‘bout me: my name is alina, (she/her), i’m in my 20s. bilingual (english & spanish). mexican. jack abbot’s wife, leon kennedy’s girlfriend, aspiring writer, film enthusiast, lover of lost causes. currently consuming my every thought: pope cody, jack abbot & leon kennedy.
summary: the moral of the story is don’t let ben poindexter talk himself in or out of anything. the second moral is don’t let him figure out what you actually want. the thing is? you let him do both, and more.
warnings: 18 / Explicit NSFW. morally gray reader (i mean it), brief canon-typical violence, references to attempted murder (fisk had her shot, it comes up), smut: dirty talk, restraints/handcuffs, handjob, edging, orgasm denial, teasing, unprotected sex, situational power dynamic, dex being an unsettling smug bastard about all of it + a little subby.
wc: 4.1K | read it on ao3!
When you’d told Matt to call you if anything came up, you imagined anything but this: keeping an eye on Bullseye.
It turns out, as Matt puts it, that Karen wants the man gone, and by ‘gone’ it doesn’t mean gone from the safe house, it means gone from planet earth. Dead.
Which was conflicting to hear, because the Karen you know wouldn’t want to kill anyone, not with the way Wesley still haunts her, but also? Karen would absolutely want to avenge Foggy, so that’s the crossroad. And according to Matt, that isn’t the only conflict, because he had explicitly said
“I cannot let her kill him and do something that will haunt her forever, but I also don’t want him free and roaming, I don’t want him killing Fisk and turning him into a fucking martyr.”
So here you are, keeping an eye on him.
And so far it’s been easy, because he went back to sleep. Or well, Matt knocked him out—to be honest— but the point remains, he’s not being an issue. All you have to do is keep things like this until Matt and Karen come back.
Shouldn’t be too hard.
You looked at him again, he laid shirtless in bed, cuffed to the sides. Fresh gauze, alcohol, cotton, a medical stapler and tape sat on the crate beside you, just in case you needed them, which was very likely. They had patched the worst of the wounds before leaving, but the bandages on his side were already seeping again.
You didn’t want to be here. Matt had asked you because he trusted you, an old friend who’d survived Fisk’s wrath once before.—The bald bastard had tried to get you killed, after all— and because Karen had tried to put a bullet in Pointdexter’s head the moment they dragged him in.
To be honest, a part of you, a dark, whispering part, wanted Dex awake and mobile. Wanted him to walk out of here and finish the job Matt refused to fucking do.
But it’s not a matter of what you want.
With a sigh, you made your way to him with the gauze, cotton, alcohol and tape in hand, kneeling next to him on the bed. Your eyes flickered to him, making sure he was still out before daring to touch him. You peeled back the old dressing on his side as carefully as you could. His skin was fever-warm, muscles sculpted even in unconsciousness, marred by fresh bruises and the ugly gunshot wound. You used the cotton and alcohol to wipe him clean again, and then pressed clean gauze over the wound, securing it with tape, trying not to think about how still he was. You tried very hard not to think about how dangerous even this version of him felt, the man could kill people with anything, literally anything.
His hand snapped up without warning.
Fingers locked around your wrist, yanking your hand up against his chest. His eyes flew open, sharp, pale, instantly focused despite the pain. It was an intense stare that pinned you where you knelt beside the bed, it was scary. He didn’t squeeze hard enough to bruise, but there was no escaping his grip.
“You’re not Karen,” he rasped, voice rough from disuse and pain. A faint, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, it was honestly a little unsettling. “Good. She’d have finished the job by now.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. You didn’t pull away immediately. “Let go.”
He didn’t, of course. His thumb brushed once over the inside of your wrist, almost curious, feeling your pulse racing under his fingers. “You’re playing nurse for the man who killed your friends’ buddy.” His eyes flicked over your face, reading you. “Matt’s idea?”
“Yeah.” Your voice stayed steady even as heat crawled up your neck. “He had to take Karen somewhere else, you know, before she actually shot you.”
“Smart. She’s got fire. You’re different.” He tilted his head against the thin pillow, still looking up at you like you were the only thing in the room worth focusing on, not that there was much else. The cuffs clinked softly as he tested them without real effort. “And you’ve got that look. You've got your own deal. I’m sure you’ve got a motive of your own to keep me alive.”
You swallowed. The temptation was there again, thick and ugly. All it took was one set of keys to unlock the cuffs. He could slip out, disappear into the city, and do what Matt won’t: end Fisk.
Fisk who sent men to drag you into an alley and put two bullets in your torso because you asked the wrong questions.
You’re tempted to reach for the keys, but Matt’s words echoed right after: killing Fisk now would only make him a martyr. Create ten more Fisk’s in his place.
You hated how reasonable it sounded. You hated how much you still wanted the other, less morally correct option.
“I’m here to keep you alive until Matt gets back,” you said quietly. “That’s the plan.”
His smile widened by degrees until it was a quiet, knowing thing. He loosened his hold on your wrist, though his hand remained heavy against your skin. He sat up with a stifled groan, the movement stiff and careful, you watched his expression tighten, knowing exactly how much those staples must be pulling at his side.
“You’re lying. I can see it in your eyes. Part of you wants me walking out that door, part of you is wondering what I’d do to Fisk if I did.” He licked his dry lips, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before returning. “I’m good at finishing things. Ask Foggy.”
The name hit you like a slap. You twisted your wrist free from his grip, standing up fast. Your hand hovered near the gun at your hip. “Don’t.”
“You know I could take him out.”
“You won’t.”
Dex watched you, calm as ever, even while restrained, bleeding, unarmed and in a clear disadvantage. “Why not? You know what he is. What he almost did to you.” His voice softened, almost gentle. It was fucking eerie coming from someone who holds no regard for feelings. “I’m still balancing the scales. You could help tip them.”
“Who told you about that?”
“I know Fisk tried to get you killed in an alley like a dog that needed to be put down, and I know you’re not happy about that.” He kept talking, and you’re not sure if he’s trying to taunt you or if he’s acknowledging what you went through when no one else seemed to be able to.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do,” he debated, rightfully so. “I know he sent his men to kill you, your friends know this too, and yet, the man responsible for it is walking around still, free and as the mayor. And… What are your friends doing? Nothing”.
“Don’t.” You tried interrupting him, but he kept going. The gift that keeps on giving.
“They won’t deal with him themselves, and they won’t let me deal with him either—“
“Stop it,” You said, more firmly this time. Without realizing it, your body leaned forward, one knee bending onto the edge of the mattress as you hovered over him, drawn in by his words despite yourself.
“—Which means that your friends are doing nothing to avenge you, you almost got killed and they did nothing.”
“Shut up!” You finally gave in to his provocations and had a reaction, which is what he probably wanted. Your voice came out sharper than intended, breathier, the space between you now dangerously small.
The air felt too thick. You could hear your own breathing, could see the way his chest rose and fell right beneath you, the hard line of muscle leading down to his v line, covered by his sweatpants.
He noticed where your eyes went and tilted his head, shifting his hips deliberately.
That made you draw the gun at him.
“Enough.” The barrel leveled at his chest. “Not another word.”
Dex’s eyes flicked up to yours again. That slow, crooked smile returned, the bastard was having fun despite everything. “You’re not gonna shoot me,”
You kept the gun steady, still leaning over him, hovering close enough that the heat of his body rose up to meet you. You had no intention of pulling the trigger, this is not the way you did things, but the weight of the gun felt necessary.
You held his gaze. He looked up at you from the bed, that intense, unblinking stare locking onto yours, with slightly parted lips, eyes dark and focused only on you. The silence stretched, thick and dangerous.
One twist of the key… Let him go. Let him finish it. The thought slithered back in, hot and treacherous, twisting right alongside the sharp awareness of how close you were to him, with your knee planted on the mattress, body leaning over his, gun steady between you. His warmth radiated up through the thin space that remained. You could smell the faint copper of blood, sweat, and something darker underneath.
Your eyes betrayed you. They dropped.
He was hard. Painfully, obviously hard beneath the thin gray sweats, the thick outline straining against the fabric as he sat upright on the bed, using his strong arms to steady himself, legs slightly spread.
You scoffed, half-shocked. “Seriously?”
Dex followed your gaze. For two full seconds his face flickered, genuine mortification flashing across those sharp, blood-crusted features. His ears went pink.
“You’re very close, and I’m still a man,” he said, voice low and rough, almost apologetic for that split second before the smugness crept back in.
You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “A weird man, yes. Who gets hard when someone points a gun at him?”
He tilted his head, that unsettling little smile returning even as his breathing grew heavier. Oh.
“Guess so.” His tongue slowly wet his lower lip. “Yet I’m not getting slapped… So what does that say about you?”
“Shut up.”
Oh, that got him smirking.
The gun stayed pointed at his chest, your finger nowhere near the trigger. Your eyes kept flicking down despite yourself. You kept noticing how the thin gray sweats tented obscenely, how the thick, heavy line of his cock strained against the fabric, a small wet spot already darkening the material right at the head.
Dex didn’t look away from your face. His breathing had deepened, each inhale pulling at the fresh bandages you’d just taped down. The cuffs rattled faintly as he tested them again, not hard enough to break free, but enough that the metal bit into his wrists. His gaze dropped to your mouth for a long second, then back up, pupils blown wide and dark.
“You’re not gonna shoot me,” he said again, quieter this time. “And you’re not gonna walk away either. Not with the way you’re looking at me.”
Your free hand moved before you could stop it. You fisted your fingers in his short hair at the nape of his neck and yanked his head back sharply, exposing the long line of his throat. A low, involuntary sound escaped him— not quite a groan, but close— his Adam’s apple bobbed. His eyes stayed locked on yours, pupils flaring even wider at the rough treatment. He didn’t fight it. If anything, his hips shifted forward a fraction, cock twitching visibly in the sweats.
“Tell me to stop,” you said, voice low and steady, searching his face.
The moral storm still raged in your chest: Matt’s trust, Karen’s grief, Fisk’s smug face while his men dragged you. But right now, with Dex’s pulse hammering under your grip and the way he was staring at you,, it all felt distant.
Dex’s tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip again. His stare never wavered. “Don’t stop.”
The words were simple. No hesitation.
You leaned in and crushed your mouth to his, he was already meeting you halfway.
The kiss was messy, desperate, teeth clashing because he surged up to meet you as much as the cuffs and his injuries allowed. His lips were a little dry from dehydration and blood, but he kissed like he was starving, open-mouthed, tongue sliding against yours with surprising heat. The kiss tasted like the metallic taste of blood mixed with salt and something unmistakably him. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your tongue as he instinctively tried to raise his hands to touch you. The cuffs clinked hard against the sides of the bed frame, metal biting into skin, but he didn’t stop pulling, didn’t stop chasing your mouth.
You tugged his hair harder, tilting his head exactly how you wanted, and he let you, melted into it with another low, hungry noise. His cock jumped against the fabric, hips rolling up in a helpless little thrust that made the sweats stretch obscenely.
When you finally broke the kiss for air, a thin string of spit connected your lips for a second before breaking. His eyes were half-lidded, lips shiny and swollen, that unsettling little smile gone, replaced by raw want.
“Fuck,” he rasped, voice wrecked. His gaze flicked down to where your knee was still planted on the mattress between his spread thighs, then back up to your mouth. “Do that again.”
You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you holstered the gun—not trusting yourself with it anymore— and climbed fully onto the bed, straddling his lap. The moment your weight settled over his hips, his cock pressed hot and rigid against your core through the layers of clothing. He hissed through his teeth, head staying upright as his hips bucked up once, grinding into you with surprising force for someone cuffed and bleeding.
You shoved his sweats down just enough to free his cock. It slapped heavy and thick against his lower belly, flushed dark, the head already slick with pre-cum that beaded at the slit and dripped down the shaft. He was big, longer than you expected, with a slight upward curve and a thick vein running along the underside.
Your hand wrapped around him without preamble, but you didn’t stroke him properly. Not yet. You kept your grip loose and torturously slow, sliding your palm from root to tip in long, dragging pulls, thumb barely grazing the sensitive head each time. Every time his hips twitched up chasing more friction, you eased off just enough to deny him the pleasure.
Dex’s breath hitched, eyes fluttering but staying locked on your face. His pupils were huge, dark, and when you gave one particularly slow twist around the head, smearing pre-cum everywhere before pulling your hand almost all the way off, a low, wrecked sound escaped him. He loved it. The denial, the suffering. You could see it in the way his abs clenched, in the desperate little jerks of his hips that he couldn’t fully control.
You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear as you edged him again, stroking just fast enough to make his cock throb in your fist before slowing to a crawl. “This is what you get for taunting me,” you whispered, voice rough. “For knowing exactly what I want and dangling it in front of me.”
He didn’t beg. He just stared at your lips, hungry and unblinking, chest heaving. When you squeezed tighter on the upstroke and then stopped completely, letting his cock twitch uselessly in the air, his wrists yanked hard at the cuffs on either side of him. The metal rattled violently against the bed frame, but he couldn’t reach you. He couldn’t touch your thighs, couldn’t grab your hips. All he could do was take it, sitting upright, muscles straining, cock leaking steadily over your fingers.
“Fuck… yeah,” he rasped, voice low and rough, almost reverent. His gaze never left your mouth. “Keep going. Just like that.”
You stroked him again, faster this time, fist gliding slick and tight until his thighs started to tremble and his breathing turned ragged, and then you stopped, pulling your hand away entirely. His cock bobbed angrily against his stomach, flushed and dripping, and Dex let out a shaky exhale, head tilting back slightly before snapping forward again to watch you.
The moral battle roared back louder than ever while you tortured him like this. Matt had asked you to keep Dex alive— locked up, controlled— so he wouldn’t kill Fisk and turn the bastard into a martyr. Karen wanted him dead for Foggy, her hands already stained enough by Wesley. And you… you wanted Fisk gone more than almost anything. The alley, the bullets tearing through you, the fear… it still woke you up some nights. Dex would do it. You knew it in your bones. If you uncuffed him right now and whispered the words, he’d walk out of here and end Wilson Fisk without a second thought.
He’d love it. He’d do it for the sport, for the balance, and maybe— just maybe—a little for you.
But Matt’s voice echoed in your head: I cannot let her kill him and do something that will haunt her forever. And you knew he was right. Killing Fisk now would only create ten more monsters in his place.
Still, with Dex sitting there cuffed to the sides of the bed, cock throbbing in your hand, eyes dark with want and that eerie calm acceptance… The temptation to just let him go afterward was thicker than ever.
You gave him one more slow, punishing stroke—tight, twisting, dragging your thumb hard over the leaking slit— then stopped again, watching his face twist with frustrated pleasure.
“Enough,” you finally growled, voice breaking with your own need. You stripped your pants and underwear off in one rough motion, kicking them aside. Then you climbed back over him properly, lining his cock up with your entrance. You were soaked, already embarrassingly wet from the power, the wrongness, the sheer intensity of edging him while he sat there helpless and loving every second of it.
You sank down onto him in one slow, relentless slide.
The stretch burned in the best way, his thick cock splitting you open as you took every inch. Dex’s head stayed upright, eyes rolling back for a second as a guttural groan ripped from his chest. “So fucking tight— Jesus Christ.”
You bottomed out with a moan, hips flush against his. For a moment you just sat there, letting yourself adjust, feeling him throb deep inside you while he remained sitting, cuffed hands useless at his sides. Then, when it stopped being too much, you started moving, slow, grinding rolls of your hips that dragged his cock against every sensitive spot inside you.
His hands were useless, cuffed tight to the sides of the bed, so all he could do was take it. Take every roll of your hips, every clench of your pussy around him. His abs flexed with every thrust, the bandages on his side darkening further, but he didn’t care. He just stared up at you with raw hunger, lips parted, occasionally bucking up to meet you when he could, the cuffs rattling with each desperate pull.
You braced one hand on his sweat-slick chest, the other fisting his short hair again as you started riding him in earnest. Slow at first, then faster with deep, grinding rolls of your hips that dragged every thick inch of his cock along your walls, the wet squelch of your soaked pussy swallowing him obscenely loud in the quiet room.
That should’ve sobered you up, it didn’t.
Dex stayed sitting upright, cuffed hands useless at his sides, but he didn’t stay passive. Every time you leaned closer, chasing the friction on your clit against his pelvis, he craned his neck forward with a low, hungry sound. His lips found your throat, hot and open-mouthed, sucking messy marks into the skin just below your jaw while his tongue dragged greedily along your pulse point. When you slammed down taking him to the hilt, he groaned against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot hard enough to sting before soothing it with his tongue.
“Fuck- so wet,” he rasped between kisses, voice wrecked and rough, lips brushing your collarbone as you rode him faster. “Can feel you dripping down… squeezing me so fucking tight every time you sink down.”
His hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes as much as the pain and cuffs allowed, the motion limited but forceful, driving his cock deeper with every thrust. The cuffs rattled violently against the sides of the bed with each desperate yank, metal biting into his wrists, veins standing out along his forearms as he strained uselessly to touch you. He wanted to grab your hips, to pull you down harder, to feel your skin under his palms so badly that his fingers curled into tight fists, tugging harder every time your pussy clenched around him.
You ground down in tight circles, the head of his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you with every roll, your clit rubbing slick and insistent against the base of his shaft. Dex’s head tilted, lips latching onto the side of your neck again, sucking hard as a broken grunt vibrated against your skin. His breath came in hot, ragged pants between each messy kiss, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your sweat.
“Harder,” he muttered against your throat, the word half-command, half-plea, but he didn’t beg, just kept staring up at you with those blown pupils whenever you pulled back enough to meet his gaze. Another violent tug at the cuffs made the bed frame creak as you bounced on his cock, the wet slap of your ass meeting his thighs growing louder, filthier.
Your walls fluttered around his thick length, the stretch burning so good as you took him deeper, feeling every vein and ridge as you rode him without mercy. Dex’s abs clenched visibly under your palm, and he groaned louder when you traced them with your fingers, mouth chasing your neck again, licking a broad stripe up the column of your throat before biting down lightly, hips stuttering up to fuck into you from below.
The pleasure coiled tighter, your pussy gripping him like a vice with every downstroke, slick sounds echoing as you slammed yourself onto his cock over and over. Dex’s breathing turned into shallow, desperate grunts against your skin, his cock twitching and pulsing hot inside you, the head nudging your cervix with every brutal grind.
When you came, it hit like a freight train. A good one. Your pussy clamping down rhythmically around his throbbing cock, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as you ground down hard, riding out every pulsing wave while your nails dug into his chest.
Dex followed right after with a low, “Fuck—”, his hips jerking up as much as he could, cock pulsing deep inside you as he spilled thick, hot ropes of cum, flooding your pussy while he stayed sitting upright, lips pressed open-mouthed against your neck through the whole thing.
The room fell quiet except for your shared, ragged breathing.
You stayed there for a long moment, still impaled on his softening cock, both of you slick with sweat and cum and a little blood from his reopened wounds. Your fingers loosened in his hair, stroking through the short strands almost gently now.
Dex’s eyes were half-closed, but he was still watching you, only that now that intense, pale stare had softened just a fraction by the afterglow. His voice, when it came, was rough and quiet.
“…You still gonna keep me locked up?”
You didn’t answer right away. The moral storm was already creeping back in, quieter now, but still there. Matt’s request. Karen’s rage. Fisk still breathing.
But the way Dex had looked at you when he said “don’t stop,” the way he’d yanked at those cuffs like he’d die if he couldn’t touch you… you knew one thing for certain.
He would do it if you asked, he’d walk out of here and put a bullet in Fisk’s head without blinking.
And a dark, treacherous part of you was starting to wonder how long you could keep pretending you didn’t want that, too.
summary: pope has spent so long convinced he’d never have this: a family, a daughter, a reason to stay. now that he does, he’s still learning to believe it’s real.
wc: 1.5k
requested!
my masterlist!
The first thing you did after waking up was reach with your hand to the other side of the bed, only to find it empty, the sheets cold.
Still completely groggy, you carefully shifted in bed, turning your head towards the bathroom’s door to see if you could catch a hint of light from underneath the door that would indicate if he’s in the bathroom, but it was pitch black. All of it, he isn’t there or in the room.
And yet, you didn’t panic, you knew exactly where to find your husband.
Carefully, you shifted again on the bed, this time to sit down. The movements were slow and somewhat hesitant at first, since everything hurt you in ways you couldn’t describe, everything ached and was ultra sensitive. Once you were sitting down, you gently gripped the headboard and stood up.
That was always the worst part.
Taking a deep breath to handle the small surge of pain and the uncomfortableness caused by standing up, you made your way out of your shared bedroom and right next door, where the nursery was located.
And there he was, exactly where you expected him to be.
Pope was sitting down in the rocking chair right next to the bassinet, back straight, hands resting on his thighs as his eyes remained focused on your newborn baby, on her tiny little features, on the rhythmic movement of her little chest, up and down with her soft breaths.
He didn't notice you right away, lost in quiet thought, but when he did, he briefly turned his head to look at you, his expression soft and yet filled with so many emotions.
“You okay?” he asked softly, mindful of his tone to not wake up the newborn baby girl.
“I’m fine,” you gently assured him, knowing he worries out of his mind for you, especially now, with the labor being so recent and all. If Pope was an attentive husband before? It had definitely tripled now. “Don’t worry, love. Are you okay? Why are you still up? Did she fuss?”
“I’m okay, and she’s okay too,” he murmured, his voice and expression softening to a degree you’d never had the pleasure of witnessing before when he looked at your baby girl. “I just… wanted to be here, with her.”
You understood exactly what he meant, he wasn’t there because the baby had cried or because she needed tending to, but because the reality had yet to fully sink in for him, and he needed these quiet moments to come to terms with it.
Your baby girl is here. She's safe and sound, at home with you. She exists, she lives and she’s not a figment of his dreams.
Pope had spent so long believing he would never get to have a family of his own, that he would never be a father, that the reality of it actually happening needs its space to settle.
With a tender expression, you made your way closer to them, stopping next to the chair where your husband sat, your hand immediately finding his shoulder, sliding along the strong line of it and up the back of his neck, finding his soft curls, which had grown in the last couple of weeks.
He immediately relaxed, shoulders slumping a little, his head tilting back to rest against your palm. You wanted to reassure him somehow, remind him that your baby is safe and sound, that she’s not going anywhere and that he can relax and not feel guilty about it, but then again, this is how Pope is.
You gently sat down on the rocking chair’s armrest, still running your fingers through his soft hair. Pope immediately reacted to that, moving his arm to wrap it around you, his hand resting on the curve where your thigh met your hip, gently caressing the skin with his thumb. Additionally, he turned his head and pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, which you reciprocated by leaning to the side slightly and pressing a small kiss to his temple.
“She’s so little,” he said, half in awe and adoration, half with anxiety and perhaps even a bit of fear.
Having a tiny little life to look after was overwhelming, you shared the sentiment. Babies are just… so small and precious, so fragile, and it isn’t until you have your own that you’re truly hit with the reality of how vulnerable they are, the world out there isn’t always nice. Reconciling that with the existence of a newborn takes time.
“She is,” you agreed, peering down at the innocent little bundle of joy, sleeping peacefully in her little bassinet without a care in the world. You admired the shape of her adorable little nose, the shape of her small mouth, her long lashes, those endearing little cheeks that made you want to kiss them again and again. She's so precious. “She's also incredibly beautiful. and cute, let’s not forget that, she’s so freaking adorable.”
Pope hums with amusement, absentmindedly tracing invisible shapes on your hip with light fingertips. “Mmm yeah, she looks just like you already, just like her pretty mama.”
“You think?” you indulge him, even if it is a little silly to suggest she looks like either of you, she’s barely three days old, she doesn’t look like anyone but her tiny little self, new to this world. “Dunno, I think she has your nose.”
At that, Pope scoffed, he wasn’t being mean, it was just disbelief, as if he still couldn’t imagine his features or even the smallest part of him being replicated in this perfect little being.
There's only a small night light on the distant corner of the room, which means the light is pretty limited, so he leaned forward a bit more to get a clearer view of the newborn. With tenderness flooding your heart, you noticed how his hand twitched slightly over his thigh, his fingers digging into his skin, holding himself back.
You knew that’s what he was doing. This precedent was set the very first day, when he’d been absolutely terrified of holding her back in the hospital, afraid of doing it wrong, of dropping her or causing her harm in any way. Apparently, the fear remained.
“You know you can hold her, right?” You reminded gently, your hand sliding down from his hair to his broad back, rubbing gentle circles there.
He looked up at you with what was, without doubt, the most vulnerable look you’d ever seen on his face, high up there with the expression he’d made at your wedding when he saw you wearing the white dress for the first time, walking down the aisle.
“I don’t want to disturb her.”
Your heart squeezed in your chest at that.
“You won’t disturb her, love, I promise,” you encouraged him softly, pushing gently on his back so he moved closer to the bassinet. “Just slide your hands under her, make sure to cradle her head with one hand and her little body with the other, just as we practiced, and she’ll be alright. I'm sure she would sleep even comfier in papa’s arms.”
His expression relaxed even more at that, then he nodded. He moved to stand up from the rocking chair, his hand cradling your side to make sure you wouldn’t jostle too much when his weight was removed from the chair. Once he made sure you were safe, he turned to the bassinet.
With the utmost care and a delicate touch, Pope leaned forward. His left hand pressed back first against the soft cushion of the bassinet, then smoothly slid under the baby’s tiny head, gently cradling it, adjusting his hold there so the neck would be supported, then with the same care, he slid his other hand under the baby’s little bottom, making sure to cradle her small body properly, and after taking a deep breath, he lifted slowly.
Your precious baby girl let out a soft little sound at that, a soft squeaky grunt that immediately made you smile. Pope froze for a couple of seconds, probably fearing the little sound would lead to a cry, but it never came, she settled. He took that as his cue and brought her delicate body up to his chest, safely tucking her there. The baby immediately settled there, instinctively curling up against his warmth, tiny little hand resting on his chest.
Pope's shoulders relaxed, letting out the breath he’d been holding, his hands held her safely, making sure to cradle her fragile body as if she were the most precious thing ever. Which to be fair, she is to you both.
There was no need for you to say ‘see? told you so’ because Pope’s expression already told you all you needed to know. He looked down at her, his thumb brushed her soft little head, and he leant in slightly, pressing a soft kiss to her small forehead.
"Papa's here,” he whispered to her. “Mama and papa will always be here for you.”
And just like that, reality was finally starting to settle for him.
i get so emotional every time i think about fanfic culture. it's just so beautiful that people are writing and anonymously posting these thousand-word stories about characters we all love and not even getting any money or public fame from it. it's literally just for the love of the game.
shout out to everyone who participates in fanfic culture, be it reading or writing fanfics. you are contributing to such a lovely thing <3
summary: jack abbot knows how to run a trauma bay. he knows the protocols and the medicine. but when his daughter decides he's "vedy, vedy sick"? it turns out he’s an even better patient.
warning: none.
trope/genre; fluff, girl!dad abbot, married!abbot
wc: 2K.
my masterlist!
Warm kitchen light spilled into the living room, forming a golden square on the rug, which is now covered in scattered toys
A floppy plush rabbit lay tipped on its side on the rug beside a bright fake plastic medicine bottle, while a toy syringe had rolled halfway under the coffee table like it was hiding. Clearly, someone had been running a very serious medical practice there all afternoon.
Jack Abbot sat right in the middle of it all on the couch, his long legs stretched out comfortably in front of him. His shoulders had finally relaxed against the back of the couch, with the course of the years, he’d patiently learned how to leave the weight of the ER behind at the end of the day. He didn’t always manage it perfectly, and some nights the tension lingered in his spine longer than he wanted, but tonight none of that weariness showed in his eyes.
Instead, he watched the tiny person kneeling on the rug in front of him with the same steady, quiet focus he usually saved for trauma bays, and here, with her, it cost him absolutely nothing to give it.
To her. Your little girl, his little girl. Oh, how fast she’s grown.
Your daughter had her whole doctor kit spread out around her like real surgical tools waiting for the next important case. The little pink stethoscope hung crookedly around her neck in a loose loop that looked ready to slide off at any second. Her dark curls had mostly escaped the ponytail you’d carefully tied earlier that afternoon, so soft strands bounced against her round cheeks every time she turned her head or reached for something. She wore the oversized plastic glasses from the toy set, they kept slipping all the way down to the very tip of her tiny nose, but she never seemed to notice or mind. She just looked exactly like a very important, highly credentialed doctor who meant business.
Jack rested his hands on his thighs and waited patiently, content to let her set the pace.
Finally she lifted her head and looked straight up at him, squinting through those sliding glasses with all the serious gravity of someone about to deliver very bad news to a patient.
“Papa,” she announced in her clearest, most official voice.
The corner of his mouth twitched upward in the tiniest smile. “Yes, doctor?”
She pushed herself up to standing, wobbling just a little on her small legs, then shuffled forward with the stethoscope swinging dramatically back and forth against her chest. She stopped right between his knees and tilted her head back to meet his eyes.
“You sick,” she declared firmly.
He blinked slowly, playing along. “I am?”
“Yesh.” She nodded with such fierce conviction that her curls bounced even more. “Vedy sick.”
He let out a quiet, thoughtful hum and leaned back deeper into the cushions, now as a patient who had just accepted the diagnosis and was ready to follow doctor’s orders. “Good thing I’ve got a doctor right here in the house then.”
From the nearby armchair, you watched the whole sweet scene unfold with your chin resting in your palm, not even trying to hide how completely your heart was melting. Earlier that evening she had assigned your role with great ceremony and seriousness, you were officially the nurse. And not any nurse, don’t be confused, you were Mama Nurse. That meant sitting beside the small pile of plastic medical supplies and handing things over whenever she demanded them, which you had been doing with perfect professionalism (tender smiles aside) and zero complaints.
Suddenly the toddler turned her head toward you, eyes wide and expectant.
“Mama Nuhs!”
You straightened up right away. “Yes, doctor?”
“Need… the…” She frowned down at the pile, brow scrunched in deep thought, lips pressed tight together while she searched. Then her little finger shot out. “Da beep-beep.”
You picked up the toy thermometer and passed it to her. “Thermometer, doctor.”
“Mmm-hm,” she agreed, already climbing up onto the couch beside Jack. She braced one tiny hand against his shoulder to keep her balance as she settled in next to him.
“Open mouf,” she ordered.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He parted his lips obediently. She pushed the thermometer toward his cheek in roughly the right direction and stared at him with huge, focused eyes while the imaginary reading happened, her little lips pursed, head tilted just so. You had seen that exact same look on her face plenty of times before: when she was stacking wobbly blocks into impossible towers, or when her shoes refused to go on the right feet. She came by it honestly.
More than one person had told you that Jack made the very same face when he was deep in thought at work.
After a few long seconds she pulled the thermometer away and her eyes went dramatically wide.
“Oh no,” she breathed, voice full of worry.
Jack tilted his head slightly. “Oh no?”
She gasped and pressed one hand to her chest like the news was almost too much. “You vedy, vedy sick!”
He pressed his lips together to keep from smiling too big. “That bad?”
“Yesh!” She scrambled off the couch in a hurry and dove back into the doctor kit with frantic energy, rummaging through everything like she was facing a real emergency that needed immediate action.
“Doctor,” you offered gently, “should we prepare some medicine?”
She nodded fast without looking up. “Medshin!”
Jack settled even deeper into the cushions, folding his arms across his chest in complete trust. “I trust your treatment plan completely.”
She came back holding the toy syringe and stopped right in front of his arm, looking up at him with the stern expression of someone who had done this procedure many times and understood exactly how serious it was. Even if, technically, she’d just gotten the doctor play set a couple of weeks ago. Turns out a couple of weeks is a lot of experience in toddlerhood.
“No move, Papa.”
“Understood.”
She pressed the rounded tip against his forearm and slowly pushed the plunger down. He flinched with real theatrical commitment to the bit, eyebrows shooting up, a sharp hiss of breath through his teeth.
“Ouch. That one really had some kick to it.”
She patted his arm right away with soft little pats. “Brave, Papa.”
Something warm and unguarded settled across his face then, the soft look that only ever appeared when he was safe at home with the two of you. “High praise coming from my physician.”
She accepted the compliment with a grave little nod and reached for the stethoscope again. It took her a moment to untangle the tubing from her curls, and Jack waited through it all. He knew there were some things in life simply that could not be hurried, and this was definitely one of them. It was just too precious to rush through.
When she finally got the plastic disc pressed somewhere near his collarbone and leaned in close, the whole room seemed to hush around them. Her little face hovered just inches from his chest, eyes wide with total concentration, one stray curl brushing lightly against his jaw. Whatever she was listening for inside him, she was listening with every bit of herself.
“Hmm,” she murmured seriously.
Jack glanced over the top of her head at you, his eyes soft and warm with something too gentle for any medical chart to name.
“Well?” he prompted quietly.
She lifted her head. “Your heart go boom boom.”
“Is that good?”
She thought about it with all the seriousness the question deserved. “Vedy loud boom boom.”
“Good loud or bad loud?”
“Gud.” She pulled the stethoscope away and then reached up to place both small hands on his cheeks, squishing his face gently between her palms so she could peer straight into his eyes from only a few inches away. “You need res,” she told him solemnly.
“Rest,” he agreed, not even trying to move his smooshed face.
“Yesh. And ninner.”
“Dinner too?”
“Yesh.”
“What will the dinner be, doctor?”
She let go of his cheeks to think hard about it, staring off into the middle distance with complete focus.
“Mac n cheese.”
He nodded with matching solemnity, it was so cute, how he played along with her without hesitation, you wanted to melt. “Excellent choice.”
Her face lit up bright. “An pish!”
“Fish too?”
“Pish!” she repeated proudly, and you couldn’t help laughing softly from the armchair before you caught yourself.
Jack glanced over at you with a small, amused smile. “Doctor seems very confident in her nutritional recommendations.”
“She graduated top of her class,” you told him seriously.
The toddler, happy that her treatment plan had official approval, turned back to her patient. Her gaze drifted down—like it had started doing more often lately—to the prosthetic leg that extended from below his knee. A few weeks ago she had begun noticing it, not with fear or upset, but the innocent curiosity of a child carefully learning the person she loved best. Her tiny finger reached out and traced the curve of it so gently, poking curiously at the black socket left visible now that he was wearing shorts, the same careful way she touched flowers or fragile toys she wanted to understand.
“Papa boo boo?” she asked softly.
His voice stayed even and calm. “Old one. All healed now, sweetheart.”
She studied it a moment longer, thinking it over. Then she leaned forward and pressed her lips to the prosthetic, carefully, exactly the way she kissed her plushies, her own little boo-booed fingers, or anything else that had ever been hurt and needed to know it was loved.
“There,” she said with satisfaction. “All better now.”
Jack went very still.
You watched the stillness settle, then fade along his whole body, how his shoulders eased down just a fraction, the tight line of his jaw softened, how something held tight inside him finally let go in the safety of this quiet room. His face didn’t give much away to most people, but you had spent long enough learning every small shift to recognize what it looked like when something reached him deep, past every defense he usually kept up, and your baby girl had done that easily.
“Best treatment I’ve ever had,” he said, genuinely meaning it.
She climbed straight into his lap without asking—because she had never once needed permission with her papa—and nestled herself against his chest like she was exactly where she belonged. He wrapped one strong arm around her small back, steady and automatic, and rested his chin lightly on top of her soft curls.
“Papa all better now,” she announced to the whole room.
“Because of you?”
“Yesh.” She sounded so pleased, so completely certain, and not even a little surprised, because in her world, this was simply how things worked. She took care of him, and he got better. It had never crossed her mind that it could happen any other way.
Jack pressed a quiet kiss to the top of her head. When he looked up at you again, that rare softness was still there on his face.
“Nuhs mama,” came the small, very authoritative voice from against his chest.
You raised an eyebrow. “Yes, doctor?”
“Papa need sweep soon,” she declared. “And wabbit story.”
“A rabbit story,” Jack confirmed, looking at you with that quiet, contented smile. “Doctor’s orders.”
You stood up slowly, reaching over to smooth one escaped curl back from her forehead. She turned her face into your hand for a second, just instinctive, trusting, the way she always did, before looking back up at Jack with total satisfaction.
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be a part of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
what part of MDNI do y'all not understand no offence but if you have "seventeen" or "xv" in your bio THIS IS NOT THE PLACE FOR YOU!!!! DO NOT follow me do not interact with my writing. put your age in your bio or you're getting blocked
THIS ! and this goes for asks too. i’m checking. i’m not going to answer if i don’t know your age. please please please, if you want to interact and you are of age, it takes two seconds to put it in your bio or your cute pinned post !!!! <3
summary: you broke up with titus danforth this morning. by nightfall you’re running through his family’s forest with a seven-minute head start and one rule: if he catches you before sunrise, you marry him.
You never thought you’d live to see this day. But it’s here.
You’ve broken up with Titus.
“You know too much.”
“I won’t say anything.”
“You know too much.” he said again. “I can’t just… let you go. Rejoin the rest of the world, not while you know what you know. I know you see the dilemma.”
Fuck.
“Well, what’s my word gonna do against your family’s? Or the councils’?” You offer. It could lead to nothing, but it’s worth trying all the angles. “You could simply claim I’m not mentally well and have me sent to a psychiatric facility. I’m sure it’s been done before.”
“And how long until you sweettalk a guard long enough for him to listen and start a rumor?” He argues, shaking his head with a tut. “We can’t have that, you see?”
“I haven’t said a word all these years. What makes you think I'd start now, when I know my freedom—my life—would depend on me keeping my mouth shut?” You argue, trying, hoping mostly, to reach an agreement.
But Titus… he has his firm set of opinions.
“It can’t happen,” he shrugs, squaring his shoulders, clasping his hands in front of his body.
“Titus-“
“But see, I am not an unfair man, especially with you,” he starts, and just going by the look on his eye, you know this won’t be nice. “So, I propose a deal.”
“I-“
“We play a game,” he begins to explain. And holy shit, those are some dreadful words to hear from a council member, from a Danforth, especially if you know what his family does. What people like him are like. “It won’t be official, of course. But the rules will be basically the same. You run, hide, and if you make it till morning, I’ll let you go. If not…”
“You’ll kill me?” You question, slightly (very) terrified of the answer. You know he has the strength in him, the dexterity, the methods.
He scoffs. “No, of course not. What good would you do me dead? If I catch you… you’ll marry me.”
“What?”
“You heard me. If you win, you go. If I win, you’ll marry me,” he repeats, firmer this time. “We’ll have a small ceremony, move into the house I bought for us—before you decided to be an insolent little bitch and broke up with me—and live there as a couple, as we should. And we’ll have children, to inherit my name, my legacy.”
He’s insane. There is no way he means this, is there? You hesitate before saying anything, staring at him, trying to read his face. But all you see there is… that he means it. He’s set on this.
You’ll have to try to find your way out of this somehow.
“Well, that’s hardly fair, is it?” You question, crossing your arms over your chest, hiding the shaking of your hands. “You know the complex better than I do. How would I be able to hide?”
“I’m sure you’ll manage.”
“But what about the rules?”
“Anything goes. Except killing, of course.”
The more he talks, the more you realize there’s no way out of this. You will have to play.
And yet you hesitate. He’s made it clear he can’t let you go, so even if you win, what’s stopping him from keeping you anyway? What’s stopping the Council from having you quietly disposed of the moment you’re no longer under Titus’ control? In the official games, Le Bail’s rules are absolute. Unbreakable. People explode for breaking them. But this? This is unofficial. There’s no contract, no supernatural enforcement, no consequences for going back on his word.
All you have is his word.
You almost ask. You can feel the question sitting right there —his word, and what it’s actually worth—but you swallow it back down. What would be the point? If he says yes, you have no way of knowing if he means it. If he says no…
Well. You’d rather not find out what comes after no.
So instead you just look at him for a moment, and then nod.
“Fine,” you say. “I’ll play.”
He was gracious enough —if that word can even apply to him— to give you some kind of head start. He let you leave the mansion before he did, which is technically the bare minimum, but in these circumstances is practically generous.
Your headstart is seven minutes. Seven.
You force yourself to think fast, clear and precise, which actually takes a lot of effort when you know your crazy ex boyfriend is literally hunting you down.
The thing about his family’s complex—you think as your feet start moving— is that it’s huge. It has a casino resort, the golf course, stylish lobbies, the kitchen, the laundry room and a gazillion other rooms you’re probably unaware of. The downside? Titus is aware of all of them. And he has eyes and ears everywhere. You can’t assume he’ll play fairly, not when it comes to you and the risk of losing you. The property will be crawling with employees that could, and probably would, report back to him on sight.
So, you choose the most even terrain you could think of under duress.
The forest.
You run straight to it, trying not to be unsettled by how unfamiliar it feels.
Sure, in the two years you were with Titus, you’ve been in the forest a few times, but it was never alone, always with him. Once it was to get to know the terrain when you started dating, the second is when he taught you how to shoot; once he’d revealed enough about his family for you to understand that your life was always at risk simply by being with him. And oh, there was a third time too, but that one was to fuck.
You try not to think much about the latter, instead, you try to focus on the first visit, the tour, trying to recall whatever useful information he’d given about the forest that you can possibly remember right now.
And as it turns out, you can’t remember shit. Not under all this pressure, not when you know he’s following you.
So you run deep into the woods, with no sense of direction or idea about the depths of it, you just run and run, trying to find somewhere with enough coverage to stop and think of something. Of a strategy to win.
Coming up with a strategy is difficult though. You could always just hide, and stay alert for any noises or signs that he’s close by, but then what? You run and confirm that you’re there by making a whole lot of fucking noise in a forest that feels like it’s holding its breath on purpose? You’ve seen that man in action before, he’s strong and unnervingly fast. And you know he’s got stamina. So you stand no chance against him. Not to mention, you have no fucking clue what time it is, and he said you’d win at sunrise. Which is… a lot of time.
Fuck.
The forest swallows you whole.
You find a cluster of trees dense enough to crouch behind, pressing your back against the bark and forcing yourself to go still. To stop breathing so loud. Your heart is doing its best to get you caught, hammering so hard you’re half convinced he could hear it from across the property.
But there’s nothing. Just the wind moving through branches somewhere above you, and the sound of your own pulse.
A minute passes. Maybe two. You don’t know for sure, it’s impossible.
You start to think, stupidly, desperately, that maybe you’re better at this than you thought. Maybe he went to the casino first. Maybe he assumed you’d go somewhere familiar, somewhere with walls and doors, with many rooms and the illusion of safety. Maybe for once in your life, you’ve managed to surprise Titus Danforth.
You almost smile.
“You always did like your trees. Especially when I fucked you against them.”
His voice comes from directly behind you. Not approaching, but already there, already close enough that you could reach back and touch him, and your stomach fucking drops. It was like he’d been standing there the whole time, patient and unhurried, just waiting for you to finish thinking.
You scramble to your feet and spin around. He looks completely unbothered. No sweat, no urgency. He looks like a man who went for a leisurely evening walk and happened to find you along the way.
“How-” you start.
“I know you,” he says simply, like that explains everything.
And the worst part is… it does.
You run.
It’s stupid, you know it is. You just mentally calculated your chances and came out in red numbers, you are aware that this is senseless and just prolonging what has always been inevitable. And yet you still try.
You hear him scoff, it echoes with how quiet these woods are, and then his steps begin.
You’ve never felt like this in your life. You had no idea you could even run like this. It’s probably the adrenaline. Your body, ironically, can’t tell the difference between being chased by a wolf and being chased by Titus. Being chased to death or being chased to marriage. There’s probably not a big difference there, to be fair.
Your lungs start to burn before you expect them to.
You push through it. You push through the branches catching on your clothes and the uneven ground trying to twist your ankles and the darkness that’s settling between the trees faster than you’d like.
You can hear him. That’s the worst part. He’s not silent and he’s not trying to be. His footsteps are steady and unhurried, like a metronome, like someone on a morning jog.
Your legs are already protesting, paired with a sharp stitch blooming under your ribs. To be honest… you don’t work out, not really. The only cardio you’ve ever gotten, the only thing that’s ever left you this breathless and aching, is Titus. Nights spent riding him until your thighs shook, mornings bent over whatever surface he wanted, afternoons where he’d fuck you slow and deep just because he could. Your body knows exertion, sure, but it knows it in the shape of him, not this. Not sprinting blind through roots and dirt like prey.
You change direction sharply, cutting left between two trees. Maybe if you’re unpredictable enough, maybe if you zigzag, double back, make it complicated-
His footsteps don’t falter behind you, there is not even a moment of hesitation in his steps, you’re not even making him make an effort or work for it.
The thought makes something cold shoot down your spine. You run faster.
You break into a small clearing and for one stupid, desperate second you think —this is it, this is where you lose him, and then…
…Then your foot catches a fucking root and you stumble, catching yourself on your hands, scrambling back up before you’ve even fully registered falling. Your palms sting. You don’t stop.
Behind you, almost conversationally: “You’re going in circles.”
You don’t answer, because you don’t want to, but also because you don't have the breath for it right now. God, you hate him.
You hate that he’s right. You’ve completely lost all sense of direction out here, the trees all look the same no matter which way you turn, and the sky above has shifted from dark blue to almost black, swallowing any hope of figuring out where the hell you are. You can’t tell north from south anymore, everything blurring together in the growing dark.
You cut right this time, then right again, mind racing toward the perimeter. If you can just find the edge of the forest, hit the fence, spot anything that gives you a landmark, then maybe you’ll have something solid to go by. But he’s closer now, you can hear his breath, steady and way too near. You hadn’t even noticed him gaining ground, but somehow he’s right there behind you.
The impact comes from the left without warning.
He doesn’t just grab you, he takes you down in one clean, decisive motion, and you hit the forest floor hard with him over you. One of his hands braces so he doesn’t crush you completely, which somehow makes the whole thing worse, that little bit of consideration cutting sharper than if he’d just slammed you flat. The breath gets knocked right out of you, and for a second the world narrows to nothing but darkness, his solid weight pressing you into the dirt, and the smell of him, unfairly familiar, wrapping around you like it has every right to be there.
You recover fast though, twisting and fighting with everything you’ve got, managing to get one hand free so you can shove hard against his chest. Titus lets you push, just enough to give you that flicker of thinking you might actually be winning for once. Just enough.
Then he shifts his full weight and you go absolutely nowhere. He’s stronger and heavier than you, pinning you so completely against the forest floor that all your struggling turns useless. He’s looking down at you with that expression you’ve seen a hundred times before, patient, certain, almost warm. and his breathing stays completely even. Not even winded. It’s so fucking unfair. He’s older than you; how the hell is he in this much better shape?
“Get off me,” you manage to gasp out.
He doesn’t. Instead he tilts his head slightly, like he’s actually considering it as a real option before dismissing the idea entirely.
“You did well,” he says instead, voice quiet. “Longer than I expected.”
“Don’t.” You twist again, uselessly, but his hand catches your wrist and pins it gently but completely beside your head. “Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not.” And the infuriating part is he sounds like he genuinely means it. “I’m actually impressed, baby.”
You go dead still. Not because you’ve given up—you’ve got way too much goddamn pride for that—but because your brain is spinning, scrambling to find the one mistake he’s bound to make eventually. He’s already onto you though. His eyes track every little twitch of your pupils, reading you with that same effortless, irritating fluency he’s always had.
The clearing around you has gone completely silent except for the ragged sound of your own lungs working overtime.
He’s crowding you now, his weight a heavy, solid heat that presses you deeper into the dirt and leaves. You can feel the direct pressure of his fingers locked around your wrist and the way he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing in this godforsaken woods worth paying attention to.
You need to say something sharp. You had a line ready, something bitchy and mean that would actually sting, but the thought gets swallowed whole the second he moves.
He doesn’t hesitate. He just takes what he wants.
His mouth slams into yours with slow, heavy hunger, lips forcing yours apart and eclaiming something that’s always belonged to him. When his tongue slides in it’s a deep, wet drag that sends a hot liquid weight straight down to your crotch. You let out a noise you immediately want to choke back, it’s half moan, half pathetic whimper, as he tilts his head for a better angle, sucking on your tongue before slicking back into your mouth in a way that’s just fucking filthy.
Your free hand scrambles for his jacket, knuckles turning white as you bunch the fabric tight. You can’t even tell if you’re trying to shove him off or drag him closer anymore, but your body isn’t listening to your brain. It arches up into him anyway, chasing the heat of his chest and the rough scrape of his stubble against your chin. When your teeth accidentally snag his bottom lip he lets out this low, vibrating groan that you feel rumble all the way through your own chest.
He pulls back just a fraction, lips wet and swollen, hot breath mingling with yours. His thumb strokes slow over the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse is hammering out the truth he already knows.
“Still want to run?” he asks.
The bastard is smiling. Not pissed, not even serious, he’s having the time of his life. You should’ve known he’d get off on the chase like this.
“Yes,” you snap.
And you mean it. Mostly.
Then you reach up, fist your hand in his hair, and haul him back down.
He goes willingly, of course he does, the man is horny by nature. This time the kiss sinks slower, deeper into the spit and heat. You slide your hands up his chest, fingers hooking into his collar as you feel him shift, settling his weight more comfortably between your legs. He’s getting distracted, his iron grip on your wrist loosens, just a tiny bit.
There it is.
You let your hand drift lower, low enough to make his breathing hitch against your mouth. He makes this thick, needy sound in the back of his throat that tells you his focus is exactly where you want it now. You shift your leg in a slow, deliberate tilt of your hip that looks like you’re just trying to get his cock flush against you.
He falls for it.
Your palm slides over his stomach and presses hard against the thick, rigid line of his cock straining through his pants. He’s already fucking wrecked for you, throbbing and hot under your hand. You rub him slow, giving him a squeeze that makes his hips jerk forward into your touch. The groan he lets out is raw and guttural, vibrating straight into your mouth as he loses himself in the kiss, his tongue licking deep and messy against yours, teeth catching your lip in a sharp tug. You can feel him pulsing against your palm, thickening even more as you stroke him through the cloth like you’re finally giving him the reward he thinks he earned for catching you. His breath stutters against your lips, his tongue moving in ways that are pure filth.
He thinks he’s finally broken you.
That’s when you plant your foot flat against his hip and shove with everything you’ve got.
It’s not a clean move by any means—it’s pure desperate leverage—but it’s enough to break his hold and create one beautiful, stumbling second of space. You’re on your feet before he can even blink, already bolting back into the treeline.
Behind you, you hear him grunt as he hits the dirt.
And then you hear him laugh. A private, delighted sound, like you’ve just done something genuinely charming instead of kicking him while he was down.
You run harder, but you’re still breathless, mind distracted by how fucking good he kisses and the way he groaned and how quick he’d gotten so hard for you. Turns out your little strategy to distract him had backfired and distracted you instead.
You make it maybe forty feet. And that’s being generous, giving yourself way too much credit.
The arm that wraps around you comes from nowhere, thick and absolutely immovable, and suddenly your feet aren’t touching the ground anymore. He hoists you up like you weigh nothing, pulling your back tight against his chest while your legs kick uselessly at open air. He doesn’t squeeze, and he’s careful not to hurt you. He just holds you there, completely secure, one arm locked around your middle as you writhe and swear and accomplish absolutely fucking nothing.
He’s breathing harder now. Finally. But it sounds less like exertion and more like pure satisfaction, like relief.
“There,” he says close to your ear, almost fond. “All done. I won.”
After that ordeal, Titus brought you back to the mansion. Once there, he personally escorted you to your shared room, as if you didn’t know the way already. Though you can’t blame him for keeping you close, not after what happened today.
You shower. The water comes out murky with dirt at first, so you wash your hair and your body as many times as it’s necessary until it’s all clear, until you cease to perceive the scent of dirt and sweat and his cologne all over you.
By the time you exit the shower, the sun has fully gone down, and you find a white gown delicately hung by the door. It’s so beautiful. And it’s a shame; because it truly is. It’s exactly your taste, in a style you adore, a fabric you seek often in formal dresses. It's perfect for you.
He’d gone to those lengths, of having a dress made specifically for you. But then again, he’s known for going to lengths.
You do your hair the way you always do, it’s all muscle memory by now, all with such ease that it requires no effort for you to look good.
Then you slip the gown on. And it’s… bittersweet. In the two years you were with Titus (or have been, are you back together? Who the fuck knows), the thought of marriage did cross your mind. You won’t sit here and pretend to be an innocent bystander. You know what he’s like. You know the things people like him do—and let’s not even go that far— the shit he has done. You know he has many irredeemable qualities. So you won’t sit here and pretend to be a victim. You stayed, longer than you should’ve, sure, but you had stayed.
Marriage had come to mind before, but you’d never allowed yourself to think too much about it. You were scared, still are, about what it would mean to marry into his family, his world. Starting with the fucking initiation. All it takes is pulling the wrong card before everyone is on a game to hunt you to death.
You shiver.
So seeing yourself in this dress is… bittersweet. You had, at some point in time, longed to marry him, even with all his issues and his bullshit. But you knew, deep down, that it’s also something you should fear. Something no one should want.
And yet, here you are.
A knock on the door makes you jump slightly in your place. You take a breath to steady yourself before doing anything.
“Yes?”
“Are you ready?”
“Almost.”
Well, you might as well have said ‘yes’, because he unlatched the door as if you’d said it.
The moment his eyes land on you, he stills completely. His gaze moves over you slowly, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world, though tonight he does; he won. It drags from the hem of the dress upward, taking its sweet time, and when those eyes finally meet yours there’s something in them that makes your stomach do a slow, unwelcome flip you’d really rather it didn’t.
You’ve seen Titus Danforth unmoved by things that would fuck other men up completely. You’ve watched him stay unbothered in rooms full of people trying to intimidate him, composed in situations that had no right to feel calm. And yet here he is, standing in the doorway of your bathroom, looking at you like you’ve just undone something deep inside him that he didn’t expect to feel tonight.
He clears his throat. Looks away for exactly one second, then his eyes are back on you, heavier than before.
“You look beautiful.”
And the worst part is that he means it. You can tell there’s no sick angle, no calculated game in the words. Just Titus being completely sincere, genuinely undone by a dress he picked out himself. It’s exasperating how real he can be sometimes, how he can drop the armor and just say shit like that without any ulterior motive.
“Thank you,” you say, and you mean it too, because what else is there left to say at this point?
There’s a brief stretch of silence where it’s obvious both of you want to say something more but neither of you does. This whole situation is so fucking complicated. You broke up with him this morning, and now here you are, gowned up, about to marry him. Not without a fight, but still. It makes you wonder if you ever had any real backbone at all. If you even wanted to break up with him in the first place, or if some part of you had been waiting for him to refuse to let go.
“This isn’t how I imagined it,” you finally manage to say, the words coming out quieter than you expected. “I imagined something huge, something that would probably annoy me because you know absolutely everyone that matters and I don’t, and you’d keep getting pulled aside for all those meaningful conversations. Then I’d get mad and you’d call me immature because we were already married and you’d never go anywhere without me. I imagined music, pretty scenery, flowers everywhere…the whole thing.”
He looks down at his shoes for a second. It’s brief, very brief, but you catch it. Then he adjusts his cuffs, because yes, he’s all suited up and unfairly handsome, much to your dismay.
“It’s not what I imagined either,” he agrees gruffly. “This isn’t how I had planned things to go.”
You can already feel the ‘but’ coming.
“But you left me no choice.”
Of that, you’re painfully aware. You probably threw a massive wrench into all his carefully laid plans. The breakup had been such a sudden decision, dropped right in the middle of one of the good periods between you two. You really had been in a solid place before you sprang it on him. If anything, you’re still surprised by how calmly he took it. You’d been terrified for those few seconds before the words left your mouth, half expecting him to snap, but he hadn’t. Nothing thrown at the walls, no cruel words thrown back, besides the ones you’d already said to start the conversation, anyway.
But now you understand why he stayed so calm. He wasn’t going to lose you, no matter what you said. He’d already bought the house. He’d had the dress tailored and made perfectly for you. He’d turned the whole thing into a game he knew he could win. He knew you weren’t actually going anywhere.
The attempt at breaking up had really disrupted his plans, though.
“It’s time,” he says, and extends his hand to you.
You look at it for a second. Open and waiting, like this is the most natural thing in the world, like you’re just heading out to some nice dinner instead of signing your life over. You take it anyway.
His fingers close around yours immediately, warm and sure, and he leads you out of the room without another word. The mansion is unnervingly quiet around you. Your heels click against the floor, and you focus on that sound, nothing else. Just that steady rhythm instead of letting your mind spiral about where you’re going and what happens when you get there.
The room he brings you to is small. Candlelit. There’s a man already waiting: the lawyer, or someone who passes for one in this world, standing with papers and a pen, his expression suggesting he’s done far stranger things than this. Titus is probably paying him a fortune for the discretion.
It’s just the three of you. No music. No flowers. The complete opposite of everything you’d imagined.
Titus positions himself in front of you and turns to face you fully. For a moment you just look at each other, the air thick between you.
The lawyer clears his throat and begins.
“Do you,” he says, looking at Titus, “take her to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”
“I do,” Titus says. No hesitation. Not even a fraction of one.
Then the lawyer turns to you.
“And do you take him to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”
And there it is.
You think about this morning, standing in front of him with your heart in your throat, saying the words that were supposed to end everything. You think about the forest, those seven minutes, the way he found you like he’d never even needed to look. You think about the dress hanging by the door—perfectly your taste, perfectly your size—bought long before you ever said a word about leaving. You think about the fact that even now, standing here, some traitorous part of you doesn’t entirely feel like a victim.
The lawyer waits. Titus waits. His eyes stay locked on yours, steady and certain, because he already knows what you’ll say. He knows you.
You take a breath.
“I do.”
Your voice comes out steadier than you feel, which surprises you considering your heart feels like it’s trying to leap straight out of your chest.
“The rings,” the lawyer says.
And of course there are rings, because this is Titus and he’s thought of everything, has been thinking of everything for god knows how long. His ring slides onto your finger with an ease that feels almost rehearsed. You slide his onto his finger, your hands only shaking a little.
“The license,” the lawyer says next, producing the papers and setting them on the small table beside him with a pen.
You sign your name. You watch the ink dry for exactly one second. There’s something about seeing it there, your name, your handwriting, now permanent, that makes the whole thing feel more real than anything else tonight. More real than the dress, more real than the vows. This is the part that can’t be undone.
Titus signs beneath you, quick and certain, then straightens up.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.” The lawyer says it like a closing argument, the matter finalized, binding. “You may kiss the bride.”
Titus closes the gap between you, and suddenly the air in the room feels way too thin. He reaches up, his thumb dragging slow and heavy across your cheekbone, like he’s giving you every second to realize exactly what he’s about to do. His eyes drop to your lips for a quick flicker before locking back onto yours.
Then he’s on you.
It’s nothing like that panicked, adrenaline-soaked mess in the forest. This is different, slower, more deliberate. He’s taking his time, his mouth moving against yours with a focused hunger that makes your knees go embarrassingly weak right there in the candlelit room. His hand cups your jaw, holding you steady like you’re something he actually wants to keep intact, while his other arm hooks around your waist and hauls you that last inch forward until there’s no space left between you.
The kiss doesn’t just happen, it grinds and lingers, thick and heavy, delicious in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the lawyer still standing three feet away. This is just Titus finally getting his hands on something he’s wanted for a long goddamn time, and he’s not rushing any second of it. You hear him catch a sharp, ragged breath through his nose, the sound barely held together as he deepens the kiss, tongue sliding slow and sure against yours.
When he eventually pulls away, his eyes are blown out and dark, heavy with everything he’s not saying. His thumb is still tracing slow patterns across your skin, and he’s staring at you like you’re completely his now.
Which, technically, you are. Legally and irrevocably.
“Hello, Mrs. Danforth,” he says, his voice a low vibration meant only for you, the words sinking straight under your skin.
And despite the total shitshow your life has become, despite how much you should hate him for all of this, something in your chest does something it really, really shouldn’t. It fucking flutters.
The lawyer gathers his papers with quiet efficiency, offers a curt nod that feels more like a final seal on a contract than any kind of congratulations, and slips out of the candlelit room without another word, leaving the two of you alone in the heavy silence.
Titus doesn’t move away. His hand stays cradling your jaw, thumb stroking slow, lazy circles against your flushed cheek as he looks down at you with those dark, unreadable eyes. The title he just gave you—Mrs. Danforth—still hangs in the air between you, heavy and permanent.
“You’re shaking,” he observes quietly, voice low and rough around the edges.
“I’m not,” you lie, even as your fingers twitch where they rest against his chest, betraying you completely.
A small, knowing smile curves his lips. He leans in closer, brushing his mouth against the shell of your ear, breath warm as he murmurs, “Liar.”
Before you can even get a retort out he’s scooping you up again, effortless, carrying you down the quiet hallway toward the master suite. Your heels are dangling stupid off your toes, one slips free and you don’t even care where it lands. The white gown pools and tangles around you, heavy silk whispering against your skin. You don’t fight. There’s no point anymore. The game’s over, you lost bad, and some treacherous, stupid part of you is already humming low and hot with what’s coming next, buzzing under your skin like electricity you can’t shut off.
He kicks the bedroom door shut behind him with his foot, the bang echoing a little, and sets you down on the edge of that massive bed. The room’s dim, just one lamp throwing soft light and moonlight sneaking through the heavy curtains, making everything feel hushed and secret. Titus stands over you, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it aside without looking. His fingers work the cuffs of his shirt open real slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving yours. That stare pins you.
“Take the dress off. Slowly.”
It’s not a request, it’s an order.
You hesitate, just long enough that he notices, the corner of his mouth twitching, and reach behind you for the zipper. The sound of it sliding down feels obscenely loud in the quiet, like it’s giving everything away. The fabric slips from your shoulders and pools at your waist, leaving you in nothing but that delicate white lace lingerie they gave you for tonight. His gaze drags over you shameless, slow, possessive, hungry, lingering on the way your nipples pebble tight against the thin lace, the dip of your waist, the curve of your hips.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, the word rough, scraped raw with want. He steps closer, cups your face in both hands and tilts your head up. “My wife. Finally.”
That word shoots through you, part fear, part something way more dangerous that makes your stomach flip and your thighs press together without thinking. You open your mouth to say something—probably stupid, something to grab back even a sliver of control—but he kisses you before you can. This kiss is different, deeper, slower, filthier than the one in the ceremony room. More like the forest one but hungrier. His tongue slides against yours with lazy confidence, tasting, claiming, sucking on your tongue like he’s trying to devour every last protest, every doubt, every bit of resistance you’ve got left.
He pushes you back onto the bed until you’re lying beneath him, the gown still tangled around your hips like it doesn’t want to let go. His body covers yours, solid, warm, overwhelming in the best worst way. One of his knees nudges your thighs apart as he settles between them, grinding the thick heavy line of his cock against your clothed core with these deliberate rolling presses that make your breath hitch. You gasp into his mouth, hips twitching up involuntarily as heat floods between your legs, fast and embarrassing.
“Already so wet for me,” he teases against your lips, voice dark with amusement. “Even after trying to run from me all night. Your cunt knows who it belongs to, doesn’t it?”
“Fuck you,” you breathe, but there’s no real heat in it anymore. Not really. Your body’s already betraying you completely, aching for more of that friction, that pressure.
He chuckles, low and filthy right by your ear. “That’s the plan, baby. Until you can’t remember why you ever thought you could leave.”
His mouth trails down your neck, sucking and biting just hard enough to leave faint marks that’ll bloom tomorrow like proof. He peels the rest of the dress off you with practiced hands, tossing it aside like it’s nothing more than wrapping paper on a gift he’s been dying to unwrap for years. The lingerie follows; bra unhooked and discarded, lace panties dragged down your legs slowly. You catch the way his pupils blow wide when he notices how the crotch of your panties is stuck to your pussy, soaked through because of how wet you already are.
When you’re completely bare beneath him he sits back on his heels for a second and just looks, drinking in every inch like he can’t get enough. His hands follow, palming your breasts roughly, thumbs circling and pinching your nipples until they tighten into aching sensitive peaks. He leans down and takes one into his mouth, tongue swirling hot and wet, teeth grazing and tugging while his fingers pinch and roll the other. You arch off the bed with a broken moan, fingers threading through his silver curls and pulling hard, harder than you mean to.
“Titus, fuck—”
“Shh.” He releases your nipple with a wet pop and kisses his way down your stomach, spreading your thighs wider with his broad shoulders. “I’ve waited long enough for this, lemme taste you.”
He doesn’t tease for long. His mouth is on you in the next breath, hot and relentless. His tongue drags through your slick folds with one slow savoring lick from entrance to clit, then circles the swollen bud with firm knowing pressure. You cry out, hips jerking against his face, but his strong hands pin you down, broad shoulders holding your thighs open, keeping you exactly where he wants. He eats you as hungrily as he did the very first time, that never changes. Messy, greedy, groaning against your cunt like your taste is the only thing that’s ever satisfied him. Two thick fingers push inside you without warning, curling hard against that spongy spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes while his tongue flicks and sucks your clit with those obscene slick sounds.
You come hard and fast, thighs trembling around him, a sharp broken cry tearing from your throat as pleasure crashes through you in relentless waves. He doesn’t stop to give you some reprieve, of course he doesn’t. Keeps licking and sucking through the aftershocks, fingers pumping steadily, drawing it out until you’re whimpering, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his head.
“Too much-ah, Titus—”
He pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips and chin shiny with your arousal, eyes dark and satisfied. “Not nearly enough.” He crawls back up your body, shedding the rest of his clothes as he goes. His cock springs free finally, heavy, thick, flushed dark and already leaking precum at the tip, as it rests hot and heavy against your thigh.
“Look at me.”
You do. His eyes lock onto yours as he lines himself up and pushes in, he always loved eye contact while he slides in, and fuck, it is pretty hot. The stretch burns in the best way, filling you completely until he bottoms out, balls-deep inside your clenching heat. You both groan, the sound raw and filthy. For a moment he just stays there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard, letting you feel every throbbing inch of him. You’re thankful for the pause—you always needed some time adjusting to his cock. It’s huge. That, and because you’re still incredibly sensitive after the previous orgasm.
“Fuck… so tight. You feel like you were made for my cock,” he rasps, and it’s such a delicious tone you have to hold back from clenching around him right then. “My wife’s greedy tight cunt sucking me in like it missed me.”
Then he starts to move.
It’s not gentle. Which is also a contradiction to how you imagined your wedding night with him as his wife, but you’re not complaining, how could you? His hips snap forward in deep punishing strokes that rock the expensive bed beneath you, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room along with your ragged moans and whimpers, mixed with his groans. Each thrust drags against every sensitive nerve inside you, the thick vein on the underside of his cock feels so good dragging along your walls, the head kissing your cervix with every brutal plunge. He fucks you like he’s trying to fuck the memory of your breakup right out of your body.
It’s working. God, it’s working too well.
His left hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, the golden ring on his finger digging into your plush skin, a blunt reminder that he’s not your boyfriend anymore—he’s your husband now. He pulls your hips up so he can go even deeper while his other hand braces beside your head, driving into you harder, faster, angling those strong hips to hit that spot that makes you see white. You wrap your legs around his waist, nails digging into his back and shoulders, urging him deeper even as you gasp his name like it’s both a curse and a prayer.
“Say it,” he demands, voice rough against your ear, hips never slowing. “Say you’re my wife. Say you’ll always be mine.”
You shake your head, stubborn even now, biting your lip to hold back the words. But he angles just right and slams in harder, grinding against your clit with every thrust, making your back arch off the bed with a keening whine.
“Say it,” he repeats, punctuating each word with a brutal wet thrust. “Tell me who you belong to, Mrs. Danforth.”
“I’m-fuck- I’m your wife,” you finally choke out, the words breaking on a moan as another orgasm builds fast and vicious under his relentless pace. “I’m yours- oh god—”
“Good girl.” He reaches between you to rub tight rough circles over your swollen ultra-sensitive clit, pushing you over the edge again. You come with a sob, clenching around his thick cock so hard it drags a guttural groan from his throat, your walls fluttering and milking him as the waves rip through you.
He doesn’t slow down. Fucks you through it, hips stuttering only when his own orgasm starts to hit. With a low broken sound—a whimper, for your ears only—he buries himself as deep as he can and comes hard, pulsing inside you, filling you with hot thick spurts of cum that make your toes curl and your mind go blissfully blank. You feel every twitch, every rope as he empties himself, marking you from the inside.
For a long moment the only sound is your shared ragged breathing. Titus collapses half on top of you but careful not to crush you completely, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His lips brush your pulse point in something almost tender while his cock twitches inside you, still half-hard, like he’s not quite done claiming you yet.
But he’s far from finished.
After a few minutes he lifts his head, eyes heavy-lidded and dark with lingering lust. He brushes a strand of sweaty hair from your forehead, then pulls out slowly. A thick trail of his cum leaks from your swollen pussy right away. The sight seems to please him immensely.
“Round two,” he murmurs, voice husky. “On your hands and knees. I want to watch my cum drip out of you while I fuck it back in.”
He flips you over with ease, pulling your hips up so your ass is raised high, chest and face pressed to the sheets. His hands spread your cheeks and he groans at the messy sight of his release coating your folds. Without warning he pushes two fingers inside you, scooping up his cum and pushing it deeper, making you whimper at the overstimulation.
“Look at this sloppy cunt,” he says, voice thick with filthy appreciation. “Already full of me and still greedy for more?”
He replaces his fingers with his cock in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt again. This time he fucks you harder, one hand fisted in your hair to arch your back, the other slapping your ass with sharp stinging smacks that make you clench around him. The angle is deeper, more punishing, his balls slapping wetly against your clit with every snap of his hips.
You come again, screaming into the sheets, and he follows soon after, flooding you with another load until it’s leaking down your thighs.
He doesn’t let you rest for long.
By the time the sky begins to lighten outside the windows, you’re a trembling, cum-soaked mess, your limbs weak, voice hoarse from moaning, every inch of you marked and claimed. Titus pulls you into his arms one last time, spooning behind you with his cock still nestled inside you, softening but refusing to leave your heat.
“Sleep, Mrs. Danforth,” he murmurs against your neck, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss there. “You’re mine now. And I’m nowhere near done with you. We’re going to see our new house later today.”
You should hate the way that promise makes fresh heat coil low in your belly, but you don’t hate it. And yeah, you feel stupid, like you’re betraying the version of you that was set on breaking up with him yesterday, but you can’t hate this. Hate him. The break up had never been out of lack of love, if anything it had been the opposite what drove you away, it had been knowing the lengths he’s willing to go to for you and being afraid of the responsibility of having his heart in your hand.
With a sigh, you press back against him, letting exhaustion and that dangerous, ruined satisfaction pull you under.
saw this being debated and just wanted to talk about it too.
"is it rude if I politely ask a writer if they use ai or chatgpt on their works because I'm almost certain they do?"
yes, it is rude. no matter how polite you are being when you ask them this.
you say you are almost certain. so you are not absolutely certain.
unless you are absolutely, undoubtedly certain — with actual proof — that their writing is ai generated, never ever ask an artist if their work is ai generated.
I know several writers who would stop writing and delete all of their works if they were ever accused of using ai. so it doesn't matter if you are polite when you ask them this, you are suggesting that their works are ai generated, that they didn't create the works they could have spent hours, days, weeks, months or years working on.
ai and chatgpt are trained on real humans' works, they are trained to mimic the way real humans write. so if you say a genuine writer's work "looks ai", I'm gonna have to ask you what you think ai was trained on.
a writer whose English isn't their first language may also write in a way that "looks ai" to some, if they write in English and have to rely on translator.
using em dash isn't a sign of ai. I do it all the time. my fellow writers all love em dash.
having long paragraphs with "overly described scenes" isn't a sign of ai. I do it all the time, and so do my fellow writers.
all the "ai signs" are actually just what most writers actually do. they get mistaken for "ai signs" because sometimes the way writers write or describe a scene in a fanfic or an original work is different than the way people talk or text. because they're writing a fic and describing a scene, not chatting with a friend. the way I talk is different than the way I write my fics.
if you suspect a work was ai generated, but are not 100% sure, you can always just stop reading said work without saying anything.
if someone does use ai to write, they will either a.) deny and continue using ai to write or b.) admit because they see nothing wrong with it and continue using ai to write.
if a genuine writer was wrongly accused of using ai, they may stop writing altogether.
asking a writer if they use ai or chatgpt to write will always do more harm than good. witch hunting will always do more harm than good.
you are not "fighting against ai" by throwing around such accusations. you are harming genuine writers and artists.
all of the fanfic writers, whom I personally know, say the same thing that they would feel discouraged and might delete all their works if they were asked this.
it’s not “hey do you like x or y” question. it’s a subtle implication that your work looks like it was written by a robot within a minute. if you personally don’t find that offensive, that’s cool. but I know a lot of writers do. and they have the rights to be discouraged by it.
also we are talking about fanfic writers who write as their hobby, getaway or safe place, writers whose works you read for free. not writers who sell their works and are making profit from what they write. fanfic writers don’t owe you anything.
This just came across my dash. I'm going to be blunt.
Asking a writer or artist if they “use AI” is an accusation, no matter how you dress it up. It’s not neutral. It implies you think their effort, style, or voice is artificial. It implies that their human work doesn’t look human enough for you.
You don’t protect the community by policing people who are actually creating from scratch. You protect it by supporting human creators, reporting confirmed AI misuse when there’s evidence, and learning the difference between this sounds different than what I’d write and this is machine-generated.
Writers—especially fanfic authors—already pour their time, emotion, and identity into what they share for free. They don’t owe anyone proof of authenticity on top of that. And if your question makes someone want to quit writing, it’s not protecting the community. It’s shrinking it.
If you’re not 100% sure, just scroll. AI ethics don’t need to turn into public inquisition season.
Because the question is accusatory by nature, and the people actually using AI probably aren't going to care, or will just lie to your face about it. Also people are terrible at identifying AI writing, because it was trained on real people.
If you think someone might have used AI in their work, don't ask them if they did. Scroll away. Quietly unfollow. Leave them alone.
Seriously, so many of these AI witch-hunts read like trying to use a shotgun to take out a fruit fly. The collateral damage is so much worse than any actual victory.
summary: pope has spent so long convinced he’d never have this: a family, a daughter, a reason to stay. now that he does, he’s still learning to believe it’s real.
wc: 1.5k
requested!
my masterlist!
The first thing you did after waking up was reach with your hand to the other side of the bed, only to find it empty, the sheets cold.
Still completely groggy, you carefully shifted in bed, turning your head towards the bathroom’s door to see if you could catch a hint of light from underneath the door that would indicate if he’s in the bathroom, but it was pitch black. All of it, he isn’t there or in the room.
And yet, you didn’t panic, you knew exactly where to find your husband.
Carefully, you shifted again on the bed, this time to sit down. The movements were slow and somewhat hesitant at first, since everything hurt you in ways you couldn’t describe, everything ached and was ultra sensitive. Once you were sitting down, you gently gripped the headboard and stood up.
That was always the worst part.
Taking a deep breath to handle the small surge of pain and the uncomfortableness caused by standing up, you made your way out of your shared bedroom and right next door, where the nursery was located.
And there he was, exactly where you expected him to be.
Pope was sitting down in the rocking chair right next to the bassinet, back straight, hands resting on his thighs as his eyes remained focused on your newborn baby, on her tiny little features, on the rhythmic movement of her little chest, up and down with her soft breaths.
He didn't notice you right away, lost in quiet thought, but when he did, he briefly turned his head to look at you, his expression soft and yet filled with so many emotions.
“You okay?” he asked softly, mindful of his tone to not wake up the newborn baby girl.
“I’m fine,” you gently assured him, knowing he worries out of his mind for you, especially now, with the labor being so recent and all. If Pope was an attentive husband before? It had definitely tripled now. “Don’t worry, love. Are you okay? Why are you still up? Did she fuss?”
“I’m okay, and she’s okay too,” he murmured, his voice and expression softening to a degree you’d never had the pleasure of witnessing before when he looked at your baby girl. “I just… wanted to be here, with her.”
You understood exactly what he meant, he wasn’t there because the baby had cried or because she needed tending to, but because the reality had yet to fully sink in for him, and he needed these quiet moments to come to terms with it.
Your baby girl is here. She's safe and sound, at home with you. She exists, she lives and she’s not a figment of his dreams.
Pope had spent so long believing he would never get to have a family of his own, that he would never be a father, that the reality of it actually happening needs its space to settle.
With a tender expression, you made your way closer to them, stopping next to the chair where your husband sat, your hand immediately finding his shoulder, sliding along the strong line of it and up the back of his neck, finding his soft curls, which had grown in the last couple of weeks.
He immediately relaxed, shoulders slumping a little, his head tilting back to rest against your palm. You wanted to reassure him somehow, remind him that your baby is safe and sound, that she’s not going anywhere and that he can relax and not feel guilty about it, but then again, this is how Pope is.
You gently sat down on the rocking chair’s armrest, still running your fingers through his soft hair. Pope immediately reacted to that, moving his arm to wrap it around you, his hand resting on the curve where your thigh met your hip, gently caressing the skin with his thumb. Additionally, he turned his head and pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, which you reciprocated by leaning to the side slightly and pressing a small kiss to his temple.
“She’s so little,” he said, half in awe and adoration, half with anxiety and perhaps even a bit of fear.
Having a tiny little life to look after was overwhelming, you shared the sentiment. Babies are just… so small and precious, so fragile, and it isn’t until you have your own that you’re truly hit with the reality of how vulnerable they are, the world out there isn’t always nice. Reconciling that with the existence of a newborn takes time.
“She is,” you agreed, peering down at the innocent little bundle of joy, sleeping peacefully in her little bassinet without a care in the world. You admired the shape of her adorable little nose, the shape of her small mouth, her long lashes, those endearing little cheeks that made you want to kiss them again and again. She's so precious. “She's also incredibly beautiful. and cute, let’s not forget that, she’s so freaking adorable.”
Pope hums with amusement, absentmindedly tracing invisible shapes on your hip with light fingertips. “Mmm yeah, she looks just like you already, just like her pretty mama.”
“You think?” you indulge him, even if it is a little silly to suggest she looks like either of you, she’s barely three days old, she doesn’t look like anyone but her tiny little self, new to this world. “Dunno, I think she has your nose.”
At that, Pope scoffed, he wasn’t being mean, it was just disbelief, as if he still couldn’t imagine his features or even the smallest part of him being replicated in this perfect little being.
There's only a small night light on the distant corner of the room, which means the light is pretty limited, so he leaned forward a bit more to get a clearer view of the newborn. With tenderness flooding your heart, you noticed how his hand twitched slightly over his thigh, his fingers digging into his skin, holding himself back.
You knew that’s what he was doing. This precedent was set the very first day, when he’d been absolutely terrified of holding her back in the hospital, afraid of doing it wrong, of dropping her or causing her harm in any way. Apparently, the fear remained.
“You know you can hold her, right?” You reminded gently, your hand sliding down from his hair to his broad back, rubbing gentle circles there.
He looked up at you with what was, without doubt, the most vulnerable look you’d ever seen on his face, high up there with the expression he’d made at your wedding when he saw you wearing the white dress for the first time, walking down the aisle.
“I don’t want to disturb her.”
Your heart squeezed in your chest at that.
“You won’t disturb her, love, I promise,” you encouraged him softly, pushing gently on his back so he moved closer to the bassinet. “Just slide your hands under her, make sure to cradle her head with one hand and her little body with the other, just as we practiced, and she’ll be alright. I'm sure she would sleep even comfier in papa’s arms.”
His expression relaxed even more at that, then he nodded. He moved to stand up from the rocking chair, his hand cradling your side to make sure you wouldn’t jostle too much when his weight was removed from the chair. Once he made sure you were safe, he turned to the bassinet.
With the utmost care and a delicate touch, Pope leaned forward. His left hand pressed back first against the soft cushion of the bassinet, then smoothly slid under the baby’s tiny head, gently cradling it, adjusting his hold there so the neck would be supported, then with the same care, he slid his other hand under the baby’s little bottom, making sure to cradle her small body properly, and after taking a deep breath, he lifted slowly.
Your precious baby girl let out a soft little sound at that, a soft squeaky grunt that immediately made you smile. Pope froze for a couple of seconds, probably fearing the little sound would lead to a cry, but it never came, she settled. He took that as his cue and brought her delicate body up to his chest, safely tucking her there. The baby immediately settled there, instinctively curling up against his warmth, tiny little hand resting on his chest.
Pope's shoulders relaxed, letting out the breath he’d been holding, his hands held her safely, making sure to cradle her fragile body as if she were the most precious thing ever. Which to be fair, she is to you both.
There was no need for you to say ‘see? told you so’ because Pope’s expression already told you all you needed to know. He looked down at her, his thumb brushed her soft little head, and he leant in slightly, pressing a soft kiss to her small forehead.
"Papa's here,” he whispered to her. “Mama and papa will always be here for you.”
And just like that, reality was finally starting to settle for him.
summary: jack abbot knows how to run a trauma bay. he knows the protocols and the medicine. but when his daughter decides he's "vedy, vedy sick"? it turns out he’s an even better patient.
warning: none.
trope/genre; fluff, girl!dad abbot, married!abbot
wc: 2K.
my masterlist!
Warm kitchen light spilled into the living room, forming a golden square on the rug, which is now covered in scattered toys
A floppy plush rabbit lay tipped on its side on the rug beside a bright fake plastic medicine bottle, while a toy syringe had rolled halfway under the coffee table like it was hiding. Clearly, someone had been running a very serious medical practice there all afternoon.
Jack Abbot sat right in the middle of it all on the couch, his long legs stretched out comfortably in front of him. His shoulders had finally relaxed against the back of the couch, with the course of the years, he’d patiently learned how to leave the weight of the ER behind at the end of the day. He didn’t always manage it perfectly, and some nights the tension lingered in his spine longer than he wanted, but tonight none of that weariness showed in his eyes.
Instead, he watched the tiny person kneeling on the rug in front of him with the same steady, quiet focus he usually saved for trauma bays, and here, with her, it cost him absolutely nothing to give it.
To her. Your little girl, his little girl. Oh, how fast she’s grown.
Your daughter had her whole doctor kit spread out around her like real surgical tools waiting for the next important case. The little pink stethoscope hung crookedly around her neck in a loose loop that looked ready to slide off at any second. Her dark curls had mostly escaped the ponytail you’d carefully tied earlier that afternoon, so soft strands bounced against her round cheeks every time she turned her head or reached for something. She wore the oversized plastic glasses from the toy set, they kept slipping all the way down to the very tip of her tiny nose, but she never seemed to notice or mind. She just looked exactly like a very important, highly credentialed doctor who meant business.
Jack rested his hands on his thighs and waited patiently, content to let her set the pace.
Finally she lifted her head and looked straight up at him, squinting through those sliding glasses with all the serious gravity of someone about to deliver very bad news to a patient.
“Papa,” she announced in her clearest, most official voice.
The corner of his mouth twitched upward in the tiniest smile. “Yes, doctor?”
She pushed herself up to standing, wobbling just a little on her small legs, then shuffled forward with the stethoscope swinging dramatically back and forth against her chest. She stopped right between his knees and tilted her head back to meet his eyes.
“You sick,” she declared firmly.
He blinked slowly, playing along. “I am?”
“Yesh.” She nodded with such fierce conviction that her curls bounced even more. “Vedy sick.”
He let out a quiet, thoughtful hum and leaned back deeper into the cushions, now as a patient who had just accepted the diagnosis and was ready to follow doctor’s orders. “Good thing I’ve got a doctor right here in the house then.”
From the nearby armchair, you watched the whole sweet scene unfold with your chin resting in your palm, not even trying to hide how completely your heart was melting. Earlier that evening she had assigned your role with great ceremony and seriousness, you were officially the nurse. And not any nurse, don’t be confused, you were Mama Nurse. That meant sitting beside the small pile of plastic medical supplies and handing things over whenever she demanded them, which you had been doing with perfect professionalism (tender smiles aside) and zero complaints.
Suddenly the toddler turned her head toward you, eyes wide and expectant.
“Mama Nuhs!”
You straightened up right away. “Yes, doctor?”
“Need… the…” She frowned down at the pile, brow scrunched in deep thought, lips pressed tight together while she searched. Then her little finger shot out. “Da beep-beep.”
You picked up the toy thermometer and passed it to her. “Thermometer, doctor.”
“Mmm-hm,” she agreed, already climbing up onto the couch beside Jack. She braced one tiny hand against his shoulder to keep her balance as she settled in next to him.
“Open mouf,” she ordered.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He parted his lips obediently. She pushed the thermometer toward his cheek in roughly the right direction and stared at him with huge, focused eyes while the imaginary reading happened, her little lips pursed, head tilted just so. You had seen that exact same look on her face plenty of times before: when she was stacking wobbly blocks into impossible towers, or when her shoes refused to go on the right feet. She came by it honestly.
More than one person had told you that Jack made the very same face when he was deep in thought at work.
After a few long seconds she pulled the thermometer away and her eyes went dramatically wide.
“Oh no,” she breathed, voice full of worry.
Jack tilted his head slightly. “Oh no?”
She gasped and pressed one hand to her chest like the news was almost too much. “You vedy, vedy sick!”
He pressed his lips together to keep from smiling too big. “That bad?”
“Yesh!” She scrambled off the couch in a hurry and dove back into the doctor kit with frantic energy, rummaging through everything like she was facing a real emergency that needed immediate action.
“Doctor,” you offered gently, “should we prepare some medicine?”
She nodded fast without looking up. “Medshin!”
Jack settled even deeper into the cushions, folding his arms across his chest in complete trust. “I trust your treatment plan completely.”
She came back holding the toy syringe and stopped right in front of his arm, looking up at him with the stern expression of someone who had done this procedure many times and understood exactly how serious it was. Even if, technically, she’d just gotten the doctor play set a couple of weeks ago. Turns out a couple of weeks is a lot of experience in toddlerhood.
“No move, Papa.”
“Understood.”
She pressed the rounded tip against his forearm and slowly pushed the plunger down. He flinched with real theatrical commitment to the bit, eyebrows shooting up, a sharp hiss of breath through his teeth.
“Ouch. That one really had some kick to it.”
She patted his arm right away with soft little pats. “Brave, Papa.”
Something warm and unguarded settled across his face then, the soft look that only ever appeared when he was safe at home with the two of you. “High praise coming from my physician.”
She accepted the compliment with a grave little nod and reached for the stethoscope again. It took her a moment to untangle the tubing from her curls, and Jack waited through it all. He knew there were some things in life simply that could not be hurried, and this was definitely one of them. It was just too precious to rush through.
When she finally got the plastic disc pressed somewhere near his collarbone and leaned in close, the whole room seemed to hush around them. Her little face hovered just inches from his chest, eyes wide with total concentration, one stray curl brushing lightly against his jaw. Whatever she was listening for inside him, she was listening with every bit of herself.
“Hmm,” she murmured seriously.
Jack glanced over the top of her head at you, his eyes soft and warm with something too gentle for any medical chart to name.
“Well?” he prompted quietly.
She lifted her head. “Your heart go boom boom.”
“Is that good?”
She thought about it with all the seriousness the question deserved. “Vedy loud boom boom.”
“Good loud or bad loud?”
“Gud.” She pulled the stethoscope away and then reached up to place both small hands on his cheeks, squishing his face gently between her palms so she could peer straight into his eyes from only a few inches away. “You need res,” she told him solemnly.
“Rest,” he agreed, not even trying to move his smooshed face.
“Yesh. And ninner.”
“Dinner too?”
“Yesh.”
“What will the dinner be, doctor?”
She let go of his cheeks to think hard about it, staring off into the middle distance with complete focus.
“Mac n cheese.”
He nodded with matching solemnity, it was so cute, how he played along with her without hesitation, you wanted to melt. “Excellent choice.”
Her face lit up bright. “An pish!”
“Fish too?”
“Pish!” she repeated proudly, and you couldn’t help laughing softly from the armchair before you caught yourself.
Jack glanced over at you with a small, amused smile. “Doctor seems very confident in her nutritional recommendations.”
“She graduated top of her class,” you told him seriously.
The toddler, happy that her treatment plan had official approval, turned back to her patient. Her gaze drifted down—like it had started doing more often lately—to the prosthetic leg that extended from below his knee. A few weeks ago she had begun noticing it, not with fear or upset, but the innocent curiosity of a child carefully learning the person she loved best. Her tiny finger reached out and traced the curve of it so gently, poking curiously at the black socket left visible now that he was wearing shorts, the same careful way she touched flowers or fragile toys she wanted to understand.
“Papa boo boo?” she asked softly.
His voice stayed even and calm. “Old one. All healed now, sweetheart.”
She studied it a moment longer, thinking it over. Then she leaned forward and pressed her lips to the prosthetic, carefully, exactly the way she kissed her plushies, her own little boo-booed fingers, or anything else that had ever been hurt and needed to know it was loved.
“There,” she said with satisfaction. “All better now.”
Jack went very still.
You watched the stillness settle, then fade along his whole body, how his shoulders eased down just a fraction, the tight line of his jaw softened, how something held tight inside him finally let go in the safety of this quiet room. His face didn’t give much away to most people, but you had spent long enough learning every small shift to recognize what it looked like when something reached him deep, past every defense he usually kept up, and your baby girl had done that easily.
“Best treatment I’ve ever had,” he said, genuinely meaning it.
She climbed straight into his lap without asking—because she had never once needed permission with her papa—and nestled herself against his chest like she was exactly where she belonged. He wrapped one strong arm around her small back, steady and automatic, and rested his chin lightly on top of her soft curls.
“Papa all better now,” she announced to the whole room.
“Because of you?”
“Yesh.” She sounded so pleased, so completely certain, and not even a little surprised, because in her world, this was simply how things worked. She took care of him, and he got better. It had never crossed her mind that it could happen any other way.
Jack pressed a quiet kiss to the top of her head. When he looked up at you again, that rare softness was still there on his face.
“Nuhs mama,” came the small, very authoritative voice from against his chest.
You raised an eyebrow. “Yes, doctor?”
“Papa need sweep soon,” she declared. “And wabbit story.”
“A rabbit story,” Jack confirmed, looking at you with that quiet, contented smile. “Doctor’s orders.”
You stood up slowly, reaching over to smooth one escaped curl back from her forehead. She turned her face into your hand for a second, just instinctive, trusting, the way she always did, before looking back up at Jack with total satisfaction.
Hello!! Not the original anon but for context about people finding you from twitter: a twitter user was trying to find a titus fic they lost and then when they found it they shared it!!
I remembered reading the tweet as well bc i already read the fic haha but I also agree with everyone its so so good!! Thank you for writing it 🫶🫶
thank you for the context!! it makes sense now, and not gonna lie i’m in awe that someone liked it enough to look for it and ask people about it 😭 i think it’s the first time i’ve made it to twitter
