in which jack gives you unsolicited advice on vibrators and how to use them.
genre: smut!! 18+ mdni!!!
(a/n: can't sleep, feeling weird. deciding to write to get my mind off things. sorry it's kinda filthy lol what can i say.)
You were running on four hours of sleep and weeks of agonizing physical frustration. So yes, technically, sitting in the breakroom with a tab open to a high rated silicone toy review page wasn't ideal workplace decorum. But you were on your break. Off the clock, tired, frustrated, and researching every available avenue to make something happen.
"That one’s no good."
You froze, every muscle locking up. You slowly turned around to see Jack leaning over, eyeing your phone screen.
Before you could scramble to lock your phone or throw it across the room, Jack gave a casual, unbothered shrug and walked right out the door.
The rest of the night was psychological torture. Back on the floor, Jack acting like he said nothing. Not a smirk. Not a lingering look. Nothing. By the time you clocked out, you were convinced you’d hallucinated the entire breakroom encounter.
…
Two glasses of wine later back at your apartment, unwinding on the couch and feeling comfortably tipsy, your phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Jack: I can make some good recommendations for you.
You snorted into your glass, staring at the screen. The wine gave you a reckless surge of courage, and your thumbs moved before your brain could filter them.
You: you gonna show me how to use it?
His reply came back within seconds.
Jack: Yeah. My place tomorrow?
…
So that’s how you were here. On Jack Abbot’s lap, writhing as his thumb guided a small, buzzy, impossibly effective vibrating bullet directly against your center. His hand was around your hip, holding you steady while his hard length pressed hot against you through the fabric of his sweatpants.
"Told you the other one was overrated." he murmured against your neck, his voice raspy.
You let out a breath, hands clutching his shoulders as you rolled your hips into his palm.
"That good?" Jack said into your skin, tightening his grip on your hip as you squirmed against him. "Need you to come all over my lap, sweetheart."
cw: so it's casual but not at all. all i'm saying is undertones (but they're not all that subtle)
it doesn't matter where you are, as long as jack is with you, his hands are on you somehow. whether his palm rests on the small of your back or his fingers curl into the nape of your neck, he guides you through the crowd with a stern look on his face.
to jack, the sidewalk rule might as well be holy scripture. when you cross the street, he immediately switches sides with you. his girl is not walking right where the cars speed past, not when he has seen how quickly an accident can happen.
when it gets dark, jack’s chest puffs out a little more the moment you walk past a group of people, especially if it’s a group of men. he’ll step in front of you like a human shield. should anyone dare to look at you the wrong way, he'll let go of your hand, and instead he'll wrap an arm around you, flexing the muscles beneath his shirt purposefully
food groups—jack makes sure your meals are up to his standard. while he can get away with drinking coffee for breakfast, you best believe he won’t let you out of the house without getting some protein and fiber in you. he even cuts your food for you if you’re too tired, no matter how much you complain about being treated like a kid. (maybe a part of you secretly likes it.)
he doesn’t say anything about the length of your skirts or shorts, but he keeps an eye on them when you’re out together. he’ll pull the fabric down when it rides up or step behind you, should you bend over to pick something up. he glares at anyone whose eyes linger a little too long on your exposed skin, even if it’s “just” your thighs.
when you can’t decide what to wear, he’ll pick for you.
“the purple top looks good, sweet pea. wear that with the black skirt. no, no, the silk one.”
he’ll nod approvingly, hands wandering immediately. his fingers will dig into the flesh of your hips, holding what is his while he takes you in.
“such a pretty girl, mhm?”
jack plans. he organizes dates, makes reservations and picks out the perfect spots for you. he’ll tell you to be ready at seven and then makes sure you are actually ready.
“attagirl”
“good job, baby”
“you’re doing so good”
he likes using those phrases against you because he knows how much they mess with your praise-starved mind. you’ll hear him whisper one of them to you, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, when you do even the simplest task.
jack sometimes picks you up randomly. just to show you that he can. he doesn’t grunt or struggle but makes it seem like the easiest thing in the world—because to him, it is.
placing you on the kitchen counter while you cook together, throwing you on the bed (gently, of course), or carrying you over a big puddle so you don't get your shoes soaked--he loves the startled shriek he manages to pull from you every time.
when you watch a movie together, he’ll scratch your head until you practically purr.
“you like that, baby?”
“just relax. but don’t fall asleep, sweet pea. keep those eyes open f’me.”
it’s your weak spot. the second his fingers thread through your hair, you’re jelly in his hands. his husky voice doesn't help keep your mind focused on the movie at all.
warnings: age gap, reader is twenty one, pope being possessive
word count: 913
summary: only a little thought... just sexy makeout session by the pool and that age gap for extra danger
masterlist here
now playing - 'you're so dark' by arctic monkeys
the first thing you noticed about andrew cody wasn't the way people avoided looking at him for too long - it was how quiet he could be in a room full of chaos.
the cody house was loud even on good days: drawers slamming, televisions humming, someone arguing out by the pool while cigarette smoke curled through open windows. but pope sat at the kitchen counter like he existed somewhere outside of it all, broad shoulders hunched forwards, fingers tapping slowly against a coffee mug gone cold hours ago.
you were younger than the rest of them, too young to understand why everyone treated him like something dangerous left unattended, but old enough to notice the way his eyes always followed you when you walked into the room - careful, unreadable, almost protective. and maybe that should've scared you.
instead, it only made you stay longer.
one afternoon, you were sitting on the edge of the pool, picking at a scab on your knee, when pope came out with a beer in hand. he didn't say anything at first, just leaned against the wall and looked out at the backyard.
his eyes landed on you, watching your legs kick idly in the water, and after a long sip, he murmured, "you're gonna be trouble, kid."
not a warning - almost an acknowledgement. he pushed off the wall, closing the distance in two slow strides, then sat beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed warm against yours.
"why's that?" you asked, turning your head to look up at him.
his jaw tightened. "because you're the only one who doesn't run when i walk into a room."
you smiled, unbothered. a mistake. his gaze dropped to your lips for a heartbeat too long. "that a problem?" you asked, dipping your toes further into the water.
pope didn't answer. instead, his hand found the small of your back - not gripping, barely touching, really - just resting there like he was testing whether you'd let him. when you didn't pull away, his fingers curled slightly into the fabric of your shirt.
"only when people start talking," he said low, his thumb rubbing an absent circle against your spine. "craig's got a big mouth. deran's got eyes everywhere. you keep looking at me like that, they're gonna notice."
"let them," you replied, turning your body toward his, knees bumping against his thigh.
pope's breath hitched, just barely audible, and his hand flattened out on your lower back, pulling you closer. close enough that his arm brushed your side with every inhale. close enough that you could see the dark rings around his irises, the way his adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed hard.
"fuck," he muttered under his breath, his hand sliding up to the back of your neck. his fingers curled into your hair, not pulling but holding you there, his forehead resting against yours. the beer bottle clinked against the pool edge as he set it down without looking.
"you know i'm not good for you, right?" his thumb traced your jawline, his voice a low, rough whisper. but instead of pushing you away, he closed the distance between your faces until his lips brushed yours in the barest of touches. a warning. a question.
you closed your eyes. let him feel your breath hitch against his mouth.
that was all the permission pope needed.
the kiss was nothing like you expected - gentle, almost reverent, like he was afraid he'd damage you. his other hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing your temple as he tilted your head back, deepening it.
it was slow and drowning, tasting of cheap beer and dark desire.
the fingers in your hair tightened, holding you in place as he explored your mouth, the kiss turning less careful and more desperate, his breathing catching when your hand came up to grip his shoulder.
from inside the house, you heard everyone arrive home, laughing loudly, but pope didn't pull away - he just kissed you harder.
his lips moved to your jaw, his teeth scraping lightly as he marked a path down your neck. he knew his family were about to walk outside - he could hear their voices getting closer.
but instead of stopping, he pulled you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around you like he was trying to hide you from them.
"pope? you out here, man?"
he froze for a split second before his mouth found your collarbone, sucking hard enough to bruise. his hands held you tighter, possessive, as if he could make you disappear into his skin. the footsteps came closer on the concrete.
"pope-"
"yeah, yeah, i'm here."
pope finally pulled back, your lips swollen, neck already blooming with purple marks. his eyes were dark, his breathing ragged, but he gave you a look that made your stomach drop - a silent promise that this wasn't over. he wiped his thumb across your bottom lip, smearing your lip gloss, before turning to face his brother with a smirk.
"took you long enough," pope said casually.
craig stopped short when he saw you. his eyes widened briefly before he grinned mischeievously. "what the fuck are you two doing?"
"nothing you need to worry about," pope shot back, his thumb still tracing your lips like he couldn't bring himself to stop touching you. craig's eyes narrowed, zeroing in on the fresh marks littering your neck, and he let out a low whistle.
When a man is flirting with you at work, in a desperate attempt to get rid of him, you tell him you're taken.
When he persists and asks who, your eyes instinctively flick to Jack Abbot. The man who is decidedly not your man. No matter how much you want him to be.
Much to your embarrassment, Jack overhears. Immediately his chest puffs out and he becomes very protective and very proud to be your fake boyfriend. He'd much rather it be real though.
It starts with a hand on your waist.
That’s the first problem.
The second problem is that the hand belongs to a patient’s brother who apparently mistakes basic human decency for romantic interest.
The third problem is that it’s been happening for three shifts straight.
“You should smile more,” he says now, leaning against the nurses’ station like he owns the place. “Pretty girls like you shouldn’t look so stressed.”
You give him the tightest smile you can manage.
The emergency department behind you is drowning.
Two ambulance arrivals.
One psych hold screaming obscenities in room seven.
A trauma consult incoming.
You have exactly zero patience left for this man.
“Sir,” you say evenly, “you need to stay in the waiting area.”
“But then I don’t get to talk to you.”
God.
You glance around desperately for rescue.
Dana sees you from across the hall and immediately pivots the other direction like a traitor.
Coward.
The man leans closer.
“What time do you get off?”
“Late.”
“I could wait.”
“No, thank you.”
“You got a boyfriend or something?”
The answer should be easy.
No.
Because you don’t.
Unfortunately, the man asking isn’t hearing polite rejection. He’s hearing negotiation.
And you are tired.
Exhausted.
Running on caffeine and twelve accumulated hours of stress.
So the lie slips out before you fully think it through.
“Actually,” you say quickly, “I am seeing someone.”
That should’ve ended it.
It does not.
Instead the man grins.
“Yeah? Who?”
Your mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
And because the universe clearly hates you, your eyes instinctively flick sideways.
Straight toward Jack Abbot.
Who is currently standing fifteen feet away reviewing labs at a computer.
Your stomach drops.
Because Jack looks up at the exact wrong moment.
And catches it.
All of it.
The man follows your gaze.
Then his eyebrows rise.
“The doctor?”
Heat floods your entire body.
“No— I mean—”
Too late.
Jack is already walking over.
And the truly horrifying part?
The second he realizes what’s happening, something changes in him instantly.
His shoulders pull back.
Chest broadening slightly.
Expression sharpening.
Like some deeply primitive part of his brain just heard mine.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
Jack stops beside you.
Close.
Very close.
Close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.
“Everything okay here?” he asks calmly.
The man looks between the two of you.
“You her boyfriend?”
You open your mouth to explain.
Jack beats you to it.
“Yeah.”
Your brain short-circuits.
The man looks disappointed immediately.
Jack, meanwhile, looks like he’s moments away from dragging you behind him and guarding you with a spear.
“She said she was taken,” Jack continues pleasantly. “You should probably listen when women tell you no.”
There’s no aggression in his tone.
That somehow makes it more terrifying.
The man awkwardly mutters something and finally backs off toward the waiting area.
The second he disappears around the corner, you slap a hand over your face.
“Oh my God.”
Beside you, Jack looks entirely too pleased with himself.
“You’re welcome.”
You peek at him through your fingers.
“I cannot believe you just did that.”
“You looked uncomfortable.”
“That’s not the point.”
A tiny grin pulls at the corner of his mouth.
“You called me your boyfriend.”
You make a strangled noise.
“It was panic.”
“Mm.”
“You are enjoying this way too much.”
Jack shrugs, utterly unrepentant.
Then — and this is the worst part — he casually slides his hand against the small of your back.
Like it belongs there.
Your entire nervous system lights on fire.
“There,” he says. “Now he definitely won’t come back.”
Your heart is beating so hard it’s physically embarrassing.
Because Jack smells good.
Because he’s warm.
Because his hand is large and steady against your spine.
Because you’ve been in love with him for months and apparently your subconscious decided that today was the day to publicly expose you.
“Great,” you mumble weakly. “Fantastic. Amazing.”
Jack looks down at you, amused.
“You okay?”
No.
Absolutely not.
You are seconds away from cardiac arrest.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re blushing.”
“Shut up.”
His grin widens.
And somehow that’s the thing that kills you most.
Because Jack Abbot does not grin often.
He smiles, sometimes. Briefly. Tiredly.
But this?
This is warm. Open. Boyishly pleased.
Like being mistaken for your boyfriend is the best thing that’s happened to him all week.
Which is ridiculous.
Probably.
Hopefully.
The fake dating thing should’ve ended there.
Instead, somehow, it escalates.
Because apparently Jack commits to a bit with alarming dedication.
The man from earlier keeps trying to hover near the nurses’ station throughout the shift.
And every single time, Jack appears.
Every. Single. Time.
Like an insanely attractive, emotionally constipated guard dog.
You’re updating charts when Jack suddenly appears behind your chair.
“You eat yet?” he asks.
“No.”
“You need to.”
Then he sets a protein bar beside your keyboard before casually squeezing your shoulder.
The man in the waiting room watches the entire interaction with visible defeat.
Later, during a trauma intake, Jack brushes past you and murmurs, “Careful, sweetheart,” when you nearly back into equipment.
Sweetheart.
You nearly drop an entire tray of syringes.
He doesn’t even seem to notice what he’s done.
Or maybe he does.
Because when your eyes snap toward him, his expression goes strangely satisfied.
Oh, he knows exactly what he’s doing.
You’re doomed.
By hour nine, the entire department has noticed.
Dana corners you in the medication room.
“So,” she says casually.
“No.”
“You and Jack finally snapped?”
“No!”
Dana looks unconvinced.
“Really? Because he’s been following you around like a Victorian husband whose wife might catch tuberculosis.”
You groan.
“It’s fake.”
“Mhm.”
“It is!”
“Sure.”
“It started because that creep wouldn’t leave me alone.”
Dana snorts.
“And Jack immediately volunteered?”
“He overheard.”
Dana actually has to physically lean against the counter because she’s laughing too hard now.
“Oh, that poor man.”
You blink.
“What?”
“You really don’t know?”
A horrible feeling crawls into your stomach.
“Know what?”
Dana stares at you.
Then she laughs again, softer this time.
“Jesus Christ. You two are painful.”
Before you can interrogate her further, someone yells for assistance down the hall.
Dana escapes with the air of someone withholding devastating information for personal entertainment.
You hate everyone here.
The shift finally ends just after midnight.
You’re exhausted enough to cry.
Jack finds you in the locker room area struggling into your jacket.
“You good to drive?” he asks immediately.
“Yes.”
“That sounded fake.”
“It’s because I’m tired.”
Jack studies you for a long moment.
Then he reaches over and fixes the collar of your jacket where it folded inward.
Such a tiny gesture.
So gentle.
So automatic.
Your chest aches.
“You didn’t have to keep doing that all shift,” you say quietly.
Jack’s hands still.
“What?”
“The fake boyfriend thing.”
Something unreadable flickers across his face.
“Oh.”
“You really committed.”
He huffs a quiet laugh.
“Well.”
You wait.
Jack looks at you for a second too long before saying carefully:
“Wasn’t exactly difficult.”
Your breath catches slightly.
The air changes.
Just a little.
Enough to notice.
Jack notices it too.
You can tell by the way he suddenly looks intensely focused on your jacket zipper instead of your face.
“You know,” you say softly, “you were weirdly good at it.”
That gets a tiny smile out of him.
“Yeah?”
“Very convincing.”
His eyes finally lift to yours then.
Warm.
Steady.
Dangerous.
“Maybe because I wanted to be convincing.”
Your heartbeat stutters.
“Jack…”
He exhales slowly through his nose.
And suddenly he looks nervous.
You don’t think you’ve ever seen Jack nervous around you before.
“I should probably tell you something.”
Your pulse jumps.
“What?”
Jack rubs the back of his neck once before meeting your eyes again.
“I’ve kind of wanted to be your boyfriend for a while now.”
The world genuinely stops for a second.
You stare at him.
Jack’s expression shifts instantly.
“Oh my God,” he mutters. “That sounded terrible out loud.”
“No,” you say immediately.
“No?”
“No.”
Relief flashes across his face so fast it almost hurts to see.
“You mean that?”
You step closer before you can lose courage.
“Jack,” you say softly, “I’ve been in love with you for months.”
The look he gives you then could ruin lives.
Like he can’t believe his own luck.
Like he’s trying not to smile too hard and failing miserably.
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
Jack laughs once under his breath.
Then his hands find your waist carefully, almost hesitantly, like he’s checking whether this is real.
“You know,” he murmurs, “I liked hearing you call me your boyfriend.”
Your face burns again.
“I was panicking.”
“Still counts.”
“It absolutely does not.”
“I disagree.”
You laugh helplessly.
And that’s the exact moment Jack kisses you.
Warm.
Certain.
A little overdue.
His hands tighten at your waist when you kiss him back, and the sound he makes low in his throat nearly melts your skeleton.
When he finally pulls away, his forehead drops against yours.
“So,” he murmurs, voice rough now, “can I make it official?”
You smile so hard your cheeks hurt.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I think you probably should.”
Jack grins.
That same dangerously soft grin from earlier.
Only this time, when he slides his hand against your lower back and pulls you close, there’s nothing fake about it at all.
summary. Everything around you crumbles when Jack walks into the ER as an almost patient. You see the blood on his back— he realizes you’re not being dramatic, you’re just scared.
⭑.ᐟ Jack abbot in swat uniform save me. Hopefully no inaccuracies— currently rewatching the show but I didn’t get to that episode yet and didn’t want to wait.
word count. 1,1k
the pitt masterlist
──────────୨ৎ──────────
It’s only mid-shift, and you already feel like you’re about to lose your mind.
Rough day, rough start, rough patients.
Now? Now none of it matters anymore.
It doesn’t matter because Jack is standing there, the SWAT uniform you love and hate so much on, assessing a patient with other doctors and nurses around.
Jack’s not one to complain.
He’s not one to show that he’s not doing okay.
But you can tell by the way he scrunches up his nose and winces at every slight movement that something’s wrong.
You can see through the transparent glass that he stands on his feet funny. He’s trying not to move as much as he normally would. He’s barking orders, he’s not taking charge.
‘What’s happened here?’ You walk into the room and you’re pretty sure you can physically see him tense up.
You don’t even hear what princess answers because your eyes are stuck on the big patch of blood on his back.
The way the uniform’s torn.
The way the blood is his, and not anyone else’s.
The worry in your eyes and the guilt in his.
‘You’re coming with me. They can deal without you.’ You drag him by the arm before he can process.
Jack doesn’t fight you, instead he sighs.
The inside of the room is still as chaotic when you close the door behind you, everyone looking at each other as to say ‘he’s in trouble.’
You don’t speak, and Jack can feel his heart thump loud against his ribcage.
He’s not one to be scared about anything.
He is now.
‘I’m okay.’ He sighs when you close the door.
‘You’re bleeding all over the ED floor. You’re not okay.’ Your voice trembles slightly but it’s not its usual soft.
You’re upset.
You’re fucking pissed off, actually.
‘Can you help me, at least?’ His voice is rough too, because he’s in a lot of damn pain.
‘What the fuck happened?’ The material of the uniform is hard under your hands.
You don’t miss the way he winces everytime the material grazes against his skin.
‘Bullets were flying, only got grazed.’ He sniffles.
‘Only got grazed.’ You quote back to him. ‘You’re unbelievable, you know that?’ You laugh under your breath.
It’s not funny.
‘I told you, I’m fine.’
‘Yeah, you keep saying that.’ You stare at the blood starting to stain your hands, the uniform off, his dark blue undershirt drenched in sweat.
‘Because I mean it.’
‘Bullshit. You’ve been wincing since you got here. I know you, Jack. You’re in pain, it hurts like a bitch.’
‘Can you help with this, too?’ He motions to his shirt brushing off your comment.
Once his undershirt is off, he notices your stance.
Your eyes trail on his body, but not in the way it usually does.
You’re worried, he can tell.
He can tell by the way one of your hands sits on you hip and the other plays with your bottom lip. The way your eyes aren’t necessarily concentrated on him, but more that you’re in your own head thinking about what you’re going to say next.
‘Hey, I’m here, aren’t I?’ He pulls you closer so you can stand between his legs.
‘What if one day you’re not? What the fuck am I supposed to do then, Jack?’ You look down at him, eyes almost stinging.
‘That’s not gonna happen.’
‘And you just don’t know that, do you? Jack, this bullet could’ve killed you. You got lucky. You always do, but one day, that luck’s gonna run out. And I’ll be the one to have to pick up the pieces.’
Jack realizes right then and there how much of a fuck up that was.
His therapist said ‘find a hobby’ and he chose to get shot at.
Again.
It’s like he’s stuck in a loop he can’t escape.
‘I know. I’m sorry.’ Is all he manages to say before his head hits your chest, and his warm hands squeeze the skin of your hips.
‘Hey, I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. I just— when you’re out there and I’m in here I’m always scared you’re gonna get brought in here in a gurney. Or a body bag. I know why you’re doing it. But maybe you should’ve picked up baking or knitting?’ You laugh at the last part.
He responds the same.
‘Yeah, maybe I should’ve. It’s not too late, is it?’ He looks up at you, voice soft.
‘What?’ There’s a small smile sitting on the corner of your lips.
‘Yeah— I mean, I’m not that old. I’ve got steady hands. I can do lots of things. Today was my last day with the team. I’m done.’
‘Jack… you love it.’ Your hands sit on one of his cheeks and one on his uninjured shoulder.
‘But you don’t. I was already thinking about leaving. I’ve got what I need right here— don’t need more.’ His face leans into your touch.
‘That’s not true.’ You nod your head.
‘No, it is. I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner. But we’re both here. I’m not going anywhere.’
‘I don’t want you to quit it for me. I was upset— scared. I can’t ask you to do that.’ You back track.
‘You’re not asking. Mind’s already made up. I’m doing it for me too.’ He stands up.
He’s suddenly there.
Space is tight, his hands are still on you, he’s here.
‘Okay.’ Your voice comes out a whisper.
‘You good?’ He cups your cheeks.
‘I’m not the one that got shot.’
‘Shot at.’ He rectifies.
‘Whatever.’ You roll your eyes playfully.
‘I love you. I’m sorry I don’t say it enough.’ His eyes remain soft when starring at you.
‘You say it plenty. But I love you, too.’
Jack doesn’t need to hear more before pressing his lips against yours.
He’s not hungry, or in a rush.
He’s taking it all in.
‘Okay, as much as I want to do this, you’re still bleeding.’ Your hands press against his chest.
‘Yeah— still feel that.’ He winces at the reminder.
‘Mind if I play nurse for a few?’ You motion for him to sit back on the bed.
‘Go for it. I’m already admiring the view.’
That makes you laugh.
Your cheeks burn a shade of red.
The pit in your stomach settles for butterflies instead, because he’s okay.
He didn’t die.
And now he has more chance of coming back home to you than he did before.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
remaking my taglist. Please let me know if you want to be added on my works for only the Pitt or my full masterlist :)
thinking about dbf!jack abbot catching you smoking weed at your dad’s house – he was dropping by with a toolkit he borrowed – and saw you sitting on the couch with an oversized shirt on, joint in hand. he knew it was medicinal, your father himself confided in jack about how rough college was for you and how you started having severe anxiety. so it makes sense how he would stay and check up on you!
jack abbot who convinces you to let him take a hit – he was the sleazy stoner type in med school, rolling joints in the skate park in between exams. when you both get deeper into the smoke sesh he starts getting handsy, plucking the joint directly from your lips instead of letting you pass it directly to him, rubbing your knees in that small, circular motion that sends a tingle straight straight to your cunt but you’re so high you can’t tell it’s from the weed or being so horny for your dad’s best friend :(.
jack abbot who gets the munchies and ends up eating your pussy on your childhood bed. your legs wrapped around his head as he moans into your clit about how “you taste so fucking good, kiddo” and how he’s going to now look into medicinal marijuana because “how am i going to fuck you if my leg hurts?”
