kirav ⬩ she/her ⬩ 20 ⬩ mdni ⬩ canadian/west coast ⬩ game joel enthusiast ⬩ pope cody sympathizer ⬩ peepaw lover extraordinaire ⬩ ao3
— masterlists
⬩ Jack Abbot
⬩ Andrew "Pope" Cody
⬩ Joel Miller
— recent works
⬩ dating pope as a plus size woman hcs
⬩ your broad shoulders, my wet tears
⬩ laundry fiend
— asks & requests
⬩ asks are always open, i would love to interact with the community more.
⬩ im admittedly pretty terrible at following through with requests but feel free to send suggestions if you so choose. I'd be open to writing some blurbs.
jack abbot x fem!reader. 18+, minors do not interact. soft!dom!jack. established relationship. free use, established consent is in place. talks of fucking you in public. degradation, pet names (honey, baby, good girl), some praising. penetrative vaginal sex, unprotected sex (always wrap it before you tap it!!!), creampie, aftercare.
the concept of free use with jack abbot <3
you're at the sink, washing the dishes after dinner. jack was taking out the trash. you hear the front door open and close softly, your hips swaying softly to the song playing from your phone on the counter.
his footsteps are soft and uneven as he comes up behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist. jack's nose drags up and down the side of your neck, his lips brushing against your skin.
"how do you smell so good," he mumbles. his whole body covers yours, trapping you between him and the sink counter.
you only giggle, focusing on the plates.
jack doesn't move away from you as you keep the water running. his hips buck forward, his hands move down, down to the hem of the dress you're wearing.
"looking so good for me, angel," he mumbles, lifting up your dress. jack groans at the fabric of your panties — it's only getting in the way. "made such a good dinner for your old man..." he slips two fingers under your panties, pushing them to the side.
"and now i want my desert, baby," he says. "this sweet little pussy."
"jack, i'm busy," you try to argue, only half hearted, though. you're gladly bending forward to grind your ass on his very much obvious hard on.
"don't care, honey," he mumbles. "if you want me to stop, you know what to say,"
you do know.
he waits, and when you don't say it, he chuckles. "good girl. now keep doing those dishes for me, alright."
jack brings one of his hands up, spitting on his thick fingers. next thing you know, those fingers are rubbing your needy hole, making you moan softly. jack works you up until you're wet enough to take his fat cock.
you hear the zipper of his pants go down, you tilt your body a little further, making your ass look more round and exposed to him.
jack takes out his cock, stroking the girth of it, purposefully avoiding the pink, mushroom tip. he slaps his heavy cock on your asscheek, hissing through his teeth.
he notices you've stopped scrubbing and he tsks his tongue. "why'd you stop?" he asks, yanking at your hair. "i said to keep doing the dishes, honey."
you whine, scrambling to get a hold of the sponge again, continuing to wash off the plates and cutlery.
he seathes himself in your pussy, stretching you out in one thrust.
his balls hits your ass with each fast, harsh thrust, the sound of skin against skin reverberating throught the kitchen.
"such a good pussy, goddamn," he moans in your ear. you whine, grinding back on him.
your cunt clenches, making jack hiss and groan, his eyes rolling back.
his thrusts grow faster, more desperate, and your own eyes are permanently rolled back. the way your navel hit the counter and the way jack's gripping your hips surely will leave marks.
and by the way his grip tightens, you're almost sure that's exactly what he wants.
one plate slips off your soapy hands and hit the bottom of the sink, clattering loudly, but it doesn't break. jack fucks your cunt harder then, pulling you back on his cock with the hand on your hair.
jack's tip hits your g-spot just right, and you can't stop the loud, drawn out and whiny moans. his lenght is covered in your slick, a white creamy ring at the base of his cock.
"look at that, fuck," he moans. "such a needy little girl for me, huh, baby? letting me fuck you right here, in the middle of our kitchen," you nod, already fucked dumb. "bet you'd let me fuck you anywhere, isn't that right," jack thrusts harder into you. "even in public. yeah?"
you cry out his name, cunt clenching around his fat cock at the thought, mewls and moans falling off your lips.
"i know, baby. i know you would," he muses. "fuck, honey, gonna cum."
you start nodding, close to cumming yourself.
"jackie," you whimper.
"that's right, baby. cum on your jackie's cock, c'mon. i want it," he mumbles, and your body seizes with the force of your orgasm. "good girl, baby, good girl,"
jack's filling you up to the brim with his cum, your name falling from his lips like a prayer. his shoulders shake and his hips stutter, fucking his spend back into you.
he rests his head on your shoulder, your fast, warm breaths loud in the otherwise quiet room. he kisses your neck, nuzzling the spot there. "c'mon, love. let's take a shower," jack says as he slowly pulls out of you.
"but the dishes—"
"i'll do them tomorrow morning," he says. "right now i just wanna cuddle with my girl."
you let him take you away from the dishes. jack undresses you gently once you're in the bathroom. you don't take long in the shower, you're too tired for that. quickly washing off the sweat and sex off your skin, soon you're being wrapped up in jack's arms as he leads you to the bed.
he's kisses all over your face once you both settle under the blankets. "i love you," he says into the darkness of the room.
you hum, nuzzling his neck. your leg hooks over his hips, and he's squeezing at the flesh of your thigh. "love you, jackie," you mumble, sleepy. doesn't take long until you're both asleep, his soft snores echoing through the room.
Hey can you write a fic where andrew protects the reader? Maybe something like that scene with amy where he almost beats her brother.
I was thinking something like maybe andrew and reader...are friends but more...and maybe she s a tentant to one of smurfs proprties and when he comes to collect rent(and take her out to the beach for a coffee like he always does or something) just to find reader arguing with an ex and throwing punches. Maybe reader is sensitive, emotional, sweet(maybe a doctor or something to be a contrast to Andrews rough persona)
Beating (Pope Cody)
a/n: EEEEEEE thank you anon! love you anon! (made the reader a struggling actress/waitress…oops)
MDNI - 18+
CONTENTS: pope cody x f! tenant! reader, angst, fighting, r! reader! deals with her ex, smut, unprotected p in v, major smurf mention, inexperienced pope, sub! pope, he just doesn’t know what to do but he wants to make you feel good!
WORD COUNT: 1.7k+
now playing: angel by massive attack
divider by @/mieluno
You had moved to Oceanside to start over, especially after your acting career fell through. The countless auditions that would be turned down, it was discouraging, so instead you seeked comfort in the waves that would comb across the shores.
You had picked up a waitressing job before moving from Los Angeles, the money was…well decent enough for the area. You would struggle from paycheck to paycheck, but shit, you needed an escape.
You had researched countless apartments and rooms online, struggling to find a place within your budget. It wasn’t until you found the Cody’s properties that you found the perfect fit. Sure, they were small and rundown, but it was the only thing that met your needs for the right price.
The movers were unloading the boxes from the moving truck when Smurf approached you. She stuck out her hand as she greeted you. “Janine Cody.”
“Pleasure to finally meet you,” you said as you glanced back at the door to your room. “Hey, I just wanted to say thank you for letting me rent this place. It’s hard to find decent places in the area for this cheap.”
“Anytime, sweetie,” She smiled. “My son will stop by on the first of the month to collect your rent.”
“Got it,” you sighed, thinking back to your hectic schedule for this next month at the restaurant. “I’ll make sure to be here.”
“Pope,” Smurf said that night. “I want you to take the property next to Deran’s bar, collect the rent every month, and do the maintenance.”
“You know that’s the one property I didn’t want, Smurf.” Pope growled.
“Who knows,” Pope grinned. “There may be an incentive for you.”
Pope greeted you that next month, sighing as his knuckles knocked the door.
“Hey, rent is due,” He huffed. “Open up.”
“Sorry,” you said as you opened the door. “I was just grabbing the cash.”
You offered him a thick envelope full of cash, he absently took it as he stared at you. Your large eyes meeting his stare, your messy hair resting around your exposed collarbones.
“I’m pretty sure it’s all there,” you piped up. “If not, just let me know. I’ll give you some of my extra tip money or something.”
He kept staring at you, heat creeping into your cheeks.
“I-I- mean I’ll figure it out,” You grew awkward underneath his intense gaze.
“S-Sorry, I’m Pope,” He said as he went to shake your hand, you grasped his hand. “You can call me Andrew.”
“Nice name, Andrew,” You smiled. “Same time next month?”
“Sure,” You closed the door and he smiled to himself.
The next month, he would stop by his favorite cafe next to your apartment.
“Anything else?” The barista asked.
Shit, he didn’t know your coffee order.
“U-Um,” He stuttered. “Maybe your best pastry?”
He knocked on your door again, nervous to speak to such a pretty face like yours.
“Oh, back so soon?” You chuckled as you handed him the envelope.
“Yeah, um,” he rasped. “I brought you this.”
He handed you the box that housed the pastry he bought for you. You gasped like it was the best thing you ever received.
“Thank you!” You exclaimed. “This truly made my day, I haven’t even had breakfast yet.”
“You should probably eat,” Pope said as he tugged his coffee to his lips. “I-I- mean I didn’t know your coffee order so I thought I’d play it safe.”
“Well, for next time,” You smirked. “I like matcha with oat milk.”
Of course, he would’ve never guessed that.
However, the next month he would greet you with a venti matcha with oat milk and take you for a walk along the beach. He would invite you to the Cody gatherings, whether it was parties or even as intimate as sharing the sacred pie after a good job. He liked you a lot.
It wasn’t until he went to knock at your door that he heard screaming from beyond the threshold.
“You’re the fucking problem!” You’d yell.
“No, you’re the fucking crazy bitch ruining my life!” A man’s voice would say.
“Oh yeah?” you shouted. “Like you didn’t cheat on me with your fucking ‘girl best friend’?”
“It was just one time!” The man would scream. “One time! You get that? One time!”
Pope would unlock the door then with his spare key, tackling the random guy that was in front of you. He would tug his wrists into his lower back.
“What’s your problem, huh?” Pope grunted. “If you have a problem with her, then you have a problem with me.”
“You’re kidding me, man,” the guy chuckled. “She’s my girl, got it?”
Pope would thrust punches then, blackening the flesh of the stranger below him. Continuously pounding his fist into his face.
“Andrew,” You heaved, mindlessly tugging at his fighting limbs. “Stop! He didn’t mean anything by it!”
“He did,” Pope said as he placed one lasting punch to his face, totally silencing the man below him. “Need to take care of you.”
You finally managed to tug Pope off of your ex, pulling him to his feet. The man you once knew heaved on the floor, spitting out blood onto the floorboards.
“Get the fuck out of here!” Pope shouted.
The man raised his hands in innocence as he exited your apartment. Pope sighed as he grasped your ribcage.
“Y’okay?” He asked.
“Y-yeah,” you gasped against his chest. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that, I don’t mean to cause any distress to your tenants.”
“Don’t worry about it,” He said as he pressed his forehead to yours. “Not a problem.”
“Let me take care of these,” You said as you admired the split knuckles of what could possibly be your own guard dog.
You drew him to the bathroom by his wrist, taking your hands and placing him on the top of the toilet lid. You took out the bottle of antiseptic and the roll of gauze. You brushed the liquid onto a cotton ball, swabbing it across his knuckles. The liquid bubbled against the gashes that kissed his hand, you unrolled the gauze meticulously.
“M’sorry,” He whispered. “Didn’t mean to cause a scene in front of you.”
“It’s okay,” You smirked. “You were just protecting me, I appreciate you.”
“Yeah?” He rasped.
“Yeah,” You answered. “It means a lot, he’s been bothering me for forever. He doesn’t know how to treat a woman. Shit, I don’t even know how I’m supposed to be treated.”
“That sucks,” Pope’s voice said roughly. “You deserve better, y’know? I wouldn’t even know how to treat a woman like you.”
“That great, huh?” You smirked as you wrapped the roll of cloth around his knuckles. “I’m not, y’know?”
“Doubt it,” Pope said as he admired his freshly placed bandage. “You’re really nice.”
“Oh, yeah?” Your expression quirked. “I’m not that special.”
“But you are!” Pope was quick to exclaim. “I mean, h-he didn’t know what he had.”
“Andrew?” You questioned.
“Yeah?” He replied.
You’d tug his lips into yours, him sighing into your hot breath. Pope never really experienced this before, true lust and temptation, true love. His cock grew rigid beneath the fabric of his jeans as he sat next to you.
You opened your mouth, pulling his tongue into your mouth, nipping his bottom lip occasionally. He fumbled with his hands, tugging your hips and up your shirt, unsure of what to do. You pulled away then.
“Take it easy, Andy-” You moaned as his lips once again met yours. “Take it easy.”
“Yeah, okay,” He rasped. “Never felt this way about anyone before.”
“That’s okay,” You whispered, your mouth hovering over his. “Just take it slow.”
He whimpered as his tongue swept into your mouth. Your hand was on his jaw, drawing him into your sweet lips. The muscles in his jaw would tense as he kissed you, his hands hovering around your body, uncertain of where to place them.
“Here,” You’d say as you grasped his wrists, lacing his palms around your ribcage.
You wrapped your fingers around the hem of his t-shirt, yanking the fabric off of him. His exposed torso being free to explore, you drug your nails across his chest and strong abdomen. He gasped underneath your touch, feeling every part of your fingers scratching around his muscles.
He reacted in pure lust then, wrapping his hands under your arms, pulling you onto his hips. You clothed crotch rubbing and grinding into his. He ripped your oversized shirt over your shoulders and arms, most likely your ex’s.
Your thin little shorts were blocking your pussy from meeting his hard member. He fidgeted with the hem as he whimpered.
“Need these off.”
You stood between his hips then, wrenching your shorts off of your thighs, the fabric of his jeans clawing through your folds.
You’d tug down his zipper, shrugging him out of his boxers and jeans to where they’d pool around his knees. His cock pressurized against your swollen clit, rubbing against your entrance, desperate to enter you.
“Let me ride you,” You said, completely preoccupied by his length rubbing against you.
“Yeah, okay,” He heaved.
You took your hand and stroked him a couple times before his length dove into you, pulsating in all the right places as you dragged slow and hard movements over him. He hadn’t felt this way in so long. Someone he actually lusted for was hugging his member, what more is there to have?
He would drag himself in and out of your tight hole, your walls surrounding his inches tightly. He pumped into you, wanting to feel your insides tighten against him.
Even though he was inexperienced, he believed he could make you forget about your ex. He would do anything to take care of you, buy you anything you wanted, and totally worship you. Right now, hugging his dick, you believed he would. He would do anything for you.
When your clit would meet his hairy hilt, he would groan against your neck as he’d press sweet kisses against your flesh (because that’s all he knew). He would pulse his hips into yours until you were convulsing against him.
It wasn’t the best sex of your life, but it was sweet, and that turned you on even more.
He would press his load into your bare pussy, his chest rasping against yours, brushing your nipples oh so right.
“Was that okay?” Andrew asked.
“More than okay,” You gasped against his chest. “More than okay, Andy.”
andrew cody, even at his most dominant with you, hates hearing you beg. with every past girlfriend he'd loved it. wanted to make them squirm and cry and wait. but as soon as you say "please" for anything, it makes his gut twist around itself like a knife. the idea of his pretty girl being denied anything, ever, makes him fucking sick. he never allows you to doubt if you're going to get what you want, whether it's his cock or something from a high shelf or a new tennis bracelet. he borderline growls when you have to ask one of his brothers for something twice in a row because they didn't hear or ignored you the first time.
currently watching: honestly, not much lately. occasionally working my way through a rewatch of what we do in the shadows, and recovering from watching obsession the other night.
current obsession: jack abbot, pope cody, shawn hatosy chars in general, and so on. it bad.
currently reading: mostly just fanfic atm :'>
currently working on: a pope cody x virgin!reader fic set in a trailer park where they're neighbours. It's gonna be so fun
currently wearing: a tank top and shorts
last google search: ao3... which is fitting to say the least
favourite flower: hard to choose but probably dahlias! or hyacinths because they smell soooo pretty
no pressure tags: @skymouth, @thatcorporategirlie, @louloops, @abbotsbunnygf, @gigiwritess, @theariespov, anyone else who wants to participate is welcome to!!
content warning: andrew "pope" cody x female reader. no use of y/n for reader. 18+ (minors do not interact!!!!!!). boyfriend!andrew x girlfriend!reader. brief physical description of reader. andrew is referred to as 'andy'. vaginal fingering. overstimulation. praising. lots of em-dashes and semicolons. not proofread.
word count: 1,219
work on ao3 !
you're enamored — read: turned on — by andrew's hands, but especially: the calluses in his hands.
you're soft. all around. soft cheeks, an even softer stomach — that andrew's absolutely crazy about, by the way. i will get on this later —, with the softest hands that had ever touched his skin.
it was one of the first things he fell in love with. your hands. the softest, most warm skin, with pretty manicured nails, that he made sure to pay for every time. he was your man, of course he's gonna pay for everything. his girl shouldn't worry about anything and definitely not money.
andrew is home for the weekend, which is a nice change, for once. you're on the couch with him, watching some nature documentary, laser focused on the tv, just like him. when you first started dating, andrew was worried you'd find him weird for liking this type of content. maybe you'd find it boring. imagine his surprise when you almost squealed with happiness when he mentioned wanting to watch some national geographic's whale documentary. you're just as nerdy as he is, and he couldn't be happier.
you dragged him to the couch, putting said documentary on the large tv on his living room. then, you're sitting beside him, head on his shoulder while you share a soft, throw blanket he keeps around because you get cold easily. your soft hand finds his, fingers intertwined.
andrew sat stiffly for a moment, before slowly relaxing against your warm body.
you're only half paying attention to the documentary — you wouldn't tell him, but you already watched it, way before. your fingers fiddle with his mindlessly. you feel the calluses, the rough skin, such a contrast against yours. andrew, deeply and almost concerningly self-aware, watches your hand in his, the way your delicate fingers traces those calluses that come from handling heavy guns and dirty work.
his mind wanders. what if you don't like his touch, because his skin is so rough? he should take better care of his hands, he thinks.
but inside, heat pools in your lower belly, because you love those hands. looooove those hands. the calluses tell a story; he's a hard working man — doesn't matter what type of work, it's still work. you love it. hard working men had always been a turn on for you. playboys that lived on daddy's money had never been your type.
"i love your hands, andy," you whisper gently.
"yeah?" he whispers back; quietly craving the reassurance.
"yeah," you nod. your voice trails off, and you look up, rounded cheeks flushed with the prettiest shade of pink. your breath catches, and andrew can read the telltale signs of your arousal building up.
you're imaging it. his hands. on you. in you. he's so good. so, so good when he's fingering you, his thick fingers stretching out your hole. even better when he's fucking you from behind, grabbing at the skin of your large hips with strong hands, using the lovehandles you once hated as leverage to fuck you harder, his rough skin only heightening your pleasure. you love when he manhandles you like a ragdoll.
"andy," you whisper, clenching your thighs, already wet underneath your cotton panties.
he doesn't say anything. doesn't ask and doesn't tease you — just straight to it, his large hand dipping between your thighs, up the soft fabric of your sundress. he's quick to push your panties to the side, fingers slipping between your sopping folds. it makes you shiver, a breathy moan escaping your lips.
andrew pokes at your clit before circling it with the tips of his fingers. your head falls back against the couch, the rolls back to rest against his shoulder. his other hand holds your thigh spread open, making sure he's got clean acess to your pussy. he slips one finger inside your quivering hole. it makes you moan, and he groans in response, pulling his finger out only to push it back in, softly. barely a thrust. then again, but this time, he pushes another finger in, stretching you out. your cunt squelches, wet and needy.
"oh my god, andy," you whine, grinding down on his hand.
"no god, angel. just me," he murmurs, watching his fingers fuck into your pussy. he curls his fingers deep into you, making you see stars, a loud whimper falling from your lips.
"andy, andy, andy," you moan, your pretty eyes rolling back. you grip his forearm, nails digging into his skin, which only makes him speed up those thrusts, the heel of his hand brushing against your puffy clit with each one.
"you gonna cum for me, angel?" he asks, smug. because he did that: he made this pretty thing quiver and wail and desperate enough to let him fingerfuck you on the couch in his living room.
"andrew, fuck—" you cry out his name, squirming on the couch as your cunt clenches down on his fingers.
"that's a good one, huh," andrew drawls out, his cock straining against his pants. he'll get to cum later; now, he wants another one from you. his fingers just slow down on your pussy, but he doesn't pull out as you ride out the high of your orgasm. he wants to feel every flutter of that pretty pussy.
after a few minutes, his fingers slowly ease deeper into you. you're not totally recovered yet; you whine, loud and high pitched, trying to close your thighs. "andy, no..."
"andy, yes," he says, going back to fuck your fluttering hole.
your cunt makes a wet, squelchy noise every time his fingers thrusts in, and it makes him wish that was his cock.
"andy, 's too much—" your words come out slurred, eyes permanently rolled back.
"'know you can take it, pretty girl," he mumbles to you. "one more, 'kay? just one more. then i'll let you rest," he promises.
andrew stops abruptly, and you foolishly think, maybe that's it. key word, foolish. he'd never leave you to cum like that. no matter how much he wanted to, orgasm denial wasn't andrew's thing. he tried once with you and he couldn't follow through. he's overwhelmed with this urgent need to make you cum as much as you possibly can before you pass out from exhaustion.
he pulls out of your pussy, only to manhandle you up on his lap, between his spread legs. he hikes up both your legs, keeping you spread open for him. his fingers are right back to your cunt, his other hand coming down to rub your clit in time with his thrusts. you squirm and whine, trying to get away. he clicks his tongue, going 'tsk-tsk-tsk' while holding you back, trapped against his chest.
your cunt feels raw by the time you come again. it's too much, just too much, and you're sobbing, clutching his forearm while he gives you slow, soft few thrusts.
"andy, please," you whimper.
andrew kisses your temple, not minding the sweat there. "good girl, baby, good girl," he whispers against your scalp, easing his fingers out of your pussy. "took my fingers so well," he kisses the side of your face. "you were made for me, you know that? i love you, angel. love you so much."
"love you too, andy," you whispers, tired, a second from falling asleep.
Summary: When Pope went to prison he goes from your closest companion to a complete stranger. You only know he's out months after his release when he shows up at your door in the middle of the night.
Contents: Andrew "Pope" Cody x afab!reader, reader has a vag and breasts but is gender neutral otherwise, reader has a nickname that is used sparingly, violence, blood, fighting, smut in the back of Pope's truck, unprotected piv, creampie, subby whiny whimpering pope, he cries, reader cries, everyone cries, age gap, it is implied that reader has known Pope since they were younger but not completely specified.
Note: So this took me way longer than expected. Over a month by this point I think. It is maybe a big nothing burger, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless! I would love to explore more with these two, so feel free to slide into my inbox and assist me in expanding upon them!! Also, everyone go listen to Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want by Deftones. Credit to @/chrisssiren for the divider.
Word Count: 7.5k
Ao3 Link:: read here!
Your heart is rabbiting against ribcage as you latch the rattling chain lock with a shaky hand and crack the door. He has already moved a step back, heavy work boots thumping on the porch as he pivots away. Quickly, you unhook the chain and throw the door open. Cool air rushes in, invading the space around you and pricking at your skin.
The first time Pope shows up on your doorstep is on a cool summer night. The sun has long since set, and the night sky provides a temporary respite from Oceanside's unbearable dry heat. A knock at your door draws your attention from your TV. Two gentle raps followed by a more hesitant third. Against your better judgement, you shuffle out from beneath your knitted blanket and approach the door.
“Andy…?” He tenses. His arms hang at his sides, hands curled, and fingers twitching in that familiar habit. Your voice—his name slipping so delicately from between your lips—is an invocation that tethers him to you and roots him in place.
Hesitance is visible in every miniscule movement. The way he rolls his shoulders. The jut of his chin as he wars with himself before finally turning around to face you. A sliver of porchlight slashes across his face, limning the sharp edge of his features and burnishing the auburn in his curls.
He regards you, at first, with that look of his—with all the intensity of a predator assessing its prey. His gaze slides down your form then back up again, and you’re unable to gather anything from it until his expression softens. As if the mere sight of you is warm enough to thaw the ice caged around his heart.
There’s a different air about him though, like something has crawled into his chest cavity and hollowed him out. Guilt puddles in his hazel eyes.
“You shouldn’t be answering the door this late.”
You scoff and cut straight to the case. “How long have you been out?”
He refuses to look at you, hands balling into fists then unfurling.
“Couple of months.” His admission is a bare utterance, dredged raw and ragged from him because he never could bring himself to lie to you. He exhales, nostrils flaring as he debates his next words. “I’m sorry, kit.”
The nickname feels damning. Once upon a time you had been Pope’s shadow, a scrawny kid taken into the Cody household out of what must’ve been nothing more than pity. You were like a stray kitten, always trailing after him. It’s how you earned that nickname. Kit. Well, those days didn’t last long. The instant Pope was out of the picture you were discarded.
It had taken a while to reckon with the whole ordeal. It took even longer to find your footing all on your own, but eventually you did. You managed just fine. You are at peace with that part of your past. At least you were until the man that was the very center of your universe, for a time, came knocking and you answered. You think that you will always answer for him. Even in the dead of night. Even after all those letters you sent went unanswered, and visits declined.
Chin wobbling and lips quivering, he is searching for vindication. What he asks of you is your forgiveness, your grace, and to pick up whatever remains of what the two of you had. And you falter. You do. Even though you shouldn’t—even though every fibre of your being tells you to put him at length and savour the distance like it is your last breath of fresh air. Do not crawl back to him. Do not go willingly into that quick sand.
But Andrew looks at you like you cradle his entire reality in the palms of your hands, and your trembling fingers threaten to crush the weak and whimpering whole of it. You can’t find it within yourself to close your fist, or shut him out, or let the last embers fizzle out. You can’t bring yourself to hurt him the way he hurt you.
Instead, you step past the threshold and into that lonesome night, permeating all space left between the two of you. He threads himself into you, hands clutching at you, scooping you up and pouring you into his embrace. Carding your fingers through his hair, you whisper, “It’s okay.”
It stings. You wince, fingers curling tight over the marble lip of the bathroom counter. Pope tsks, hovering close. His breath fans over you. He dabs a cotton swab over the split skin at the corner of your brow. The whole thing was stupid. Nothing made into something.
“Why do you even hangout around him?”
“He’s my friend,” you say, hissing as the alcohol seeps into the cut, singeing the edges of your wound. You jerk away, but Pope grabs your chin and reels you back in with an iron grasp. You omit the fact that you and Matt have been tip-toeing a blurred line over the past year. Somewhere between friendship and some place else. The last thing you want to do is further stoke the anger that’s radiating off of Pope.
“He’s a piece of shit,” he corrects, “you need better friends.”
The statement rings true. There’s no denying it. Not when your head is throbbing the way it is, and certainly not with the blood that saturates the cotton pad, courtesy of the ring he had been wearing.
You’re not really in the position to challenge the allegation. Especially not after the man you claimed to be a friend of yours sucker punched you in his drunken stupor. You’d simply been trying to get him to lay off the drinks and coax him away from the rest of the party. Matt had the tendency to overindulge and get himself into trouble. You became that trouble. Or rather, Pope did.
“You broke his jaw,” you say, “probably.”
It looked pretty gnarly that is. Pope was across the yard in a nanosecond and on top of Matt. Fist to jaw with a sickening crackle. Matt scampered away, tail tucked.
“It’s the least he deserves,” Pope says with certainty. You don’t doubt the vitriol behind his words for a second, nor the fact that he would’ve beat Matt to a bloody pulp if Craig hadn’t pulled him off. Your phone buzzes, lighting up with the aforementioned man’s contact.
You sigh, slipping off the counter and knocking into Pope who refuses to step back. You’ve come chest to chest with him, and your heart threatens to jump to your throat. He looms over you, glaring down at your phone like it’s done something to personally offend him.
You snatch it up before he can. He grumbles, flicking the bloodied piece of cotton into the garbage bin.
“Ah, it’s the man of the hour,” you say, but neglect to decline the call.
“Don’t answer that.”
You meet his gaze head on and he looks livid—scary, but Pope doesn’t frighten you. You turn your phone in your hand.
“Or what?” You ask, punctuating your words with a tap of your phone against his sternum. His breathing picks up. The line you tread is treacherous. There’s nothing but jagged rock and torrents below with no real reward on the other side.
In an instant he’s going for your phone again, one hand tightening around your wrist while the other tries to tug the device free. You yell, wrestling against him, but it is a losing battle. He pries your phone free. You stumble forward to grab at his shirt, bunching handfuls of the fabric in your fists, but he’s already moving. One step. Another. His hand hovering over the—your phone drops into the toilet bowl with a deafening plop.
“What the fuck?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” he says. “That asshole hit you and you’re still taking his calls.”
A hush falls over the room. You rub at your wrist gingerly where he grabbed it. His eyes flit to the movement. His throat bobs, and he takes the smallest step back. The newfound space allows you to breathe again.
“I’m sorry.” Half of what comes out of his mouth feels like apologies lately. You shake your head, avoiding his gaze entirely as you step past him, shoulder brushing his.
“Yeah? You can make up for it by fishing my phone out of the toilet.”
The party has died down a little, but there will be strays hanging around well past midnight. You step into the spare room. Atop neatly tucked sheets rests a pile of folded clothes. A black t-shirt and a pair of boxers.
You sigh, crossing the room to place a freezer bag on the nightstand. It’s filled with uncooked rice and your waterlogged phone. You shimmy out of your clothes, kicking the garments aside.
The clothes smell vaguely of him, or whatever detergent he uses. You sit on the edge of the bed and fold your hands on your lap. Alone with your thoughts, you’re not too sure what to do with yourself. Probably sleep off your pounding headache.
There's a knock at the door. You recognize the rhythm. “Come in.”
The door peels open, slowly swinging inward. Andrew looks like a kicked puppy—dejected, admonished, and coveting sweet exoneration after doing something he knows was wrong.
You're at odds for a short time, and then you're basking in the simplicity of respite from all the chaos that lies beyond. Three things exist. You, him, and at last, some peace.
You’re reminded of all those times you and Andrew snuck off; when the parties got too rowdy, the people too drunk, the music so loud that the bass would vibrate the walls of the house. You would take refuge in his room and in each other's company. Huddled atop his twin sized mattress. Sometimes you would watch a movie, always your pick, hunched over a laptop screen.
Other times you would merely talk. For hours on end, until all the noise dwindled, and you were too sleepy to stay awake any longer. Your own slice of sanctuary. Now Pope stands at the edge of the room, silently pleading to be let back in, and you realize that his presence puts you at ease. More so than when you’d been sitting there alone.
Maybe sanctuary isn’t a quiet room. Maybe it’s him. For all the fear he can’t help but instill in most, you have never known him to be anything but sweet and kind to you. Though his efforts can be unorthodox, to say the least.
Your phone is a testament to that.
“Come here.” You pat the spot beside you, and he perks up. Still, he remains slow in his approach before sinking onto the mattress. Not a single word is said. Everything is passed between your linked gazes. His stare, seldom soft, has grown apologetic once more.
“You don’t have to look after me anymore,” you begin, testing the waters, “I can take care of myself.”
He looks doubtful.
“Clearly I do,” he mutters, lifting a hand and brushing his thumb at the corner of your eye where your skin has grown mottled and swollen—deep marbling across what was once unmarred. As gentle as he is, you wince and he frowns.
You’re unable to stop yourself from tipping forward instead of veering away like you should. An inkling of the helpless kid you used to be shines through. Lost with no way to navigate the world you’d been sucked into. You’re being dragged into his orbit again, and you wonder if he has a single clue what he’s doing to you.
“I missed you, Andy,” you say.
His hackles raise as if he isn't the one who initiated the closeness. He's on the defense. It feels like a threat to him, you realize—this kind of closeness. Proximity offered in kindness.
“Why didn’t you write me back?” The question is one that has been living on the tip of your tongue for months, from the minute you opened the door and saw him on your porch. It has wrangled itself free from your reluctance. “I tried to visit, but…”
He pulls away, and your heart sinks. His fingers twitch atop his thighs as he looks anywhere but at you.
“Nothing you do will scare me away, okay?”
You place a hand on his, but he inches it away.
“You don’t know that,” he says, and his voice cracks on the last syllable. “I’m not a good person.”
He’s wrong. You know that he’s wrong. The man who took you in when you were nothing, and looked after you for years isn’t a bad person. It would be an impossible feat to convince you otherwise.
He's patched up your scraped knees. He's made sure any boy who picked on you once never did it a second time. Through every small trouble you’d experienced, he’d been there—to tend to you, to hold you up. Andrew isn’t perfect, but he isn’t bad.
“You’re good to me,” you say.
“That doesn’t—” He cuts himself off. “You shouldn’t have answered the door, kit.”
He sounds so distraught. Your heart aches. You realize then, if given the chance to go back in time, he might not have shown up in the first place. That hurts. If nothing else, you want to be there for him—to spend even one more moment at his side—more if possible, as many as you can hope to hoard.
“Why not?” you question, “you think you’re gonna make me regret it.”
“You will.” He sounds so sure of himself, as if it’s a prophecy written in stone. And perhaps that’s exactly what it is. This cycle. Maybe you will continue to return to him, over and over. And you will be left regretting it each time, but the lesson won’t ever stick. It will slide off your back, and you will crawl back to him no matter how many times he has wounded you. Though if he doesn’t want that, what choice do you have but to let him be?
“Then leave,” you say, “if you truly think it’s for the best.”
He stiffens. For all the pushing and shoving he’s done—all the distance he’s carved out between you, he doesn’t look like he expected you to say that. There's no taking it back.
He shakes his head, fists furling. “I’m a selfish man.”
“Be fucking selfish, Andrew.” Suddenly you’re pleading with him. “For once in your life, be selfish.”
He doesn’t say anything to that, but he brings himself near. So catastrophically close that you think he’s going to bring to fruition the biggest mistake either of you will ever make.
But it never comes. He doesn’t close the distance. His lips never graze yours. You don’t fall into him. Instead, he turns his head and kisses your temple, then he’s moving away again.
You watch flustered as the distance between you grows again, whisking away whatever fantasy you shouldn’t have imagined.
“You should get some sleep.”
Terrible advice from the man who will be the reason you don’t get any for days to come.
The day is turning golden beyond the large windows at the front of the diner. The setting sun heralds the end of a long day. A day in which you’ve spent far too much time thinking of Pope. In fleeting thoughts that go as quickly as they come, but as frequently as you blink.
He’s avoiding you. Probably making himself busy getting into trouble with his brothers. You hate them for it. Fresh out of prison after three years, and they've already got him running jobs with them. Though you know he's just as responsible.
Part of you thinks he’s taken your first piece of advice. Another part of you can’t quite fathom him being able to do that. You’re not sure which you want to believe. Either way, your shift is coming to an end, and you don’t know if you have a ride home anymore.
Ever since your shitbox car broke down, Andrew has been picking you up from work. He’s offered to fix it himself a handful of times, but you’ve never been quick to take him up on it. You have grown sort of accustomed to the routine.
It’s always the highlight of your day after working a shift at this dingy diner where you are subject to the company of some rather unsavoury individuals. The kind whose stares made your skin crawl, but for the tips you grin and bear it. It makes Pope’s company afterward all the sweeter. So, with that in mind, it’s a little upsetting not to have it to look forward to.
The dinnertime rush is just beginning to pour in by the time you’re off the clock and ready to hightail it out of there. After spending all day on your feet, getting home is at the forefront of your mind. A warm soak in the tub before donning the comfiest pajamas you own, and cozying up in bed to watch a movie. Maybe you’ll even treat yourself to some one on one time with your vibrator. Lord knows you need it.
You wave goodbye to your coworker, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you leave.
Goosebumps prickle your skin. There’s a light breeze, and you must’ve forgotten your sweater in Pope’s truck the last time he picked you up. Normally, he would have jumped at the opportunity to visit you, but seeing as he’s been avoiding you that clearly didn’t happen.
Out of habit, you survey the parking lot. A car pulls in, thunking over a pothole that customers have been complaining about for months. The vehicle you’re hoping to spot is nowhere to be seen.
Pope’s Ram isn’t parked where it usually is, or anywhere else. The disappointment you feel is expected. It’s the hurt that you didn’t fully prepare for, despite the dull ache of it that has been stubbornly burrowed within your chest all day.
Uber it is, but even as you click on your phone to open the app you hesitate. Your thumb hovers over the messaging app. You click and your eyes instantly find Pope’s contact—the expressionless selfie you’d forced him to take brings a small smile to your face. Last messaged three days ago.
You’re so engrossed in your internal debate over whether or not to message him that you don’t hear the footsteps approaching. By the time you do register the sound of sneakers scuffing over concrete a shadow has already cast over you.
For a heartbeat you’re relieved, but then you look up and your excitement is shot. It deflates quicker than it ballooned.
“Matt,” you say, saving him from none of the disappointment you exude. “What, are you stalking me now?”
“Huh? No,” he says, brows furrowing. He turns defensive, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “I wanted to apologize… for the other night.”
There’s a pause. You look at him expectantly, but he says nothing else. “Well, go on.”
He has the nerve to look shocked, ducking his head and kicking his foot over the pavement like a petulant child. “I’m sorry. You know I can get out of hand when I’m… out of it.”
Placing the blame on his inebriation feels par for the course, but that doesn’t make it any less irritating.
“You’re an asshole.”
Matt scowls, throwing his hands up. “What else do you want from me? I’m trying to make amends here.”
“I don’t want anything from you,” you say, “You’re the one who came to me.”
His eyes flit over you, lingering on the fading bruise that he left. He still has quite the shiner of his own. He’s calculating—thinking over his next words carefully.
“Give me another chance.” Not carefully enough apparently.
So there it is. You barely had to prod to happen upon his ulterior motive. He only wants to find a way back into your pants.
“You’re funny,” you scoff, getting ready to walk past him.
“I’m being serious.” Matt plays goalie, blocking your path when you try to sidestep him. You stumble back. “We were good together—we can still be good together.”
“Fuck off.”
“Come on, don’t be like that,” he says, taking another step into your space. He reaches out, grabbing your wrist and tugging you forward. You jerk your knee up, aiming right for his groin.
“Bitch,” he groans, releasing your wrist. For a second, you think you’re home free, but then he shoves you, and your head knocks into the wall behind you. Your surroundings turn hazy. The panic that rushes over you makes you feel queasy.
You hear him before you see him. The low timbre of Pope’s voice is like a rake over gravel. When your blotted vision clears, you look up. He has cut across the parking lot on a warpath. His intent is clear. You push off the wall to—you don’t even know what—but he’s already closed the distance.
“Didn’t I already tell you to stay the fuck away?”
Pope shoves Matt to the ground, and kicks him hard in the gut. He groans, rolling over and shielding his stomach with his hands. The situation is getting away from you, spiraling out of control. Your panic compounds on itself.
“Andrew, stop,” You say, but it’s like he doesn’t even hear you. "He's not worth it.”
Your words still don't phase him. To him, you’re not even there. He drops down on top of Matt, not giving him the chance to recover. His thighs lock Matt in place. You’re helpless to stop it. Pope brandishes his fist before bringing it down with all his force.
Matt’s head snaps to the side.
“I should cut your fuckin’ tongue off.” So he may never speak to you again. His fist comes down a second time. A harsh thud followed by another pained groan.
“I should gouge your eyes out.” So he may never look upon you again. Another punch. Cartilage snaps and cracks under brute strength. Still, Pope doesn't let up.
“Should saw off your hands.” So he may never lay them on you again. The fourth and final strike lands. Matt manages a feeble, wheezing breath after, spitting out a piece of a fractured tooth.
“You’re lucky,” Pope utters, leaning dangerously close, “for whatever reason, Kit is fond of you.”
You take what feels like your first breath in an eternity. He sits back as Matt gurgles incoherently. His skin has deepened into a ruddy purple, eyes swollen shut. A mixture of blood and drool trickle down his chin. After all the carnage, you're sure his face will be permanently disfigured.
Pope sneers, and stands up, wiping the dirt from his jeans. He takes a deep, ragged breath, then turns to you. He appears to remember himself, lowering his head as if it will hide what he’s done.
“Get in the truck.” It is not a request. He is making a demand, but you remain deathly still.
It's not like you haven't been privy to Pope's violence. You're not blind to the reputation he carries around with him. The Cody's enforcer. He's always been the one knocking on doors, collecting debts, doing what needs to be done.
You've just never come this close to it.
Nothing is said once you’re both in his truck. You’re forced to exist in a silence so deafening it’s suffocating. You wait for Pope to say something—anything, but words never come. Not that you’re even sure what you would want him to say. His eyes remain straight ahead, bruised knuckles over the steering wheel as he pulls out of the lot.
It remains that way for a little while, but you can’t take it much longer. All the words and things you shouldn’t say are bubbling up. You open your mouth to speak, but he beats you to it.
“Sorry I was late,” he says. You find yourself backtracking, wishing he had remained silently instead because what are you supposed to say to that? “Got caught up in a job.”
Oh yeah, a typical Thursday for him you suppose—doing a heist before showing up at your work to assault a man.
“You can’t keep doing this.” Pope doesn’t react much outwardly. His brows twitch and he rolls his neck, but he doesn’t make a real effort to respond. He really thought you were going to brush past it. “Are you listening to me?”
“He could report you,” you go on to add when he continues to ignore you. That gets to him, eyes flicking over to you quickly.
“He won’t.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because guys like that don’t.” His grip on the steering wheel tightens, his arms tensing.
“You know, I’d take your word for it if you hadn’t assaulted him right outside of my workplace,” you say. His jaw cinches.
“I can look out for myself, and I can look out for you,” he says, “if you would stop surrounding yourself with people like that…”
You bite your tongue, stopping yourself from saying something you’ll regret—something about him taking a look at himself.
“I don’t need you to look out for me anymore.” You roll your eyes. Not this again. How does he honestly think you survived three years without him and his family? On your own. Through no one’s volition but your own. “I’m an adult.”
“Is that right?” he huffs like you’ve said something amusing.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Instead of answering your question, he piles on another one. “What would you have done if I hadn’t been there?”
“Desecalate. I don’t know! I…” You shake your head, clenching your eyes shut. When you open them again, it’s with a new sense of clarity. “I need you to stop.”
“I’m not pulling over.”
“No, I need you to stop getting yourself into trouble,” you say, “especially on my account.”
“It’s all you know,” you correct, “but don’t kid with me, I know you’re not incapable of better things.”
You observe his expression for any sign of him truly receiving and reflecting upon your words, but he looks as tense as ever—frustration broiling below the surface. He still has an impenetrable wall up. “This way of life isn’t sustainable.”
“It’s all I’m good for.”
You don’t fully recognize that you’re crying until you take your next breath, and your chest constricts so tight that you struggle on the intake. Then you process your blurred vision. The view through the windshield warbles from behind a glossy sheen. You fight for control as best you can with your next inhale, but you choke on it.
Your shaky hands swipe at the tears vigorously as you swing your face away from him. Silently, you hope he hasn’t noticed your tears. The truck gradually slows to a crawl. Your hopes are in vain. He says your name. It's barely audible, and yet it beckons you to look back at him. You don’t resist. His eyes ping-pong between the road and your quivering form.
Pope never could stand the sight of you crying. That much hasn’t changed, and knowing he’s the cause of your tears? Well, there’s nothing that feels quite as terrible as that. He’s trying. You know that. He’s trying to do right by you, but if the way he goes about that lands him back in prison, what’s the point?
“I can’t lose you again.” The truth is out in the open. Your deepest fear, and the root of all your worrying over him. It’s because you can remember it all like it was yesterday—the day you found out Pope had been caught after toeing the line his whole life. You can feel the loneliness like it’s still there, closing in around you. All your talk of not needing him, and still, the sheer panic of losing him remains the core of your frustration with his actions.
“I—I can’t do it.” You try to swallow down the sob that comes along with your words, but they're a package deal. You’re pathetic. You feel crazy. He makes you fucking crazy. “Don’t—do not leave me again.”
He pulls onto the shoulder of the road. You let out a garbled sound, shaking your head as you drag your hands down your face.
“Take me home. Please,” you mumble in defeat,’ I don’t want to fight with you anymore.”
You're tucking your vulnerabilities away again—shrinking back against the leather seat.
He catches your wrist, and gives it a gentle tug. You shake your head again, but he is insistent in coaxing you closer and over the center console. Once he’s got you settled on his lap, his thumbs move to catch the tears that haven’t stopped pouring down your cheeks. Tears that he caused.
“I can’t promise you much.” You crumple and try to retreat from his touch. It’s not what you want to hear. He doesn’t let you though, turning your head back towards him and forcing you to meet his eyes. “But I’ll be more careful.”
“That’s it?” He’s unphased by your disappointment.
“I’ll stop getting into… altercations with your shitty friends.”
“That’ll be easy,” you say with a weak and watery laugh. “I don’t think Matt will step within a five foot radius of me again.”
“Good.”
“But you won’t stop doing jobs?”
His lack of response is answer enough. It’s his family business, you know. As fucked up as it is. This compromise of his—the promise to be more careful—quite frankly, is awful. It shouldn’t be enough to appease your anxiety, but you really hate arguing with him. Some wistful part of you had hoped maybe he’d give it up for you. Of course, it runs deeper than that.
As you stare down at him, you’re not sure what possesses you to roll your hips downward. He freezes, tensing up below you.
“What’re you doing?”
His question pulls you back down to earth from wherever you’d gone to. Emotions are running high. You’re confused. You bumped your head pretty hard earlier. Any excuse under the sun will do, but your mind draws a blank. It feels like everything’s crashing down around you.
“I don’t know… I’m sorry,” you whisper. Regret is already pooling into every crevice of your being. It’s hot and shameful, pouring from your head downward.
He lifts you from his lap, and you’ve never felt more mortified in your life. This is it. You’ve ruined everything. One spur of the moment decision has destroyed it all. He guides you between the front seats and into the back, hand at the small of your back. You’re confused, but too embarrassed to question him after what you’d done.
Pope trails after you quickly. Clumsily, he clambers over the center console. Pure electricity pulses through you. He topples into you, caging you against the back seat. You gasp.
Time stops and your gazes clash. You glean hesitance in his. This—whatever this is between you—it’s wrong. The silent acknowledgement of that is what gives him pause. He has no right to be anything more than he already is to you, which is already too much.
He is your lookout. Your pillar. The only person who has ever looked after you without seeking gain. He is twice your age, and definitively shouldn’t be having these feelings for you. He is damaged beyond repair.
And you… you are not. When he looks at you, you know he sees a bright future—one that doesn’t have any room to spare for the likes of him.
It is wrong. Undoubtedly. Others will judge you. Nothing about the two of you will make sense to the outsider looking in, but when absorbed in one another none of the rest of the world exists. It feels so damn good. Resistance has become futile.
You told him to be selfish, didn’t you?
Bruised and bloody fists. Soft skin to roughened hands. The kind of hands that have only ever known violence—raised for it, worn and made for it. Fury wrought. Yet they’ve seated themselves underneath your jaw so timidly even as blood flakes his knuckles and smears your tear stained face.
He’s got you. Hook, line, and sinker. Like barbed wire strung through your guts, threatening to pull into knots. You are defenseless. Given no choice but to go along, and even if you were afforded the luxury, you would follow him through rings of fire. To hell and back.
Some might call it stupid, and a couple weeks ago you might have agreed, but Andrew is holding you like you’re the most precious thing in existence—though his claws have already sunk deep into your flesh—looking at you like he's loved no other.
It's intoxicating.
Breaths leave him fast, in warm puffs of air that flitter below your nose. You’re a hair’s breadth away. Even so, your desire is a gaping maw that hungers for more.
The gap is bridged by your lips on his. They’re softer than you’d imagined. Pillowy and parting beneath your own. The kiss carries the air from your lungs in a soft sound that wells up your chest.
His body presses to yours, moving in slow, roiling fluctuations. The sensual ebb and flow of two forms completely entangled in one another. Your fingers lace through his hair, hauling him closer.
There isn’t enough of him to satiate the bone deep need that coils in your marrow. He’s close as can be, but you need him closer still.
He flounders above you. His shaky hands linger just shy of you. When you break away, the loss of contact leaves him blinking down at you.
“You can touch me.” Sliding your hands down his forearms, you bring his hands to your body. His breath stutters, catching in his throat as you lay his palms at your waist. Unsure of where to look, his eyes dart all around. Carefully, you circle one wrist and raise his hand to your chest. “I want you to.”
His pupils expand, fixating on the swell of your breasts, and the subtle rise and fall. The delicate expression he’d worn seconds ago morphs, betraying the hankering of a starved dog.
His fingers scrape against the plastic buttons of your uniform. With urgency, he splits it down the middle and scoops you out, supple flesh spilling into the palms of his hands.
He holds you like you’re a relic mistakenly bestowed upon him. One that he has no right to carry in his sawtooth hands. His thumbs rub over your nipples as he familiarizes himself with the act of touching you in such a manner.
The descent is slow as molasses. His mouth meets the column of your throat. A sluggish kiss to the hollow of your neck then the curve at the top of your breast to the pit between.
“Andrew…” you murmur.
Emboldened, he rises to kiss you on the lips again. You meet him with equal parts passion and desperation. It’s obvious that you’re aiming to draw it out as long as possible. Until the oxygen has emptied from your lungs. Until your throat is scathed from the lack of it. Until you’re dizzy and lightheaded. Until you’re unable to process anything but the feeling of his lips on your own.
Even though he’s the one that withdraws first, it pulls a whine from him. A sound so quiet it’s nearly imperceptible, but you hear it. You shift, and he follows your lead, moving to settle beside you. He leans back against the truck's door as you hike his shirt up. He takes over, pulling it up and off of him.
The sight isn’t unfamiliar. You’ve seen him shirtless countless times. By the pool or at the beach, but in this context, there’s a different kind of intimacy. You steal the moment, taking in the sight of him. His toned abdomen up to his chest. Just the right amount of muscle. Freckles dot his shoulders like a sprawling galaxy made up of millions of stars. They speckle the broad stretch of skin and down his arms.
And oh his arms. Sculpted to perfection with protruding veins that branch up them. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Those arms might be your favourite part of him, but your love for every one of his features grows greater with each passing second.
Andrew shrinks under your gaze, relaxing when your eyes move back up to his face.
"You're pretty," you say. A quiet remark that is more an involuntary slip of tongue than anything else. Pure, unadulterated honesty. You delight in the redness that spreads up his neck to the tips of his ears.
He doesn't have to say anything for you to know he doesn't believe a word out of your mouth. The way he's gone all misty eyed gives it away. That and the subtle shake of his head.
" 'M not," he says, voice mellowing out from its usual gruffness. "You're the pretty one."
You smile. "Can't we both be pretty?"
"Not if we're being honest."
"I am."
"Pretty or honest?" He asks, being purposefully obtuse. It's got him smiling now too. Small and delicate, but a smile nonetheless. Your heart thrums. Even in your frustration.
"Both!” You laugh and his smile widens. The urge to tell him his smile is beautiful nearly consumes you, but you’re not trying to spend the rest of the evening going back and forth with him. Other plans have begun to take shape in your mind.
And on that note, your hands pounce at his belt buckle, tugging it open. He lifts his hips, and you shuck his pants down. When you move for the waistband of his boxers next, he shuffles and straightens up.
“Sit back,” you say. He pauses, looking ready to protest, but the look you give him is enough of a warning for him to heed. The ease with which he submits to you sends a thrill through you. “Good boy.”
A strangled sound claws its way up his throat. Somehow, his face turns even redder than before. His hips give a little buck. Oh, he likes that.
You rid the last layer, freeing his cock. It’s pretty too, like the rest of him, you note. He shudders as you wrap your hand around the shaft, giving it a few drawn out tugs. Your palm drags up the length of it then back down.
His thighs tense when you hunch forward, muscles straining in anticipation of the warm, wet heat of your mouth. You linger at the precipice, watching him struggle to hold himself together.
He says your name—more like whimpers it, and you give in a little too easily. You mouth gently at his fat tip, taking it between your lips. He keens, head tipping against the glass behind him with a painful sounding thud.
“Careful,” you withdraw to say. He cups the back of your head in an attempt to press you back down. “You okay?”
“Yes!” He whines, “Just don’t stop…”
Fuck if that doesn’t ignite a fire beneath you. Sparks burst into blazing flames. He sounds miserable. Tormented by what you dangle in front of him, but withhold. You smile before inching closer to run your tongue up the underside of his cock, latching your lips at the head again.
When you feed more of his cock into your mouth, his eyes shutter and his face twists. You’re addicted to the pitiful moans that tumble from him. You want to uncover every note of his pleasure—pull and tug on that thread until he unravels into incoherence. Despite your best efforts, you gag around him.
His fluttering eyes meet yours, hand sliding around to cup your face. He exhales sharply, mesmerized by you in a position he’s never had the privilege to witness before. Tears prick the corner of your eyes. Drool spills from the corner of your mouth. A muted ache in your jaw.
Andrew looks like he could finish from the sight alone. You hum around the girth of him, and begin working in earnest. For a little while, his hips meet your bobbing movements, fucking into your mouth, but then he stops abruptly.
“Stop, hah…!”
“You’re giving me whiplash here,” you remark after pulling off of him.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, sitting up. The rest of your clothes are discarded before he pushes you back so you’re laying across the back seats. The tables have turned. He's hovering above you. Fingers prod at your folds, observing with a single-minded focus as he parts your lips. He breathes heavily. “Wanna be inside you…”
“Yeah?” You ask, your voice airy. He nods, and slides two thick fingers inside you. “Want to cum inside me, hm?”
He freezes, making the most delicious of sounds—something between a mewl and a whimper—dragged and drawn out as his eyes flit between your glistening pussy and your lips speaking such sinful words. “Please…”
“You’ve got to be good for me first,” you say with a small sigh as he begins to thumb at your clit. He rubs it in firm circles, hanging onto every word that leaves your mouth. “Can you do that?”
He’s nodding again, so incredibly eager to please. And even quicker to act, curling and thrusting his fingers inside you. He leans over you, and rests his forehead against yours. You leap to meet him in a kiss, moaning into his mouth. All messy and careless. Lips mashing and teeth clashing with no real rhythm, just a frantic need.
Steadily his pace picks up. You squelch around his fingers, but you don’t have enough time to stew in your embarrassment over the obscenity of the sounds. He crooks his fingers, pummeling that sensitive spot with each inward drag of them.
Pope pulls away from the kiss, a string of saliva connecting you. For a short time, you feel like you’re soaring. Then your quaking body slackens. He slips free and grabs you. Forthright in his intent, he yanks you by your hips, jolting you closer.
The weepy head of his cock notches along your slit, brushing up against your clit before sliding lower. He looks to you for reassurance, and when you give him a resolute nod he begins to push inside you.
He watches with vested interest as your cunt accepts him so willingly. His hands sweep up your sides, body moving to blanket yours as he ruts into you. You moan in unison, dragging your nails over his shoulder blades, feeling the muscles along his back flex and ripple with each movement.
There isn’t much romance about it. A sweaty heap sprawled across the backseats of his truck, pulled over on the side of a deserted road. But then again, it’s fitting, isn’t it? Perfectly imperfect. That sentiment could be used to describe most aspects of your relationship.
His head drops to the swan of your neck. He loses himself in you, lips lazily dragging against damp skin. You bear the weight of him, accepting him with open arms as he stitches himself to you. A distinct wetness drips onto your neck. Droplets of tears.
“Love you…” he whines into the crook of your neck. It becomes his mantra as he drives his hips forward over and over. “More ‘an anything.”
“I love you, sweet boy,” you coo in return, cradling the back of his head. You can hardly believe you’ve been denied this for so long.
He snivels, shaking his head against you. You lift his face from its hiding place so you can look at him. He looks at you, eyes shimmering with tears. The rhythm he’s set begins to taper off into staggered, uneven thrusts.
“Fuck,” he seethes. It’s like he’s seeing you—truly seeing you—for the first time. His voice wilts. “You’re perfect—!”
Pope lurches forward, stilling as he spills himself inside you with a loud moan. His body goes limp above yours. As you come down from your high, sensation returns to you—the feeling of your sweat slicked back clinging uncomfortably to the leather below. Yet he makes no effort to peel himself from you.
“Andrew…?” you call out, stroking a hand over the nape of his neck and down his back. “You still with me?”
He hums, but doesn’t offer anything substantial in response, seeming content to stay put for a lifetime or two.
“We can’t stay like this forever,” you say, trying to shuffle from beneath him, but he doesn’t budge. You laugh at his stubbornness. “Be a good boy for me… and move your ass.”
That gets him moving. He shoots up and stares at you, looking slighted. His cheeks tint pink. “It’s not—I’m not—would you quit sayin’ stuff like that?”
“Uh uh, I know your weakness now, Andy,” you say with a smug smile. He doesn’t have a leg to stand on in this matter, so instead he swoops down and steals another kiss. “We’re never getting home at this rate…”
“That’s fine by me.”
Yeah, you’re content to stay in this moment forever too.
summary: In an attempt to seduce a past hookup, you accidentally send your attending, Jack Abbot, a lewd photo.
tags/warnings: MDNI 18+, smut, oral (f receiving), piv sex, pussy eating, fingering, pussy slapping, jack abbot certified bush lover, overstimulation, implied age gap (reader is a resident), medical inaccuracies (peritoneal lavages are rarely used nowadays, but who cares), no use of y/n, trauma scene based on an episode of ER teehee.
wc: 9.5k
a/n: okay this is fully like two weeks late to the trend but it was inspired by that “you shaved your bush” tiktok trend lol. I genuinely do not know how this got so long, It was supposed to be a cute little fic but i got carried away, oopsies! I hope you enjoy <3
credits: gif credits to @ho-ii !!
It was Friday afternoon and you were desperately, achingly horny.
You’d tried your old faithful vibrator, which was doing the job fine, but you were desperate for some human connection. Your mind drifted through the mental rolodex of who you could call up for some casual fun. It was a short list, your demanding schedule not lending itself to a particularly vibrant social life. You’d only been on a handful of dates in the past year, most of which ended in disaster.
Alex was out of the running because of his unfortunate odor problem.
Sam was out due to a creepy doll collection he failed to disclose until you made your way to his apartment.
And Daniel was out because, frankly, he was terrible at sex, which is kind of a sticking point for you right now.
That left James, a guy you met on one of the apps and who was decent enough with his mouth that you’d seen him a handful of times. You didn’t hook up with him often, mostly because he was particular about your pubic hair. He preferred for it to be cleanly shaven, or at least heavily trimmed before he would consider going down on you.
So despite the fact that he wasn’t much good at fucking, you tended to go back to him when you needed a release. Yes, your standards were abysmally low, but the truth of the matter was that residency didn’t really give you any time to get out and meet new, better hook-ups. So James it was.
It had been a couple months since you’d hooked up, mostly due to this preference of his. Unfortunately, taking the time to take an ‘everything shower’ just to get your pussy eaten was a luxury that you were not often afforded due your residency schedule.
But today you’d had the time, energy, and desire to get devoured, so you hopped in the shower to take care of everything. By the time you emerged your hair was double cleansed, you’d applied a hair mask, exfoliated, shaved your legs, applied moisturizer and body oil, and–most importantly–your pussy was cleanly shaven.
You had a renewed pep in your step as you made your way over to your bed, ready to entice James. You maneuvered onto the bed and experimented with a few poses before landing on one that showed off your assets the best. You propped up your phone–timer set for 10 seconds–and you scrambled into position, perching back on your haunches and settling back on your feet, back arched a little uncomfortably.
You heard the shutter of the camera going off and quickly extricated yourself from the uncomfortable position. Looking over the image, you were very impressed.
The photo pictured your nude body from the chest down, beginning with the barest hint of the underside of your breasts showing, then the expanse of your stomach and curve of your hips. Lower, your fingers were on your pussy, parting your lips just enough to tease. It was a damn good nude, if you did say so yourself. James was lucky to receive it.
It had been so long since you texted him that instead of scrolling through endless scam messages and bill reminders, you just typed in the first few letters of his name to pull up his contact. As soon as you typed ‘ja’ it popped up, and you quickly began composing your message.
Gnawing at your thumbnail, you went back and forth on a few messages, trying to sound sexy, but playful. After five minutes of deliberation, you decided to just go with what you had. Honestly, it’s not like James was going to give it more than a second thought–if he wanted to fuck he wasn’t going to care about how sultry (or not) the message you sent him was.
You settled on:
you: shaved just for you. want something sweet to eat? ;)
You looked it over for a minute, nodding to yourself and hitting send before you could psych yourself out.
What a mistake.
Jack sat at the work station, mouth open and slackjawed, still staring at his phone screen.
Not at the photo anymore–no, that had been quickly swiped away–but the image was still burned into his retinas, the after image projecting onto the back of his eyelids when he closed them.
Why?
Because three minutes ago he received a text message from one of the day shift residents. He was concerned, initially, because there was little reason for day shift residents to contact him as opposed to Robby. Which is why Jack opened the message as soon as he saw it come in, thinking it might be an emergency, especially because it was you.
Instead, he was greeted with a sight he thought he’d never have the pleasure of seeing.
You, stretched back on your heels, breasts barely visible, pussy on full display for him. Your fingers held you open, your folds glistening in the late summer light that was streaming in, your pretty little clit in the center, just begging to be sucked. It was, quite possibly, the prettiest pussy he’d ever seen.
He couldn’t take his eyes off of the photo for a good 30 seconds, before the logical side of his brain kicked in and he remembered oh yeah, I’m at work and can’t be caught looking at my resident’s cunt.
He wasn’t unfamiliar with you, even though you’d only worked a handful of shifts together. But he saw you every morning at handoff, and you two shared warm smiles and easy jokes, your sardonic wit matching his bar for bar. He knew you were smart, able to hold your own in a trauma, and compassionate and empathetic underneath it all. And he couldn’t ignore the fact that you were gorgeous either.
And he would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of you in this sort of light before, either. Jack Abbot was not a proud man–he could admit that on more than one occasion, he’d stood in his shower fisting his cock to the image of you on your knees for him.
It was especially bad when you did something impressive at work. Like the time you went toe-to-toe with a surgeon about whether a patient really needed surgery when you insisted that all they needed was a pericardiocentesis, and to prove your theory, you stuck the needle into the pericardium and extracted the fluid despite surgery’s objections. A ballsy move, one that would have been deeply problematic if you were wrong, but paid off. He’d had to rub one out in the bathroom that day. He apparently has a thing for competency.
“You’re gonna catch flies, Abbot,” Ellis said, walking out of an exam room, IPad tucked under her arm and smirk wide on her face. Jack shook himself out of his reverie, trying desperately not to think of your photo (but failing miserably).
He cleared his throat, “Sorry, what’ve you got for me?” he asked, still a bit dazed. Ellis looked at him skeptically–there wasn’t much that threw Dr. Jack Abbot–but proceeded to present her case anyway.
Once he approved her plan of treatment, Jack returned to his phone. He sat there for a long moment, contemplating what to do. You hadn’t said anything else, no frantic “I’m so sorry, that obviously wasn’t meant for you,” texts that explained the situation. Jack was positive it wasn’t intended for him, and he didn’t want to embarrass you more than you were sure to be.
His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, dancing nervously as he typed out his reply.
You started getting ready after sending the text, anticipating that James would want to meet up tonight. You did your hair, applied a bit of light make up, and threw on a cute little sundress.
It was about an hour later when you went to check your phone again, fully expecting to see a cheeky message from James inviting you over for some fun.
What you saw made your stomach drop instead. You felt dizzy, nausea washing over you in roiling waves. The text thread you were looking at was addressed to Jack Abbot, not James. And staring back at you was your nude body, followed by a response from Dr. Abbot.
Jack Abbot: I don’t think I’m the intended recipient for that photo.
Jack Abbot: But for what it's worth, a real man would eat it even if you didn’t shave. Would prefer it, actually.
Jack Abbot: Sorry, that was inappropriate. I’ve deleted this text thread, along with the photo. We can pretend this never happened.
There’s no fucking way. Absolutely not. There is no possible way that you accidentally sent a nude photo of yourself to your fucking attending. Not just any attending either, but the one you'd had a big fat stupid crush on for the better part of a year. The one you’d spent endless nights fantasizing about with your fingers plunged deep into your cunt, whose visage you’d pictured hovering over you, fucking you hard and deep; the name you accidentally moaned when James was eating you out the last time you hooked up.
Your mind refused to accept that this was reality, hoping against hope that this was some twisted fucking nightmare.
Shame welled up inside you, your cheeks hot from embarrassment and tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, mortification settling in earnest now. In addition to being humiliating, you also felt like a fucking creep. From his perspective, you just sent him a completely unsolicited nude photo.
Even more so, you hated that this probably killed any chance you had with him, even if that chance had been slim to none to begin with.
You paced your bedroom, thumbnail chewed raw as you tried to do damage control. What does one even say after they accidentally send a nude to their boss? After far too much deliberation, you decided to keep it simple, apologize, and crawl into your bed for the remainder of your two days off.
You: Dr. Abbot, I am so sorry about that!! I obviously didn’t mean to send that to you.
You: I meant to send it to a James and must not have looked closely enough before I sent it.
You: Thank you for deleting the photo, and I’m so sorry once again that you were subjected to seeing that.
You threw your phone as far away from you as possible, recklessly disregarding its safety despite the fact that you most certainly could not afford to repair said phone if it was damaged, and flopped onto the bed, screaming into a pillow. Your throat was raw by the time you surfaced for air, your body limp and exhausted, mind shuffling through worst case scenarios.
In the midst of your spiral, your brain drifted to the other part of his message: a real man would eat it even if you didn’t shave. That was, admittedly, inappropriate, but no more so than sending a nude to your superior, so you figured you were even. He probably just meant it to be supportive; to try and diffuse the awkward situation.
But another part of you wondered if he meant something else. If he was signalling to you that he would eat it, bush or not. The thought was indulgent, if not utterly preposterous. He was an attending; you were a resident. There was no way he’d meant anything by it. But you couldn’t help thinking…
Did he like the photo? Was he picturing you with a bush? Did he think about tasting you, about swirling his tongue around your clit or plunging it deep into you?
A notification dinged, shaking you out of your daydream, and you contemplated whether or not you actually wanted to see what he said, if anything at all. Curiosity eventually won out, hands grappling for your phone and swiping open the notification.
Jack Abbot: No worries. 👍
It was a completely normal response, which almost made it worse. Part of you wished he would lash out, call you disgusting or a whore, at least you’d know what to do with that. Shame or disgust were easier to digest than nonchalance.
You didn’t bother to send the photo to the correct person, your lust dampened, the fire doused with cold water, remnants pulverized to ash. Groaning, you burrowed into your bed with no intention of leaving for the next two days.
You had no idea how you were going to face him Monday.
You woke up two days later and ran through your options.
Flee the country and never return to Pittsburgh ever again (unrealistic, you’d devoted too much time to becoming a doctor, you weren’t giving up because of some catastrophically stupid mistake)
Arrive to work 20 minutes late, hopefully avoiding Jack Abbot by all costs (unlikely, the man worked more overtime than anyone except Robby. He was sure to still be there, and all you’d get was attendance point for your trouble)
Be a mature adult, apologize, and forget this ever happened, like he suggested (undoubtedly the best choice, but could you really ever forget that your attending has seen your pussy? And, a far sicker thought, did you want him to forget?)
Indecision weighed on you as you got ready, ultimately deciding on lucky number option 3. Your only saving grace was the fact that you were on day shift, and Abbot rarely worked days. The only interaction would be at handoff, and maybe if you could busied yourself enough getting a jump on patients, you could avoid him for as long as possible.
That was your plan of action as you walked into chairs, head down as you scanned into the ED and approached the nurses station. You didn’t hear his voice, which was a good sign; typically, you could hear it as soon as you entered, steady barking out orders over the hum of the department. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself and thinking for the first time since you sent that photo that things might be okay.
You spot Ellis at a work station, and beeline to her to get the handover started.
“Hey Ellis, how’d the night go? Any weird and wild cases?” you ask,
“Oh, you know, the usual,” she said, “foreign body extractions, a couple MIs, an insomniac who overdosed on benadryl and swore that the hat man was after him for money,” she laughed, shaking her head.
“To be fair, the hat man could be after him for money,” you said solemnly, face straight for a second before you burst out laughing.
Handover continued smoothly, Ellis updating you on which patients needed labs or imaging and which needed to be discharged. You almost made it through unscathed, your body turning to make your way to North 5 when you heard his voice calling to Ellis.
Your shoulders tensed–body betraying you by freezing in place–and he was next to you before you could scuttle away. Resting his forearms on the counter next to you, he continued talking to Ellis–about what, you couldn’t say, static filling your ears as you remembered what you’d done.
“Morning, Doc,” he said, startling you out of your daze.
“G-good morning, Dr. Abbot,” you stuttered, eyes glancing briefly at him before settling on his chin, unable to meet his eyes for more than a second.
He looked annoyingly normal, showing no sign that anything unseemly had occurred between you. You chanced another look at his eyes, the hazel orbs showing no hint of amusement or belittlement. But there was a look of acknowledgement, a steady one that should have reassured you that everything was okay, that you weren’t a laughingstock. The same look he’d give you in a trauma when things went sideways through no fault of your own.
And In any other situation, it would be reassuring. But right now, all it did was remind you that he’d seen your most sensitive parts, that he’d commented on the state of your pubic hair (or lack thereof). Heat bloomed in your cheeks, and your breath caught in your throat, eyes unable to breakaway from his gaze.
When you did manage to look away, it was, traitorously, to look down at his lips. They looked so soft, and for a split second you imagined yourself leaning in, capturing his lips with yours and kissing him into oblivion. You snapped back to reality half a second too late, seeing the edge of Abbot’s mouth turn up in the barest hint of a smile.
Clearing your throat, you quickly excused yourself to see a patient, all but running to the exam room. You managed to slow your breathing and compose yourself before you entered the room, squaring your shoulders and getting back to work.
This was going to be a lot harder than you anticipated.
Jack was being honest when he told you he deleted the text thread with that photo in it, a fact he was coming to regret as he laid in bed post-shift, body tired but too wired to relax and fall asleep. He’d committed the photo to memory, though, losing himself in it as he dragged his hand up and down his cock, thinking about how soft you’d be, how sweet you’d taste, the sounds he’d pull from you as he fucked you with his tongue. He’d fallen into this routine an embarrassing amount of times since he received that photo, feeling like a pervy, dirty old man all the while, but doing nothing to stop himself either.
His hand glided over his shaft once more, imagining that it was your warm, wet walls wrapped around him instead, and he was coming hard, painting his stomach with streaks of warm, wet goo. He sat there, breathing heavy, as a twitch of shame rolled over him. He shouldn’t be jerking it to the remembered image of a resident’s pussy, a woman at least 15 years younger than him, if not more.
But it was harder than he’d thought it would be to put that photo behind him. It was all he could think about as soon as he saw you that first morning, the image looping in an endless projection in his mind. It was completely unprofessional, and frankly dishonest. He’d told you that you could both pretend it had never happened, but he wasn’t so sure that was possible anymore.
And it was clear you hadn’t forgotten either. You were jumpy around him, the easy quips you used swap in the morning abandoned for stuttered greetings and awkward silences. He’d also caught you looking at his lips on more than one occasion and stealing glances at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. He wasn’t sure if it was true attraction, or just some morbid curiosity that was sparked by the unusual situation you two found yourselves in, but Jack wasn’t about to get his hopes up for the former.
As difficult as it was to keep his head on straight after seeing that photo, the more troubling part was that he’d lost the 10 to 15 minutes he spent every morning talking to you, a small ritual he looked forward to every shift. He hadn’t realized how much those moments meant to him until they were gone. Even the worst nights were magically better when he was able to make you laugh at handoff, your smile making his chest swell with pride and head fuzzy with feelings he had no business feeling.
Jack knew he had to do something to ease the tension, to get things back to normal. Or maybe a new normal, if he had anything to do with it.
The days passed in a similar fashion to that first day. Jack would greet you politely and attempt your typical banter, and you would awkwardly stutter out an adequate reply before making your escape as quickly as possible. You weren’t sure why you weren’t able to be a fucking adult and put it behind you, but you just couldn’t. Every time you thought you had the courage to revert back to your typical routine with Abbot, you chickened out almost immediately, bumbling your wall through some moronic excuse.
To make matters worse, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. It was worse than it ever had been before; what used to be an errant thought that would arise only in the throes of pleasure were now occurring during the most mundane tasks. You thought about what his full, silver curls would look like buried between your thighs while you were doing laundry; what his mouth would feel like on your breasts, teeth pulling at the pebbled skin of your nipples while you cooked dinner; how he would fuck you–would it be soft and slow, or hard and punishing?–while you cleaned the bathroom.
Your luck ran out about a month after the incident, as you were calling it. For the most part, you were able to keep your interactions with Abbot brief, albeit awkward. But today he was scheduled on day shift, covering for Al-Hashimi while she was home sick with her son. You’d only found out when you walked in, seeing his name on the board despite the fact that he was off last night.
You felt a wave of nausea wash over you; how were you supposed to go a whole day avoiding him? You managed pretty well for the first half of your shift, presenting exclusively to Robby, which wasn’t all that different from your normal routine. You avoided the traumas Abbot was running, hiding in exam rooms under the guise of checking vitals or reviewing scans. It was working fairly well until midday, when you were unfortunately in the vicinity of the ambulance bay when paramedics burst through.
“Santos, Mohan,” Abbot paused, eyes flitting over to where you stood before calling your name as well, “with me!” he said, already moving into the trauma room and gowning up. You reluctantly followed, slipping on your own trauma gown. He was behind you before you could secure your gown, fingers brushing against the nape of your neck as he tied the strings for you. It shouldn’t have sent a thrill down your spine, but it did. You stuttered out a thank you as you moved to assess the patient.
The paramedic was halfway through the bullet when you arrived at the bedside, hands moving to transfer them from the stretcher to the bed. “– multiple lacerations, bruises to the face, chest, and abdomen. Possible tib-fib and facial fracture.” You looked down at the patient, a teenage boy who couldn’t have been older than 15.
“BP’s low, 70 palp; pulse ox is 85,” Princess called out.
You slid the chestpiece of your stethoscope over the patient's chest, listening to the lungs. Unfortunately, your brain went blank when Abbot sidled up next to you, arm pressed tight against yours in the cramped trauma room.
“What do you think, Doc?” he asked, listening with his own stethoscope now.
You blinked, brain lagging as you tried to compose yourself; to try and save this boy’s life.
“Uh-um good breath sounds?” you said, a question more than an answer, though you were certain about the breath sounds. “Airway is patent, no tracheal deviation, no blood in the canal,” you finished, regaining a bit of confidence as you averted your gaze from his.
“Good,” he said, hand grasping your elbow and moving you down to the end of the bed. “What do we need to order?”
Santos, blessedly, answered before you could embarrass yourself further, “C-spine, chest and head CT.”
“BP is down to 60!”
“Alright people! What are we dealing with?” Abbot called out, eyebrow quirked at you.
Every differential evaporated from your mind. “He’s bleeding from somewhere,” was all you could come up with, though that was obvious. Instead of dwelling on that, you turned your attention to the boy, your eyes examining his body, searching for the source of bleeding. With Samira’s help you flipped the boy over, desperate to find a stab wound or gash, but coming up empty.
“Must be the belly,” Santos said.
“Alright, lavage kit please!” Abbot said, turning to you, “you ever done one of these?”
You shook your head.
“Well, today’s your lucky day, then,” he said, handing you an 11-blade.
Despite your best efforts, your hand shook as you pressed the blade against the skin.
“I-I can’t,” you whispered, low enough that only he could hear.
“You can,” he said, stepping behind you to steady your hand, guiding as you made the incision. He handed you the tubing next. “Make sure you’re into the peritoneum,” he whispered, lips right next to your ear. His hand was still on top of yours as you slid the tubing in, “I’m in, hook up the saline and extension tubing,” you said, breathing a sigh of relief.
Your relief was short-lived. The results of the lavage came back–negative. “Shit, nothing. It’s not the belly,” you said, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
“What the fuck? Where the hell is this kid bleeding from?” Abbot cursed, pacing around the bed to see if anything was forgotten. “You check his back?” he asked.
“Yes, nothing there. Maybe it’s a faulty blood pressure cuff?” you said, grasping at straws, but moving to flip the boy over and recheck his back again anyway.
Abbot was next to you, eyes raking over systematically to find the source when suddenly Mohan pointed out a tiny mark on the boy’s lower right side, “What is that?” she asked.
“That is a very small puncture wound. Probably an ice pick, if I had to guess,” Abbot answered.
Fuck. You should have caught that. You were standing right there, staring at the lower quadrant of the boy's back. You’d even seen the small mark, but dismissed it as a mole. You felt sick to your stomach, fear and shame welling up in you. You had never had a reaction like this in a trauma, not even on your first day as a med student.
Garcia burst through the door just as Abbot was getting the patient ready to head up to the O.R. “Puncture wound, probably hit the kidney or renal artery,” he said, passing off the patient. She nodded, taking over from there.
“Good pickup,” you congratulated Mohan weakly as you walked out of the trauma bay, hoping you could make it to the bathroom and wallow in self-pity for a few moments.
You heard him call your name shortly after you exited the trauma bay. Heart sinking, you turned to face him. “Yes, Dr. Abbot?” you asked, fidgeting with the hem of your scrub top. You weren’t sure you could handle being yelled at by him today. You’d never been one for tears at being reprimanded, but you could already feel the tell-tale prickling behind your eyes, and you were almost positive that the dam would burst at a harsh word from Abbot.
“A word, please?” he asked, gesturing you to the stairwell, the only place with a semblance of privacy in the ED. You sullenly followed after him, bracing yourself for impact.
You leaned back against the wall, fully expecting him to start yelling as soon as you were situated under the staircase, hidden well enough from passersby, but all you felt was a warm, heavy weight on your shoulder.
“You have to settle down, okay?” he said, one hand planted firmly on your shoulder and the other grasping your chin between his fingers to direct your gaze to his. “Look, I know what you sent me was embarrassing, and we probably should’ve talked about it, but you can’t get this worked up over it when I’m on shift as your attending. It can’t affect your work, you're too good of a doctor to let something like this throw you,” he said earnestly, eyes sincere when you looked into them.
You stood there, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. Your mind still hadn’t fully caught up. “I… you didn’t bring me out here to yell at me?” you asked, voice coming out weaker than you intended it to.
He shook his head, confused, “What? No, of course not. I barely noticed that puncture wound myself,” he said, alleviating your anxiety somewhat.
“What I’m concerned about is how wound tight you are around me. I’m not saying you have to like me or anything, but you have to be comfortable working with me. You didn’t make an error in this trauma, but you could have. And I know it would eat you up if something like that happened,” he said, thumb gently sweeping over your chin.
“I can’t let you jeopardize your education because you’re embarrassed about mistakenly sending me a revealing photo. It would kill me if you didn’t reach your full potential because of something like that, if I had any part of it,” he shook his head, a pained look on his face.
Oh. You couldn’t breathe, your cheeks surely inflamed at this point. You were suddenly very aware of how close he’d gotten–and of his hand on your face. His fingers were warm against your face, skin rough, providing delicious friction as his hand repositioned, thumb stroking along your jaw as he subtly tilted your head back. He smelled like clean laundry and coffee, with a slight tang of antiseptic.
Your lips parted, ragged breaths falling from your lips.
“Dr. Abbot–”
“Jack. Call me Jack,” he murmured, so close that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. If you tipped your head up just a fraction, it would close the distance between you; would bring your lips flush together. Your eyes fluttered shut at the thought.
“Jack, I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about that picture,” you admitted quietly.
“Can I tell you a secret?” he asked, tongue darting out to wet his lips, “I can’t stop thinking about it, either.”
“Really?” you looked up at him from under your eyelashes.
He nodded, moving impossibly closer, lips ghosting against yours. He hesitated briefly, a look of doubt flashing across his face before his gaze steadied–a decision made; a line ready to be crossed. His grip tightened against your jaw, “I can’t stop thinking about you spreading that pretty little pussy open, or about the prick who wanted you to shave before he’d think about going down on you,” he said, shaking his head in disgust.
“You know how many times I fucked my fist to the memory of that photo? How much I’ve thought about how you taste, what sounds you’d make when you cum?” he asked.
A strangled moan escaped your lips at his words. You’d never seen this side of Jack Abbot before, and it was intoxicating. “I-i think about you when I touch myself too,” you whimpered, your admission seeming tame compared to his vulgar words, but you wanted him to know you were also going crazy over him; that this wasn’t one-sided.
“Yeah, pretty girl? You think about me when you stuff that little cunt with your fingers? Wish it was my cock instead?” he asked, his other hand snaking down to your hip, fingers inching their way under your scrub top to caress the skin there.
You nodded, the proximity and dirty talk stealing your breath and leaving you unable to form an intelligible sentence.
“Did he eat your pussy, sugar? You got all dolled up for him, did he at least treat you right?” he asked, breath fanning over your lips, stubble just barely grazing your sensitive skin.
You shook your head, dazed. “I didn’t send it to him,” you said, a little bashful, “was too embarrassed after I sent it to you.”
He groaned, forehead falling against yours, “poor baby, put in all that effort and didn’t even get to cum, did you?” he asked, just the slightest bit condescending.
You let out a pathetic whine, shaking your head ‘no’ at his question. Heat pooled deep in your belly and you felt your panties quickly dampening.
He tsked, “we’ll have to rectify that,” he said, “You shave again? Or you let her grow back natural?” he asked.
You bit your lip, still a bit shy despite all the filthy words that he’d spoken in the last 5 minutes. “I’m au naturelle,” you whispered, a slight smirk tugging at your lips.
“Good fucking girl,” he growled before his mouth was on yours. His lips moved against yours with a ferocity you’d never experienced before. There was nothing uncertain about the kiss, his lips firm as he devoured you, tongue licking into your mouth and sliding against yours deliciously. One of your hands slid up the side of his neck to play with the curls at his nape while the other fisted in the fabric of his scrub top.
His spit tasted like the stale breakroom coffee and the spearmint of his gum, and you couldn’t get enough. You suckled at his tongue, trying to keep up with his relentless pace, but eventually let him take the reins and kiss you silly.
You were both panting when you pulled away, a string of spit drawn taut between your lips before snapping. Jack held your head between his hands, thumbs brushing softly over the apples of your cheeks.
“Talk with me. Tonight. Come have dinner or a drink with me, and we can talk about it all,” he said, a borderline pleading look on his face.
You nodded, still a little dumb from the kiss. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Okay,” you said, slowly extricating your hand from his scrub top.
He let you go with a final squeeze to your jaw, moving to re-enter the ED before you.
You stood there a moment longer, wiping your lips to get rid of your combined saliva and to lessen the kiss bitten look you were sure you were sporting before getting back to work.
The rest of the shift was painfully slow, the hours passing by like molasses. You couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss, the way his lips molded against yours like it was their rightful place. You did make a concentrated effort not to let it impact your work, though. Jack was right about that; nothing could come between you and finishing your residency.
It was just after 7:30 when you exited the hospital, and you immediately spotted Jack leaning against his truck waiting for you. You smiled as you approached him, nervous butterflies erupting in your stomach. Despite that breathtaking kiss, you still didn’t know where you stood. Was he just satisfying a sexual curiosity? Or was it possible that he also had feelings for you?
He cleared his throat, “So I was thinking we could order something to my place and talk there. Unless you want to go somewhere else, to a restaurant or your place,” he rambled, nerves undercutting his typically confident energy.
“Your place sounds good,” you nod, still a bit shy.
His hand was warm on the small of your back as he guided you to the passenger side, opening the door for you and helping you step up into the cab. The ride to his house was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Some 90s alternative rock playlist hummed quietly in the background while you ordered pizza for the two of you–on his phone, with his card, he insisted. His hand rested lightly on your knee, the heat of his palm burning through the fabric of your scrubs.
You arrived at a beautifully manicured house in a suburb far enough from the city to be peacefully quiet. It’s different from what you pictured, you realize as you walk in. You assumed that a man who worked as much as he did wouldn’t have the time or energy to put into making a house a home; you pictured a sterile kitchen and minimalist fixtures, white walls with abstract art.
But it was homey. The walls were painted, photos scattered across them. The couch looked comfy, something picked out with intention, not the first option plucked from a furniture catalog. There were plants, beautiful, well taken care of ferns and pothos littered about. Warm light filtered through the kitchen, the island topped with butcher block and bracketed by two upholstered stools.
“Do you want anything to drink? Water, wine, beer?” he asked, opening the fridge and grabbing a beer for himself.
You focused your attention back on him, abandoning your pseudo-psychoanalysis of his house and drifting over to perch on a stool. “Wine would be nice,” you said, grateful for something to occupy your hands. He nods, pours you a modest glass of red–something French that probably costs ten times the amount of your shitty grocery store wine.
The pizza arrives soon thereafter, and you sit down at the island to eat. Conversation is easy, and you feel more at ease with him now than you ever had before, a drastic 180 from this morning. You talk about your day, life, post-residency plans; he lets loose a few embarrassing stories from his own residency days, one featuring a very unfortunate Robby being pantsed by a 6 year old in the middle of the ED. Eventually, though, plates are cleared and glasses are downed, a natural lull falling over the conversation.
“So,” he starts, head resting against his palm, arm propped up on the counter, “that photo…” He’s got that sly smirk on his face now, comfortable now to tease you about it.
You groan, burying your head in your arms. He laughed, “you don’t have to explain yourself, but I am curious what series of events led to me receiving that photo,” he said… “a series of events for which I am very thankful for, by the way.”
You turned, resting your head sideways on your arms, and started explaining all about James and his preferences, how he was your only real option for some skin-to-skin contact. Jack, for his part, listened quietly, offering little commentary until you finished your great tale.
“So you’re telling me that this kid can’t even fuck you right, yet he demands you shave before he’ll go down on you?” he asks, a horrified look on his face.
“Welcome to the joys of modern dating,” you joke, shooting him a halfhearted smile.
He shook his head, “unacceptable,” he said before hooking his leg around your stool and pulling you closer. You gasp, steadying yourself with a hand on his thigh as you fight not to topple onto him completely. He was close now, one hand coming up to rest on the hollow of your neck while the other slid up your top, thumb strumming over your ribs.
Jack didn’t hesitate this time. This kiss was different–no less searing, but a little more leisurely–like he wasn’t worried about scarcity anymore, confident that he had the time to take you apart and put you back together again before the night was over. His mouth was molten against yours, tongue delving deep in your mouth and swallowing up the steady stream of desperate whines escaping you.
The hand on your neck coasted upward, tangling in your hair and angling your head back to deepen the kiss. Your hands slid under his shirt, groaning as they came to rest on his tummy. He was warm, the muscle firm under your hands as you lightly scraped your nails over his flesh. His chest rumbled under your touch, the hand in your hair tightening, the twinge of pain a welcome contrast to the overwhelming pleasure of his lips against yours.
He barely broke the kiss to whisper into your mouth, “let me show you what its like to have a real man fuck you. Please, sugar,” he pulled away finally, resting his forehead against yours.
“Please fuck me, Jack,” you said, eyes hooded with lust. A moment later you were being scooped up from the stool and carried toward his bedroom. While Jack focused on not running into anything, you trailed open-mouthed kisses along the length of his neck, sucking the skin between your teeth before soothing it over with your tongue. You nipped gently at his adam’s apple, smiling when he yelped at the contact.
“You’re trouble, you know that?” he chuckled before dropping you down onto his bed, your body bouncing slightly before settling. He stood between your legs, face cradled between his meaty hands. “I want you to listen to me, okay?” he asked, waiting for you to nod before continuing, “I want to do so many filthy, obscene things to you tonight; want to fuck you into oblivion as many times as you’ll let me, but I want you to know that if you want to stop, at any point, you just say the word and we’re done. No questions asked. Understand?”
You nodded once more, but that was insufficient for Jack. “need you to use your big girl words, okay, pretty? Tell me you understand,” he said.
“I understand, Jack. If I want to stop, I’ll tell you,” you replied seriously, even though you knew there was no chance you’d want to stop.
“Good. Now, I want you to take off your scrubs, scoot up to the headboard, and get comfortable while I take care of my leg, okay?”
You did as he bade you, left only in a pair of pink cotton panties and bra. You hadn’t planned on being in this situation, but you were glad they were a matching set at the very least. Settling against his pillows, you watched as he shucked his pants off, the sleek metal of his prosthesis glinting in the low lamplight.
He sat down at the edge of the bed, fingers undoing the mechanism with practiced motions, twisting the appendage off and setting it to the side. The skin looked a little chapped, but not raw, which was a good sign.
“Is there anything I could do to make things more comfortable for you?” you asked. You wanted to make sure he knew you weren’t put off by his leg, wanted to make sure he didn’t feel like he had to overcompensate because of it.
“No, thank you, sugar. You’re doin’ plenty already,” he assured, turning around to face you. His eyes darkened as he took you in, his gaze hungrily raking over your newly exposed skin. He moved to hover over you, forearms braced next to your head as kisses you again, this time a sweet press of his lips against yours before he began trailing his mouth along your jaw and down your neck, laving hot kisses all across your neck and collarbone.
A gasp punches out of you when he sucks harshly at the spot just below the ear, the spot that turns your insides to putty. He grins against you, focusing his attention there until you’re a writhing, moaning mess under him. A hand reaches behind you to make quick work of your bra clasp, the flimsy material soon thrown across the room, forgotten immediately. His hands are on you in a flash, thumbs teasing along the underside of your tits.
Whining, you claw at his shirt, desperately wanting to feel his bare chest against your nipples, and he obliges, one-handedly throwing the thing off. The fine silver hair on his chest scrapes against you, your nails digging into his back as you pull him flush to you. Jack groans, hips involuntarily rutting against you, his hard cock a delicious pressure against your aching cunt. Your hips cant up, chasing the friction and grinding yourself against him.
“Careful, you keep doin’ that and this’ll be over before it even starts,” Jack warns, nipping at your bottom lip before continuing his maddening descent, mouth exploring your breasts–conveniently ignoring your painfully hard nipples. “Jaaaack,” you whine, thrusting your chest upward. He takes the hint, lips suctioning against a nipple and using his tongue to flick the pebbled flesh. Your hand fists in his curls, holding him there as his hand moves to tug at your other nipple. When he decides he’s given enough attention to one nipple, he switches sides, giving the other the same treatment. By the time he moves on, your tits are sure to be sore and red tomorrow, but you could not care less about that right now.
He kissed down your stomach, lips lingering at your navel before pulling back, eyes travelling down between your legs. “Fuck sweetheart, is all this just from me playin’ with your pretty tits?” he asked, eyes fixated on the wet spot on your panties. You whimper in response, mind too fuzzy to form words. His fingers skate over your waistband, your tummy contracting in anticipation. Ever so slowly, he drags your panties down your legs, discarding them over his shoulder as he settles between your legs.
His pupils were blown wide, utterly entranced by your pussy. The attention made you want to shrink in on yourself, your legs subconsciously moving to close, but his wide shoulders and firm grip on your thighs stopped you. “Fuck, sugar, this is what she looks like with some curls on ‘er? And you let some boy convince you she needed to be bald?” He shook his head, a genuinely pained look on his face.
He moved to spread you open for him, thumbs stroking up and down your lips as he took you in. Without warning, he surged forward, pressing a chase kiss against your clit before sitting back and continuing to admire your pussy. You squealed, hips twitching forward in search of more friction, the brief contact making you dizzy with need. It was slightly embarrassing, being watched like this, but you were growing impossibly wetter anyway.
Jack’s hands moved back to your thighs as you squirmed, grip tightening, fingers sinking into your soft flesh just enough to ache, and spread you further open. “Don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he said, pressing hot kisses from your knee to your inner thigh, stopping right at the crease between your pussy and thigh, breath fanning over your puffy folds. Your clit was throbbing, your hips subtly shifting against nothing.
“‘m gonna show you just how pretty this pussy is, not gonna stop until you feel it,” he said, looking directly into your eyes, “you okay with that?”
No sooner had you nodded than he was on you. He didn’t waste any time, swiping the flat of his tongue through your folds from entrance to clit in one long stroke. His tongue was hot against your cunt, the muscle firm as it lapped hungrily at your folds, exploring every inch of you. He groaned, nuzzling his face deeper into your pussy. “Fuck, you taste better than I could have ever imagined,” he moaned, tongue dipping into your hole to collect the slick gathering there.
He didn’t surface for air, mouth working against you relentlessly; like he’d been deprived of something vital that had been restored to him, and he wasn’t about to let it go again. It was primal, almost animalistic the way he licked, sucked, and nipped at your cunt. Your back arched almost painfully off the bed, hands fisted in the sheets and moans slipping from your lips unbidden.
He alternated between circling your clit in tight little circles with the tip of his tongue, and suckling on it, lips wrapped snug around the bundle of nerves. Your body was hot, your legs trembling as the coil in your core wound tighter. One hand moved to grip his curls, the hair soft between your fingers as you tugged at it. He moaned into your pussy, the vibrations bringing you right to the edge.
“Fuck, right there, Jack,” you gasped, “I’m so close, so–”
“Cum for me, sugar, let me taste you,” he said quickly, head bowing back down to suck your clit harshly, teeth grazing it just the littlest bit.
And you did, white hot pleasure coursing through you, body contorting, legs squeezing his head between your thighs as you rode out your orgasm. You felt like a live wire, your nerves firing on all cylinders while Jack kept gentle pressure on your clit, drawing out your release as long as possible. Jack lapped up all your spend, not letting a drop go to waste. Boneless, you weakly pushed his head away, the overstimulation too much.
He sat back a fraction, face dripping with your juices and his saliva. There was a gleam in his eye as his thumb replaced his mouth, rubbing soft circles against your clit. A high-pitched whine escaped you, your sensitive nub begging for reprieve.
“You can give me another one, can’t you pretty girl?” he asked, voice brooking no argument.
“I d-don’t–fuck–I don’t know,” you blabbered, the painful overstimulation quickly giving way to pleasure, your hips canting forward against his thumb.
“I think you can,” he murmured, swiping a thick finger through your folds before sinking it in and curling lazily against that sweet spot on your front wall. “Fuck, Jack, feels so good,” you moaned, moving you hips in time with his finger. Before you knew it he was adding another finger, a slight sting accompanying the stretch. All you could do was whimper, his fingers switching between slow and deep, and fast and hard strokes.
Your second orgasm hit you without warning, pleasure reverberating through your body from the top of your head to the soles of your feet, your toes curling as you came harder than you ever had in your life. Jack’s fingers kept moving, wringing every last after shock from your body. You were panting now, trying to catch your breath but failing miserably.
And yet, Jack’s fingers were still moving, scissoring you open now. It was too much, the sensations bordered more on pain than pleasure. “I can’t–can’t do a-another one like this,” you stuttered out.
Jack looked at you, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Tell me you have the prettiest pussy,” he said, fingers slowing a fraction as he waited for you to answer, gaze leveled directly at you.
You whined, face heating at the order, “J-Jack, please, just wanna cum on your cock,” you said, hoping it would break his resolve.
“I’ll fuck you as soon as you say it, sugar. Say you have the prettiest pussy.”
You squirmed, cheeks hot as you whimpered, “I can’t–I’m not–” was all you managed to get out before a sharp slap landed on your pussy. You gasped, the pain shocking but not unwelcome.
“If you want to cum on my cock, you have to be a good girl,” he said, face severe as he continued curling his fingers against your sweet spot. “and good girls do what they’re told. So, I want you to say, ‘Jack, I have the prettiest, sweetest pussy’ okay? Can you do that for me, pretty girl?” he asked, thumb circling your clit.
You huffed, trying to catch your breath. “Ja-aack, fuck, I-I have, hng, I have the p-prettiest, sweet–ah–sweetest pussy,” you stammered out.
“Knew you could do it for me,” he praised, fingers leaving your cunt to pull off his boxers. His cock sprang out, curving slightly and resting against his abdomen. It stole the breath from your lungs–It was obnoxiously thick and decently lengthy, tip flushed red and leaking precum steadily. Your hand reached out to feel him, maybe jerk him off a little before he fucked you, but Jack stopped you, pinning your wrist down on the bed. You whined, lip jutting out in a not-so-faux pout.
“I’m trying not to cum in 5 seconds like a teenager, sugar, and if you put your soft hands on me right now I’m not gonna be able to last,” he said, reaching over to his bedside table to grab a condom. He stroked his cock a few times before rolling the condom on and lining himself up with your entrance, neither one of you interested in teasing anymore.
He eased the tip in, your walls fluttering around him to accommodate his girth. Your legs spread open wider for him as he settled between your hips, pushing the rest of his length in slowly until he was flush against your hips, his pelvic bone rubbing your clit just right. The stretch was intense, your walls fluttering and clenching harshly at the intrusion. Your hips wiggled slightly, trying to get used to the twinge of pain from the sheer size of him.
Jack hovered over you, one arm resting next to your head while the other gripped your hip tight. His face was twisted, almost painful looking. “You gotta relax for me, sugar, you’re gripping me like a fuckin’ vise,” he grit out, head falling into the crook of your neck, placing chaste kisses there, trying to loosen you up. You tried, willing your muscles to relax around him.
A few moments passed before Jack was able to move, pulling out to the tip before thrusting back in harshly, setting a brutal pace. You moaned, Jack’s hips snapping hard against you, cock dragging through your walls exquisitely. You tried to keep up with his pace, your hips meeting each thrust, cunt greedily sucking him back in each time.
Your back was arched, hair splayed out across the pillow as you took what Jack gave you.
“So pretty for me, sweetheart,” he said, sitting back on his haunches, “my perfect little pussy.” He grabbed at your thighs, pushing them up toward your chest, knees nearly at your ears. The new angle forced him deeper than before, his thrusts fucking you into the mattress. You were entranced by the view of him fucking you, curls dripping and chest glistening with sweat as he pounded into your pussy.
The room sounded obscene between the slapping skin, your combined moans, and your squelching cunt. Moans were falling from your lips at a near constant rate, and Jack was louder than you’d expected, throaty groans and grunts reverberating like music to your ears.
You’re honestly not sure you’ve ever come more than twice in a night, but it didn’t take as long as you thought for your third orgasm to build, the waves cresting fast. The only thing you could think about was Jack’s cock hammering into your pussy.
“I think I’m gonna, gonna cum again,” you breathed, “don’t stop, Jack, pleasepleasepleasepleeeeeeease,” you keened.
Jack’s hand found your jaw, tilting your face up to kiss him sloppily, “cum for me, baby, let me feel you milk my cock,” he said, thrusts growing more uncoordinated as he neared his orgasm.
It only took a few more deep, punishing trusts before you were coming undone around his cock. You held eye contact with Jack as your orgasm washed over you, your mouth parted wide, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes at the overwhelming sensations. You felt so full, your walls pulsing mercilessly around him.
Jack gripped your hips in both hands, his trusts faster and harder than before as he chased his release. “wanna feel you cum in me Jack,” you croaked, throat raw, hands reaching out to paw at any skin you could.
Jack groaned, hips stuttering a few more times before thrusting deep into you once last time and cumming. He ground his hips into yours, milking every last drop from his cock. You felt the warmth of his cum through the condom, your cunt clenching again at the feeling, your mind already flashing forward to imagine him fucking you raw–you let about another garbled moan at the thought.
Spent, Jack collapsed into you, cock softening inside your still pulsing cunt. His weight on top of you was comforting, grounding you back to earth. You were content to lay there, coming down and catching your breath.
Eventually Jack rolled off of you, disposing of the condom and grabbing a few wet wipes from his nightstand to clean you both up.
He pulled you against his side, big hand petting your hair, “You okay, sugar? Was that too much?” he asked, voice hoarse.
“no, was so good, Jackie,” you mumbled, feeling floaty and sated.
“Good,” he whispered, pressing soft kisses onto your hairline.
You sat in comfortable silence for a while, head resting on his bare chest, his heartbeat a comforting thrum in your ear. One large hand ran up and down the smooth expanse of your back while the other held your hand against his chest, fingers intertwined together.
“I hope you know this isn’t just a one time thing,” he said suddenly, his arm tightening its hold around you.
“No?” you asked, trying to keep the hopeful edge out of your voice.
“Uh-uh, you’re mine,” he says possessively, hand snaking down to cup your sensitive mound, “this is my pussy now.”
You want to be offended, want to point out that you’re more than your cunt. But you know Jack knows that, and more than anything your head grows warm and fuzzy at the thought of being someone’s. Of being Jack’s.
“Yeah, ‘s all yours, Jackie,” you mumble, falling asleep against the gentle rise and fall of his chest, happier than you’ve been in a long time.
a/n: whew that was a lot!! thank you if you made it all the way through!!
Movie nights with Pope, but you two can never make it through an entire movie without ending up in some sort of precarious position. It's inevitable, what with the way you start out, lounging on the couch in practically nothing. Pope in his boxers, you in one of his t-shirts. It's truly a recipe for disaster because the moment your head hits his lap the temptation outweighs any desire to pay attention to whatever you've put on the TV.
Before long your fingers are skimming the edge of his boxers, threatening to slip beneath the band. Pope will give you a pointed look. He knows exactly what you're up to. This routine is one he's entirely too familiar with. He says your name. It comes out hoarse, crackling as he tries to show an ounce of restraint.
"What is it?" Your voice lilts while you blink up at him, as if you don't have the faintest idea of what you're doing to him—of what he's so determinedly trying to mask. But he's failing miserably. His cock is already achingly hard, and you can tell.
"The movie…" he grumbles, eyes flicking to the screen briefly.
"What about it?" You ask. The tiniest smirk tugs at the corner of your lips. "You're perfectly welcome to continue watching, Andy."
Your hand finally commits to what it's been teasing at, sliding into his boxers and tugging him free. His breath hitches as you wrap your hand around his cock and give it a few strokes. Slowly, you pull your hand up and run your thumb over the tip where a bead of pre has gathered before you drag back downwards. Then, without warning, he feels the heat of your mouth around him. And just like that, any hope of paying attention to the movie is out the window.
