— ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ nineteen. titus danforth's bunny. pope cody's spoiled babydoll. stan rosado's sweetheart. glitters. victoria secret. white lace. dilf enthusiast.
minors, do not interact-- please! -- explicit content !
i saw something on twitter/ x and started having ideas... also i've felt so so very ugly lately soooo here we are. jack abbot making it alllll better <3333 slight daddy kink here... whoops...
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"thaaat's it, look at you," jack coos softly.
he brushes your hair softly out of your face as he rams back into you. he has you bent over your vanity, face to face with the mirror. the cold wood presses into your hips, your tits flattened against the surface.
......
you were trying to get ready for a night out with your friends, blush on your cheeks, mascara applied with soft flicks. you were almost ready, but something felt wrong when you looked into the mirror, the relfection giving you a feeling you couldn't quite place.
"i look so ugly..." you whisper to yourself— but jack heard it anyway.
......
"look at that pretty face baby, come on— look—" he gathers your hair gently into a makeshift ponytail, now pulling it, forcing you to watch your reflection, forcing you to see what he sees.
it’s perfect. your tits smashed against the vanity’s surface, your face flushed red and glistening with sweat. mouth agape, panting like a dog. drool starting to collect at the edges of your mouth.
behind you, jack abbot shirtless, pounding into you. his soft belly brushes against your back with every thrust, the warmth of his skin grounding. he leans forward, his breath hot against your ear as he whispers dirty things that make you moan.
"feel that?" he groans, his cock twitching inside you, each motion deep. "feel how deep i am? how full you are?"
you nod desperately, eyes locking on his in the mirror.
"there she is, good fucking girl." he smiles "just keep your eyes on me now, yeah? you can do it." his hand releases your hair, trailing down to your jaw, cupping it, holding your face up to make you watch. "wanna see you watch this"
his thrusts relentless, continuously moving deeper and deeper, as if he’s remaking you from the outside in. you can feel the mix of your sweat and his down your back as he trails soft kisses on your shoulder, his lips lingering on your skin.
the sounds fill the room— the slap of skin on skin, your whimpers and his groans. the creak of the vanity beneath you.
"oh my god— jack!” you whine, feeling the pressure building low in your belly, your vision starting to blur.
“don’t tell me you're close already…" he chuckles, breathless. "we’ve barely started baby… you need it that bad, huh?” he smiles, now pulling back slightly to get his hand wrapped around you.
his fingers find your clit, now making soft circles, building the tension you feel growing in your belly. you whine, starting to push yourself back into his thrusts, desperate for more.
“that’s my girl. just needed me to touch you here, yeah?" he groans as you tighten around him, your pussy clenching his cock. "need me to make you feel pretty down here? need daddy to take care of his girl's pretty little cunt?"
“y-yes please! need you so bad— please—" you moan, unable to control your body as it grinds back into him. you're so full of him, stretched and aching.
“that’s okay baby, come for daddy. let me have it.” his fingers drawing tighter circles, pushing you over the edge.
you cry, your body trembles are your orgasm shakes you, jack still pushing deep. the pleasure overwhelming, make you whine and claw at the hand still holding your jaw.
“jesus, baby— never seen a prettier sight." his voice rough, in awe. "now keep those eyes on me, yeah? i’m not done baby, just be good.” his lips brush against your temple, eyes fixed on your limp body in the mirror, still taking him.
he groans as you whine, overstimulated. “no, no. come on baby, you can keep taking me. my pretty girl needs this, doesn’t she?” he kisses your cheek softly, then straightens up.
he slaps your ass with a hard hit, the sound sharp in the room, causing you to jolt up, gasping. you sit up slightly, hands now braced again against the wood. your eyes meet his in the mirror.
“i said look at yourself baby. need you to look." his hands grip your hips, bringing them back to his, angling you just right so his cock hits that spot that makes you see stars.
your eyes fall to yourself— disheveled, hair frizzy, and makeup ruined— mascara streaked down your cheeks, your lipstick is smeared. but you couldn’t help but smile. you were utterly wrecked by him. you looked beautiful like this.
“aw look baby, your makeup's all smeared now huh? you look even prettier this way. don’t you baby? say it.” he leans and kisses your shoulder again, his belly pressing warm against your back. “say you’re pretty baby, wanna hear it.”
you moan, exhausted— but still loving every second he fills you. “i-i'm pretty jackie. s-so pretty.” you whine as his hand trails down to your clit once again.
“that’s so good baby, now come on, give me another.” his fingers work you fast, despite your sensitivity. you can feel his cock throbbing inside you, can feel how close he is.
“jack— please!” you scream as he keeps circling, torturously pleasing you. he only smiles and shakes his head.
“need you to come with me baby. give it to me it pretty girl. know you can.” his thrusts turn erratic, now chasing his own release. you can see his jaw tighten in the mirror, his eyes grow half-lidded. "gonna fill up this pretty pussy. gonna make you so full of me you'll feel it for days."
and then you're coming hard. your entire body convulsing around him as you scream his name. your muscles clench, milking him, and he groans a deep, guttural sound.
"fuck yes—that's it baby," his hips stutter, his grip on your waist bruising as he slams into you one last time. he comes with a shudder, spilling inside and filling you up. you feel the heat of him as he pulses and twitches in you.
for a moment, neither of you moves. you just lay breathing, boneless beneath him. his eyes find yours once again in the mirror, filled with love and adoration. he nods, then places a gentle kiss to your hair.
he pulls out slowly and turns you around, his hands gentle now as they cup your face. his thumbs brush your cheekbones, eyes searching yours.
"don't you ever say you're ugly again," he murmurs, his voice rough and tender all at once. "you're so fucking beautiful. such a pretty girl for me." he kisses your forehead, then your lips.
A beloved part 2 to Barbie Doll, but can be read as a standalone.
Pairing: Jack Abbott × nurse!reader
Wc: 9.3k (i was litr aiming for 3k…)
Description: You and boyfriend haven't done much besides making out. Cut to a drunk you trying to get him to fuck you last night (and him fending you off with remarkable constraint). The morning comes with heartfelt conversations and pancakes nobody ends up eating because, well…Jack was craving something else.
Or, your respectable attending ends up between your legs, for the first of many times.
Tags/warnings: Massive age gap (r in 20s, abbot is 50), size diff, Idk what the insides of a man's bedroom must look like, r has enough hair to be tied back, r is referred to as a girl, r has limited experiences with sex, r is insecure, self-esteem issues, r mentioned to have a soft curvy belly, r has breasts, long makeout sesh, r is kinda bratty, v little blood mention, finger sucking, slightly voyeuristic in the sense that jack talks abt putting a picture of her tits in his house, r has a vagina, pussy pronouns, r has a bush (tongue sticking out emoji), this man is pussy drunk, oral (f recieving), mentions of male masturbation, dom!jack, (1) thigh slap, a lil hair tugging, very mild degradation (needy, messy), a lot of praise, a lot of pet names: baby, honey, princess, sweetheart, kid, etc
Note: Im ngl i almost put a daddy kink, but idk my audience that much yet. Also, this is my first time writing smut. Also I'm a virgin who can't drive (but im learning to!!!), so be kind bcos this was purely based on imagination and my studying of smutty fics. Happy gooning, if you do. Also tell me if you do.
You swing your arm over the top half of your face, instinctively smacking your lips together to find them chapped and dry, just like your throat.
What –
Where are you?
A groan escapes your lips when you retract your arm, moving your head to take in your surroundings. The white ceiling greets you, wooden fan spinning at a medium speed, and you avert your gaze before you throw up in —
Jack's bed, you realise. You're in his bed. His room. To your right, deep blue blinds cover the floor-to-ceiling windows you know are there. To your left wall, his laptop sitting closed on his neat oakwood study desk, next to his reading glasses, and…
A clear container, about the size of your hand, filled with 2-3 hair ties, a couple of tic tac hair clips, and a small lip balm.
You didn't put that here. You may spend a lot of your time at this house in the past 6 weeks, but you were always hesitant of taking up his space in ways that matter. A toothbrush next to his in his bathroom, and two of your t-shirts in his closet, that's it, you were content with that.
Seeing that small box, though…you felt a warmth bloom in your chest, making you smile while you lay alone in his bed.
Wait.
Alone.
Where is your boyfriend?
You rise up on your elbows, sucking in a sharp breath at the piercing pain in your back. You look around; The bathroom door is shut with no noises coming from the inside. You rub the empty space next to you on the bed, patting the soft bedsheets, only to find them cold.
You frown. Until you notice the bedside table. His rolex sprawled next to a tall glass of water, mouth covered with a strip pack of medicine. Your phone is plugged into the charger, flashing a “fully charged.”
You sit up sluggishly, popping an Advil out of the pack, and depositing it on your tongue. You wash it back with a sip of water, and then hungrily empty the whole glass.
Your bare feet touch the carpeted floors, determined to find your missing boyfriend. You walk towards the bedroom door — slightly cracked open — and pull it wide open, the well-oiled hinges making no disturbance.
Small memories from last night start flooding in, once your mind gets the memo to wake up. You internally wince. Jeez. You broke your heels you spent your savings on?
But you forget all about that when you see Jack in the open kitchen, spreading a batter evenly on a pan, a bottle of your favorite maple syrup sitting not too far away. A stack of golden, fluffy, pancakes sits pretty on a plate, making your heart swell in affection, and stomach stirring in excitement.
He's still shirtless, only sporting his soft, grey sweatpants. And he's making breakfast. The two best things a man can do: cooking, and giving you a show.
Okay, maybe that's a little objectifiable coming from such a progressive person as you. He's a man, so what, that doesn't mean he wants to be leered at.
That, obviously, doesn't make you feel any shame. Before he notices you, you make the best of it. You drag your eyes down to his hard stomach, and up his chest, moving rhythmically with soft breaths. His muscular arms are methodically working the pancakes, just as you like them.
Your gaze travels to his hips where the sweats hang loosely. You can see where his V-line begins, and goes on to disappear in his pants. Could you trace it with your finger? Would he shiver and throw his head back, or clutch your wrist again to stop you?
Oh, you could take his house tour.
Just when you start getting a little breathless, a voice rings in your brain. Your voice.
“Why haven't we fucked?”
You immediately cringe. Oh, god. You are never drinking again. One of the most serious conversations you've been meaning to have, and you dumbly blurt it all out inebriated.
“Thought I was the one with the staring problem,” you flinch out of your embarrassing spiral, your boyfriend's slow drawl dragging you back to present. You clear your throat, willing some semblance of grace back in you.
You don't speak till you've reached him, standing behind his back, not daring to look him in the eye right now. You wrap your arms around his torso, palms grazing the sculpted plane of his stomach, now tensing under your touch. You bury your nose in his warm skin, inhaling deeply. Your own muscles relax when his scent fills you, something clean and musky, and a hint of his cedarwood soap. The ache in your head dulls, and his heavy presence wraps throughout your mind in a pleasant mist.
You press a soft kiss exactly where your lips rest against his back — a few inches below his neck. A muscle there jumps and you suppress a smile, even though he can't see you.
“Morning. You like leaving your girlfriend alone in your bigass bed?” you ask, pressing another kiss to the same spot.
“Don't think you really mind the way you're all over me.” His large arms keep moving, though your view is obstructed with his back.
You scoff, “well, thanks for the Advil, doctor.”
His hand reaches around his back to pat your hip twice before withdrawing it. “How's the headache? Shouldn't be too bad, I only let you nurse on rookie stuff.”
“Didn't feel very rookie, or maybe I'm just a lightweight,” you mumble, hot breath falling over his freckled skin.
Jack chuckles, and you absorb it as much as you can, saving it for later replays. “You did good, honey. You were a fun drunk, really.”
You huff, “you'd say that, of course, I tried to seduce you.”
You hear the flop sound of a pancake hitting the pan after being flipped. “Didn't think you'd remember.”
“Thought or hoped?”
“Desperately wished you would.”
The morning has made him slower and softer, his usual charm and humor taking a backseat in face of domesticity. Look at you, taming a rugged silver fox. Before you know, you hear the swift flick of a dial, gas being turned off, and he spins in your arms.
You look up at him. The tip of his nose is a little rosy, and his eyes have lost the sharpness in them — the one you've seen in ED, or when you particularly provoke him for attention. His curls are tipping over to his forehead, creating jagged shadows against his face. You don't think he's shaved today, so you send a silent ‘thank you’ to angels who govern DILFs.
He drags his hands up your arms, until they're cupping your face with great care, pads of his thumbs stroking across your cheekbones, before digging into the apple of your cheeks, effectively squishing them. Your lips pucker out without your permission, and you watch a boyish smile take over his face.
“You look adorable when you're not runnin’ your mouth.”
“Would you like me to become quiet and reserved? Because, I assure you, you will miss this mouth,” your speech comes out slightly muffled, and then returning to normal when he softens the pressure of his thumbs.
The corner of his lip quirks, and you watch the playful glint take its familiar place in his eyes. “It's a great mouth, I'll admit. Solid 8 out of 10.”
Your said mouth falls open, eyes widening in disbelief. “Excuse you, sir, don't undersell me. Where am I losing the 2 points?”
Jack pretends to think, letting out an unnecessarily long hum. “The fact that you've been up and about for —” he checks the wall clock behind you, “— 6 minutes and haven't kissed me yet.” He tuts in disappointment, shaking his head disapprovingly at you.
“That's what you get for leaving me alone in bed.”
“Tough crowd. I'm sorry then, I should've been holding you, sending a body double to make breakfast for you. I'll do better next time.”
“It's okay, we all have our learning curves, you'll learn, Dr. Abbot,” you coo, patting his back a little too roughly.
“Now, where were we…8 out of 10…2 left…” he trails off, bumping his nose against yours, and lifting your chin. He tilts his head down, sliding one hand to the back of your neck to keep you steady. He always does this, the smooth motherfucker, being tender while still being in charge.
As soon as his lips caress yours, you dodge, and he ends up kissing your ear instead.
“I have morning breath,” you pull back to look up in his eyes again, fixing him with your best bambi eyes.
“When has that ever stopped us? We once made-out for 30 minutes straight right after waking up. I felt like a teenager.”
“Yeah, because I'd gotten up, like 30 minutes ago, to brush my teeth and apply lip gloss.”
His mouth hangs open in shock, “what?” he asks, eyebrows furrowing together.
“...yeah. Do you really think I look like a pretty princess in the morning, Jack?” You huff a laugh, stating the obvious. Men.
Instead of a joke about your hair, or another wave of mock surprise, his lips downturn in a frown. The palm on your check moves up a couple inches, fingers toying the hair on your temple.
“Baby…did I ever make you feel like you had to do that?” His question comes not defensively, but low, distressed, and so, so delicate. It's like he's genuinely seeking your answer, treading with caution, allowing you to be vulnerable should you choose to.
“What? Jack. No. I've been doing this since, like, when I first slept over at someone's place.” Your fingers tighten on his back, holding him to you.
“Did they make you feel like you had to?” Your chest tightens at his concern, his protectiveness, and over what? Something you just off-handedly joked about? Something you didn't even give a conscious thought to?
Maybe that's the issue, that it's so internalised, you haven't seen anything wrong with it until now. You don’t know whether you should relish in his sweetness, or be embarrassed that a man out-feministed you.
Your eyes soften, the warmth blooming inside your chest has reached the tips of your fingers, your legs, down to your toes.
Oh, he's taken over you.
“Jack…you're so sweet, but I swear it's not that big of a deal. It's never made me upset or anything.” You unwrap your arms from his midriff, skimming your hands up his forearms, to reassuringly squeeze his biceps.
“Kind of a big deal if you feel like getting up 30 minutes early to make yourself look ‘presentable’ or whatever other bullshit your mind is telling you.”
Well, if he puts it like that.
You pause, feeling such deep adoration for this man and not the momentary kind, no. The kind that settles beneath your ribs and slips between joints, places unreachable, even to you. It's such a loss of control, to have such…like for someone that they're rooted deeply enough inside you. So much so that you've lost all jurisdiction of your own heart.
You're in freefall.
He must've seen it in your eyes, because he gently tugs at your hair strand, before tucking it behind your ear. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
“What's going on in your brain? I thought it was mostly barren land up there.”
You smack his bicep. “Mister, I don't know who you are, but I'm a nurse at the PTMC. Treat me with respect, or else.”
“Just felt a shiver run down my spine,” he deadpans.
You smile thankfully and twist your head to kiss his palm.
“I'm serious, honey. I want you to share this stuff with me,” his voice turns sombre again, in a way that always strips you bare of your defenses.
“You don't have to fix something you didn't break.”
“If you have a tiring day because of a shift, am I not allowed to hold you to sleep?”
“Jack…” you softly whine.
“Isn't this exactly the kind of thing why we've been hesitant to take a step forward?”
Your mind recalls some bits of last night — the genuine need to touch him, to be touched, to lose control. Was it liquid courage, or was it because your mind was hazy enough to not conjure your insecurities?
“Can we have a proper talk about this? Right now?”
“Yes.”
“Can I go brush my teeth in case the conversation lasts 2 minutes, and then we straight up just start climbing each other?”
“No.”
“Pretty please?”
A long suffering sigh from him.
“Okay, princess.”
7 minutes and 1 aggressive teeth brushing session (wherein you literally made your gum bleed because of haste), you exit from the bathroom into his bedroom.
You accidentally shut the door too hard behind you, and nervously clap your hands together. “Okay! Let's talk about fucking.”
Jack, who was reading a news article on his phone, blinks at you. Slowly, he takes off his reading glasses — which, sad — and sets them on his bedside table. He has removed his prosthetic, always preferred it off while in bed, and the empty fabric of his pant leg is rolled up to above his knee.
You climb on his bed, crawling over to him.
“How about we first talk about not calling it ‘fucking'? I'm a 50 year-old man, not a 21 year-old boy who wants to get in your pants.”
“Spoilsport,” you mutter before finding your place. Not on the bed. On him. Your knees dig into the soft cushion behind him, thighs bracketing his hips. A soft, pleasing, hum escapes you.
You may not have tried many — or, any — positions with him, but this one is your favorite, and you suspect it always will be. This, straddling his lap, after bad days and good, having him close enough to sink in his presence, without losing your own.
It's like during your days, the scale tipped too much in either direction, and made your anxiety go broom. With him, the scale stabilised. The universe balanced itself as long as Jack was touching you.
His right hand rushed to your waist to anchor you, slipping past your t-shirt to find bare skin, thumb stroking against the side of your belly. His left finds your own hand, interlocking your fingers and resting them against his stomach.
“Okay, if you brought it up yesterday drunkenly, then you must've given it thought before,” he urges you softly.
You shift in his lap, and pretend not to notice the way he suddenly bites his lip. You take a deep breath, a familiar anxiety curdles in your stomach at the thought of talking about something that's so sensitive to you.
“I have, yes. Um…do you remember when we talked about this before as well? I, uh, don't have much experience with, well, fuc — sex. You know, shagging. Boinking. OH, horizontal tango.” Your mouth has a way of spitting out garbage nonsense whenever you’re experiencing nerves.
“Shut up,” your favourite doctor stops your verbal diarrhea, unimpressed.
“Rude. But…do you remember?”
“Of course, I remember.” Your heart leaps at his gentle tone, so good with giving space for your vulnerabilities.
“And you…” you laugh nervously, toying with the drawstring of his pajamas, eyes downcasted.
“Eyes on me, honey.”
You watch his dark irises, the lines of his forehead, stubble you know is prickly from having your fingers trace it many times. It’s him. You clear your throat before continuing and feel his hand squeezing yours.
“You're experienced. And I know that doesn't matter but…” you trail off before finding another thread, “do you know what it feels like to view yourself in third person?”
“Happens sometimes when I'm getting shot at, yeah. What about it?”
“It happens with me even outside the job. It's like I'm looking down at myself, observing the way my face looks, or my hands move, or my gait, or a bunch of other things. When I imagine having sex with you — and I have so much — all I can imagine is how I'd sound, what face I'll make, how my body would look…”
You shake your head, blinking away the tears that threaten to spill over. Your chest aches in the aftermath of your admission, never having admitted this loudly. “And none of it looks pretty in my head.”
You purse your lips, waiting for his response. What you feel first is the tightening of his fingers around yours. The hand under your shirt starts moving, up and down, in a slow rhythm, burning your skin with every stroke.
“Thank you for sharing that with me,” he murmurs, with this almost poignant look in his eyes. He brings your linked hands up to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss on the back of yours.
“Let's see it through. I'll start by telling you, I've imagined it multiple times as well, more than I should. Totally felt like a creep.”
Your cheeks burn.
“But it was never like the way you describe. In my imagination,” his hand tugging you closer, hot breath falling over your chin, “It's never about how you scream, it's about why. Is it because of my mouth, fingers, or what?”
You gulp.
Or, what?
You're pretty sure you feel the “or, what” stirring alive beneath you, hardening against your inner thigh. It's so hard not to move.
Jack tips his head forward, pressing his lips to the side of your jaw, “As for how your face would look; as long as your shiny eyes are on me, and your mouth is falling open, I think you're good.”
His next attack is to the corner of your lips, “and what about your body? How do you think it would look?”
He doesn't get a response, because all functions to your brain have been cut off. His right hand halts, settling an inch below your breasts, the side of your shirt hanging around his wrist.
“Tell me,” he softly commands.
“Awkward and lousy, not knowing what to do. And my skin would have folds and rolls. Also, do you know boobs are never really evenly sized? One is always bigger,” you blurt out.
Jack laughs, always more amused with your neurotic babble than repulsed. Your shoulders drop a fraction. “Yes, I know, that's the beauty of them. Otherwise, what's the difference between you, and say…a barbie doll?”
And so he makes you smile, the one you flash only to him, the one that lets him know you’re okay. Just like that. He looks proud about it too.
Speaking of sizes, his gaze flickers towards your chest, lingering there before dragging their way up your mouth, and then your eyes again.
“Same for the rest of it. Don't worry about giving me more skin to kiss, I'll take care of it. Of you,” he says with sincerity and calmness, a level of assurance that feels like he took a walk with your mind. And then pressing a peck — finally — against your lips.
You don't feel your self-doubts vanishing, or your walls crashing down. But the door cracks open, and the light searing out is enough to take a step forward.
“Okay. I believe you,” you whisper, stealing another quick kiss from him. “But what if I, you know, fail you?” It comes out awkward, reflecting every bit of uncertainty in you, even when you can feel the length of him growing insistent.
“This will be about you first, what'd we talk about worrying? I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself…as I have, many, many times.”
The distance between you feels less, despite no moment. Have the walls started narrowing in? Your throat runs dry.
“What?” you stagger, brain feeling like scrambled eggs.
“What ‘what’? Because I'm 50, I don't have a libido?” he muses, voice raspy. His hand leaves yours, trailing its way up your arm. When it tangles in the hair behind your neck, the hand holding feels childish in comparison. He should’ve been doing this all along.
“I didn't say that. I just didn't think you…”
“What? Touched myself thinking of you? Palmed myself right here, on this very bed?”
Your lips part, eyeballs practically protruding out of your face like a cartoon character. You finally shift your weight. When his bulge connects with your crotch, you feel you’ve gone third base already. Even with layers in between, you feel how hard he is, probably enough to be in pain right now. But his face barely reflects that.
“Don't worry, not the same bedsheets.”
“Not exactly what I'm thinking about, doctor,” you breathe.
“Really? Feels like you should be.”
You smack his stomach, and he doesn't even flinch. Instead, his eyes crinkle and a smile makes its way like the sun rising in the sky.
A pause.
“Enough talking. C'mere.” He pulls you by the back of your neck, capturing your lips in a kiss. He moves like he’s in no hurry. While you hustle your way through every moment, Jack acts like all clocks have personally stopped so he can pass through.
He claims your bottom lip, leisurely enjoying the softness, and gives it a playful nip. Swallowing the gasp right out of your mouth, his palm tightens in your hair, tugging in a pleasant pressure to angle your head exactly like he wants. He hums in satisfaction, the rumble vibrating all the way down your chest, pooling between your thighs. You try to chase the heat, instinctively rolling your hips, getting greeted with a delicious friction that coaxes a helpless whine out of you.
His thumb strokes the underside of your breast, and you shiver, losing control over your own mouth, getting sloppy in your technique.
When Jack pulls back, your entire body disapproves, your lips immediately desperate enough to chase his again, a string of spit connecting yours to his before breaking. He chuckles, and you don't even have enough mind to even feel self-consciousness. You might as well be on another planet right now.
“You look like you haven't been kissed since middle school.” He watches your swollen, ruined, lips with pride blossoming in his abilities, clearly well enough to make you act depraved.
“That's not true. I was just kissed by an old white guy,” you breathlessly retort.
“Why are you kissing guys so different from your boyfriend?”
“Trying new things.”
“Fuck that. Haven't you heard, kid, older is better?” he replies smugly, before diving right back in, on a mission to catch your top lip this time. Unlike his hands, yours keep wandering — grazing his abdomen, tracing lines up his chest, finding home low on his waist, thumb hooking in his sweatpants.
The desperation is making you feel reckless; you sink your hips into his again, seeking that perfect, agonizing friction. A deep groan rips from Jack’s throat. His palms slam flat against your hips, squeezing them and bringing your tortuous grinding to a dead halt. “Stop,” he rasps, “do you want this to last or not?”
“What are you saying?” you ask, a poster child for innocence, with batting eyelashes and glossy eyes. To really drive it home, you roll your hips forward again, enjoying the way his eyes darken. This is safe territory, making out with him like you're still teenagers, and hell, if you're not gonna tease him.
“God, you're such a brat,” he murmurs, the rough whisper lost against your mouth when he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your upper lip, a fraction too deep. You moan at the sting, but the sound is cut short. Jack is already pulling back with a jolt, feeling the metallic taste of copper on his tongue.
“Fuck, baby, sorry, I —” the heat in his eyes instantly dissolve to swimming guilt. His hand rushes up to cradle your jaw with a sudden, trembling gentleness. His thumb sweeps across the hurt, wiping the small bead of red before it can run.
“Jack, it's okay, I promi —”
But he's already peppering apologies all over your face; lips meeting the tip of your nose, then the bridge; corner of your eyes; hollow of your cheeks; and a “feel better?” at your temple. Soft oh's leave your mouth, over and over and over.
You never want to hit the ground ever again. May he never run out of kisses.
“Never felt bad to begin with. I like a little mean.”
“Not when it’s our first time, honey.” The sharp edge of panic vanishes, leaving behind a quiet self-doubt, pulling his brows in a tight line. Your chest tightens when you peer into his eyes, and find them unmasked off any walls. You look straight into the deepest, darkest corners of him, the ones that come with tight security and deflecting jokes.
“Not our first time making out, Jack,” you softly reassure.
Jack presses a final, promising kiss into your hair. He exhales the last of his hesitance when he sees you — open, welcoming, entirely warm beneath him. “First time making out as foreplay,” his voice drops an octave, completely grounded now. “I need you to know we can stop anytime. Throw me off for all I care, if you get uncomfortable. Got it?”
You nod.
“Words. Big girl words.”
“Yes, Jack. I will kick you in case that happens.”
“My little footballer,” Jack coos. “Do you wanna get off my lap now?”
“Uh, no,” you dictate.
“Kinda have to, sweetheart, for what I'm planning next.”
You suck in a deep breath, your bravado actively flatlining at the thought of actually doing something more.
Jack reads the subtle tension in your shoulders instantly. “Hey,” he murmurs, hand soothing over your knee. “We can pause. No pressure.”
Your response is entirely physical. You swing your thigh over his lap, sliding off the comforting warmth, to sit beside him. His eyes follow the slow curve of your body, never breaking contact, until you’re settled on the mattress. A quiet approval settles on his features, “that's my good girl.” He tilts his head, studying your face, “still green?”
You nod.
Jack arches a brow.
“Still green. Now what?”
“Let's get you comfortable,” his hand trails over your neck, settling firmly on the back of your head, “like the ‘pretty princess’ you really are.” His other palm gently cups the dip of your waist, guiding you down until you're laying flat on your back on his navy blue sheets. He pauses, lifting your head just enough to slide a pillow beneath your head. His scent on the linen wraps around you, making you feel like you belong in his bed.
“So gorgeous, all pretty in my bed.” His dark gaze slowly drags over your body, “aren't you, honey?” He leans down, dwarfing your body with his large frame, pressing a lingering kiss just atop your nose, “eyes on me, yeah? Don't close them, no matter how good you feel.”
“You're pretty confident,” you murmur, squirming restlessly underneath him.
“You're about to know why.”
He steals your breath with another kiss, steady, deliberate, and unhurried — easing you in for what’s about to come. The tip of his warm tongue outlines your upper lip, tracing the edge until you eagerly part for him, begging for him to deepen the kiss. Instead, he pulls back, eyes snapping to the pulse in your throat.
“Hey, our tongues didn't battle for dominance,” you say excitedly, feeling pride at your hilarious reference.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He shoots you an amused look, shaking his head, before he's burying his nose into the slope of your neck. He breathes in deeply, drinking your scent in, like a man starved. He's teasingly slow in his moments, treating foreplay like it’s the real meal. You wonder how he's still patient — you, on the other hand, have started to helplessly writhe, fucking yourself on empty air, desperate for him to finally take over.
His hand slides up your side, burning your skin on its way to ruck up your shirt. The cool bedroom air hits your exposed midriff, coaxing a sharp, involuntary arch of your spine.
“Jack, please,” you beg, voice shaking, needy for him. Your fingers tangle in his curls, fisting in a painful grip.
His stubble scratches your sensitive skin as he drags the tip of his nose down the curve of your neck, but you couldn't care less even if it left marks. When the fabric of your shirt gets in his way, his thick finger snags the neckline, tugging roughly to uncover a path.
He freezes, staring at the bare slope of your left breast, his breath hitching at the sight.
His tongue darts out to taste you, dancing over the swell before his teeth close to nibble on it. “Mm, fuuuuuck, baby. So fuckin’ sweet for me,” he rasps against your chest, drawing a whimper from you. He soothes the sting with slow circles of his thumb, followed by a final sweet kiss to the ache.
His pupils are blown wide with hunger, swallowing the color of his eyes, looking down at you like you’re his last meal on earth. His fingers toy with the hem of your top, playfully tugging the frayed edges.
“Need to see your sweet tits, baby,” he commands, voice dropping low. “Do you trust me?” he asks, low and throaty, studying your face for any shadows of hesitation.
Excitement and nervousness collide in your chest, and words get caught in the throat. He must see it, because he's tipping down, pressing his forehead flat against yours. “Gonna play with my pretty girls, give them so much love. Have thought a lot about them — fucked my fist first time I saw you in your black tank, pulling taut across your chest. They looked so perfect, sitting there and waiting.”
You frantically tug at his hair, “Jack, fuck, I'm gonna pass out,” you whisper, voice strangling with want.
“I asked if you trust me, honey.”
The excitement wins.
“Yes, please, take it off.”
“My good fuckin’ girl. Get up for me.”
Not a second later as soon as you're sitting up, his fingers hooking deep into the hem, “arms up, pretty girl.” The shirt catches at your ear, but Jack gently guides it off, carelessly tossing it behind his shoulder.
Your breaths come in shallow and ragged, as you sit fully naked from the waist up, in front of the man who's watching you like a hawk, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You watch as he tears his gaze away — with considerable effort — to assess your comfort. He cups your cheek, heavier than necessary.
“Green?”
“Green.”
“Of course. Where's that sharp tongue? Mind goes dumb when I touch you? It's okay, sweet girl, I'll do the thinking. Hm?” You sink your teeth into your lower lip, nodding fervently at him. Your blinks are slow and heavy, eyes getting glassier with sheer need. Any remaining logic melts away, turning you into putty under his control.
Oh, this is what it feels like.
“Big girl words,” he pats your cheek affectionately, a soft pat-pat.
“Yes. Just a bit nervous,” you admit.
He hums, eyes darkening in hunger as an idea crosses his mind. The pad of his thumb sinks into your bottom lip, “open up, baby.”
Without thinking, you oblige.
“So obedient,” he remarks, a low purr of proud satisfaction in his chest. “Here, take 1. You'll feel better.” His thumb slides past your lips, into your hot, slick mouth. “Suck it nice and clean, okay?”
You swirl your wet tongue around the tip of his thumb, coating it wet, and he hums in approval, “let me know if my girl needs 1 more.” He fluffs the pillow with his free hand, “now lie back, just like before.”
With you flat on your back again, his rough hands slide down your legs to encircle your ankles. Your feet rustle the sheets as he guides them backward, bending your knees and opening them wide, clearing space for his larger body. He positions his heavy weight between your thighs, hot breath falling on your breasts.
He presses his face into the soft valley of your chest, nuzzling the tip of his nose back and forth against your skin. “Better than I imagined. Fuck, doll,” he murmurs, pressing a trail of hot, wet kisses down your belly. The moment his lips touch the curve of your stomach, the muscles there instinctively tighten.
“Sweetheart," he rasps. "Let go.”
You try. You really do. But every time you try to let your tummy loose, let it sit naturally, it's like your brain panics and sends out an emergency signal, forcing you to flatten the softness there. “I…I'm trying.”
Your boyfriend puts a firm hand on your belly, feeling the rigid tension from sucking in, letting it rise and fall underneath his palm. He slowly lowers his mouth and you shiver when you feel the feather-light kiss.
“This is what you're worried about?” He squeezes the side of your waist, fingers digging in a possessive hold, placing an open-mouthed kiss right below your navel.
He huffs a low, fond sound. “Silly girl.”
“Let go,” he commands again, and this time your body listens to him, loud and clear. His authority cuts right through your defences, and you let the anxiety go with a shuddering exhale. He feels his hand filling up, your stomach softening entirely, and the weight of your skin perfectly molds into the curve of his palm.
“You don't realise how sexy this is, right? How fuckin’ hard I am —” as if to emphasise, he rolls his hips, and you cry his name, feeling his hard length on your thigh, “— more skin to grab, more of you to hold. Fuck, my beautiful girl, drivin’ me crazy. Gonna take such good care of this perfect body.”
Your spine arches off the mattress the moment he closes his hot mouth around your nipple, drawing a slow, satisfied whine from you. Your fingers blindly rush to bury his head even deeper, your cheeks hollowing, suckling his thumb on with a mind of its own.
He swirls his tongue around the pebbled tip, relieving it from the cool air of the room. Your hips buck desperately for friction, but the flat plane of his torso doesn't do much more than leave you aching for more. He withdraws his mouth, and with an almost playful focus, smears his spit across your areola with his thumb. Before you can even catch your breath, his mouth migrates to the peak of your other breast, giving it the same heated, biting attention. He finally frees his hand from your mouth, kneading the soft flesh of your breast that he’s temporarily left lonely.
He pauses to take a deep breath, burying his face between your tits, licking the space with a single-minded feverish dedication. When he pulls back, he just stares, admiring his craft, “fuck, look at the girls, baby. Such a pretty mess, covered in my spit. Makes me wanna take a picture, frame it in the living room. Do you think it'd be a nice replacement to that matisse hanging right at the center?”
His words send an unexpected thrill through your thighs, and you cry out again, not above begging him, “whate– whatever yo– you want, Jack, fuck, please…” your sentence comes out broken enough for Jack to shoot you a look of entirely mocking sympathy.
“Use your words,” he taps your lip. “Form a proper sentence, and we can decide, okay?”
“Please touch me,” your voice cracks at the magic word.
“Where, baby? I don't understand."
“Between my legs, Jack.”
“I still don't think you're using proper vocabulary, honey. What do you want me to touch?”
The frustration leaves your mouth in a whimper, “You're such an asshole.”
Jack laughs in amusement, “c'mon, let me help you, tell the doctor where it hurts.”
“My pussy, Jack. Touch my pussy.”
The crude words leaving your sweet mouth, snaps the last thread of his restraint, ripping a low, gravelly groan from deep in his chest. His hand slides down to palm his raging, thick erection through his pants, giving it a hard, painful squeeze before tearing his hands away.
God, you want to do that for him.
“Yeah? Your sweet pussy, baby?” he rasps, hungry eyes drilling into yours. “Did you get it all wet and messy for me?”
You nod frantically, answering in a breathy, desperate tone you don’t even recognise as your own, “yes, fuck, oh god. Just get down there. Please.”
“Since you asked so pretty. Your hips. Up up up.” You comply, and the moment you shift, his long fingers lock into the waistband, hurriedly dragging your shorts down your legs in a single, inpatient motion. He hurls them recklessly to the floor without even looking — so opposite to his controlled and calculated behavior out at the Pitt.
He glides down your body, large hands greedily palming every inch of bare skin he passes, until he's face-to-face from your damp panties. He taps his shoulder in a silent order, and even with your pleasure-drunk mind, you quickly recognize his demand. You slowly lift your legs, hesitating for a second before you slide your ankles down his back, knees hooking securely over his broad shoulders.
He toys with the edge of the fabric — soft, light pink, and nothing lacy or fancy about it. “Oh, where'd you get this lovely pair, baby?” Jack asks in a light, conversational tone, entirely too humorous for a man with his face a lick away from your crotch. All while you're writhing like an animal in heat. It's an intoxicating feeling, suddenly having lost all your inhibitions, obsessed with only one goal in your mind.
“I don't fucking know!” you exclaim, hot tears of pure, unadulterated desperation pool in your eyes.
“Think, sweetheart. I'm trying to talk to you here, and you're being all uncooperative.”
“I don't know. At the mall, maybe! It was a pack of three.”
“Aw, see, good girl, thank you for letting me know,” he praises. “Let's see how it feels,” he nuzzles his nose into the cheap, stretchy, fabric, sharply inhaling the sweet, rich scent of your arousal. It is an action so completely depraved, so utterly filthy, you can't fathom it's your respected attending.
Well, you never expected to be naked in his bed either. Life, you guess, occasionally handing lemons you don’t deserve.
“You smell so good, my pretty girl,” he thumbs the damp spot, a growing, wet circle of sheer need. “Is it the panties or is it you?”
“You should find out.”
“Oh, the brat returns!” Jack exclaims delightedly, giving your thigh a playful pat.
You pause for a heartbeat to take it all in, to look at the man who stores your hair ties in his room, who carries your purse without a smidge of male-ego (bare minimum, but respect), always seconding his needs to yours. It’s this instant you realize how relaxed you are, how safe, how at ease he's put you — you who not too long ago, was drowning in a sea self-doubts.
“Jack…”
Catching the sudden change in your tone, his brows snap together in concern, heavy hands gentling at your thighs in case you call a red. But you only smile at him. Your sweet, thoughtful, wonderful man.
“I just wanted to say, I care about your comfort, too. In case you need to stop, you can pull yourself back, or tap my thigh.”
For a moment, he freezes in surprise, caught completely off-guard, as if not expecting to have such considerate words offered to him too. His heart swells, growing twice as big, and you see it in the fond way he looks at you, overwhelmed and soft.
You wonder if he's in freefall too.
“Thank you and yes ma'am,” he replies sincerely, voice thick with emotion, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your thigh.
The command in his cadence slips back just as easily as it left. “Now, I want you to take the other pillow as well, and prop it below you. You know. For easy watching.”
“Watch what?”
“You fucking yourself on my face.”
Oh, he's good.
Without a word, you oblige, adjusting the cushion behind you until your back is elevated. From up here, the sight is fucking obscene — your legs splayed open, throned on your boyfriend's sculpted shoulders, his eyes darting between your underwear and you, like he can’t decide which one looks more appetizing.
You swallow a gasp when he kisses your clit, right through the flimsy material.
“Can I see you, baby? See her?” He looks up, heavy-lidded, eyes boring into yours with unhinged intensity, like the fate of his future lies in your hands — like, if you were to say no, he would be a man destroyed. You're not sure how it's possible for a person so lust-ridden to look at you with such stilling devotion.
For the first time, you don’t lock up.
“Yes, please.”
He carefully peels your panties aside, as if unmasking a priceless gift, wanting to savor the precious moment. His eyelids flutter shut when your sweet, warm scent fills his room and he draws a deep breath to drink it in. When he opens his eyes, a look of pure awe takes over his face, eyes glinting with a feral light. He looks like a kid at Disney World, dizzy and starry-eyed, not a man about to eat you out.
“I knew it. I knew she'd be exquisite like you.”
You feel color rush to your cheeks, never having felt so exposed to someone. Sure, you've been seen naked, but not like this. Not only your body, you feel everything bare — your heart, your soul, your mind.
“I didn't really think of shavin —”
“Shut up. It's exactly how I like my food. Besides, you're a big girl, aren't you, honey?”
It seems he doesn't care for your verbal responses anymore, seeming dull and dry in comparison to the meal in front of him. He is completely spellbounded by your pussy. He swipes a firm, deliberate, thumb across its puffy lip, and you very coherently whine something along the lines of “nnngghh.”
He kisses your swollen bud again, this time with no barrier of cotton. Entranced, he mutters, “so pretty,” under his breath, deaf to your breathless begging. He presses against your glistening slit, teasing your heated, tight, opening and painting your pussy lips with your own stickiness.
“Well, to me, you look perfectly healthy, madam. What brings you here for a checkup?” he asks, voice gravelly and mockingly professional, examining your cunt.
“Jaaaaack, please. Baby…”
“Shhh, honey, I'm not talking to you,” he scolds, resuming his clinical conversation with your pussy. “Did you only need a doctor to fuck yourself stupid?”
“Stop kidding around, oh my —”
Your head falls back helplessly when the flat of his tongue connects with your slit. He expertly licks a long, broad stripe from your opening, all the way up to your swollen peak, eager to taste every inch of the wet skin. Your thighs tightly squeeze around his face, the pressure doing nothing to deter him from the divine purpose he’s been given.
“— God…”
“No god. Just Dr. Abbot.”
His hand is quick to sting your thigh in a reprimanding slap for shaking violently enough to vibrate his shoulders. “Remember, eyes on me. And voice loud, I need to know what's feeling good.”
“Everything feels good. Just don't fucking stop.”
“Bossy,” he mutters, before using his meaty fingers to pry apart your folds, slowly revealing the pink flesh, shining like a diamond for him. Lost in his hunger, his mouth latches itself to your inner lips, sucking each gently, confident he has your time, attention, body for as long as he wants, with the way you’re greedily responding to him. He hums in contentment, doing it for his enjoyment just as much for yours.
Your hips buck, burying his face deep enough to cut off his air-supply. His name falls over your lips, again and again, like a prayer unanswered. Encouraged by your more than enthusiastic response, he doubles down on his efforts at the same slick spot. He is perfect at this dance, a quick study of every hitch of your breath, every gasp, every twitch of your hips — using these mental notes to his advantage.
Your speech has become a mess — “nnghhhhhfuuckkk” or “jackkkkfuckgod” or even “imgonnadie”
His tongue rushes to your entrance again, impatient but not sloppy, to taste you, to not let a single drop go to waste when he’s here, starving for more.
“Fuck, pretty. Such a messy girl, tsk.”
Your nails drag into his scalp in a hurtful scratch which neither one of you seems to care about. With every lap against your warm, inviting hole, the tip of his nose rubs against your clit in a strong friction, sending the bundle of nerves into instant overdrive.
“Fuuckkknngh…” you speak eloquently.
He intently focuses — more than you've ever noticed in the ED — switching masterly between the flat of his tongue to lick broad, wet, stripes and his lips for slow, torturing suctions. His mouth fucks you with precision, knowing where exactly where to ease off, and where to tease an “aaaahhghh” out of you.
Your entire world tilts, brain turning to liquid, when he finally closes in around your bud. You yank the soft strands of his hair, accompanying the mindless action with a guttural moan so unlike you, teared right out of your throat.
“God, yes, like that. Just like that,” you fervently gasp.
Unlike other people you've been with, he doesn't increase or alter the pressure at your enthusiasm. He keeps the same pace, devastating and rhythmic, listening and following your advice.
“That's it. That's my best girl, singing so pretty for me. Let me hear you, baby.”
Your back arches painfully off pillows when the tip of his tongue agonizingly circles your clit, outlining the hyper-sensitive point at a pace that feels like time has slowed down, minutes dragging into hours, world around you turning blurry and sluggish.
Your breath rips out in sharp, short, gasps. Your eyes squeeze tightly shut, toes curling at his back. The floodgates are barely holding themselves close, but you don't want this to end. You want to be stuck in this ride, in this high, for as long as you can, suspended mid-air.
You know that's impossible when you force your eyes open, and watch the light catch the wet sheen on his nose, all slick from your juices.
“Jack, I'm so —”
“Happy?”
“Close,” you sob at the increasing sensitivity.
“Do you wanna come on my face?”
You can only cry out in response.
“Count to 10 in your head and then you can.”
10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1
The tension coiled tight in your belly snaps. The floodgates spill open, and your eyes roll back into your head. Words catch in the back of your throat, coming out as unintelligible noises. Everything fades to black for a moment, before your boyfriend's voice anchors you to earth again.
“So good for me, used my mouth like the needy girl you are.” He's lapping away slowly at your slit again, hell if he lets any release you've gifted him not put to good use.
You weakly push at his shoulders, willing him to a halt, overwhelmed and oversensitive. He immediately obeys, long fingers pulling back the ruined panties over you — instead delicately sliding his palms over your thighs, peppering them with tender, grounding kisses. When he stops to study you for any hints of discomfort, he looks at you like his eyes have blurred out every subject but you.
His mouth moves. Stops. Moves again.
Wait, is he saying something?
You furrow your brows, not being able to hear anything through the thick layers of fog up there — glittery and rosy, finding every crevice, every hidden part, and dulling the chaos of your brain.
You snap out of it when he tilts your chin towards him. He's sitting next to you now, body tilted closely towards yours, “Jesus, did I break you?” His free hand is kneading your quads, chasing away any pain they feel from having spent a good amount of time being spread open.
You nod, “but in a good way.”
He smiles like somebody just offered to do his charting until retirement. You lean heavily into his parm, cherishing the soft stroke of his finger, even when his skin is always dry from the excessive use of sanitizer.
“Can I kiss you? Or are you overwhelmed?”
You nod too quickly. When he leans in and brushes his lips against yours, it's like this is the first time you're ever doing this. You quiver when you taste yourself on him.
He smells like you.
He presses a chaste kiss on your temple, murmuring, “I'll be right back. Okay, honey?” before moving to the edge of the bed, securing on his prosthetic limb.
He returns with a damp towel and water. He sets the plastic bottle on his nightstand with a soft click. He climbs the bed, slowly crawling towards you, approaching like you're fragile and breakable.
“I'm gonna clean you up, baby.” He settles between your legs again, clinically wiping the dry and sticky patches — a shameless mix of his own spit and your own wetness. “We've made quite a mess on you.”
He tosses the cloth haphazardly to the floor once he’s done — joining the rest of your garments — and drags the thick duvet over your body until you’re trapped in solid comfort, tucking it under your armpits like you're a child. You can't help but track his every move, eyes following him, but can't get a word out of your mouth.
“Jack, get under the covers with me.”
“Do you want me to get a hair tie for you first?”
Your hand flies to your head, smoothing the frazzled strands down, “why, do they look bad?”
“No, you walnut. You don't like laying down with your hair open.”
“Oh. I don't care, right now. Get in or I'll cry.”
“Scarier threat than the cyber attack one,” he sincerely remarks, and shifts under the covers, gently guiding you down with him till you’re both lying on your side, facing each other. Your bare chests kiss, and you slide your thigh between his legs, tucking it securely there. Any thought of empty space between you is intolerable to your body.
Oh.
Shit.
This man dedicatedly made you cum after dismantling your insecurities, and made your head go vroom. And you're just now realizing that he's not made of stone.
Which is ironic since his cock feels like one, angrily touching your thigh, straining against his pants. You feel guilt washing over you, at your selfishness for not paying heed to his needs, lost only in your own.
He rubs the side of your ribs, soft, calming, up & down motions, “hey, where'd you go? I wasn't that good. Like an 8 out of 10, maybe,” he repeats your earlier talk, a smirk playing on his face.
“I'm okay,” you feebly say. And then more confidently, “I promise. I just need a minute to process, and then we're taking care of you.”
“Hold your horses, sunshine. You're the patient and your job is to rest. You may climb the doctor any other time.”
“The doctor deserves a thank you for his treatment.”
“Not when the patient looks like a wild animal.”
You sigh, “I just don't want you doing it alone now.”
“I'll make you watch if it makes you feel better. When was the last time you watched a good show?” He draws you in closer by the waist, warping you in his scent, pressing you even more firmly against him. Even liquid wouldn't be able to seep through the space between you right now. It coaxes an involuntary sigh of relief out of you.
However, your cheeks heat at his cocky words, and you pinch his bicep. He breaks out in a hearty laugh, watching you with enough adoration that you just might pass out. But you don't, because nothing bad can happen when he's here.
“Okay, go. What worked and what didn't? What can we do differently next time?” he asks, ready to search your eyes in case you lie. His pinky traces the curve of your spine, the comforting gesture making you drowsy in his arms.
“Everything was perfect.”
“This isn't a fanfiction, darling. Think about it. Anything.”
“How the hell do you know what that is?”
He decidedly ignores your insulting question, continuing with his line of interrogation “slower next time? Faster?”
“More next time.”
He hums, eyes lighting up, “needy girl.” His hand delivers a playful smack to your ass, squeezing affectionately before letting go. By that time, you’ve already dramatically gasped, slapping his chest right back.
“Names? The praise work for you?”
“Mhm,” your voice drops low and hesitant, “so did the insults.”
Jack's brows raise in pleasant surprise, “you like being my messy and needy girl? You like asking me to use your big girl words?”
“Maybe…”
“Another talk for us to have. God, aren't you the dream?” It surprises you the way he says it, not jokingly, but like he means it. Like you could actually be something someone he fantasises about. Your chest tightens.
“Hey.”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Your initials are J.A.”
“Yeah, not sure, but I kind of think it's because my name is Jack Ab —”
“Jackass,” you mumble, nodding your head thoughtfully at your new discovery. “J.A – Jackass,” you repeat, just in case he didn’t make the connection. Forget the fact that he bosses an entire floor of medical staff.
“Think I heard you the first time.”
“You're a Jackass.”
“What a thing to say to someone who just had his tongue in your —”
“My Jackass.”
Once again, you say something completely out of pocket, and frankly enough, stupid, but he still melts. Because despite the choice of your words — again — it's the affection behind them. It's the you behind them that catches him in the ribs, as if somebody knocked the air out of him, making him soft, pliable, and yours to mold.
“Okay, well, I definitely broke your brain. Go to sleep, princess,” he playfully shoves your face into the pillow. “Off to bed, kid.” And his favorite sound fills his room.
Your giggle.
Okay i hope yall had fun! I took a longass time to write, and as always, glaze all over me (kidding) (no im not) if you liked it. Not to mention, ALWAYS MENTION when one of my works either makes u blush or laugh. And also when.
summary : jack meets someone with a high sex drive. thats basically it lol. tags : brief depiction of oral (m receiving), jack being lowk an asshole?? its opinions based. robby makes a weird comment. basically just reader being insanely horny for jackie! <3
jack loved and will always love his wife. she was a woman his age, mature, firm, a stone in jack's life. she kept him stable, comfortable. he will always miss her, love her, but he needs to move on. and boy did he move on. if you were to tell jack his next love interest would be a young, bright eyed girl he met at a grocery store he would never believed you.
young? he didnt do young. bright eyed? he's seen so much blood, lost his leg and wife, there was nothing for him to be happh about, or atleast nothing that should prompt him to walk into the pitt with a grin on his face. mel remembers her first day vividly, how she expressed her happiness on starting at the pitt, then jack abbot shutting it down completely. now here the man is, prancing into the hospital as if he just got the best blow job ever.
and boy did he get it.
“sweetheart im gonna be late—ah!” jack moaned, moaned!
your mouth was oh so warm, and paired with your delicate hand wrapped around his cock? god he was in heaven. “i know but you're always less grumpy when you leave after an orgasm.” you whine once you pull away from his cock with an audible pop, innocently rubbing your cheek against his tip.
he feels like a teenager all over again, and he comes like a teenager. the sight of your pretty face against his cock making him spurt his cum in your face. “jack!" you gasp, and he immediately reaches for a wipey to wipe your face. but you're faster, gathering all the sticky liquid with two fingers and licking them clean.
so yeah, he got a pretty good start of shift to say the least.
robby missed the suicidal talks he had with jack in the roof of the hospital. not this. god, never this.
“in telling you dude, i never met a girl with such a high sex drive. she's like a fuckin' bunny.” jack chuckled at his own words. and frankly, he would never talk about you like this to anybody else. but this was robby, his best friend. so sure he did get a little tmi. but he had to brag about you to someone!
“its like she's obsessed with me, every time i get home she's already pouncin' on me and i just-” “dude.” robby interrupted, placing his hand on jack's shoulder. “i love you, but i dont want to know about your sex life, okay? not if you arent planning on sharing her.” jack slapped robby's hand away, eyes rolling at the comment. “you wish, she's mine. not only is she pretty, she's awfully good at sucking my-”
“okayyy... we're done here.”
and when jack come back home? you were already in his arms. kissing him like you were starved from him. “jackieee, i missed you so much.” jack gripped your ass, walking you through the door, ignoring the ache of his leg after a long shift. “i missed you too, sweetheart, so god damn much.”
you spent hours fucking. in the couch, in the kitchen, in the shower. jack physically couldnt come anymore so he resorted to eating you out in the safety of his bed.
“oh my god jack dont stop dont stop-!” by the time you came for the 3rd time from his mouth, jack's jaw was aching, the bottom of his face was completely wet and sticky. a sight that turned you back on, and jack quickly catched up to that. “sweetheart i really cant, im spent.” he groaned, resting his cheek against your pelvis area.
“just use your fingers, please sweetheart.” you whined, running shaky fingers through his curls. jack smiled, as much as he could. “fine, just one more time...are you ready?” he murmured against your skin, licking his fingers before inserting two thick fingers inside your.
Andrew felt icky. he shouldn’t be having thoughts about a girl so many years younger than him, especially when she was his niece. not actually, but that’s not important. you were close enough!
he’s standing inside watching you splash around the pool while Craig stands at the edge and talks to you. Craig’s just on his way out, but he’s gotta stop and talk to his favorite niece. yeah, you’re not his only niece but you’re the one who’s not really related to him and old enough for him to be able to ogle at you, so therefore making you the favorite niece.
you’re treading water while looking up at Craig and listening to whatever crazy story he’s got now. talking for a few more minutes then he states he needs to leave. you give him a wave and he’s gone.
and almost right on queue Andrew come bounding over. stopping at the ledge of the pool, and opening his mouth but you beat him to the punch.
“will you swim with me?” all pouty and pleading for the old man to join you. still treading water while you make big puppy eyes at him. he shakes his head
“i was coming to tell you i’m gonna leave.”
you pout even more, making your way to the ledge and grasping the concrete beneath your palms and finer tips on either side of Andrew’s shoes. staring up at him.
“what? why? i don’t want you to leave.”
the proclamation has him second guessing if he should go. he has stuff to do. people he needs to talk to. he shakes his head again.
“i need to go do some things. you’ll be fine without me.”
you immediately shake your head. not without your uncle andrew, you’ll never last ten seconds.
“nooo, i came over for you uncle Andy. please don’t leave… i barley got to talk to you.” all frowny faced and big eyes that are starting to water. he huffs and rolls his eyes to himself.
“i have to.” leaving no room for you to argue with him. but somehow you still manage to get out a “but-” before he cuts you off
“‘but’ nothing. i’ll be back later, pretty girl.” then he takes a step back and heads to the gate.
you immediately are getting out of the pool to try and protest more. not even grabbing your towel just running over to your uncle and tugging at his arm. whining the whole time.
“pleaseeee uncle Andrew.” “please don’t go, yet!” trying all your efforts not to cry. he stops in his tracks and huffs through his nose turning to face you.
“i really need to go run these errands, sweetheart.” you get an idea and immediately switch to start smiling again
“let me go with you. pleaseee? it’ll be some family bonding time. please, please, pleaseee uncle Andrew.”
he can’t keep up this game forever. he just begrudgingly nods and gestures over to the towel draped over the lounge chair.
it's a slow shift, so dr. abbot figures he can take a quick break with you.
jack abbot x reader, smut, gn!reader, resident!reader, no description of reader (maybe implicit restrictions on height?), no y/n, student/teacher kink, praise kink, unprotected sex, 1k words + lil epilogue
"don't let anyone hear this," jack rasps, looking down at you as his fingers rake over your head, "but you're my favorite resident."
you fight the urge to smile at the silly quip.
"best one i ever supervised," he says, "brilliant head."
you claw at his thighs.
jack pulls your head off him. "you know you're my favorite, right?" he asks with but a flicker of genuine concern.
you take the opportunity to catch your breath. "yes, sir," you promise.
he smiles faintly. "good." he guides you back, closing his eyes and resting his head on the wall behind him.
you move a hand in between his legs and his breath hitches. "skilled with your hands, too," he comments, "could switch to surgery if you wanted."
he peeks down at you. "but you won't, will you?"
you do your best to hum "nuh-uh."
"no, i know," jack agrees, "i know you prefer working under me."
you clench your hand and jack winces, involuntarily bucking his hips and hitting his head on the wall.
"fuck," he says with a breathy laugh, part pleasure, part pain.
"alright, come on," he pats your other arm. "get up, –" he stops himself before he can utter a pet name and break character.
once on your feet, jack maneuvers you into his spot and you brace your hands against the wall, the vinyl covering cool to the touch.
he reaches around you to untie the drawstring of your scrub pants and leans his head against yours. you feel the rough stubble against your skin, his breath cascading over your face. "it's a pleasure teaching you," he murmurs, his lips brushing over the shell of your ear.
the drawstring undone, jack's hands slide inside the waistband and down the sides of your legs, dragging your clothing down with them.
"you make me so proud," he says as his hands roam over your skin, settling on your waist. his hips press flush against you and you tense at the skin-to-skin contact.
"and you do want to make me proud, don't you?"
"yes, dr. abbot," you say.
"want to make me happy?"
"yes, sir."
jack licks his lips and, his voice low, speaks directly into your ear. "you'd let me fuck you raw, if i asked, wouldn't you?"
you swallow subconsciously. suddenly you're aware of jack's fingers digging deeper into your flesh. of the scent of sweat permeating that of plastic packaging and isopropyl alcohol. of jack's lingering taste on your tongue.
"yes. sir," you whisper without meaning to.
"yeah?" he presses a single searing kiss to your neck, "you'd let me come inside you?"
"yes, sir," you confirm.
jack takes a deep breath. then moves to rest his forehead on your shoulders. one hand briefly leaves your waist. you close your eyes as he gradually pushes into you.
his motions are agonisingly slow at first, but with the AC powered down, your palms quickly turn damp. jack notices you losing your grip and slides his hands under your scrub top, wraps his arms around you to keep you steady. you feel your pulse echo off the warm palm splayed flat on your sternum.
"i'm going to come inside you," jack whispers into your ear, "again and again," his hand moves farther up your chest, hiking your scrub top up along the way, "until it's seeping out around me." he reaches through the collar and continues up your throat, "and you're going to thank me for it," he grasps your jaw, fingers reaching for your lips.
then he stills his movements.
"jack!" you whine.
he smiles at your slip-up. "won't you?"
"yes. sir. i will," you say, impatience breaking through your voice.
"good." jack thrusts into you again, picking up the pace. "and then," he slowly drags his hand back down, imprinting the trail of his fingers into your skin, "then i'll have you finish your shift like this." his breath grows ragged. "to remind you of how well you did," he says, "every time you feel it–" his pace falters and he abandons the thought.
"such a good resident," he forces out with urgency instead, "best i've ever had."
a whimper escapes you and jack loses it.
"fuck!" he falls into you and, pressed between him and the wall, you listen to his clipped breaths as he spills into you. again and again, as promised. "god, you're so good," he says mindlessly. you feel the rise and fall of his rib cage against your back, simmering down as he gives you a few more gentle thrusts.
"thank you, sir," you say once he's finished.
"fucking hell," jack says, not expecting you to actually say it, "you're killing me." he looks at your profile reproachfully, "you know that?" still catching his breath, he leans into the crook of your neck and places a line of languid kisses along your throat and jaw, warm air breezing over the moisture he leaves behind. "gonna ruin your clothes if i pull out now," he says.
"isn't that what you wanted?" you ask weakly.
he smiles against your skin. "come on, gimme a hand here."
you're still wondering what he expects you to do about it, when jack takes one of your hands off the wall and guides it between your legs.
you catch what you can as he carefully removes himself, then turn around holding your hand out awkwardly. jack makes a face that says, "not bad."
holding on to your hips for support, he sinks to his knees and assesses what he's working with.
"i've a pack of tissues in my pants," you tell him.
"I know you do," he says matter-of-factly and leans in for a first taste, making you flinch.
"hope i don't accidentally get it in your hair," you taunt as you resign yourself to keeping your palm up and out to the side.
"nah," jack looks back up at you, "you're my best resident, i trust you," he winks.
shortly after, you and jack are standing in the deserted hallway, waiting for the elevator.
"i liked the 'proud' part," you confess.
jack glances at you sideways, hands behind his back. "noted," he smirks, looking ahead again. then leans over to whisper conspiratorially, "you really do make me proud, you know. among other things."
"fuck off." you elbow him away, flustered now that you're not playing anymore.
jack's wide smile shifts into curiosity when the elevator doors slide open to reveal a startled young man.
"this wing's closed," jack tells him, unbothered by the hypocrisy. "you lost?"
"oh uhm, no, i..." the young man reaches for his hip but finds nothing there, "i'm a student doctor here?" it sounds like a question. "i have a badge," he assures jack as he fumbles for it. he finds it in his back pocket, promptly drops it to floor and picks it up again. presents it to jack and waits expectantly, as if it's going to explain his presence in the abandoned ward.
jack looks at the badge, then back at the student's frazzled face. "gotcha" he simply tells him and with a hand on your back prompts you to step into the elevator.
once the doors close, you hide your face in jack's chest with a groan. a hand reflexively moves to hold you.
"any chance he thought we were... i don't know, just passing through?"
"yeah," jack puts the other hand in his pocket, "a snowball's chance in hell."
you didn't catch the student's name, but the badge read internal medicine. you make a mental note to steer clear of the department for now and hope he rotates out to a different hospital soon.
pope coming home to u crying :( wrapping his big arms around u
cradling ur face with his big hands, his eyes widening as he tries to figure out what's wrong, placing soft kisses to ur forehead 🥹
andrew i need u rq
thinking abt s1 pope <3
after coming out of prison, pope is still learning how to speak, for a lack of better words. after the last three years, he's still learning how to be a civilian again. regardless, pope always knows how to read and speak to you.
one of the infamous cody parties had come to a close. pope was absent, out doing a job for smurf. he'd told you, he doesn't like for you to be at the house when he's not there. he doesn't want smurf anywhere near you. it wasn't your fault, though! deran had invited you for the pregame, which technically, is not the actual party!
by the time he had gotten home, the lawn was filthy, smelt like ash and vomit. he was looking forward to seeing you. you were his safe haven. pope stepped through the backyard, surveying the mess he was going to have to clean up tomorrow. much to his surprise, did he see his sweet bunny, toes splashing the pool, littered with beer cans.
the sun had long set, though you stayed outside. it had to be close to three in the morning, and still, you were your swim suit. it wasn't nearly hot or humid enough tonight for you to be this uncovered. his face furrowed with confusion and concern. he took long strides to your figure. he takes a seat next to you, startling you. his legs cross over one another, not wanting to get his sneakers wet.
you place your head on his shoulder. your tear streaked face, catches his attention. he wants to lecture you for staying out here by yourself, but he knows an 'i told you so,' would only rub salt in whatever wound you're scabbing over right now.
"hi pope," you whisper. your hands find their way to his lap. one of his hands finds its way to the nape of your neck, as the other plays with your fingers in his lap.
"hi doll," he rubs your neck with his broad hand. "who hurt you? told you i don't like it when you're here by yourself. fucking circus up in here." pope looks down at your face, stray moonlight illuminating your frown.
you shake your head. "no one," you sniffle regretfully. "just missed you."
pope presses a kiss to your forehead. "i'll take care of it, if someone did hurt your feelings."
you chuckle, shaking your head once more. "know you would. just got bit more rough than I had anticipated." you shrug.
pope squeezes the back of your neck affectionately. "you should listen to to me more than, bunny. never led you astray before have i?"
you squeak out a small, "no." pope frees his hand from yours, wiping some of your stray tears. "missed you," you free your head from his chest, pressing a kiss to his neck.
"i always miss you," pope redirects, kissing you passionately. "you been outside long enough lets go inside and clean you up."
(smut) dbf! jack abbot- this is lowkey a wild ask so it's completely up to you if you want to write it or not but... like soft smut where reader is scared of pelvic floor exams. asked jack about pain with penetration and he said he'd examine them if they wanted that. time passes before reader finally agrees, jack coming over to their apartment- let's just say it ends with stubble burns against their thighs.
— I LOVE WILD ASKS please never ever be afraid to send ‘em i really loved this one.
As you had gotten older, you allowed your yearly pelvic exam to come and go. Sometimes you would get the courage to make the appointment and tell yourself this year you’re gonna do it. You’re gonna face the music, anxiety be damned and go get checked out. Then as it inched closer and closer to the date you chicken out and cancel.
You were beyond scared of getting one. You knew exactly why too, losing your virginity had not been nearly as fun as all your friends made it out to be, sex hurt. When you told your girlfriends this they looked at you a little funny and asked maybe he didn’t do it right, it wasn’t exactly supposed to be painful, not the whole time anyway. So you did a few experiments of your own, cause maybe they were right and the guy just i don’t know did it wrong?
You bought a toy, a not too big but average to smaller sized dildo, online as going in store was too much to handle. And one night when your college roommates were out, you tried using it but it hurt just the same, you even tired just using your fingers but that wasn’t much better. From then on for years, you avoided sex as much as you could. All subsequent boyfriends who managed to persuade you into it just told you it'd be “Much better with me trust me baby” and it never really was.
When you bring it up to one of your friends again, they point something out that you had been trying to avoid thinking of. “Hey, isn't one of your dads friends a doctor or something? Why haven’t you asked him about it?” oh that guy. Yeah the one you are kinda a little too attracted to who’s not just your fathers friend but his best friend, who makes your brain short circuit each time he calls you sweetheart? That one. Yeah you’d rather not talk about how sex is painful to the older man, who is the closest person to your father. You just might have to though if you ever wanna actually enjoy sex in your life.
When you see Jack a few days later for your dads weekly dinner night he hosts, you manage to pull him away telling your dad it’s private girly medical related questions, he shuts up shortly after that.
“What's up kid you okay?” Jack asks, concern evident in his voice. You rarely asked him anything medical and he was a bit worried you’re about to ask him how long is it normal for a woman to go without getting her period. “How…” you squeak out. Oh god here it comes. Before you start again you clear your throat. “How um common is, you know pain during sex…” the word sex leaves your lips in a meek and quiet tone, Jack tries his best not to chuckle as to not embarrass you further, but he’s happy it's not the question he was expecting. “Pretty common kid, at least the first time” he explains calmly, his casual demeanor easing your anxiety only a bit. “And how about every time?”
The idea of you having sex multiple times shouldn't be making Jack's chest ache the way it is, you’re a young beautiful girl after all, he tries telling himself it’s only cause it’s apparently painful and he cares for you. This time he straightens up a bit, “if the guys aren’t being rough, it's less common, it shouldn’t be every time” he watches as your eyes go a little wide and shake your head no in response to the first half of his statement. “Have you had an exam lately kid?” This is a purely professional question so it shouldn’t feel as dirty as it does coming out of his mouth.
“I um normally cancel them” Jack can only sigh out in a bit of frustration. “You should really get them regularly sweetheart” he misses the way your thighs lightly squeeze together at the use of the nickname. “I’m scared s’ all, anything going um inside hurts and doctors offices only make me more nervous” you explain. He smooths a hand over your hair, sympathy lacing his voice. “it’s okay i don’t mean to make you feel bad about it kid i swear” “How-” he stops himself, his eyebrows furrowing as if he was debating something in his head. “What?” you prompt, trying your hardest to not buckle at the knees from the way he’s practically petting your head. Physical touch is a quite rare thing between you too minus a few hugs on birthdays or pats on the back. “How about I give you one?’ oh sweet jesus that sounds wrong. He clears his throat, his face a little flush now at his own words but he doesn’t backtrack. “I’m a doctor, that you know, so it’s less scary” “No appointment needed if that makes you more comfortable” as you are processing his words he continues on. “I could do it at your apartment, where ever you feel most comfortable”
Your throat shouldn't feel as dry as it does, but the idea of Jack examining your pussy makes your head spin and slick settle between your legs a little. Maybe you should just see a regular random doctor, not one you have a wildly inappropriate crush on. You leave him with a small “Thank you, I'll think about it” and run off with the excuse of using the bathroom. You leave before Jack that night without much of any goodbye to him, he tries not to dwell on it, he really hopes he didn’t upset you.
You however dwell for days on Jack’s suggestion. Without the underlying nerves you feel because of being attracted to him, it is a good idea. You’d feel far more comfortable, maybe too comfortable being examined by him rather than a doctor you hardly know. You don’t bring it up to anyone as you’re too embarrassed but you think about it for days. When you get a reminder for the last gyno appointment you were brave enough to make, you cancel it without another thought and text Jack.
All he does is thumbs up your message but for the next few hours you are anxious as all hell while waiting for him to knock on your door. You had given yourself the time both to calm down but also clean your apartment. Even though he was literally coming over to give you a vaginal exam and wouldn't care what your place looked like, you wanted it to be neat. Even if this was going to be probably the weirdest event in your life to date.
You are startled out of your train of thought by a knock at the door, you glance at the clock — 3pm exactly. Damn older men and their punctuality or was it a doctor thing? Shaking your head you nervously make your way to open the door, greeting Jack with a little awkward wave. He chuckles softly, the sound calming you as you step back from the open door to invite him in. “It’ll be alright, i’ll be gentle kid” his voice runs over your skin leaving behind goosebumps. You don’t know what you’re more nervous over, the expected pain of the actual examination or, the idea of Jack's hands on you, his fingers in you.
Without wasting much time Jack settled into a semi professional but still comforting balance as he puts down the small bag of stuff he needs on the floor of your living room. You appreciate his effectiveness, as he tells you to sit on your couch facing him. You listen and watch as he sits on top of your coffee table. “This will be a little awkward because we are here and not a hospital, so I don't have a few things sweetheart” he starts to explain. “The no gown won’t be too hard, you have a skirt on so if you could just take off your underwear i can have access without-” he paused a moment as if thinking “leaving you too indisposed” the way he snaps a pair of blue latex gloves on shouldn’t be making as wet as it is, fuck.
“Can-” you stutter out, your face hot but he seems to pick up on what you’re asking, nodding softly he turns his head away to give you some semblance of privacy. Bunching up your skirt you hook your fingers into the waistband of your slightly soaked panties and pull them down your legs. You kick them under the coffee table so they’re out of sight and tap Jack on the shoulder, he shakes his head softly at your shyness before turning to face you again.
“Put your feet up either side of me on the table, won’t be the same as stirrups but close enough” tugging at the end of your skirt to cover yourself a bit more you do as he says and place your feet up flat on the low table. He adjusts them slightly, grabbing your foot one at a time and slides them a bit so they are more half off not so far back. “Scooh more to the edge of the couch kid, lean back ‘n tilt your hips up a lil more f’ me” the way you listen so well to Jack has him smiling softly at you and muttering out a small “Atta girl”
He pressed lightly around on your abdomen through your shirt and skirt, eyes glued to your face gauging your reactions. “No pain or tenderness when I do this, right?” when you shake your head no he stops. “My hand is gonna go under your skirt for a second okay?” your face grows hotter and you nod, your voice has yet to find you again but so far nods are an effective enough communication with him. He reaches down between your legs but only presses around again, this time he is much closer to your pussy but he remains on the outside, pressing over the mound of it and on your pubic bone. “No pain?” Once again your head shakes side to side. His hand pulls away, your eyes follow his movements as he reaches down to grab a small bottle out of his bag.
He holds it but doesn’t do anything with it yet, his eyes find yours again “This next part i have to put my fingers inside, that okay sweetheart?” you gulp softly, nodding yes slowly as your nervousness grows again. “That’s the part that us- usually hurts” you explain in a small voice. It’s Jack's turn to nod now, "Penetration?” you let out a ‘mhm’ in agreeance as he squeezes the clear substance onto his pointer finger. “This is lube to make it easier and I’ll go slow, only one finger” his other hand reaches around your leg to touch the back of your calf, rubbing soothing lines up and down the muscle. “If you’re relaxed it might not be as painful” he explains, waiting on your go ahead before reaching down under your skirt once again.
Pushing his lube coated index finger through your folds the tip of it finds your entrance, he gauges your face, when you nod again he proceeds by pushing it inside.
Your sharp intake of air makes him stop once only the first bend of his finger is inside. “Come on, relax f’ me sweetheart” his low honey dipped voice makes your body go a bit lax, he inches his finger forward again and when you show no sign of pain he goes all the way til it's completely inside. “How’s that kid?” he sounds as breathless as you feel but you try to ignore it. “A little pain” you squeak out. “Give it a second, relax and it might go away”
“Don’t know how to relax more” you whine out, the sound going straight down Jack’s spine and up again, he shivers a bit and wills it away before it travels further south. “I’m gonna try something…do you trust me sweetheart?” you’re already nodding again in response before he fully finishes his question.
Bringing his thumb up he parts the lips of your pussy til it finds your clit. You gasp out and slightly scare him, “That hurt?” “No no m’ sorry surprised me is all” you mumble out, biting your lip to hold in any more noises from getting free, like an accidental moan. Jesus christ why did you think this was a good idea again? If you had to bet you’d say you were soaking his gloved finger, even with the sting you felt from it inside, it felt good at the same time. You never even reached this type of feeling with your own fingers.
His thumb on your clit presses down lightly and starts rubbing in circles, you let out a small little sigh that makes Jack smirk a bit. “There you go honey, come on” “Un-tense your shoulders” your body listens almost instantaneously “Good girl” you can’t help the whimper that comes out at his words, he doesn’t say anything in response. “Feel any better?” he prompts, his eyes remain on your face, no matter how bad he wants to peek under your skirt to watch the way your little bud twitches under his touch. “Mhmm a bit” you answer softly, trying to push away the odd feeling bubbling up in the pit of your stomach.
“Can I put in another finger, we’ll see how that feels?” he whispers, he definitely has enough information that he thinks he knows what’s wrong already but you don’t need to know that. “Yeah” you pant out, shaking your head a little too eagerly, if Jack notices he doesn’t say a word. With ease his middle slips in alongside his pointer, his thumb still circling your clit. “No pain honey?” the motion of your head once again answers his question. “Wanna try something else…can I move my fingers sweetheart?”
“Please” you plead, head to fuzzy to care how desperate you sound. Slowly pulling his fingers back he watches your face as he pistons them back in, repeating the motion. “That feel good?” “Mhm no pain, fuck! feels really good” you whine out, your hips now bucking up against his fingers. He speeds up, still waiting to see if it hurts or if you stop him. “Jack” you moan out, his cock throbs in response.
“Yeah kid?” “Need- Mm” you cut yourself off, pinching your lips in a line and tilting your head back. “Nuh-uh come on honey, tell me what ya’ need” he prompts, curling his fingers up to hit a different spot inside you that has you letting out a pornographic noise you didn’t know you were even capable of. “Need-” you huff out, before he stops you “Look at me when you say it, come on kid” “Use your words”
Lifting your head you look into Jack’s eyes, his breath hitches at the sight of your glazed over lust filled eyes, batting your eyelashes you start again. “Need more” you sob. His stomach just about hurts now from how hard he is in his jeans that feels all too tight. “Yeah? What more honey? Another finger or something else?” he asks, consciences be damned he’s not gonna leave you hanging even if your old man would fucking kill him if he ever found out about this. “Somethin’ else please” you whine, not even knowing what more you want. Jack however seems to when he takes his free hand off your calf and lifts your skirt, his head ducking under it. His fingers don’t stop positioning in and out of your slick cunt even if you squeal a bit at his motion. The noise morphes into a moan, your body melting into the couch when his warm tongue pokes out and makes contact with your pussy, licking at your pussy. “Still feel good kid?” he mumbles out, before his thumb leaves your bundle of nerves only to be replaced by his mouth as he sucks at it.
“Yeah- Yeah feels s’ good” you breathe out, letting go of your skirt, he grabs at your one leg, lifting your foot off the table placing it over his shoulder, prompting you to do the same with your other before his fingers slip out of your pussy.
You whine at the loss, “Jackkk” making him chuckle softly against you. “Hang on sweetheart” he coos as he uses both hands to grab at your hips, pulling you up and half way off the couch to get you closer to his mouth, lapping at you hard splitting your folds with his pointed tongue before sucking at your clit. “Ah- Ahhh ooh fuck” you wail out, your hands frantic to steady yourself. One finding purchase on his shoulder before sliding down his back under his shirt where your nails scratch at his skin. The other holding on for dear life to the edge of your couch cushion, your legs tighten a bit around his head.
“Holy shit” you whisper out in breathless disbelief, the odd feeling from before coming back to quickly build in the pit of your stomach. Jack's large hands cupping your waist squeeze at your flesh, as he shakes his head side to side a little, flattening his tongue against you. Your thighs burn a bit at the friction of his stubbly face rubbing against them. He moves back to harshly sucking at your clit, your pussy and his mouth coated in his spit as he practically slurps at your juices.
“Huu- shit” “Wait wait! Jack- mhm feels like m’ gonna pee” you try pushing at his head to stop him, even if you desperately didn’t want his mouth off you. That feeling in your stomach was teetering on the edge. “Ya’ don’t have to pee sweetheart, that’s a orgasm you feel” he grumbles out, the explain making your hand ease up from pushing instead it rakes through his curls “S’ okay cum for me kid”
“Promse s’ okay” you whine out, staring down at his head between your legs. “Yeah, you can do it” “cum f’ me it’s okay honey” "Promise it’ll feel good, no pain” his reassure is all you need to let your high wash over you, legs shaking on his shoulders, “There we go, fuck” he moans out. Your back arching as you cum on his tongue with a loud wanton moan filling your apartment coupled with his praise, “Atta girl, sweetheart” “Such a good girl f’ me” he laps at your cum. “Taste so fucking sweet, like i knew ya’ would” he mumbles out, that one you think was meant more for himself.
Managing to reluctantly pull his head from between your soft thighs, Jack used his hold on your hips to place your body back onto the couch. You stare at him wide eyed when you notice his face all wet, covered in you. “Got somethin’ on my face kid?” you nod meekly. He chuckles and pinches at the collar of his shirt to bring it up and wipe at his mouth. “No pain after?” he asks. “No, never done that before” you whisper out, flicking your head down to where your skirt now covered your puffy but satisfied pussy.
“Just needed an older man huh sweetheart, help ya’ relax a little and the pain melts away” he states, reaching down to rub at your knee. “Fucking little boys” he tsks but your eyes are glued to the large bulge in between his thick thighs. You’d have to be extra relaxed to take that monster on…
— would the position jack eats you out in, be at all comfortable for that old man's back? fuck no and lowkey it’s a hard to physically imagine it but jack’s strong s’ fineeeee i got a little too lost in sauce when writing clearly oops…this was also only like half proofread.
I don’t know if you’ve done this yet. But Stepdad Jack filming while he absolutely mutilates you. Like I’m talking cum everywhere, sheets coming off the bed, scratches allll over his back. Like I’m talking Tommy Lee & Pamala Anderson. (If you know what I mean)
nonnie i've def not written something like this before 🫣 ngl you got me worried about the usage of 'mutilate' here lolll
i never watched that video nor i ever plan to but based on your description i got the vision ! this is giving me such aged up, much older jack vibes. this might be my most disgusting piece of writing yet
𓊆 cw: big hefty age gap, daddy / papa kink, rough sloppy messy sex, sub!reader, he calls her 'little girl' and 'little miss', squirting, dirty talk, roleplaying, overstimulation, facial, swallowing, scratching, manhandling, gets soft at the end, aftercare 𓊇 ‧₊˚ ┊ wc: 1.4k
you're currently seated on jack's lap, grinding on his cock. you can feel the mixture of both his and yours' sweat (and amongst other fluids) sliding off your back, his strong pectorals and the softness of his belly rubbing against you at every movement. the wetness left large stains scattered across the sheets, courtesy of the five orgasms he's given you (and counting) and he's not going to stop any time soon. you don't have the faintest idea how long you two have been going at it. your bet? it’s probably been hours.
how'd this old man approaching his sixties didn't shoot his load the moment you unzipped his pants?
jack brushes some loose hairs away from your ear before licking the back of it, he whispers — "look at yourself."
you look up to see the LCD screen of the camcorder he got from god knows where deep in his basement that's obviously seen better days.
you can see a little bit of jack's mostly salt than pepper hair, you can see him looking at you through the screen with a lustful gaze, you can see how his frame is almost swallowing you due to how fucking big he is compared to you. seriously, no one's grandad should look this sexy. and you. . .
you look fucking sinful. your mascara has run down your cheeks — you've been crying a lot because you're so goddamn tired but jack's been making you feel so good to beg him to stop. your lipstick has completely rubbed off of your lips. you can also see some drool and snot sticking to your skin. disgusting. but fuck, you can't deny how hot you look right now. the way your hips are winding on his cock, and how it drives the old man crazy. his head keeps tilting back, yelling and groaning up at the ceiling, eyes rolling to the back of his skull — like a man possessed.
jack hazily stares back at your eyes through the screen, the corner of his mouth lifting upwards. "a throne for a princess."
now it's your turn to cry out of pleasure, the loudness echoing off the walls.
"jesus– fuck!!" your voice was strangled, nails digging into the meat of jack's thighs.
he hissed, then he taunts you. "why? you gonna cum again?"
you didn't answer him. instead, you grumbled in a weak objection. that's a clear enough answer.
jack gets up from the bed bringing you with him. he's still balls deep inside of you when he looks at the screen to make sure he's getting the right angles. he takes hold of both of your arms and pins them behind your back before he starts to pound hard in and out of you.
are his joints not on fire? his back must be killing him too but his determination to make you come for the sixth time outweighs his own needs.
the camera captures the recoil of your breasts from the force of jack's thrusts. you can't speak at all, you think that's what he wants — your only role in his film was to act as his personal pornstar, someone who doesn’t have to speak or think. someone who just moans and acts slutty — and fuck, you love it.
he sneaks a hand around your body to play with your clit, you start to squirm away from him from overstimulation. he’s everywhere. his cock, his breath, his scent. . . you’re drowning in him.
“squirt again for me, baby. squirt all over this floor until your smell is stuck in this room for days.”
you unhinge your jaw with a silent scream as you spray your juices one. . . two. . . three. . . four times. you can not hold your entire body up by yourself, jack has to maneuver you into a bent over position by the dresser where the camera is placed.
jack presses himself on your sweaty back, then breathes against your hairline. “what do you say, beautiful?”
it takes everything in you to moan out the words, “siiiixxxxx. . .” you sob, “thank you for making me feel good. love you, daddy.”
“love you too, baby.” you can see him smile fondly at you, there’s genuine love and adoration in his eyes — a stark difference compared to that first time he bent you over his knee, when there was only lust.
“ready for the next one? lucky number seven?”
“. . .dunno.” you think you’re at your breaking point and you’re really tired.
his demeanour changed into concern, “just say the word, baby. we can stop. you’re the boss here.”
you can’t stop the single tear that escaped your eye, jack swiped over it with his thumb before tilting your head to face him. he gives you a sweet kiss on the lips.
he may be the 'daddy' or the 'papa' but you got him wrapped around your finger. he has always spoiled you but you think you should do the same to him because he deserves it as much as you.
a wide smile breaks across your face. jack returns one of his own.
with a single nod, “i’m okay, papa. let’s do it.”
he carefully pulls out of you, takes the camera and hands it to you. you clutch it to your chest as he picks you up in a bridal carry and carries you back to the bed.
he retrieves the object back from you and sets it on the bedside table. he makes a few adjustments on its angles and your positions.
you are sprawled on the mattress, your limbs feeling like jelly. he pushes your legs apart then hooks them around his waist.
you place a hand on his thigh. you softly ask, “your leg still okay?”
he simply smiled, “i’m okay.”
you hummed with a pout, unconvinced. your expression makes him huff a laugh. “i promise.”
jack takes hold of his still hard, heavy cock. he gives your cunt a few ‘love taps’ before he pushes in you again. he’d been inside you all this time and yet the stretch still knocks the air out of your lungs.
he draws himself closer to you, brushing his lips against yours. he starts pounding deep and hard. this will be orgasm number seven — he has to make it so fucking good for you, you pass out.
he’s not giving you enough time to breathe, you can’t help but to just close your eyes shut and take what he’s giving you. you also don’t realise that you’re scratching down his back, your nails are surely leaving marks deep into his skin.
jack grunts in pain but he keeps going. he’s so close to reaching his peak.
“give it to me. fu– fucking squeeze the fuck out of my cock.”
you let out a high keen, “i’m cumming! aah–!” you start to convulse beneath him, still leaving marks not only on his back but on his beefy biceps as well.
not letting you recover, he drags you to the edge of the bed and lets you drop to the floor. his hands shove you into a kneeling position.
as if on autopilot mode, you open your mouth wide, sticking your tongue out. jack pumps his dick with quickness, “that’s a good little girl. fuck, you’re so pretty.” he moans long and loud, “staystillstaystillstaystill. take alllll of your papa’s cum. c’mon.”
some of the first spurts landed on your forehead and cheeks, you angled your head to catch the remaining spend.
when he’s sure he squeezed out all of it, he tells you to keep his cum on your tongue and stay in place. he briskly makes his way over to the bedside table to grab the camcorder. he returns standing in front of you, pointing the lens to your face, and zooming in.
“swallow.”
you obey, your eyes close at the delectable taste of your old lover.
jack sighed, in awe of you. “show off those manners, little miss.”
you giggled, “that’s seven. thank you for the gift, daddy!” you bite your lip, hoping to come off as flirtatious in the video.
“you gonna meet up with old men you talk to on the internet at hotels again?”
“nuh-uh.”
“that’s a good girl. . . you’re gonna be my new favourite plaything.” he caresses the side of your jaw.
recording ends.
jack carelessly chucks the camcorder on the bed.
he runs both of his hands through his curls, wiping the dripping sweat off his face in the process. and like a switch, “i’ll run a bath for us then room service?”
you inch closer to his right kneecap to give it a gentle kiss. you rest your cheek against it, you look up at him. “then a massage?”
“deal.” as he starts to lean forward to help you up, he hisses and rubs the skin of his lower back. “maybe a full body massage?" ♡
personally, i just love the idea of andrew’s girlfriend making him absolutely insatiable. he’s not very sexual by nature, and he’s always nervous to make the first move. but after 3 months of being with you— younger, bubbly, kind, you… he’s taking on a new form.
you could be standing with his brothers at a party, nodding along to a drunken story & noticing pope getting spacey and quieter than usual. so, as a comfort, you smile and grab his hand. poor thing doesn’t know it’s just supposed to be sweet in the moment, and he’s turning to you so quickly and leaning down to shove his tongue in your mouth.
naturally you’re surprised, gasping with a soft giggle, “andy!” to which he immediately pulls back with smacking lips, “‘m sorry.” it’s so genuine it breaks your heart, which then leads to you pulling him into his bedroom to suck him off.
or, you’re sitting on the beach watching him surf one morning. laid across your long tanning chair, happily waving at him in your little bikini as he comes back to join you. deran’s a little further behind, chatting with adrian about the tide, when andrew makes his way to you. he stands above you, broad shoulders nearly covering the warm sun as you look up at him.
“hi honey!”
but his eyes are completely locked in on the movement of your chest, and the drops of water sliding off of him and onto you. a big, meaty hand reaches down, pawing at your chest in a trance as you guffaw.
“andrew!” “can we go home now?” he tries, still squeezing at your tits and slowly bringing a hand to squeeze at his cock. amused, you quickly stretch your hand out to grab his wrist before he starts palming at himself on this very public beach.
“you don’t wanna surf a little more?” you try, though you love how needy he’s gotten. he scoffs like it’s the last thing in the world he’d want to do, as he sits on your chair with his back to you, “no.”
smiling and shaking your head in faux-exasperation, you lean back for a final few minutes of sun…. until you hear and feel him again. running his big hand up your leg and pouting. “andrew cody-“ “love this color on you, sweetheart. wish you’d wear it all the time.” totally in his own world.
you finally grant him reprieve, standing as his puppy eyes follow you. with a low “c’mon tiger let’s go,” he’s up and throwing you over his shoulder.
happily leading you to his truck. hopefully you can make it home in time, but as he clambers in the passenger seat underneath you, i don’t think he can make any promises….
OR: the one where jack and robby can't seem to get on the same page. until you're in between them
This is from a pre-established universe in my mind that sort of resembles Twin Peaks - essentially, Reader's sister goes missing, and Jack is her ex/the town sheriff, and Robby's the FBI agent sent to work the case. This context doesn't matter for the following fic because it's literally just a threesome lmao, but I think it lets you know where my head was at writing this. Idk if I'll ever share/write the rest of it, but there very much is a fully fledged fic somewhere in my brain?
warnings: 18+, mdni! threesome, ex!jack, dom!jack, switch!robby, switch!reader, jack and reader are a little mean to robby and it makes him horny, oral (f receiving), they all make out, reader and jack have a sex tape, robby's lowkey a voyeur
main masterlist
“He watched our sex tape,” You murmur, leaning into Jack’s touch as his lips attach to your jaw. “Thought it might be some big clue to unlock the case.”
Your eyes flutter closed, a heat pooling low in your stomach under the weight of both of their stares. Jack’s arm snakes round your waist, applying just the slightest bit of pressure as he holds you to him.
“Yeah?” He hums, stare turning on Robby, still sitting across the room. The way he’s fidgeting, adjusting his jeans, tells you he’s just as affected by this as you are. The thought makes you dizzy, your thighs clenching together subconsciously. You’re pretty sure you could get off on anticipation alone.
Jack’s free hand tucks under your chin, tilting your mouth up to his. He tastes like vodka, and your words die on your tongue as he kisses you, deep and slow. For a second he’s everywhere, invading your every sense. But then he’s pulling back, drawing a whine from you at the loss of contact. “Look like that on film, Robinavitch?”
Robby swallows, voice thick. “Somethin’ like that.”
You tilt your head, allowing Jack better access as he mouths at your neck. “Did you watch the whole thing?”
A snort escapes from Jack. “’Course he did. Bet he got off on it, too.” His fingers creep under the hem of your shirt, tugging upwards. As soon as the fabric is discarded his hand returns to your front, kneading at your breast over the lace of your bra. “Does watching do it for you, Michael?”
Seeing Robby’s ever increasing embarrassment, you swat at Jack lightly, whimpering slightly as he pinches your nipple. “You’re being mean.”
“I’m just being truthful.” Hand snaking beneath your bra, you find yourself arching against him, nipples taut as he continues to work you. “Bet he was sitting in that crappy hotel room, jerking off to the thought of another man fucking you. Probably had to turn on the shower so no one would hear.”
Robby stammers a little, a garbled sound that gives away far more than it should. Jack’s right on the money.
“S’okay Robby,” You murmur, almost a purr. You can’t tell if the haze clouding your vision is the alcohol, or the sheer desire coursing through your veins. “I’m not mad. Think it’s cute, actually.”
Everything feels too tight. Your clothes, your chest - you think you might burst. You curl your fingers into Jack’s hair, tugging slightly to keep his head flexed down at your neck. You keep your eyes on Robby, lips parting as Jack sucks a harsh mark on your skin.
Finally, you can’t take it anymore. Letting out a slight huff, you pull back from Jack. “Are you waiting for a formal invitation, or what?”
“Maybe Mr. FBI man doesn’t want to concern himself with smallfolk like us, honey,” Jack replies, voice dripping in sarcasm. “Or maybe he just wants to watch.”
From the tent in his pants, you’re positive that isn’t the case.
“C’mere baby - let me take care of you.”
You untangle yourself from Jack’s grasp, getting to your feet as you beckon Robby over. He gets to his feet, movements slightly unsteady. Giddiness sweeping over you, your breath hitches as Robby closes the distance, pressing his chest to yours, a solid weight keeping you grounded in reality.
Any hesitancy you expected to see from him vanishes as soon as he kisses you. The movements turn hungry, and you’re met with the man who fucked you until you couldn’t speak just a few days ago. You give him a minute or two, before pulling back, wicked smirk tugging at your lips. "You boys going to find a way to work together or what?"
“You know, I think she might be trying to rile us both up,” Robby says, voice low.
“You might be right about that, Robinavitch.”
*****
It's too much. Robby's head between your legs, licking delicate stripes through your folds, while Jack mouths at your tits with a fervour. One hand massages, while he presses sloppy kisses to the other.
Your hips buck up towards Robby, desperately trying to grind against him. He chuckles into your skin, the vibrations sending your head spinning.
Your breath comes out in a choked gasp, hands fisting the sheets pitifully. "F-Fuck, oh my god."
Desperate for something, anything, to keep your mind sharp, you reach forward, hand curling around the base of Jack's cock. He hisses slightly at the contact, pinching at your nipple in response.
"Careful, honey," He warns, and you just shoot him as much of a smile as you can manage.
"What?"
Robby's beard scratches at your clit, and your voice breaks off in another whimper, leading Jack to chuckle again. "My poor girl thinks she's in charge, huh?"
"Shut up," You groan, but you know you're winning when Jack starts to redden, tense from the effort of holding off an orgasm.
"Can't be doing that sweetheart - not if you want tonight to last."
"You don't want to be the weak link, do you Jack?" You taunt, sighing prettily as Robby continues to lap at your cunt. "Careful, or Robby'll be the only one allowed inside."
Taking that as an invitation, Robby's hands are firm, repositioning you just how he wants. Ass in the air, you can feel him pressing into you, cock brushing through your folds. Everything moves so quickly you don't even notice Jack moving too.
Turns out they can work together. Sometimes.
A groan escapes, and your head bobs forward towards him, who's now stretched out on the bed, looking amused at the entire situation.
Like he wasn't moaning your name a few minutes ago when you had his cock in your hands.
*****
“You know, I really feel like I've been carrying this tonight,” You finally breathe, chest heaving. Three orgasms in, and you're exhausted. “You-” You point at Robby, digging your finger into his chest, “-have only finished once. And you-” Jack's turn, “-haven't cum at all.”
“Are you seriously mad at us for focusing on you?” Robby murmurs, fighting back a smile.
“Last I checked, you've spent a good chunk of tonight on your back, while we've been doing the hard work,” Jack replies, eyebrow raised. “Not sure how that constitutes you doing everything. 'Sides - we're not as young as we used to be, honey. I'm one-and-done these days."
“I'm just saying,” You begin, pulling yourself up so you're sitting against the headboard. Robby follows, elbow against the wall as he turns to face you both. “I think your enjoyment could be greatly increased if you… y'know.”
“Gotta use your words, sweetheart," Jack says.
"What's the point of all this if we aren't all going to enjoy each other? You're makin' me feel selfish."
You're not entirely sure how it'll land, given Jack and Robby have spent the last month loathing each other, but when they don't dismiss the idea, you lean forward and press your lips to Robby's.
The kiss is the softest it's been all night, with him leaning over to cup your cheek.
It's the kiss of a husband returning home to his wife after a long day's work - not that of a dirty fuck in the middle of nowhere.
“Such a pretty girl,” He mumbles, breath fanning across your face as he trails his lips along your jaw.
Your hand reaches out, tangling in the curls at the nape of Jack's neck, as you guide him towards you both.
The moustache scratches at your neck, the friction making you sigh. A turn of heads, and you collide with Jack, while Robby turns his attention to your pulse point.
Soon, you can't even tell who is who. An occasional brush of hair from Robby's stubble is the only thing that differentiates either man as you kiss them both.
When you finally pull back, it's like they don't even notice you're gone. You can't help the self-satisfied smirk. This is what you wanted.
fluffy jack abbot x reader blurb
you're drunk and firing off puns. jack's in love.
You can try to claim that you and Jack are bar hopping, which you technically are. But the night's mostly been made up of Jack letting you order one fruity cocktail and a beer while he takes a few sips of his whiskey, watching you grin at the ceiling fan.
...Until he tells you no more alcohol until the next bar.
"I couldn't trust you to walk in a straight line right now. No."
You gasp, your hand landing on his forearm. His arm is warm. Solid. His arm is the most arm to ever exist. Your favorite arm ever.
"You’re so meannnnn when I’m drunk."
Jack’s mouth curls, and it's ridiculous that he tries to hide it with his glass, because you are an experienced Jack-watcher. You can catch his every little nuance, aka the fondness of his awful half-smiles.
"You’re laughing at me! I see it. You're laughing at me on the inside."
"It's polite to keep it on the inside."
By the third bar, you realize that Jack’s version of bar hopping is too cautious for your liking.
"You're hovering, Jackie."
He chooses the quietest booths and makes you drink water between cocktails. He orders fries just to stare at you while you eat them. He keeps one hand on the back of your chair, his thumb brushing and pushing the nape of your neck.
Just to loosen you up.
"Eat." He dips a fry in ranch and feeds it to you. "Drinking on an empty stomach is a disaster waiting to happen---"
"Oh! Let me feed you."
You shove a fry into Jack's mouth. He chews slowly, breathing low while the neon light above him catches all the silver of his hair and the lines of his face, besides his eyes and around his mouth.
"Is the kid trying to get herself thrown over my shoulder?"
You put a hand to your stomach and bear a shit-eating grin. "This is all it takes? Have another."
You shove another fry against his lips with your chest pressing into his bicep.
Fucking evil is what you are.
Jack decides, with how much you've drank...and with how little you're walking properly, that three bars is enough.
"I wanna bite your nose. Lemme bite your nose."
Jack wraps one arm around your waist and leads you outside, grip tight enough to remind your drunk, perfect, frustrating body that it has a place to lean on.
"Time to go. You're done hopping."
"Noooo. You're a bar hop hater."
You let him steer you outside anyway, mostly because his hand is big and warm at the small of your back. The night air hits your cheeks in a cool wave.
"Sorry, I'm trying to keep you from puking in my truck. I'd call that pretty loving. Of you. And my truck."
The sidewalk is slight from an hour-ago drizzle as the rest of Pittsburgh glows around you, which makes the brick wall outside the bar look so, so pretty.
This is where you live now. On this beautiful brick wall.
"You're shivering, Sleepy. I told you to bring a jacket."
Jack stands in front of you, arms crossed over his chest, and his scowl doesn't scare you. You'll turn it into a smile soon enough.
"I'm shivering with nightlife---ah! Wait. Come here. You're a genius, you just gave me the perfect idea."
The revelation blooms, watered by alcohol and soiled with the manipulation of Jack's words.
You lift both arms. "Pleaseeee."
The tone of your plea always works on him, and he steps closer, grumbling under his breath. Dr. Jack Audrey Abbot is a liar. A weak man when it comes to you making grabby hands at him.
You catch his wrists and tug. He lets you, and for some reason, those videos of big dogs being dressed up by babies come to mind.
"Arms. Around me. Now. Thank you."
Your voice goes high and airy with your thanks, as if you haven't just given Jack a command that you already expect him to follow, but you're not wrong to.
Jack wraps both arms around you, one settling on your upper back and the other around your waist. He pulls you in until your cheek squishes against his chest.
The Jack-formed bulk of him blocks the wind. Your sigh is only made up of bliss.
You nuzzle into him.
"So much better."
"Maybe next time you’ll listen to me. I buy you a bajillion jackets, and for what? Guess they make the coat rack look useful."
You don’t answer right away...because Jack's just mentioned jackets.
Suddenly, you're having the greatest thought anyone has ever had in the history of having a brain. Your eyes widen against his shirt as you gasp.
Jack stiffens. You pull back just enough to look up at him, face bright, maybe too much for his liking.
"You’re my JACKet."
And despite your gracious reveal of a genius pun, Jack only stares. Unblinking. Whatever, you're already laughing like it's the funniest thing in the world.
It is.
"My JACKet. Because your name is Jack, and you’re being a jacket. Oh my God. Jackie. Jackie, did you get it?"
Jack's eyes drop and once over you as you laugh so hard you nearly fall forward, except Jack’s arms hold you up. That only makes it funnier. Your actual human JACKet is keeping you from collapsing over your own joke.
Life is good. You've got the hottest, most mature jacket in the whole wide world, and he's looking at you like he wants to eat you.
"...I got it, baby."
"Because you’re Jack. And a jacket. JACKet." You slap his chest weakly. "I have to...I have to copyright that. Will you help me when we get home?"
Jack sighs as low as where his eyes find you, only before they find your face again. And okay, maybe you're a little too drunk to realize his mouth is twitching again.
"Sure, baby."
That, and you're now aware of how warm you are. Jack's a good jacket, but now your priority is not to lose weight in sweat. You wriggle.
"Okay. I’m not cold anymore. You can let go."
You wait for Jack to release, but with every second that goes by, he only pulls you in tighter.
How dare he not listen to you?
You squirm again, whining, pushing too weakly at his chest again. "Jackie. You're too warm now. Let go."
Jack shrugs.
"You made me your jacket. I’m committed to the role. Should’ve thought of that before branding me."
You whine again, and louder when he smacks your ass. He stops it from jiggling with a harsh grope.
"No whining. You’re the one who wanted arms. You get all loose and happy, start wobbling around the sidewalk, calling me outerwear. Yeah, I’m gonna hold on."
He brushes his mouth against your forehead. You don't think it's a kiss, but you're not sober enough to realize he's trying not to devour you right on the sidewalk.
Jack’s mouth brushes your hairline. Not quite a kiss. Worse. Softer. Like he’s trying not to devour the drunk sweetness out of the moment.
"Humor me, as you've been doing for the past ten minutes."
It's only the city that feels very far off from the brick wall from where he's decided to hold you hostage, his body his own wall against the wind, and his heartbeat against your ear.
You smile into his chest.
"Whatever you say, my jacket."
Jack snorts as if he hates the name, but he doesn't let you go, even when you whine again.
꒰ . ₊˚⊹♡ JACK IN :: you complaining about him losing weight.꒱
jack has always been stubby.
everything about him is thick. legs, arms, neck, tummy, dick. he was like hard squishy that you just couldn't help sinking your teeth in.
specially during sex. your favorite position was missionary. it meant having his thick arms caging you down, his tummy pressing against yours as your nails digged into his beefy shoulders. that feeling alone was enough to bring you to an euphoric orgasm.
but lately, you been starting to feel less tummy and more hard muscle. you loved his tummy! you would lay your head on it, dig your nails into it while riding him.
maybe it was the lack of eating, or maybe the increase of swat shifts he's been taking. whatever it is, you didnt like it. you loved chubby jack, loved his dad bod.
“jeez, im full.” he groaned as he stood up from the couch, gently pushing your legs off his thighs. “what?” you frowned, grabbing onto his hand. “you didnt finish it, jack.” you pulled him back down, shifting so were sitting on his lap.
“yeah but im-” “let me feed you.”
his eyebrows quirked at the sudden shift in position. he also didnt miss the way your hand rested against his now more flatter tummy. but he knew better than to deny you, specially since you looked so cute wanting to take care of him.
unbeknownst to him, you weren't doing it because you were concerned about him not eating. well kinda, but your main concern was getting his tummy back! so, he sits through 30 minutes of you feeding him, your hand against his cheek. which are more hollow now.
its not that he doesn't look good, he really does. but he doesn't look like your jack. your stubby jack. even his fingers are losing their girth. its not an obvious change, but its kind of impossible not to notice when you've had them inside of you several of times.
“what's up with you today?” he says inbetween chews, rough hands running up and down your back, eventually settling on the swell of your hips.
you look down for a moment, looking almost shy. you didnt want to make him feel self conscious, but his body changing did upset you a bit. “i dunno, i just *feel* you getting skinnier.” you whisper, setting the plate down on the couch.
his eyebrows furrow in confusion, head tilting like a confused puppy. “i mean i love how you look baby, so sexy!” you reaffirm, slightly nervous. “but-but-” you let out a sigh, running your hands through his curls more for your comfort than for his. “you're not...chubby anymore.”
you're so caught up in your own yours you dont realize he's smiling down at you, one of his broad hands going up to your head to pull it down to his chest. you melt immediately, cheek pressing against one if his pecks. he's so hard and broad, but yet again, you miss the slight curve of his tummy pressing against you.
“so you're upset because im getting skinnier?” he chuckles, kissing your forehead softly. “i guess so...it sounds bad when you put it like that.” you mumble, gently curling your fingers at his biceps that are holding you in place.
“i thought you would enjoy it, you know, me getting in shape.” he says softly, honestly. and it break your heart thinking that he's probably been feeling self conscious about his body, damn you for not showing him how much you love his stubby self!
“what?” you gasp, shaking your head. “baby you're already so perfect.” you insist, lifting your head up to look at him. “you're so sexy, jack. you dont need to be in shape, you already were.” your last words sound more earnest, it makes him feel better.
“i love your body, and i loved it before you started working out.” you mumble again, kissing his cheek. his scruff scratching your lips. “you better have not been starving yourself jack abbot.” you say more sternly, pinching his cheek.
“i swear, i havent. just been working out more.” he flexes his arm, his bicep looking extra biteable. but even then it doesn't satisfy you. jack sighs, cupping your cheek. “give me a couple of weeks, ill stuff my mouth with grease and junk.” he whispers, smirks as he pulls you closer to him. his cock chubbing in his jeans. “and you... your tummy will be full aswell. full of life, then we'll both be big and fat.”
you gasp, slapping his shoulder. “jackie stopp...” you whine, yet you dont pull away. the imagine does sound appealing. getting his tummy back while you being full of life. “i guess it doesn't sound so bad.” you mumble after a beat, arms wrapping around his neck.
“we can sort things out, i guess.” he grins at yours words. he can already imagine you, your tummy big and round, all swollen for him. “yeah? lets make that happen today, hm? we'll both have 9 months to fatten up.”
content warning: needy!reader, fem!reader, mention of periods/menstrual cycle, dacryphilia, proofread by a very sleepy, crampy girl, daddy kink, use of pet names, sammy’s obsessed with his wife <3
⋆˚✿🍒𐙚⋆˚ minors, do not interact, please ⋆˚✿🍒𐙚⋆˚
sammy x crybaby!wifey who weeps when his cock keeps slipping out of her during sex :(
it’s a been a long week. your body is completely exhausted from your incoming period; shaky and drained, your emotions totally heightened. all you wanted was for sammy to come home and just… lay into you– like really give it to you before you both cuddled up and slept the wednesday away.
dishes were cleaned, leftovers away, the house locked up for the night by the time sammy gets home. it was a flurry of movement throughout your warm, amber lit home. standing from the couch, you curl and uncurl your toes excitedly as the door jingles with sammy’s key.
you can hear the rush of blood in your ears, tongue feeling swollen as the nerve endings on your lobes roar to life. itchy, itchy, itchy. your body is yearning for sammy as you try and cover your pout.
stepping into your shared home, sammy finally sighs in relief at the warm vanilla scent & the sight in front of him. his girl, his sweet baby, standing at the couch waiting for him, cozy sweats & t-shirt making her the picture of comfort.
fuck, he feels too far away already. his green eyes catch on the slight shudder of your body at the sight of him, too.
“hi baby” he tiredly supplies, dropping his keys in the bowl by the door and slipping his shoes off. truthfully, it takes everything in you not to fall to your knees and help him. not to press your cheek against the side of his knee and hug at his calf while he scratches at your scalp. another shudder, his poor baby.
“what’s goin on honey?” sammy coos, voice light and airy as he makes his way over to you. his large palms cradle your cheeks, his own red from being overworked.
you don’t want him to worry, it’s a torment to think that you have caused him more stress just because you’re feeling needy. he doesn’t need more expectations, right?
so you nod and plaster a smile, nuzzling into his hand with a cheery “‘m okay! just really missed you sammy!”
it’s not a lie, you did really miss him. especially when you were wearing his t-shirt and bucking into your fingers unsuccessfully an hour earlier. there was no weight, no hold on top of you that sammy’s thick body always provided.
his thumb runs softly under your eye as he agrees, “okay,” soft and sweet. and the rest of the night goes without a hitch.
dinner, though you are essentially sitting on top of him, is finished pretty quickly.
because sammy sees right through you, always has. it’s no surprise that you, very quickly, find your knees touching your earrings only 15 minutes later.
and it’s filthy. sammy’s tummy warm against the backs of your thighs as pushes in slowly, your toes once again curling and uncurling. his hand stabilizes his lower back a bit, as he wraps the other underneath your knee. “keep ‘em spread. atta girl. good girl, baby.”
it’s all so much, the rocking of your gorgeous wooden bedframe against the wall, the little bead of sweat sliding down sammy’s forehead, the incessant squelching of you & him, the sound of puffy, soft skin slapping. if you weren’t so fucked out, you’d reach out to crush him to your chest in a hug.
his lips are bitten, gel loosening out of his hair as it first happens. “so wet, too fuckin’ wet baby hang on, ah fuck.” he babbles, trying to slip his cock back through your folds as you whine. your chest feels so heavy, the room feeling smaller as you dig your nails into his planted wrist; needing him to feel stable.
he finds his rhythm again, wet plaps & wiggled hips pressing up into your belly. both hands underneath your knees, you’re a total mess, whining and squealing “sammysammysammy” as his speed picks up. puffy cunt sucking him in, binding him to you.
sammy’s own whines pick up “fuck, doin’ so good, so so good mmmm” as he spreads you further. again, the loss of his thick cock causes a loud gasp to escape you.
this time, he wordlessly pumps himself quickly, tapping the tip against your weepy clit before stuffing himself back in as you claw at him.
gritted teeth, you’re almost too loud as you beg “sammy don’t stop, fuckin’ me so good sammy please!” your eyes squeeze shut, so so close as he yanks you forward with two strong hands on your hips. the metal of his silver watch digs into your skin as he moves to lay on top of you, sandwiching your legs between your torsos.
again, the dreaded, agonizing feeling of loss. his cock comes sliding out, and sammy initially chuckles before he looks up at you. it’s the final straw before a long, menstrual cycle.
you’re let out a hysterical cry, hands shaking as you desperately try and stuff him back inside of you. chanting in bratty delirium “no no no!”
he belongs inside, want him inside, need him inside.
“b-baby, hey, hey. whatsa matter princess?” he stops, sitting back up to pull you up with him. that same, comforting coo that makes you feel even emptier right now. you don’t move though, dumb and needy for your man. your man.
“oh god sammy i just fucking need you” you sob, having sammy help sit you up for more air in your lungs.
lightly blowing cold air on your face, he nods along to your sobbing complaints and fights the urge to tuck at his cock. a part of him loves when you cry, and it’s especially doing it for him that you’re crying over a 3 second loss of his cock in your cunt.
frantically you weep, “it’s just been such a long day, and i’m getting my period, and your shift is so long, and i’ve missed you so much, and i’m so tired, and i wanna cum so bad, and i want you to cum in me, and my heart hurts i want it so bad, and i-“
shushing you, sammy’s heart nearly shatters at your need. it’s so basic, so primal, it feels like your chemical make-up could’ve never existed without him filling you every. single. day.
“lotta big feelings, it’s alright, okay i’ll help you. let your sammy help you.” he tuts, laying you back down as your hands stretch to grab him. “too far sammy” “okay, okay, i got you. i have you, ‘s okay.”
sitting back on his haunches, sammy’s cock stands so proudly that you can barely look at it. sniffling and whining, you don’t even recognize yourself as you plead “oh god sammy please” “shhh, ‘m comin, it’s all good”
pulling your hips flush against his, your thighs are thrown over his own as he slides in again. chubby fingers pumping the base until he’s seated so comfortably in you that you’re huffing in relief.
slow fucking, that’s sammy’s favorite. the kind where he can feel the intrinsic chill you get when his tip kisses your cervix. the kind where he can hear your huffs and pouty sobs from how good it feels from the movement and simple knowledge that sammy is as close as he physically can be.
“never gonna slip out again, okay?” he huffs pushing into you in a grind, his hands pressing your arms down into your sides as you tremble.
there’s something so special about your husband seeing your need to let go, and leaving no room for you to do anything but take it. take him. the thought alone has both of you spiraling.
mushy & sweet, like your love for sammy, your cunt swallows him. over and over and over. and sammy finds himself collapsing over top of you. tummy pressed into yours, big biceps wrapping around your head to cradle you as you wail.
“im givin it- i’m givin it to you baby. fuck! milkin’ me dry, ‘s all for you, ‘s all my love” he huffs, his own eyes squeezing shut as he whispers into your ear.
soon the sobs turn to near screams, your hand almost pounding on his back in pleasure. “i love you! sammy, sammy i love you!”
his hips stutter, speeding up his thrusts as his mouth hangs open. breath after breath, his cock keeps coming “i love you baby. never leaving this sweet pussy. never ever, oh my god. full ‘a me forever i promise, always gonna keep you filled up. c’mon baby cum, cum for daddy, that’s it.”
sammy’s gentle voice sends you over the edge, a slobbery open mouth sob leaving your lips as you clutch him closer to you. “that’s it. ‘s good, so good. oh fuck, i’m cumming, so wet.. fuck-fuck!” he shudders, spilling into you and laying his full weight on top of you.
he doesn’t dream of pulling out, just slides over, still connected to you as you snuggle into his chest. sweaty hands moving hair out of your eyes as he smiles, “my good baby, i love you. ‘s that good, you feel better?” but you’re too blissed out to speak. falling asleep in his arms with a smile, finally feeling satiated <3
making his dinner because he’s hungry && stubborn!
assorted pair⋮ ⌗ ‧₊˚ ┊ jack abbot x sweetheart!reader 🎀
preview ⋮ ⌗ ┆ you’ve been texting jack while he’s on shift at ptmc, when he mentions he doesn’t have anything to eat for dinner. so you make him some and deliver since he’s too stubborn to ask or order anything.
warnings ⋮ ⌗ ┆hope yall have a huge sweet tooth for this fluff!! characters included: jack abbot, lena, parker ellis, and john shen!
enjoy, lovelies 𓏲ּ𝄢 ⊹ ࣪ ˖
you had lost track of time while texting jack, it was now 12:00 am, luckily you were off today so not much to worry about. but as you two talked, jack had mentioned his lack of dinner and you felt bad.
and since he forgot to make some and couldn’t just up and leave work, he said he’d just have to wait until his shift finished.
so, you took matters into your own hands, and started cooking while you waited for his next reply. the least you could do was cook something. and before you had started you texted him what you were doing before you started cooking and tuned out your phone. that “something” you planned to make quickly turned into a steak, potatoes, shrimp rice, with two chocolate chip cookies and water bottle.
it’s been about 30 minutes since you texted jack, you weren’t upset. not in the slightest, you knew he had to have been busy with a patients or an emergency.
neighbor jack 😫: “it’s fine, i can hold off till the end of my shift. i’ve done it many times, sweetheart.”
you rolled your eyes at the message. he can never ask for help, can he? your had suggested in earlier messages to cook for him. but he brushed it off, saying that he was just going to a fast food place once he had a break.
like you’d let that happen.
once you finished cooking, you packed it up into containers of one of your spare bento boxes. you tried to pick one of your less girlier ones for him, and found an older navy blue one.
you put a robe on over your lace pajama set (tank top and sleep pants). put on a pair of bunny slippers, grabbed your keys from the bowl and went to your car to get to the pitt. once you got there it felt very different from the daytime.
like vastly different. you knew not to think of the “q” word for the staffs sake.
you went to the nurses station, and asked for jack.
“jack? jack abbot?” you shook your head and held up the lunchbox. “aw, that’s sweet of you.” the charge nurse, who’s name you learned was lena complimented.
you waited patiently for him, and saw him turn the corner.
“I thought i told you i’d get something to eat later?” he said walking up to you.
“and yet i’m here holding your dinner.” you replied with a smile.
“you’re so stubborn.” he jokingly sighed and pulled you into a hug. “you’re worse.” you said playfully.
you both pulled away from the hug and you handed him the lunchbox. “inside you have a steak, potatoes, shrimp, rice, two cookies, and some water.”
“oh i get dessert?” he asked with a smirk.
“oh shut up.” you rolled your eyes sarcastically. he pulled you back in for a hug, and he kissed your forehead then took the lunchbox from your hands.
the action caught you off guard, but not in a bad way. your eyes widened and you stumbled back. “woah! you good?” you held up your hand to your forehead. “mhm! yeah. ‘m fine, just a little flustered.” you said awkwardly, making him laugh.
you looked over his shoulder and realized two doctors had been watching you two, pretending to be working. jack sighed and turned around. “ellis, shen, get back to work.” the two snickered and walked off. “they’re gonna be two pains in my ass now.” you giggled. “oh so my annoyance is funny?”
“for me, absolutely.”
“you should get home, you never know when it could get hectic around here.” he said softly, taking you hand and starting to walk with you.
“yeah, i’m starting to get sleepy anyway.” you yawned.
“if you start to feel too tired, pull over and sleep some, okay?”
“okay.” you said mockingly. “sweetie?” he called out to you. “yeah?” you turned to him. “thank you.” his face looked so sweet and his features were soft. the way he looked at you started to make you feel flustered again.
“anytime, jack. you know that.” you smiled softly.
he walked you out to your car. “get home safe. and text me when you get home.” he said as you got into your car.
“okay jack.” you said with fake exasperation. you both said your goodbyes and he went back inside to continue his shift.
“well, you’re becoming quite the romantic.” lena said while looking down at her computer.
“yeah, yeah.” he swatted his hand at her. “you better thank her with more than just words!” she shouted as he began to walk off, and he shook his head at her words.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱
the next morning ⋆˙⟡ ⸝⸝
you woke up to repeated knocking on your front door. you saw that bonnet was halfway across the room. you got out of your bed, picked up your bonnet (and put it on), while the knocking persisted.
“i’m coming!” you yelled. irritated by being woken up so abruptly on your day off was annoying. the door swung open and revealed a mailman, “sign here please.” you took the pen and clipboard then handed it back to him.
you rubbed your eyes and saw that practically your entire hallway was full of flowers. you jaw dropped, your eyes widened, and you were definitely awake now.
you saw a card on the flower on your mat. you bent down to pick it up. inside it read:
“thanks for the dinner last night. i appreciate it, you should not listen to me more often. anyways, could i take you dinner sometime soon?”
content warnings/description: 18+ MDNI, AFAB reader, murder (not described in detail), (1) dead body, blood mention(s), unprotected (PIV) sex, dry humping, hurt/comfort, established relationship, pope POV
author’s note: this fic was supposed to be freakier, but i couldn’t help making it a little more angsty and fluffy (as much as possible when a murder is involved) than intended. this is my first pope fic, and he’s a very difficult character to write, so please give me a little grace for OOC-ness. enjoy!
When you ring late at night, past your normal bedtime, Pope answers with a wrinkle between his brows. He sits up in bed, his back straight and shoulders square, phone gripped in his meaty hand and held to his ear.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
You breathe heavily into his ear. Short, rapid breaths.
“Can you come over?” Your voice trembles. “I did something. Something bad. I need your help. Please, Andrew.”
He blinks. His mind races, trying to piece together what you, of all people, his darling, sweet angel who wouldn’t harm a fly, could have done to warrant such distress.
He gently shushes you when you break out into a sob. “I’ll be there. Don’t worry.”
No questions asked.
Pope hesitates when he’s just outside your door. He texts you that he’s here instead of knocking. He doesn’t want to attract unwanted attention.
You respond instantly.
The door is unlocked.
He curses himself for not checking first. Love and worry make him stupid. He opens the door and closes it behind him, locking it with a soft click.
Right away, he can sense that something is off.
Light in the apartment is faint, pouring in from where it’s flipped on in the restroom in the hallway that leads to your bedroom.
He can smell it.
The sickly sweet, rusty smell of blood that he’s spilled time and time again. More familiar to him than water, now.
His heart pounds against his breastbone, an erratic thundering. Are you hurt? You didn’t sound hurt when you spoke over the phone.
What have you gotten yourself into?
His footsteps are heavy but silent across your carpet, as stealthy as Pope can manage for a man his size and weight. He hears squishing beneath his feet as he nears the restroom, something oozing out from under his sneakers and seeping into the fibers of the carpet. The door is a quarter of the way open, and he raps on it lightly so you know he’s just outside.
The smell is strongest here. He looks down at his shoes, illuminated by the flickering light of the restroom. They’re covered in red.
“Come in,” you whisper.
The door creaks open.
“What happened?” he asks, crouching beside you on the bath mat.
You’re seated on your knees in front of the bathtub, bloodied and beautiful, face wet with tears.
You wipe your eyes with your forearm, tracking blood across your cheekbones. The blood is everywhere: on your exposed skin, on your clothes. Not to mention the coppery trail of it leading to the tub. Your top looks as if it were spray-painted red.
You’re wearing a virginal white sleep set. Soft and flowy. Splattered and tainted with blood.
You sniffle. “I killed him.”
Pope hates seeing you cry. He feels his eyes water, but he manages to hold back the tears.
“Who is he? Why’d you kill him?” he asks calmly, non-accusingly, eyeing the corpse in the tub before returning focus on you.
“This is—this was—my coworker. He found out where I lived and showed up here unannounced. Shouldered his way inside and wouldn’t leave.”
So, this is him, Pope thinks. The pushy coworker you complained about to him before. You told him not to get involved, said you could handle him yourself.
Looks like you did.
“Did he hurt you?” Pope asks, a dangerous edge to his voice.
“No, but he would not leave. I threatened the cops on him, but he knew that I was just bluffing.”
Pope is nowhere near the paragon of patience, but he is struggling to understand why you would have killed him over his refusal to leave. You could have called him, and he would have been over in an instant to kick him out for you.
His brows furrow. “I don’t get it.”
You bite your lower lip hard, your fists clenched. “He knew about you. Your family’s reputation. About us. He... he said some things.”
“Like what? You can tell me.”
Pope rubs your back gently when you fall silent, wordlessly urging you to continue.
“I was defending you from the bullshit he was saying about you,” you spit, your tears halting to make way for the anger bubbling over, “things got heated, and we got into a fight. He said that you’re not good for me. That you’re dangerous. He cornered me in the kitchen, threatening to turn what he knows about you and your brothers in to the police unless I broke up with you, and so I—I grabbed a knife, and the rest is history.”
Pope takes a second to scrutinize the man in the tub.
His throat is slashed. The blood flow has tapered off, an inky scarlet swirling down the drain.
“I didn’t mean to do it. I thought I’d just nick him and he’d back off, but he said that he was a better, safer option, that he could take better care of me than you can, and I… I got so mad. Next thing I know—”
“It’s okay,” Pope reassures, “I’ve done a lot worse for a lot less. You dragged him in here?”
You nod. “There was so much blood. I panicked. I figured it’d be easier to deal with him in the tub, but it got everywhere on the way. I couldn’t move him fast enough to keep it from spilling onto the carpet.”
“Dead bodies are heavy,” he grunts in agreement, “but you did a smart thing. Where’s the knife?”
“Left it in the kitchen.” You turn your body to face him directly, gathering your legs to hug your knees. “What are we going to do now?”
“You’re not doing anything. I’m taking care of this.”
“Andrew, no. This is my mess. At least let me be of help.”
He holds your chin between his fingers, maintaining eye contact. “You’ve been through enough. I know some guys that can replace the carpet, and I can get rid of the body. I’ll make it like it never happened.”
Abruptly, you push him back by the shoulders so he sits on the floor with his back to the wall, and settle yourself over his lap, a wild look in your eyes. His brain stalls for a moment.
“You’re going to make my problems go away, huh, Andrew?”
“I’d do anything for you.” earnest, truthful.
Your lips are on his before he can process what’s going on. The shock of the situation must be wearing off, and with Pope taking things out of your hands, you must feel like you owe him this as a sort of repayment.
He breaks the kiss and pulls away, even as much as he would like to keep kissing you.
“Stop. You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to.” You pout. “You’re so good to me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
He glances at the graying body, blood-drained in the bathtub.
“Isn’t this… uncomfortable for you?”
You shake your head. “No, as a matter of fact,” you clutch his wrist and hold his hand to your breast, your heart thumping, “I’m a little... excited?”
“That’s the adrenaline. You’re going to crash come morning,” he warns.
“Then let’s make the most of it tonight?”
Pope thinks. The sun won’t be up for another several hours, and all that needs to be done is the cleanup and the drive out to the dumping spot. He also needs to make a phone call to one of his contacts about the bloodied carpet, but that can be done quickly. The last thing he wants to do is involve his brothers, or worse yet, J, but he can rely on them if need be as well. It’s worth sparing some time if it means it’ll get your mind off what happened.
“Let’s not take too long.”
You offer a watery smile, returning your lips to his. You rock your hips against his bulge, thick and trapped in his jeans. He can feel the heat radiating off your cunt through your thin sleep shorts. He sneaks a hand beneath the waistband, a rumble in his chest that you swallow down when he finds you aren’t wearing underwear.
“Fuck, Andrew,” you breathe out against his lips when he rubs your clit in tight circles, “you know I love you, right?”
That’s all it takes.
In combination with your words, your weight settled over his erection, grinding and humping him for your own pleasure, your cunt warm and wet, he comes in his pants, his fingers twitching against your clit as you pepper sloppy kisses along the side of his neck. He’s learned to not get embarrassed over how fast you can get him over the finish line.
He groans, reaching his other hand up to lift your face from where it’s tucked between his neck and shoulder so he can pant against the side of your neck, pressing his lips to the salty skin as his hips jump from the aftershocks of his orgasm. He breathes the scent of you in to calm himself down, traces of blood, salt, and a hint of your shampoo hitting the back of his tongue when he licks and nips your pulse point.
“I love you, too, angel,” he says, slightly out of breath, “let me return the favor.”
The bathroom isn’t well suited for rolling around, so Pope drags you to your bedroom. And as much as you throw a fit, “want to have sex in front of a dead body. Never done it before,” he refuses to buckle.
He doesn’t like to rush, not with you. He prefers slow, sensual lovemaking. He is pretty sure you do, too, but tonight you’re not yourself.
Your face is pressed into the mattress, back arched and ass up, toes curling over the edge of the bed. You both will remember this night for the rest of your lives. This moment in particular for him.
Turning your head over your shoulder, you plead, “please, Andrew, fuck. Harder. I want to feel it in the morning.”
He pants, catching his breath. A bead of sweat rolls down his muscular back. He pulls out of you, and you whimper from the loss.
He’s being rough as it is. Most likely you’ll wake up with bruises from how hard he’s been gripping your hips and thighs, a sore cunt from how deep he’s been thrusting into you at this angle.
“I won’t hurt you.”
“C’mon, I just… I want you to be rough with me.”
He shakes his head. He’s had a lifetime of roughness. But with Smurf dead now, he’s no longer under her control, no longer her mutt to unleash upon whoever she thinks deserves a bite from a set of sharp teeth. He wants a softer life with you, if he can help it. That translates to sex, too.
“Is that what you think you deserve? To hurt?” Pope asks, his voice grave.
You ignore his question, instead asking, “can I take over?” You scramble into a kneeling position and point to the headboard. “Flat against the pillows.”
Pope huffs but relents, not pushing you to talk if you don’t want to. Not right now, at least. What happened tonight is still too fresh.
He crawls up the bed and adjusts himself so he’s leaning against the headboard, looking at you in all your naked, sweat-slick glory.
You straddle and hover over him, tapping the head of his cock against your clit before dragging it along your slit to tease yourself and then slowly sinking down on him.
The dim light of your lamp is bright enough that he can clearly see the blood splattered on your skin. He licks his thumb and brings it up to your face, wiping some of it away.
You ride his cock, lifting up and lowering down on it in quick succession, eager and needy for your release. He helps speed things along by rubbing his fingers on your swollen clit, his other hand kneading your breast, pulling mewls from you.
You wrap your arms around his neck and drag yourself down on top of him, your upper body connected to his, grinding and rocking against his pelvis now more than bouncing on his cock.
He feels tears, hot and plentiful, drip onto his neck.
“Hey, you okay?” he asks, though right away he knows it was stupid to. The reality is crashing into you at full force. “We should stop. Don’t cry. I’ve got you.”
He twines his arms around your middle, holding you tight to him as your hips still.
Between tears, you puff against his neck, “just want to come. For a second, just want to forget. Please help me.”
What kind of man would he be not to heed your call for help?
He lifts your head from the crook of his neck, his hands cradling your cheeks, kissing all over your teary face. One of his hands reaches down between your bodies to your clit, twitchy and wet with slick, rubbing it with just enough pressure to make you come but slowly so as not to overwhelm you.
You breathe out a little sigh as your orgasm washes over you, a gentle, soothing wave more than a wild crashing of water.
You lie there for a moment, resting your head against his chest, your tears drying, your heart rate slowing.
Pope rubs your lower back in soothing, mindless shapes, almost lulling you into sleep. Before your eyes close, though, he carefully sits up, holding you to his chest as he pulls you up with him. If it weren’t for the body slowly decomposing in your tub, he would stay here with you for as long as you need.
He gets out from under you and collects his clothes from the floor, throwing them back on. “Sit here for a minute. I need to get rid of the body. I want you to take a shower once I get him out of the tub.”
“What... where are you taking him?” you ask.
“It’s better you don’t know.”
“I’m going with you. This is all my fault. I need to see things through to the end.”
He huffs in frustration. There’s little he can do to change your mind once you’ve decided on something. It’s not as if he can’t force you to stay put, but he has the tendency to give in to you, to crumble in your loving hands.
“I’m going to put him in the trunk. I still want you to take a shower. Wash off the blood. Then we’ll go. You don’t mind me using one of your rugs, do you?”
Pope drives and drives. You sit by his side on the passenger seat of his truck, looking out the window, despondency rolling off you in waves. You washed tonight’s events from your skin and mopped and wiped them from the kitchen floor and knife, but they'll forever be imprinted on your mind.
He takes back and side roads where he can, exercising caution in case this problem of yours comes back to haunt you. Fewer cameras capturing the two of you heading out to where the dumping spot is this way.
The adrenaline of the kill is well worn off by now, and you’re feeling it: the guilt, the worry, the shame of what you’ve done. Though Pope has been through what you’re going through a concerning amount of times, he doesn’t quite know what to say to console you.
Do you regret killing your coworker? Should you? He knows you well enough to know that you’re fighting with yourself in your head, asking yourself these questions, working the past few hours over with a fine-toothed comb to see if there was not another path you could’ve taken.
Pope doesn’t have room for judgment, and especially not room to judge you. He doesn’t care what you did. The man forced himself into your home and threatened you, though not with his fists but with his words. Still, in his eyes, it was self-defense.
He reaches across the center console to hold your hand in his, rubbing his thumb along your knuckles, physical touch, something he has been so lacking in before you, the only way he knows to ease your mind. His touch relaxes you, your thrumming heart rate slowing to something steadier against the thin skin of your wrist.
“It’ll be okay,” he says, clearing his throat of the rasp. It’s been just under an hour since leaving your apartment, and this is the first time he’s said anything. You haven’t had much to contribute to the conversation, either. “I’m here.”
You face him, then, a weak smile pulling at your lips. “I know.”
A field of sprawling, lush green grass, still wet from a week of the rare bout of summer rain, the soil loamy and soft enough to dig a hole the size of a man’s full-grown body, is where Pope drives out to.
“Stay in the car.”
You won’t be of much help with only one shovel to go around. You nod tiredly, not bothering to put up a fight, which he is grateful for.
He lets go of your hand and hops out of the truck, popping the trunk and pulling out the shovel.
Hours later, the hole is dug, and Pope drops the rug-rolled body into its grave with an unceremonious kick to the torso, sunlight peeking out from the far horizon, spilling onto the surrounding field of grass in soft hues of orange and yellow.
It takes him only a quarter of the time to pile the dirt back into the ground and return the shovel to the trunk, the sweat cooling from his skin with the decrease in effort.
Once he shuts the trunk, he hears the side door open and watches as you step out of the car.
He cocks his head in confusion. “Where are you going? The job is done.”
You don’t respond, your back facing him, and walk out further into the field. You sit down on a patch of grass a few yards away, leaning back on your hands and watching the sunrise.
Not but a few seconds later he approaches, crouching down beside you.
He says your name, worry creeping in on the edge of it. “We can’t stay here. Don’t you want to go home?”
You glance at him and then face the sky again. “Not even for a little while? The breeze is nice.”
He plops down on the ground with a grunt, stretching his legs out and rolling his neck and shoulders against the bite of the growing ache. “Just for a few minutes.”
“That’ll do.”
He wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side. He sits there with you for a few precious minutes, indulging in the cool breeze running its fingers through his hair and the sun kissing his skin and your scent enveloping him in a hug.
Your voice pulls him out of a trance.
“Andrew.”
“Hm?”
“I don’t feel...” you sigh, running your fingers through blades of grass. “I don’t feel as guilty as I think I should. I killed someone, but I feel more guilty that I don’t feel guilty about it, if that makes sense. Does... does that make me a bad person?”
Pope holds back a bark of laughter. “You’re asking me? You know what I’ve done in the past. You’re... you’re nothing but an angel compared to me.”
“I’m asking you because I care what you think.”
“No. No,” he repeats, “you’re not a bad person. You did what you thought you had to do. Something I would have done if it meant protecting you. You gave him a chance to back off, and he didn’t take it. That’s on him.”
“I don’t scare you?”
Pope cradles the line of your jaw, turning your head in his direction. “Is that what you’re worried about?” He presses a kiss on your forehead, putting forth all the emotion he can muster into it. “You’ll never scare me.”
You hum, reaching your hand up to wrap your fingers around his wrist, tilting your head to press your lips to his hand. “We are quite the pair, aren’t we.”
You sit there for a little while longer, watching the sun inch higher up the sky.
pairing: pope cody x bambi!reader ( no use of y/n )
summary: pope wishes he was your favorite cody brother.
content warnings: fem!reader, mention of how pope gets mistreated by everyone else in his life, mention of drugs + alcohol, they share a bed, too many mentions of smurf, they're kind of loneliest guy in the world x loneliest girl in the world
a/n: hai my lovelies! this is me introducing bambi reader to you!!!! the link leads to a pinterest board, which i'm still working on, but i hope you like her as much as i do. gif credits to @wesandresons !! <3
wc: 4.4k
No one was exactly sure why you were friends with Craig. Not even Craig, but he liked you. And though he tried his best to get you into his bed, it never worked. And god, he tried. Annoyingly so. Your resolve never wavered, standing with not being interested in Craig whatsoever.
At every party he threw, you were the girl hiding in the living room or in the kitchen. Anywhere where strange, drunk and high, people couldn't talk to you. It was almost impossible to find you, yet you also seemed to never go home, instead deciding to remain at the loud party surrounded by people you didn't like.
It was strange for Pope to watch you, know that you feel the same things he did, but do nothing.
You had every right to disappear, leave this haunted house, go back to your own.
Instead, he'd find you in the living room, remote in hand. You'd usually shoot him a sweet, knowing smile, aware that he was feeling just as uneasy as you did. Not fond of any loud noise, or drunk people. And he wished he had the courage to ask you if you wanted to leave the house with him, if you wanted to just drive around, sit at the beach and watch the waves.
But he'd always turn on his heels and go back outside and hate himself for it.
If he asked you to sit with him, you probably wouldn't even bother him, wouldn't try and force him to drink alcohol or get high like everyone else. You probably wouldn't even talk to him, knowing he liked his silence. He always regretted not asking you the moment the smell of beer hit his nose, and the moment water splashed onto his clothes, while people laughed around him. It made him feel lonely and different.
Still, he couldn't figure out why you were always at their house. Smurf wasn't good company, obviously, though she tolerated you just barely. Mostly because you kept to yourself. She knew you wouldn't blab to anyone about the Cody's jobs or that you never intended on going against her.
You were just there.
And no one complained, because you were like a fresh breath of air. You smiled and within two minutes you'd have J smiling too. You stayed around a lot, but never for too many days. If you went over, you were there for a long time, but the moment you disappeared, you were gone.
There seemed to be no specific reason for it. You seemed to be just overly concerned that you were being too much and bothering people. He knew you were a lonely girl, but he was also aware that your fear of being too much overpowered your grave sense of loneliness that you were never able to hide.
It was a bad habit of yours, always apologizing, even for existing seemingly. Craig had shot you numerous perplexed looks, never having heard this many sorry come from one person ever. But Pope knew he liked it, enjoying the fact that someone saw him as important enough to feel bad for him, that he was worthy enough to receive the sweetest girl's ever apologies.
Pope on the other hand, hated it. He hated the word sorry, and he especially hated it coming from you.
Whenever you apologized, whether it was accidentally brushing his arm while you were in the kitchen, or speaking, what you thought was, for too long, Pope would shut you down. And he'd always do it in a cold tone, knowing that was the most effective way to stop you completely from ever uttering that word around him again.
He knew his voice would startle you, not expecting Pope who was always kind to you, to speak to you that way.
His plan worked, and you started biting your lip hard the moment the word slipped out. You'd look up panicked, and that would usually be enough for him. He'd shot you a dry look, bored even. And you'd shake your head and mumble, 'I take that back.' and he'd drop the look immediately, resorting to his normal soft look that he always wore around you.
The word didn't completely disappear from your vocabulary, but now you uttered it almost never when he was around, and it made Pope feel less worried about being in your presence.
Everyone adored you and sometimes he hated it. It worried him that everyone felt the same adoration he did for you, that somehow you'd never pay attention to him. Given his brothers were much better at being affectionate, it made him feel like he was behind. Like it was a competition to be your favorite brother, and he was last, not even having started the run, because he didn't know how to. That the moment Craig brought you into the house and introduced you, a starter pistol went off, and everyone started running.
It didn't stop him from seeking you out all the time. Whenever the question 'Where's Pope? popped up, the answer was the same. With you. Always with you.
Mostly, because you followed him around. When he'd reject your offers to sit with you on the couch at parties, you'd get up and follow him.
There the two of you would stand somewhere and observe the party together, both with the same repulsed expression. For him, it was the dirt and the carelessness, for you it was the loudness of it all.
When you caught Pope in front of a dark TV, staring at himself in the reflection, you'd tap his shoulder softly. Just two taps, never wanting to overwhelm him. "My car's making weird sounds," you'd say softly, and he'd get up and help you.
Sometimes you'd tell him something was broken in your home, and he'd drive to your place without a word. You'd always try to drag out his stay, offering him cookies (because you were absolutely terrible at cooking) or offering sodas.
Sometimes, he'd catch you looking around the room nervously, looking for new problems he could fix. So he'd grumble out a "Sink sounded weird earlier," and you'd smile so wide, it was like the sun came out from behind the clouds.
Things like this made him doubt everything.
Maybe you didn't dislike him as much as he thought, maybe he did have the potential to be your favorite brother.
But then he'd watch you light up when Deran would tell you he finally figured out how to make your favorite mocktail. (Obviously, you never had to pay a cent. If not for Deran shaking his head as you handed him money, then it was Pope who paid for everything you ate and drank.)
Even Craig offered to teach you how to surf. The shy expression you always wore around Pope would disappear and your smile would be so radiant Pope wouldn't be able to look away, never having gotten the privilege to see such an open expression from you.
Things like these made Pope doubt everything, consider that maybe the shy expression was just your uncomfortable one, that when you needed help at home, it was simply because you needed help and nothing else.
He knew Deran and Craig were absolutely terrible at fixing things, and he feared that, just like everyone else, you too viewed him as a tool, something to use and throw away. That he was just waiting for the throw-away part, and that it was coming sooner or later.
But he couldn't help but have all his worries vanish into thin air, whenever you decided to grace him with your big thankful eyes and an even wider, dazzling smile.
The first time he felt like too much for you, so much he wanted to run away, was when you joined him in the garage.
You softly knocked against the doorway. "Andrew?" you always said his name so sweetly, it made him want to record it and listen to it like a lullaby until he fell asleep, which didn't happen much these days.
He looked up at you. "You're awake." He furrowed his eyebrows in concern. It was pitch dark outside, and he figured you were asleep in the living room.
You shook your head. "Couldn't sleep." you smiled softly, your eyes telling him to please drop it. He did, turning his head back to what he was working on.
You stepped closer, and he could smell the perfume that he loved so much. Before he knew it, you were towering over him, lightly brushing up against his shoulder. "What are you working on?" you titled your head, staring down at whatever it was you were looking at.
"Part of the car. Stopped working last night," he replied in a low voice, not raising his head, even though he really really wanted to see your pretty face.
You glanced around, spotted what you needed and sat down. You pulled the chair closer to him, setting your elbows on the table in the process. "Mind if I watch you?"
Pope glanced at you, and his eyes darted all over your face, trying to gauge what exactly the point here was. You seemed sincere, so he hummed.
You laid your cheek in your palm and watched him. Your big eyes stared at his hands with so much interest, they started to tremble a bit.
The silence between you was filled with the sound of an owl and the ticking of a broken clock somewhere in the garage.
Five minutes must've passed by now and Pope had never understood until now how silence could be nice even with someone else in it. It wasn't like he couldn't feel your presence. No. He knew you were here, but he enjoyed it. More than enjoy, he craved it. He wanted to stay in this little room forever, hearing nothing but your soft breaths and the sound of you tapping your foot restlessly on the floor.
He didn't hate the silence like when he did with Smurf, who sat with him in silence at breakfast and watched him eat.
No, he loved the feeling of your soft eyes watching him work, knowing he was good at what he did, and that you were admiring him.
"You're not tired?" you asked after a while, careful not to be too loud, not wanting to disturb his work.
"No." When Pope looked up, he met your eyes immediately, like you'd been watching his face rather than his eyes, and your lips lifted into a flustered smile.
Embarrassed, like you'd been caught. He wasn't sure what it was, but he almost felt the need to gloat about it. Sweetest girl he knew was caught staring at him.
Stupid.
He looked away again, almost in shame, because how dare he think that you were admiring him. You were sleepy and he was awake. That's it. Had Craig been out here, you probably would've joined him too. He was nothing special.
"S'nice watching you," You brushed a hand over your face, rubbing your eyes tired.
Pope looked up, because surely he'd misheard, but you shot him a sweet smile, soft hair falling over your shoulders as you rubbed your eyes, hard, again.
People couldn't even stand to utter his name, and you were telling him that he was nice to watch. Like his presence was worth acknowledging. Like it was something good, like his presence wasn't to be feared, like he didn't hear the rumors in town about how people feared the thought of him.
Horrible, awful Pope who hit and hurt people, who made a mess of people and things, of everything.
A kind girl like you liked to watch him in the middle of the night doing things that his brothers called weird, made them shake their heads as they looked away in disappointment and shame, wishing they'd had a normal brother, one more like them.
He must've stayed quiet for too long, because you froze. "Sorry, did—did I say something wrong?" nervously, you toyed with your heart necklace.
"No—No you didn't." Pope shook his head quickly, eyes darting back down to his car part. His fingers twitched nervously. "You should try to sleep." And he could sense he'd said the wrong thing, because your eyes widened for a second, and worry overtook your face.
"Oh—right, yeah you're right." Stumbling over your words nervously, you stood up, and Pope regretted it.
He hadn't meant this. He was just trying to tell you that he appreciated your kindness, but surely he wasn't that interesting. "I meant— it's not healthy to stay awake," he managed out, eyes darting back up to your face and back down. "It's not good for you." he managed out nervously.
You looked down at him, and you stood there for a bit, before sitting back down slowly, understanding he didn't want you to go. "Yeah— I know." You toyed with a bolt on the table, rolling it in between fingers before you looked back at Pope who was still watching you. "Craig keeps yelling in his room about his video game, and Smurfs still awake by the Pool." You dropped the bolt. "It's distracting."
"You can sleep in my room," Pope said, and given your reaction, it wasn't exactly something you expected him to say. But it made sense to him. "You can't hear Craig in there."
You stared at him, your eyes wide, making them bigger than they already were. "You want me to sleep in your room?"
Pope wasn't sure what was so confusing. It wasn't like his room was bad. Sure, it was a bit empty, but he took care of it, it was clean. He pushed the car part away, getting up from his chair. "I'll get you new bed sheets," and then he just walked out of the garage. You stood in the empty garage, mouth open, before you scrambled to follow him.
To your luck, Smurf was fast asleep, bottles of alcohol next to her, and you hurried to follow Pope. Inside, he led you to his room, grabbing clean bed sheets out of one of the closets in the hallway, before walking into his room.
You stood in the doorway watching Pope fix the bed for you. Were you dreaming? Was Pope actually fixing his bed for you?
You looked down and pinched your skin. "Ouch." you muttered to yourself. Not a dream, officially and definitely not a dream.
Pope turned his head to you. "You need pajamas?" he asked, but you shook your head.
You never took, unless you were outright suffering and Pope's eyes slowly darted down to the goosebumps across your skin, which were visible even with just two night lights on.
You were wearing a simple white lace tank top and California nights weren't exactly known for their heat. Even Smurf outside, was sleeping with at least two blankets. He turned, opened a drawer and grabbed a hoodie. When he handed it to you, you didn't take it.
"Is that yours?"
Pope nodded, almost worried. "I—You can have one of Deran's if you want."
"Nope, I—I'd like yours." you managed, grabbing the hoodie and letting it swallow you whole. It was warm, and it smelled nice, so very nice. You couldn't help the way your head just lowered a tiny bit, letting yourself smell how nice Pope's scent was.
Pope had already looked away the sight too much, and was now awkwardly staring down at the bed, fingers twitching nervously at his sides. "Okay, have— have a good night."
In all of your years of living, you'd never been this bold before. You weren't even sure what overcame you. Your hand reached out, and you grabbed Pope's bicep lightly before he walked past you.
You felt him freeze up, eyes locked onto your hand around his bicep, and you had to resist the urge to squeeze, to test how really hard and warm his bicep was. "Will—" you bit your lip, already regretting starting the sentence. "Don't you wanna sleep?"
"I have to work." His eyes flickered back down to your soft hands around his bicep.
You had pink polish on with brown polka dots. It was sweet. He'd seen you paint them once, you'd even helped Lena with hers. Lena had been so happy, and hadn't stopped talking about you the entire afternoon after you'd gone home. He had been glad to know that someone else felt about you the way he did.
You dropped your hand, disappointment flickering across your face. Pope's eyes darted around your face, noting how close you were but also how you were still trying to find your words. He waited.
"I'd like you to stay," you phrased it so sweetly, the way you always did, but for the first time you told him what you wanted. There was no if it's okay with you, you don't have to, no it's okay.
No, you straight up wanted something from him and God would he be stupid if he said no to you.
His eyes darted back to the bed and his eyes stayed there for a while, thinking. "I have to turn off the lights in the garage."
"I'll wait here!" You looked like you were about to start bouncing up and down from excitement.
Pope watched you for a second before turning and walking down the hallway, wondering what on earth led him to commit to this.
Meanwhile, you were in disbelief, palm to your mouth, as you muttered. "Oh my god. Oh my god." Oh my god, you were going to die. You glanced at the bed, deciding to get in now, before you were stuck in the awkward moment of having to argue with him about what side to take.
You pushed back Popes clean blue covers, slowly settling down in bed, and god was it was warm and soft. And it smelled nice.
You pulled the hoodie sleeves down over your wrists, nervously squeezing your eyes shut. You couldn't believe he'd agreed to this.
Pope walked back slowly, boots thudding on the floor until he stood in the doorway looking at the top of your head. Not to seem like a creep, he didn't linger, quickly stepping in. He could feel your pretty eyes watching him as he grabbed a set of fresh boxers, shirt and a towel.
"Gonna take a shower, won't take long," he said, barely looking at you. The sight was too much for him to handle.
"Okay," you said softly, eyes following him until he was in his bathroom.
You passed the time by opening every drawer of his, checking out what he had in there. Barely anything. You sighed, Pope wasn't much of a talker, so you'd hoped you'd find out more about him in his room.
He wasn't joking when he said he wouldn't take long, because just as you were checking out his bottom drawer, he showed up. You shut the drawer with the loudest bang! possible before scrambling back into a horizontal position, embarrassed.
Pope's eyes darted down to the drawer before lifting to your embarrassed expression. He was more endeared by anything. Any other person and he would've gotten suspicious, but you were toying with his sheets nervously, avoiding his eyes, and he knew you'd just been curious.
He'd caught you walking around the house, staring at every picture more than once. He was more than aware of your curious nature.
He brushed a hand through his curls as he walked to his side of the bed, and you lifted the sheets for him.
You somehow managed to still surprise him with your small sweet gestures. He'd lived his whole life in Oceanside, and with his reputation, people had stopped granting him kindness, even as simple as receiving a thank you.
He felt so endlessly grateful that one person on this earth was able to be kind to him, that maybe he wasn't as evil as he thought, that there was a chance for him. That if someone like you looked at someone like him and thought he was worth it, worth spending your time and sweetness on, he might actually have a chance in life.
He slipped under the sheets, and you dropped them, making the warmth hit him all at once. He liked to sleep on his side looking at the wall, but it felt almost insane to miss out on seeing your pretty face all night, so he stayed on his back, view narrowing to the ceiling.
You, on the other hand, turned to your side, palm under your cheek. "Your bed's soft." You whispered, and he turned his head to you, eyes darting away shyly when he noticed your intense stare. He figured his bed was nice enough, almost relieved it was up to your standards. He'd been worried in the shower that you'd make some excuse, and he'd come out, looking like a wet puppy, to an empty bed.
"What?" he asked after he felt you stare for a little more.
"Your curls are nice," you whispered. "Always wanted to tell you that, but was too scared."
"Of me?" It just slipped out of Pope's mouth. He didn't want to know the answer to that question.
"What? No." Confusion was written all over your face, your lips curling into a frown. "I'm just— it's a weird thing to say. That's all."
Pope stared at you. Not scared of him. You weren't scared of him. ’S'not weird." He held your stare for a while until his nervousness overtook his entire body, leading him to glance away again, eyes focusing back on the white canvas above him.
"Thanks for dinner tonight."
Smurf hadn't been up for it for some reason and Deran or Craig didn't care, so Pope had made food just for you. You hadn't even told asked, and maybe that's why he made it, because he knew you never would.
He turned his head, happy you were giving him an excuse to look at you. "D'you like it?"
"Loved it." you smiled softly. "You could be a professional cook."
Pope's mouth almost lifted into a smile at that, but then you scooted closer, and he froze up. His arm, which had been resting on the side of the bed, almost touching your stomach now. You were so close, he could see how pretty your eyes were up close.
They had always been his favorite part about you. When Craig had first introduced you, Pope knew his brother had warned you about him, told you he was crazy and weird. His brothers did that with everyone they brought to the house, and their friends would always eye him weirdly, and he'd never be given the chance to show them that he was capable of kindness. That he could be as normal as they wanted him to be.
But you, you, had smiled, lifted your hand in a wave and looked at him in a way that no one had looked at him in years. Soft, kind, and open-minded.
He stared at you, and you stared back, and then you slowly lifted your hand.
"Can I—?" you whispered softly, and he was startled by the fact that you asked, so he nodded.
People never asked before they touched him. The only touches he received were involuntary ones from Smurf, or punches from his brothers and strangers. Never ones from sweet girls that asked before they settled their hand softly at his temple, toying with one of his curls.
The bottom half of your hand touched his cheekbones, and you brushed over his hair, thumb catching in a curl. He watched you, eyes big, before finally turning to his side, deciding that he'd make it easier for you.
He saw the smile you suppressed, absolutely delighted that he was so open to you touching him.
He took a second to absorb and analyze the expression. His hazel eyes darting all over your face, looking for any lie, that this was just a game to you. That maybe you'll look at him in the morning with pity in your eyes. But your eyes were glowing, and even with his insecurities choking him when he was with you, he could tell that no lie was in your eyes.
"They're wet," he provided you with the most unnecessary information, already wanting to smack himself for pointing out such an obvious thing.
You just hummed, too distracted to be touching his hair to focus on his awkwardness. You looped a curl around a finger, thumb brushing right above his eyebrow.
Your eyebrows were furrowed like you were studying his hair, but he knew you weren't as relaxed as you seemed. Your breath was going quicker, he could feel it against his face. He could smell your perfume, something floral and vanilla and felt the need to press his face into your hair and just stay there.
Your eyes traveled back to his face, and you observed him, before your hands went back down to his bicep. "You can relax," you whispered. "I won't do anything you don't want me to."
Pope stared at you, hazel eyes wide, never once leaving your face. "You have to sleep too."
"I will." Your hand already back in his curls. He let the feeling of your warm hands overtake every other feeling. Every sense of fear, insecurity and worry.
As much as he knew you wanted him to, he couldn't sleep. Whether it was because of his nightmares or because of you being here, he wasn't sure. His eyes continued to track your face, and it didn't take you long before you let your hand drift from his hair to his cheek, brushing your thumb lightly over his cheekbone one first and last time, before dropping it back in between you.
Your eyelashes fluttered lightly like a good night to him before you closed your eyes. Pope let himself watch you, let himself feel the phantom feeling of your hands. Your perfume continued to linger, and he wished his room would absorb it forever, that every time he walked in, he'd smell your perfume. He knew his bed would smell like you for at least the next couple of days now, and he hoped so desperately that the next time you came over to the house, you'd sleep in his bed.
Maybe next time he'd be the courageous one and ask you to stay.
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