hands were kneading the flesh.

“Don’t tell me you’ve already gone fucking dumb, baby?” Your trembling hands gripped his t-shirt tightly as he licked a line up your neck.

And then his lips finally connected with yours.

His hands didn’t stop their movements, in fact they picked up in speed and intensity as his lips molded to yours. He set a languid pace, keeping up a firm and slow rhythm as his tongue brushed across yours.  You couldn’t help the whimpers and squeaks that he eagerly swallowed as he pushed you right to the edge. 

“Cum for me,” he growled into your mouth. “I wanna feel it.”

But this wasn’t how you wanted to cum. At least, not right now.

Every ounce of self control you still had left was mustered as you pushed him back. He stumbled back, body disconnecting from yours. He looked confused.

Your hands lifted, tugging your shirt over your head before you slid off the counter. A shiver ran through you at the burning arousal that shot through you at the sight of him, fully clothed but rock hard in his jeans.

“I want,” you took a deep, steadying breath as you walked towards him. His hands grabbed your hips as you pushed him down onto one of the chairs surrounding the kitchen table. “To ride you until I physically can’t.”

You watched his throat bob as your fingers reached down to undo the button of his jeans.  You pulled his pants and briefs down his thighs, just enough to free his cock. You took it in your hands, admiring the weight of the silky skin in your hands before you were slinging one leg over his lap and lining him up. 

“And then,” slowly, you slid down his length, watching carefully as his eyes closed and he groaned. The rest of your words were breathy as you tried to keep your composure. “I want you to eat me out until I’m crying.”

“Jesus Christ,” his mouth dropped open as you rolled your hips against him. You felt his tip catch against the perfect spot deep inside you as you tested out different angles. Quickly, you locked onto it, chasing that zap of pleasure that dulled your senses.

“After that,” your fingers dug into his hair, pulling on the gray strands. “I want you to fuck the shit out of me on every surface in this house.”

Jack’s hips bucked up into yours, causing both of you to cry out as he buried himself deeper than you thought possible. You could feel the orgasm you’d been on the brink of rising rapidly again.

“Wanna know what I think?” Jack’s hands were tight on your waist, slowing your rhythm and dragging a whine from you as the overwhelming pleasure slipped from your grasp.

“What?”

“As much as I would love to have you ride me- to use me,” you shivered at his words. “I think I want to do things in a different order.”

You didn’t get a chance to respond before he was lifting you off of him. Everything blurred as he spun you around, pressing your front to the kitchen table as he bent you over it. The wood was cold against your sensitive skin, your nipples hardening almost immediately. One of his broad hands gripped your shoulder to keep you pinned in place against the flat surface.

“That’s a pretty sight,” he mumbled to himself. 

You had to bite your lip to contain your shaky moan as his fingers trailed over the wet mess between your legs.

He kept toying with you, gently prodding just the tips of his fingers inside, before withdrawing them to give a few light-as-a-feather circles over your clit.

“What’s the hold up, old man?” You couldn’t help the taunts. “I thought I said I wanted you to fuck the shit out of me. Do you need a little blue pill?”

Jack stilled, his fingers leaving your skin. For a moment, you were caught between the fear that you’d gone too far and the anticipation of the pounding the teasing would hopefully earn you.

What you weren’t expecting, however, was the harsh crack of his open palm meeting your ass. 

As you gasped, the pain stinging and bringing another flood of wetness between your legs, you failed to realize Jack had stepped back and away for a moment.

He returned, his hand laying an equally firm hit against your other cheek. You didn’t get a moment to recover from the hit, though, because he was yanking you up. Once again, he spun you, this time lifting you up and setting your still smarting ass against the sturdy wood of the table.

“Hold these,” was all the warning he gave before his hand gripped your jaw, forcing it open to shove your absolutely soaked underwear into your mouth. “Maybe now you’ll actually shut up.”

Your eyes rolled back. 

Fuck, that was hot.

You could taste yourself, the lace scratching over your tongue.

“Uh-uh,” Jack grabbed your hair again as he lined himself up with your opening. “Keep your eyes on me.”

Your eyes snapped open, your body following the order before your mind caught up. His gaze was intense as he stared you down.

His hand in your hair was the only thing keeping you from falling back onto the table as he pushed back inside of you. In this position, he had all the control and he quickly took advantage of that.

It took him three slow, grinding thrusts to find that angle you had been chasing in the few minutes he’d allowed you to ride him. Once he did, though, a wicked grin spread across his face as your hips jerked and a muffled whine snuck out around the underwear in your mouth.

He adjusted his aim, thrusting in and against that spot as his thumb found your clit. Your whole body jolted against his as the orgasm you’d been denied twice reared its head much faster than you’d expected.

“You like that?” He was panting now, but he didn’t falter, his movements growing even faster and harder as he worked you up. The wet slap of his hips against yours echoed around the room, creating a beat to match your muffled moans and his grunts. “This is what you needed, huh?”

You whimpered, nodding as much as his harsh hold on your hair allowed.

Jack let out a breathless chuckle. 

“You gonna cum for me now, baby?”

Again, you tried to nod, but the ever rising tide of an orgasm that promised to ruin you was fast approaching. You could feel it, building tension in your stomach.

“Fuck, you’re so close, I can fucking feel it,” Jack used his grip on your hair to drag you in close. He briefly let go to yank your underwear out of your mouth before his hand slid right back in, his forehead pressed to yours. “I wanna hear it. I want you to tell me who’s making you feel good when you cum.”

“Jack!” You were teetering right on the edge. From his harsh breathing and gritted teeth, you could tell he was close, too.

“Fucking right,” his lips caught yours for a moment, but he had to pull back for both of you to breath. “Say it again. Say my fucking name.”

You didn’t say it, though.

You couldn’t say anything as he pushed you over that edge. Your eyes shut, your back arched, and you stopped breathing. 

Jack’s hips jerked and he lost control as the first pulse of your walls around him gripped him tight. He groaned your name as you pulled him down with you.

The waves rolled over you. Each one was just as intense as the last, washing over your body as you trembled while every nerve in your body lit up with pleasure. And as his thumb kept circling your clit, the pleasure kept going, the waves not stopping until you were weakly pushing him away.

He finally stopped, withdrawing his hand but staying buried inside of you. He slowly softened, his cum starting to leak out of you onto the table as the two of you caught your breath.

You stayed like that for a few, long minutes before he finally pulled out of you, the both of you hissing at the sensation. He tucked himself back into his briefs.

Your eyes looked around the kitchen, searching for a towel or cloth or something to clean up the dripping mess between your legs.

You didn’t get a chance, though, because Jack was grabbing the chair he’d previously occupied, spinning it to sit between your legs, eyes level with your stomach.

“What are-”

Your voice failed you as a smirk you were very quickly beginning to recognize spread across his face. His hands dragged you back to the edge of the table, readjusting you to his liking.

“I’m going to eat you out until you’re crying,” he said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Like you told me to.”

“Jack, I just-”

He cut you off again.

“Plus,” he lowered his head, lifting your thighs over his shoulders. “I haven’t had dinner yet and I am starving.”