all my writing is fiction, it's for entertainment purposes only and doesn't represent the people discussed here or anyone in real life. i do not use or support the use of AI
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i will mainly be writing about shawn hatosy/the pitt characters but am open to hearing suggestions for other characters :3 !
after a creep makes a gross comment to you outside your apartment, pope is forced to explain what a pearl necklace really means. spoiler: it's not jewelry
PAIRING pope cody x bunny!reader
WARNINGS 18+ MDNI suggestive material (not explicit smut), age gap, innocence kink, corruption kink, protective pope cody, obsessive pope cody, stalker-like tendencies, unhealthy attachment, sexual innuendos, explicit sexual language and visuals, sheltered reader, naive/ditzy reader, creepy male attention, objectification, harassment / catcalling, predatory behavior (not from pope), threats of violence, implied violence (no graphic scenes)
WC 3.3k
Pope is here because Smurf told him the property needs checking on. At least that’s the story he’s feeding himself.
And it makes sense. There’s water damage in one of the downstairs units and some dipshit’s been stripping cooper out of the laundry room again. If it’s not one thing going wrong, it’s another.
This building’s always two steps away from falling apart. Someone has to stop it from going to hell completely.
Plenty of good, rational reasons to be here.
None of which do a thing to explain why he does not move from being propped on the hood of his truck just yet.
He stays at the curb as he watches the building’s familiar pulse of seedy activity.
It’s not even the worst spot owned by the Codys, not by far, but that doesn’t make it good. It’s definitely not good enough for you, not by a long shot. Run-down. Full of people who loiter outside longer than they should and pay too much attention to things that aren’t theirs.
A woman argues fervently on the stoop, body tense enough he can see the harsh jut of her collarbone from here. Two boys pretend to clean their bikes by the courtyard, their hands moving in repetitive, meaningless circles, rags never actually removing any grime.
And then there’s the smoker, with a long beard and crooked nose, leaning near the stairs, smoke rising around him.
Pope watches his sleepy gaze harden suddenly, tracking something straight ahead.
Pope’s neck cranes as his vision tunnels into pinpoint clarity, finding what the man found first: you.
Walking up the sidewalk with two grocery bags hooked over your wrists, pink flats picking their way carefully over the buckled concrete, skirt the same shade catching around your knees every time the breeze shifts. White cardigan buttoned all the way up over your chest despite the heat.
You don’t hurry. That bothers him.
You move through the courtyard with no care in the world. Unaware of the eyes that linger on your body, the curiosity you unwittingly ignite.
God he hates this place most when you’re in it. Without you, it’s just brick and mortar. But with you here, everything is suddenly hostile. A million scenarios blooming in his head. Someone following you from your car, someone hiding just around the corner waiting for you to pass by, a neighbor deciding your door lock doesn’t look so hard to force open.
He has tried to get you to stay at Smurf’s countless times now, using different tactics each time. Gentle coaxing, stubborn demands, pushing you into the kind of corner where the only real choice was already decided for you.
And those all work most nights.
Still, every now and then, for reasons unbeknownst to him, you insist on sleeping here.
So every now and then, he comes and sits off to the side, his truck parked discreetly out of view. Always staying within striking distance should anyone dare to try anything stupid.
Thankfully he hasn’t had to act yet, people know better, whispers exchanged in doorways and hallways: that pretty little thing tucked away in apartment 2B is Cody territory. Off limits.
It takes him four long strides to reach you.
He comes up behind you without saying anything, partly because he doesn’t want to startle you and partly because he wants to see how long it takes before you notice a man his size coming up behind you. Too long, apparently.
You don’t notice him when his shadow cuts across the pavement beside yours, not when his boots hit the concrete close enough you should hear him, not even when he’s right behind you, inhaling the faint sweet drift of your perfume over the dirty air of the courtyard.
You just keep walking, grocery bags bumping into your legs every second step, head angled down as you watch your feet over the cracked walkway.
Then you stop so suddenly he nearly runs into you, boots scuffing against the ground in the process.
Nearly turns into definitely when you move again, bending at the waist to grab a little carton that had tumbled out of your bag and rolled near your shoe.
He can’t dodge you fast enough before he’s crashing against you, the ample of your backside pressed flush against him, your skirt skimming his denim-clad thighs.
He grits his teeth, swallowing down the groan lodged somewhere in his throat, and his hands shoot out to grip at your waist. Half to steady you, half to hold himself back.
You jump, a sharp little gasp tearing out of you as you twist in his hold, eyes wide, lips parted.
But the fear vanishes when you realize it’s him. Dissolves so quickly into relief, then blossoming into that lovely smile of yours Pope spends half his days obsessing over. Lip gloss glistens like honey under the afternoon sun, squinting at him through the harsh glare.
“Pope,” you breathe, like he’s something good that happened to you rather than the man who decided to follow you through a parking lot to prove a point.
His fingers flex once before he makes them let go.
“You don’t pay attention,” he tells you plainly.
You smile pinches at the edges a little, like you’re trying to decide whether he’s teasing you or scolding you. You seem to assume the later. A good assumption.
“I do pay attention,” you insist, the words coming out with the stubborn certainty of someone who has already decided they're right. Then you glance down at the sidewalk as though it might testify on your behalf. One of the grocery bags slips lower on your wrist, plastic stretching, and you hitch it back up with a small huff of effort. “I was paying attention to the ground. Because last week I almost twisted my ankle right there.”
Pope follows the line of your finger.
Without a word, he reaches for the bags. His hand closes around the handles and lifts them clean off your arm before you can object. You make a small noise of surprise, letting him take them.
“What if it wasn’t me coming up behind you?”
Your brows pull together. “But it was you.”
“Yeah, but what if it wasn’t?”
You hesitate visibly, your fingers weaving together, rocking onto the tips of your shoes. You look almost apologetic when you speak. “I dunno.”
Exactly, he thinks.
He breathes out very slowly through his nose to keep the worst of his frustration from showing. It still sits heavy on his face, he’s sure. In the hard line of his mouth, in the way his hands tighten around the plastic bags until the handles stretch thin.
“You gotta be more aware,” he says, dipping his face towards yours, almost pleading. His gaze flickers anxiously over your face, desperate for more reassurance. “Can you do that for me? Check around when you get out of the car, look before you walk up the stairs, take a second before you open your door.”
You open your mouth to speak, something potentially defensive at the tip of your tongue, before you reconsider, shoulders sinking just a fraction.
“For me,” Pope urges again. No room for misunderstanding.
And because you are you, you give a gentle, almost reluctant nod in surrender. You have a hard time fighting him on anything.
He returns the gesture with his own stiff nod. He knows you don’t fully understand the fuss, not completely, but you’re trying, and that has to be enough for now. He’ll shoulder the rest.
He moves towards the staircase, leaving you to catch up. You hurry to follow behind him.
“Why’re you here anyway?” you voice after him. “Did I miss rent or something?”
Pope doesn’t turn around; doesn’t trust himself to look at you without giving too much away.
“No,” he replies, casual, like it’s not something he thinks about every single month.
You would never be late. You are a meticulously precise creature. Keeping track of everything, neat little numbers, due dates, confirmations, all of it lined up exactly the way you like, and then you get that pleased look on your face when you send the payment, like you’ve done something worth being proud of.
Which you have. He lets you have that. But he can’t stand taking your money.
So every month he waits until that little deposit appears, waits another day or two to avoid suspicion, then finds a way to get it back to you.
Sometimes it’s hidden in elaborate Cody business expenses; other times Craig’s buddy does some invisible computer shit to push numbers back into your account, nothing ever traced to pope.
And occasionally, he just leaves cash in places he knows you’ll find it. In your purse, between pages of a book you’ve left out, tucked behind a coffee mug.
He loves hearing you puzzle over it. You always chalk it up to luck, or fate, or some karmic gift from the universe. Never once suspecting Pope’s fingerprints on every cent.
It all sounds more complicated than it actually is.
Really, it’s just logical. You need the money. Pope has the money. Problem solved.
At the steps, Pope pauses, gently nudging you ahead of him.
It’s a selfish move. He’s got a bad feeling you don’t have shorts under that skirt, and he’s not in the mood to have that confirmed by anyone standing behind you. Better him at your back than anyone else. Better him blocking the view.
As if to confirm his fears, someone over his shoulder lets out a short laugh. “Man, a girl that pretty oughta let me buy her dinner. Hell, maybe I’d even send her home wearing a pearl necklace.”
Pope looks back and finds the bearded cigarette smoker slouched against the vending machine, filter hanging loose between two fingers, eyes still fixed on you with that same open, filthy interest. He’s got a buddy with him now, some wiry little shit standing half a step to the side, not looking too sure of himself now that Pope’s facing him.
Pope thinks about how easy it would be. Pin the guy up against the machine, forearm to windpipe, watching the smartass shine drain out of his eyes. Pictures crushing the cigarette into the soft part of his cheek. But he can’t do that without scaring you off.
So he crouches just enough to place the bags on the stairs without jostling them, eggs and bread and whatever else cushioned upright where it won’t tip.
When he rises, he goes back the way he came, jerking his head in your direction. “You talkin’ about her?”
“Just complimenting her.”
“No,” Pope says. “You weren’t.”
The wiry friend shifts back half a step. Smart.
The bearded man tries to recover, but it’s too late, Pope can already see the little glint of fear sputtering in his eyes, igniting as he sizes him up.
He lifts the cigarette to his mouth. “Ain’t that serious, man.”
Pope reaches out and plucks the cigarette from his fingers before it gets there. Drops it to the concrete. Crushes it under his boot.
“Look at her again, talk about her again, I’ll make sure the next thing I crush under my boot is your throat.”
The bearded man opens his mouth.
“Don’t. I’m tryin’ real hard not to scare her,” Pope growls. “Don’t make that difficult for me.”
The man’s eyes flick once past Pope, towards the stairs, toward you, then snap back fast like even that was a mistake.
“Alright,” he mutters finally, hands lifting a little. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
A lie. A terrible one, at that. But Pope doesn’t spare the man another look. Just turns, grabs the grocery bags, and comes back up the steps to where you’re perched on the landing, watching him with that dazed little expression of yours.
“I don’t even like pearls,” you whisper to him the second he gets close enough. “They’re kinda old-ladyish.”
Pope shuts his eyes for half a beat.
“Yeah,” he finally sputters, tips of his ears burning a little. He ushers you towards 2B. “C’mon. Inside.”
The inside of your apartment is cute. Small as it looks from the outside and from what he can see through your window at night, but it’s cute, all pinks and whites and soft little girlish details scattered across every surface.
There’s a coffee table crowded with tiny trinkets he can’t make heads or tails of, glossy little objects with no obvious purpose except that you liked them enough to bring them home.
And it’s clean. He likes that it’s clean. Clean means he won’t spend the time here distracted by dust in the corners and fingerprints on glass, trying not to imagine bleaching every inch of it.
He carries the bags into the kitchen and sets them on the counter one by one. Behind him, you wobble a little taking off your shoes and catch yourself on his shoulder.
It leaves a searing brand behind when you pull away.
“What was that out there?” you ask.
Pope shrugs. “Nothin’. Guy’s just a dick.”
He winces inwardly as soon as he says it. Dick feels too crude aimed anywhere near you, and he has to resist the urge to take it back and replace it with something nicer.
“It’s not like he said anything really bad or anything,” you say, shrugging in a way that suggests you’re used to it.
Used to being stared at, cat called, talked about. And maybe it shouldn’t surprise him, given who you are.
He’s seen it before, at Smurf’s parties, men practically stumbling over themselves to offer you a drink, eyes tracking every movement you make. Drivers nearly wrapping their cars around telephone poles because their heads turn too fast when you walk down the street.
You’re beautiful. Beautiful enough that people can’t help staring at you. But Pope’s never been forced to hear it firsthand, never had to stand there while some pervert talked about putting a pearl necklace across your throat and chest. And you don’t even understand what he was saying.
He could handle it. He could handle it right now. If the guy’s still lingering around when Pope leaves, he might just have to. The asshole will be out of this building tomorrow regardless, he’ll will make damn sure of it.
Your hand touching his arm snaps him out of it. He looks down and sees your painted fingers resting there, cautious like you’re not sure what’s going on in his head.
“Pope?”
The heat cools just enough for him to breathe. He rubs a hand over his jaw. “He said somethin’ bad enough.”
You cock your head to one side. “Taking me to dinner isn’t exactly the worst offer I’ve ever had. And like I said, pearls aren’t really my thing, but it’s a nice sentiment, I guess?”
Pope shoves his hand through his hair, forced to take a step back because standing this close to your face is messing with him.
“Look a pearl necklace isn’t… it’s not jewelry, okay? It’s not fuckin’ nice. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
You fold your arms over your chest, your hair slipping forward and partly covering your face. Pope’s fingers twitch at his sides, fighting the impulse to reach out and brush it back into place.
“Not really… I— well,” you pause, fingers drumming along your left arm. “What else could a pearl necklace be, if it’s not jewelry?”
His blood pressure ticks up exponentially. Why must you make everything so difficult?
“I’m not gonna explain it. Just trust me, it’s not somethin’ appropriate for anyone to say to you.”
“What happened to ‘I’m an adult’ and ‘it’s my call if I wanna know stuff’?”
Shit. He did say that, didn’t he?
Pope takes a deep, irritated breath, wishing he could turn back time and rip his own vocal chords out. This must be his own purgatory. Cursed to answer all your sex related questions for all of eternity and unable to do anything about it.
You trust him. That much is obvious. He doesn’t want to abuse that trust. A Sisyphean task. Endless. Futile.
“Alright, look. It’s slang for a guy… finishin’ on you. On your throat, your chest, wherever.” His voice is strained, worried he might break something delicate in you just by saying it. “It’s disrespectful. Sleazy.”
You blink, eyes huge as you look up at him, clearly stunned by what you just heard. You shake your head slightly, trying to puzzle it out. “So it’s… disrespectful if someone does that to you?”
Pope cracks his neck, wincing slightly, as if the right words are somewhere trapped there and refusing to come out easy.
“Christ — yes,” he grumbles. Then quickly, backtracking, “I mean no — no, it ain’t disrespectful if it’s something you, uh, wanted someone to do, but it’s disrespectful for someone to say shit like that to you unprompted.”
“Oh, well, yeah, that was gross,” you agree, wrinkling your nose.
Then you turn away from him, starting to put away the groceries with a distracted, absent-minded care. He thinks he’s in the clear, that you’re satisfied with his sparks note version of the definition.
He’s eyeing the door, when you pause again, bottom lip caught between your teeth, a bag of carrots dangling in your hand.
“Why would someone even want to do that to someone? The guy, I mean? Not him specifically, just, like, any guy? Is that something… you think about? Like a lot?”
He coughs, almost choking, and a hot flush creeps up the back of his neck.
There’s an instant headache pulsing behind he eyes as he tries desperately not to picture exactly what you just asked him.
Is it something he thinks about? Not until this moment. Not until he imagines those same wide and trusting eyes looking up at him as he spills milky white ropes of cum across your bare chest.
Christ. He’s no better than that asshole downstairs, thinking shit like that about you.
He presses two fingers to his temple. “No, it’s not like I sit around thinking about stuff like that.”
It feels like a fib now.
“So why would someone wanna do that at all?”
Because it would feel good, he thinks. Immediately. The act itself, yes, but the claim in the aftermath. The evidence left behind.
The way people are always trying to leave marks on things they like. Names carved into desks. Initials scratched into trees. Dogs pissing on fire hydrants.
You stare at him expectantly, waiting for an answer.
He looks at the wall behind you, at the cheap paint and the little crooked shelf you’ve decorated with candles and a tiny ceramic flower.
Anything but your face. Anything but the curve of your throat. Anything but the where your shirt dips when you shift closer.
“It’s…” He cuts himself off, jaw ticking. “It’s visual.” The word sounds dragged out of him. “That’s part of it. Men are wired like that. And part of it’s ego. They wanna see you messy like that. Wanna see that you let ‘em do it.” His mouth flattens. “It’s not always romantic. A lotta the time it’s just selfish.”
“But maybe it depends on who it is? Like doing it to you?” You continue to worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Like… if it was someone safe. Someone you trusted a lot.” A tiny crease forms between your brows. “And if it was something you wanted too, couldn’t it be kind of romantic?”
Pope goes still. All his blood seeming to rush downwards as the question lands between you like something lit, something rolling close to dry brush.
He can feel the conversation slipping somewhere it shouldn’t. He needs to reign it back in, regain control.
Instead he says, “Could be. If you trusted ‘em. If it was somethin’ you were askin’ for, or… into. Not somethin’ that’s being pushed on you.”
You go quiet, turning that over.
Then, in that soft, absentminded way of yours, like you don’t realize you’re lighting a match in a room full of gas, you say, “I guess that makes sense. A lot of things probably feel different with a person you trust.”
You’re looking at him so intensely he has to take another step back. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He doesn’t say anything for a minute. Can’t. Your gaze moves back down into the grocery bag with a shrug, sweet and unaware that you’ve just handed his imagination enough to ruin the rest of his night.
He’s corrupt for wanting to be that person for you. The one you trust enough to paint your body. To teach you all this dumb shit, but with his hands, with his mouth, with his cock.
He clears his throat hard, grabs the last bag off the counter even though it’s already empty, then sets it right back down like he forgot what he was doing in the first place.
“Yeah,” he says finally, voice flat in that way it only gets when he’s holding too much under it. “Maybe.”
He leaves not long after that. Before you ask anything else. Before he can give into his urges and contaminate you with his darkness.
By the next afternoon, the guy downstairs is gone.
Smurf’s property manager tells the tenants it was a lease violation. Some issue with unauthorized guests, late rent, maybe smoking too close to the building. Nobody asks too many questions. Nobody wants to.
And a few days later, you mention in passing that the creepy man by the vending machine must’ve gotten into some kind of accident.
“His face looked weird when he was packing up all his stuff,” you say, frowning a little. “Like he burned himself or something.”
Pope just hums, eyes on the road.
He doesn’t tell you cigarette burns heal terribly.
so... we learned that when 1am comes my ass goes home. i did give a guy my number hopefully he texts but he was cute and allegedly... he got $$$. i'm not money hungry but i do like someone who's got a little more to dish out!
Sammy Bryant x Stripper! Reader (follow up to this piece)
MDNI, takes place ~s2 when Nate and Sammy get pulled into the federal case
“Detective Bryant!”
Puente turns his head, eyes widening as he sees you. “Who the hell is that? Sammys side piece?”
Nate shakes his head, trying and failing not to stare as you walk by. “Nah, that’s one of our informants. She works at a club downtown. Comes by sometimes to give us tips- bangers talkin’ about recent kills or deals, shit like that.”
You smile as you walk into the bullpen, waving eagerly at Sammy. He smiles bashfully at you, nodding his head toward the chair by his desk. The two of you chat for a bit as you tell him about a conversation you overheard while you were working last night. When you’re done, you both stand and Sammy thanks you for coming in, briefly putting his hand on your shoulder. You smile and nod, adjusting your hair as you turn to leave. The detectives all watch, dumbfounded, as you stroll back out, your ass swaying in your short skirt as you walk away.
“Shit, no wonder he can’t knock his wife up. He’s savin’ it all for her.”
Sammy rolls his eyes and flips off Puente. “I am not cheating on my wife,” he says firmly. He is thinking about you though. Late at night, when Tammi’s blown him off again, he takes his cock in his hand and imagines bending you over to fuck into you, jerks himself nearly raw picturing folding your legs up to your chest as he pounds into you. On the rare occasions Tammi does want to fuck, he has to bury his face in her neck so he doesn’t blubber out your name. But he’s not cheating on her.
Nate tilts his head. “You are the only one she gives reports to,” he says, trying and failing to hide his jealousy.
“Yeah, she’s got some kinda soft spot for you,” adds Williams.
“I’m sure she’s got lots of soft spots for him,” Puente says.
Sammy glares at the group. “Maybe I’m the only one she’s comfortable with because I’m the only one who doesn’t stare at her cleavage while I’m talkin’ to her.”
Nate shakes his head. “Nah, you’re just the only one subtle enough to do it when she’s not looking.” Sammy bites his cheek; this is true. He’s spent a lot of time mapping the perfect swell of your tits when you aren’t looking, the soft skin always on display when you stop by, still shimmering with glitter.
Puente grins. “Hey, man, I can’t blame you. If I had a girl who looked like that comin’ in to talk to me, I’d be doin’ a lot more than staring at her, with or without a wife.”
The guys all chuckle and nod their agreement while Sammy shakes his head. “You’re all pigs.”
“Hey, man. We’re just saying- you’ve been kinda rude. She’s coming in here all the time, giving you tips. You should return the favor,” Kenny says.
“Yeah, Bryant,” adds Williams. “Give her your tip.”
The bullpen erupts in raucous laughter. The guys ignore Sammy’s loud protests, laughing and joking about you. After a moment, Sal claps his hands to get their attention. “Alright guys, let’s get back to work, huh?” As they all settle back down, Sal gives Sammy a look. Sammy spreads his arms, defensive. “What?” Sal shakes his head. “Just keep your nose clean. Alright?”
“It’s clean,” Sammy insists. “I’m just doing my job.” Sal nods, but he’s unconvinced. He knows better than anyone how easy it is to get into trouble. And you are definitely trouble.
—
Your latest tip turns out to be an important one. The team raids your club, again, and once again you find yourself standing in the night in your tiny outfit with cops all around leering at you. Once again, Sammy finds his way over to you and offers you his coat with a small smile. You gratefully accept it, snuggling down into the gentle warmth of the coat and smiling shyly at him. “Thanks, detective.”
Sammy shrugs. “‘s no problem. It’s the least I can do, really. Without you, we never would’ve gotten these guys. We’re really grateful, you know? I’m really grateful.”
You nod, giving Sammy a once over. “Well, I gotta do my part, right? Help keep the city safe? Or help you keep the city safe, I guess,” Sammy chuckles softly with you. Your teeth catch on your lower lip as you consider his loose posture and soft smile. “You haven’t used my number,” your voice is soft.
Sammy looks up, eyes wide. “Y-yeah, I haven’t really- I mean I shouldn’t-”
“I’m grateful too, you know? I wanna show you my gratitude.” You drift closer to him, reaching out to fiddle with his tie while he shifts nervously, looking around like Tammi might pop up and start screaming at him.
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s- I mean I shouldn’t- I’m-” Sammy gestures vaguely with his left hand, his wedding hand glinting in the light. “It’s really unprofessional,” he finally says, lamely.
You smirk a little, the hurt of his avoidance soothed by how obviously he wants you. He’s just denying himself because he feels guilty. You’ve seen that a hundred times. Guilt you can work with. You wrap his tie around your hand, pulling him an inch closer, your chest brushing his. “You don’t have to call. You can just come by the club. I’ll give you a lap dance, free of charge. I’ll even let you touch.” Sammy breathes out heavily, closing his eyes to try and fight the arousal that threatens to choke him. Before he can speak, you look to the side and see your friends car pulling up. “Think about it, detective.” You walk away, smugly satisfied by the feeling of Sammy’s eyes on your ass all the way to your friends car.
omfg i just had a wild thought. young!reader & oldperv!jack guiding & showing you how to kiss for the first time. you're sitting perched up on his lap while he's passionately kissing your sweet lips, but when you break apart from him to ask are you doing good, he pulls you immediately back into him, while murmuring on your lips, voice gruff with desire, “don’t worry baby, you’re doing just fine.” you sigh in relief against him, glad he’s reassuring you. but sometimes he can't help but to go a little overboard. reaching for your tounge with his, sucking onto it slightly, biting softly and pulling back your lips. when you whine out - “wait, wait, dad-” he doesn't listen. he can't help it- you just taste so good. and his hands are all over you. one groping your round, soft tit, thumbing at your nipple loving the way it’s making you whimper into his mouth. one hand just sitting right at the base of your throat, gripping it everytime you shuffle around his stiff cock.
“my little girl can't even see she’s making her daddy all hard.” jack voices. you didn’t realize. you were so busy with loving the way his hot tounge and stubble felt against your face, you weren't even considering what was below you. you saw it poking out of his pants.. it must hurt.. you wanna help him.. so you ask, hesitantly. “c-can i help you with that?” you looked up at him through your long lashes, slightly swollen lips & tousled hair- and fuck, how could he decline such an offer?
oh to be sleepily riding jack abbot, tummy to tummy, chest to chest. your soft arms thrown over his strong shoulders, chin hooked over the freckled skin. your head tilts against his, your rich hair rubbing against his silver strands as your ears kiss.
he’s got you in a bear hug— actually stops your movements just to hug you. to feel you in his arms and cuddle for a second because, at the end of the day, jack loves you. tells you every single day… he even tells you now.
left arm wrapped around your torso while his right crosses over to press a hand to the back of your sweaty hair. holding you to his shoulder, you mouth at jack’s skin, sucking and kissing and rubbing your cheek against him as he pulses inside of you. a slow grind, your favorite, causes you to whine out against him.
“i love you, honey. love you so much, my comfy girl. can’ya keep takin me? hm? keep takin’ jackie’s cock? love you so much.”
his eyes are screwed shut as he lifts his hips into you, still holding your head to rest against him. “‘m always gonna take care a’you. never have to worry about anything. know why? daddy loves you, sweet, pretty girl. gimme kiss”
you whine against his mouth, a pathetic, weeping sound, and he loses it more. moving both arms back to your torso, he’s got you in the tightest bear hug, arms squeezing for a second in affection. he rests his cheek on your back, mirroring you, surrendering to all of his intrinsic need.
“say it.” “d-” “say it baby, c’mon. tell daddy.” “love you!” “yeah? you love me?” “yes daddy,” you cry out, slobbering down his back without a care as he fucks up into you. your nails scratch down his back as you hiccup, your tummy sticking together from the heat of the room, you can feel his happy trail rubbing against your lower belly. “i love you so much jack” “i love you- oh my god- i love you more. come on baby, cum for daddy, that’s it… fuck, that’s it.”
afterwards you stay seated in his lap, falling asleep as he lightly rocks you both back and forth. gently, he whispers into the moonlit room, “hey.. lemme see you.. lemme see that pretty face.” and when you pull back to look at him, swaying a bit in exhaustion, his green eyes glitter. a fondness etched into the very fabric of what it means to be a man like jack who loves a woman crosses over his face.
warm eyes, a little smirk as he holds your cheeks with both hands. “you feel how much i love you?” “yeah” you agree, blushing and keening under his attention. he smiles, laughing in the enchanting way only an older man can. “good. can i hold you a little longer? love you so much, kid, can’t get enough of you.”
despite the definite headache and backache waiting to come, you both doze off just like that. with jack’s love leaking out of you as you cuddle into his chest, his arms wrapped securely around you <3
pope and his possessive girlfriend who he didn't really believe when she initially told him she had jealousy issues. it starts to come out in somewhat... subtle ways; slotting yourself into his side or onto his lap at any moment you feel like your territory is being threatened, leaving hair clips/ties in his car on purpose, or even wearing body glitter that will undoubtedly leave traces everywhere. it's not until craig makes a comment that you're marking your territory on pope like a dog does he seem more aware of it. craig points out to him that only a "crazy chick" leaves a trail of hickeys down neck that undoubtedly lead further down popes body then where he can see. by this point, there's really no stopping you and, frankly, pope didn't want to.
a sense of warmth, pride bloomed in his chest every time you placed yourself in his embrace. sitting on his lap, taking his arms to wrap them around your waist or guide his hand to slide in the back pocket of your pants while you pressed into him at any given moment. sitting in deran's bar, on a stool with pope standing beside you when a girl walks by making eyes at him, he couldn't describe the exact reason why he felt the carnal need to pound you into the next day when you tugged him by the belt loops of his jeans until he stood between your legs. or even why he felt himself stiffening his jeans when you slid your hand on his hip beneath his shirt, nails grazing his abdomen and v-line, tugging him down by his hair with your freehand to kiss him heatedly. slipping your tongue in his mouth, kissing like two teenagers who've had their first taste of each others flesh, all the while you're staring the poor girl down who thought she could ever stand a chance against coming between you and him. he felt a small inkling to maybe say something when he watched you stick your foot out and smirk watching the girl tumble. the poor girl who was pancaked on the floor had brushed up against him in her drunken stupor while making her way around the pool. but he couldn't, not when you looked at him so sickeningly sweet.
he definitely should've checked you on the bratty possessive behavior when he brought you back home for the typical cody family dinner. baz had brought cath so it was only right that he brought you along. over the years, cath's resentment towards baz for the life he had brought her into had grew tenfold when she watched you take the life she could've had with pope. of course, she never loved pope the way that you did, the way he deserved. it didn't stop her from feeling like maybe there was a chance to get that back. it was only a moment, to anyone else it was fleeting but to you, to you it was like time had frozen and you were seeing red. pope was on his usual cleaning frenzy after dinner and cath came into "help". the context of situation was irrelevant, all you could focus on was the way she was looking at him, hand on his arm and eyes desperately searching for any indication that maybe he'd want her still. their backs were to you when you slammed the wine glass onto the floor, shattering it to millions of glittering pieces. pope's body jumps a bit at the sheer surprise before he's immediately rushing over to check on you, tears welling in your eyes as you mumble 'm'so sorry'. cath's hand drops to her side as she watches the way coddled you, checking for cuts and making sure your okay. he had dropped his attention from her so quickly their should've been no doubt in her mind that the version of pope that loved her wasn't there anymore. she should've really known when she saw the cold stare in your eyes when just for a beat, you pulled back the sniffling so she could really see who pope belonged to.
even more so, cath should've know when she passed by pope's bedroom where the door was cracked ever so slightly. in his haste to taking you back to his bedroom, you seemingly forgot to close his bedroom door all the way. pinning your body beneath his as his pants pooled around his ankles, your bottoms discarded somewhere in the room in the room as he fucks you. your nails are clawing at his back, crying his name with every slap of his hips against yours, cunt drawing him in deeper with squeeze and desperate plea that slipped past your lips. your eyes drifted to that crack, seeing her standing there. tears slipped out of yours.
"you love me andy? do-do you love me?" the question is for him but you're looking dead at her.
"love you so fucking much, angel," he grunts into your neck, punctuating every word with a wet kiss to your neck. his thrusts unrelenting.
"only me andy? you only love me right?" it's desperate, needy. he was right in the palm of your hand but the fear and doubt lingered in the back of your mind. you haven't torn your gaze away, the pleasure so intoxicating it's playing games with your vision. if she was really standing there watching you both like this.
"only you... only you sweetheart. only one i love– fuck, i'm gonna fill this pretty pussy up... oh god, i love you... i only love you–"
Not for any reason in particular. He’s just in a weird mood and you’re enjoying just watching him more around your apartment like a man on a mission.
He makes you breakfast. You stand by the doorway, smirking when he curses to himself and the pan of hot bacon fat. Pope slides the plate in front of you, wordlessly digging into his own as you enjoy the sight of him, relaxed at your table.
Pope cleans your kitchen. You sit on top of the counter as he scrubs at the sink, paying close attention to the faucets. You don’t even yelp when he picks you up, moves you 6 inches to the right, cleans that spot on the counter, then moves you back to where you were perched before. His hands linger on your waist when he sets you back down, like he's trying to be aware and gentle with you.
When you come out of the shower, Pope is sitting on your bed, waiting for you. You hold the towel tight to your chest and pick out a comfortable outfit for a day around the apartment. You hold up two shirts- both of them technically belonging to Pope. He looks at them intently, truly mulling it over. Then, he picks the one on the right. When you drop the towel, you feel his eyes glued to your body. Your curves, and out your stomach folds when you bend down to slip your shorts on. He watches every moment.
You return the favor and make him lunch before he heads out. Its a sandwich you've seen him make a million times before, prepared just the way you know he likes it. When you hand Pope the plate, he just presses a kiss to the top of your head.
Pope comes back to your place in the evening, while you're watching TV. The couch sinks as he finds his place next to you. He pulls your legs in his lap, and you drift closer to him. His hands grip your thighs, thumb moving gently back and forth in a comforting rhythm. Your hands find the nape of his neck, eyes not moving from the screen as your fingers twist in his curls.
After the credits roll, you get up from the couch and commence your night time skin care routine. He watches you, eyes trailing your hands as they pull your hair up into a bun, or rub lotion into your skin.
At the end of the night, you are the one to break the silence.
"Are you staying?" You ask, sliding into his lap. Pope's hands find your waist as you settle in , legs on either side of him.
"That okay?" he mutters.
"Of course," you hum, pressing a kiss to his lips. There's comfort in the calm silence.
had such a terrible day at work, being talked down to like a child and being embarrassed in front of people who are supposed to respect me was so humiliating. pope cody, if you can hear me, i need something done about a certain c*nt.
anyways time to project and let out my frustrations in form of writing now 🙃
perv!dbf jack abbot who hears that you're still a virgin and decides to take matters into his own hands. he frowns and murmurs, "baby, we gotta practice... you're a jumpy little thing, can't have you not knowing what to do when you finally get down to it, hmm?"
makes you watch porn in bed with him on his ipad. turns the volume up so it's echoing through his room. says gross stuff like "look how good she's taking him, sweetheart. don't you wanna be just like her? papa wants you to be that talented one day." and "you hear those slutty little moans, baby? yeah? i bet a good cock's gonna make you sound like that too."
asks you about your gag reflex. offers to help you train it
when he notices you getting squirmy out of the corner of his eye, he clears his throat and his hand snakes over to rub you over your sleep shorts :( thick fingers curling against your clit, stroking in circles against the warm fabric, "shh, sweetheart... m just teachin you how it feels to have a man touch you here, okay? you're a big girl, you gotta get used to it."
he slides your own hand over to guide your palm over his bulge, groaning and pressing it down when his hips buck: "mmm, fuck, y'feel that? ... why're you shaking? don't be scared, honey."
when the crew discovers your secret tramp stamp, jack accidentally reveals he knows far more about it than he should
𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ interested in how the pitt crew got approved for a week in greece? the original invitation is still posted
PAIRING: jack abbot x shy!reader
WARNINGS: fem!reader, reader wearing a bikini, shy!reader, secret relationship, tramp stamp, nosy coworkers, suggestive banter, implied intimacy
PROMPT: here!
WC: 1.2k
It’s too bright out today. Blindingly so. Like the sun crawled out of bed nursing a petty grudge specifically against your corneas and decided today was the day it would exact revenge.
Your palms form an ineffective visor above your eyes, everything still burns despite this.
The sand throws light back at you in sharp, splintering flashes, like someone crushed up a chandelier and scattered it along the shore, sea spread out before you in that lurid, too-perfect blue that does not look real anywhere outside of vacation brochures and edited Instagram posts.
You squint toward the shoreline, blinking against the glare until Emma and Joy emerge in pieces.
A moving arm. Emma springing up and down at the edge of the surf. Joy beside her, louder, both hands around her mouth with the grave urgency of someone trying to rescue you from land.
Which is ironic because you are on land. And land is safe.
Land is reasonable. Land is not going to seize your ankles with freezing water and stop your heart out of spite.
Whitaker’s speaker thuds behind you, the bass breaking open in the breeze as Joy yells, “Stop being such a wuss!” and Emma adds, a little gentler, “Come on, it’s really not that cold!”
“They're just gonna keep bugging you, you know,” Jack butts in, flipping another page of his book with a flick of his wrist. “Might as well rip the band-aid off.”
You glance sideways at him, stretched beneath the umbrella like some indolent deity, skin still glistening from the generous layer of sunscreen you smeared into his chest earlier, fingertips skittering shyly over muscles and bones as he tolerated it with begrudging patience.
His shoulders, however, still blush pink at the edges, a physical monument to yesterday’s disregard for your very detailed and considerate planning.
Jack Abbot would rather burn a little than admit you might know best. The eternal martyr, sacrificing comfort at the altar of pride.
You didn’t give him the chance today.
“But the sand,” you protest, words coming out a little more whiny than intended, each syllable a tiny balloon of anxiety popping mid-air. “It gets wet, Jack, and then it sticks in between my toes, and dries in weird little crusty patches, and then I’m stuck thinking about that all afternoon instead of, I don’t know, enjoying myself, which is the entire point of a vacation — at least as far as I understand vacations, and —”
Jack’s book snaps shut decisively, interrupting your spiraling train of thought.
He stares at you, expression caught somewhere between amused tolerance and weary affection, as though he’s watched you spin yourself dizzy like this too many times before. And he has.
“Hey.” His voice is level, gently pulling you back to earth by the scruff of your neck. “We’re at a beach. Sand is inevitable. Rinse it off, dry your feet, move on. You’re preemptively ruining your own day, you realize that, right?”
A helpless little pout blooms across your mouth, the tired-and-true expression you reserve for only the direst emergencies. Which, admittedly, occurs more often than you’d like to acknowledge.
It’s practically foolproof.
And the way Jack’s gaze softens in increments demonstrates that.
He sighs in response, an unconvincing performance of irritation, eyes half-lidded in exaggerated exasperation.
“Look,” he mutters, resignation thickening his voice, “if it gets that bad, just come back up here and I’ll...I don’t know, help rinse the sand off myself, if that’s what it takes.”
“Kay,” you mumble, the concession melting off your tongue in the most petulant way possible, fingers fussing at the edges of your cover-up, dragging it upwards.
“There we are,” he drawls, squinting to look at you. “Atta girl.”
You resist the urge to stick out your tongue at him as you pull it fully off.
And when you do, a sudden, piercing wolf-whistle splits emerges from somewhere in the sea of your peers.
You reel backwards until the backs of your legs nearly knock into Jack’s chair.
You freeze when you get your bearings, cover-up still bunched in your fists, shoulders crawling toward your ears as Dana’s voice sails across the beach.
You think it might be loud enough to alert passing boats.
“Well, damn. Didn’t have you pegged as the type.”
For a second you think she means the bikini, which is revealing, yes, but nothing crazy.
And that would be bad on it’s own, honestly, because it’s weird enough to have your coworkers perceive you in swimwear, but then Santos gasps from your left.
“Little Miss Prim-and-Proper has a tramp stamp?”
You can feel your eyes double in size.
You release a strangled little laugh. At least, you meant for it to be laughter. You think it sounds more like a sparrow smacking headfirst into a glass window.
“Oh, it’s — it’s nothing,” you insist, swatting a hand. You hope no one notices that the pitch of your voice has risen several octaves. “I honestly forgot it was there.”
A lie. A terrible one at that. Because yes, obviously, people forget about permanent body art all the time. Perfectly normal. Perfectly believable.
You turn so your back is toward the ocean, blocking the majority of everyone’s view of the damning evidence as your palm flutters helplessly near your hip.
Whitaker rolls slowly onto one elbow from his spot on a towel, eyes narrowing. “Is it, like, supposed to be symbolic?”
“Is — what?”
“The tattoo,” he elaborates, waving a hand in your general vicinity, like he’s reluctant to approach it directly, wary of frightening you off. Valid concern. You do feel like a flight risk at this exact given moment. “Does it represent something meaningful?”
Dana snorts into her drink. “Yeah, kid. It means she had a wild semester and access to eighty dollars.”
You part your lips, words half-formed. Explanations or possibly just meaningless static. More likely the latter.
Because with everyone’s eyes suddenly looking at you waiting for you to say something, the attention feels a little too overwhelming.
“It’s a pomegranate,” Jack announces suddenly, rescuing you from yourself. You could kiss him right then and there. “For Persephone. Rebirth, renewal, growth, all of that. She got it sophomore year of college.”
“Yeah,” you agree faintly. You glance helplessly from face to face, feeling every glance bounce painfully between you and Jack, dissecting the air between you into tiny, fragile pieces. “It’s, um — exactly that.”
Samira’s the first one to offer a reassuring smile. “Oh, that’s actually really beautiful.”
You release another round of nervous laughter, shoulders inching down cautiously. A little uncertain whether you’re in the clear just yet.
Apparently not.
Langdon jerks his head toward Jack in one jerky movement, sunglasses nearly tumbling from the bridge of his nose. “Hang on. Why the hell does he know that?”
Your stomach does a violent drop. Like someone yanked a trapdoor beneath you and forgot to cushion you fall.
Shit.
Of course. Why wouldn’t this happen?
Because clearly, the tattoo itself was only a minor humiliation, the polite opening number before the headline act of Jack publicly revealing his encyclopedic awareness of the ink approximately one inch above your ass.
But this is salvageable, right? It’s plausible that you would’ve told him this on a night shift after too much adrenaline and too little sleep.
Your gaze swings toward Jack, wordlessly pleading, imploring him to explain this all away, practically mentally gripping him by the collar and begging for mercy, but he only shrugs. Lazy and indifferent with the tilt of his burnt shoulders.
“Kind of hard to miss from certain angles.”
You watch everyone’s faces go slack jawed.
You don’t wait around the witness the dawning realization behind you.
There’s no need; you can feel it spreading through the air like spilled ink soaking silently into paper.
A terrible little chain of silence, then gasps, then hissed laughter like matches flicking alight one by one. You’ll never live it down, you think.
Someone’s voice calls after you, but you’re already moving towards the ocean.
thinking of abbot!just the tip ^.^ thinking of him getting off work pent up and frustrated after a rough shit, waking u and saying he wont go all the way, but he gets teary eyed holding back until it’s tew much 💭
oh god yes…i literally love all things concerning “just the tip”. i’m clocked in i have to go to work tw daddy kink and he’s kinda pathetic and gross whatever i hate him sm
“jaaack,” you push at his bicep, feeling him paw at your panties from behind. “m’so sleepy..” Jack came home and immediately rushed to you, stripping off his scrubs and cradling you in his arms for a big, squeezing hug that’d wake you with a soft wince.
he didn’t waste anytime to come behind you and wrap his arms around you, muttering about what he went through at the ptmc, but it soon fell behind him when his little friend woke up, feeling your warm, plump ass snuggle close to him. “i know baby i know..” he coos, kissing at your shoulder, “just..wanna feel her. missed her, yknow..” he’s pushing the soft cotton down your thighs, his fingers padding up your sticky folds and down to your entrance.
“you always miss her, but she’s sleepy..” you say into your pillow, though Jack knows you better than that. he feels you grind against his hand as he works his fingers into you. “i know she is, she’s also a little sticky,” he perks a brow, pulling his cock out and stroking long and slow. “i won’t wake her up too bad. just wanna give her a lil hug. is that ok momma?”
you giggle softly at the word, the word he uses when he’s really trying to goad something out of you. “mm…i guess. only a small hug, though. just the tip.” fuck. “okay, just the tip. you can go back to sleep baby, i’ll be nice.” he’ll be nice alright.
it’s only when he’s thrusting his tip inside you, soaking his cock and watching your pussy clench around him each time, that he thinks about not being nice. gripping your love handles, brows pinched and lip tucked between his teeth watching you stretch around him, even if it’s just his tip.
“fuck baby, feels so good..” he’d mutter into the room, hearing you sleepily whine and mewl from the side. and he wants to keep this going. doesn’t want to disturb his sleepy girl, who was so kind enough to bless him with her tight pussy. but you just feel too good baby, way too good. he can’t take it.
he’s wiping a tear from his eye with his shoulder, the small groans turning into needy whines, stroking the length that was left without any love from you. he leans up a little watch you face, seeing how your brows crease with the little bit of pleasure, and how you’ve been playing with your clit under the cover the whole time. you probably want it too, pumpkin.
he doesn’t give it much thought after that, sweeping your hair off your neck and taking a light hold of it in his hand, gripping your waist and bending you the tiniest but forward. you don’t even have time to think about the action, because in the split second that it registers, he’s pushing his fat, long dick in you until he can’t anymore, your eyes shooting open you as your senses are intruded upon.
“oh-hooh fu—” you can’t even finish your words before you’re cutting yourself off with a pornographic moan, one that’d make the birds flinch. he groans loudly from behind you, eyes rolling back shut and head tipping backwards. and he’s so mean. not giving you a fraction of a second before he’s pulling out and plunging deep in you at the rate of a rabbit in heat.
“fuck, fuck! Jack!?” you moan out, your arms shooting up to grab whatever you could, sheets and cover in your grip as you clench down on him, your eyes squeezing shut so fast you see the stars. his groans are ragged, tired, raspy. like he’s been screaming all damn night. and his grip on your body is even worse, there’s probably gonna be a bruise there, pumpkin. you understand.
“i know baby, i knoww fuck,” he drawls out, biting his lip as he continued to thrust into you. “fuck you’re so good, you’re so fucking good i-i couldn’t do it pumpkin..” you can barely him him over yourself, and the clapping sound from under the covers that grew louder the quicker he fucked you.
he fucked you like he was running a race. funny for someone with half a leg, right? it was hurried, eager. just how long was he thinking of burying into you like this? “you lied, yer’ a fucking liar..” your words come out shaky, vocal cords moving in tune with the way your body jerked against the bed.
his eyes shoot open, mouth agape as he catches a look at your face: mouth agape in a frown, nose scrunched and eyes rolling to the ceiling. you’re fuckin’ lovin’ it. “i knoww baby i know, i’m sorryyy,” he whines through gritted teeth, and if you could look back you’d see the way his brows are pulled together tight and he’s giving his little puppy eyes.
“i’m sorry baby i just-” he huffs a breath, “you just feel so good. i can’t wait too long, yknow that…” his hand snakes to the front of your throat, hoisting you back against his chest as he palms at your tits, jackrabbitting his cock in you as he plants wet kisses on your shoulder.
“had a long fuckin’ night, needed my girl, ok? i just need you baby,” he puts on that sweet, doting voice he’d usually pair with the signature puppy eyes, he knows what works. knows what has you whining and submitting to his dirty tricks, telling him something like “i love you so much jackie u can use me whenever you want :’(.” like you were doing now.
“daddy’s sorry baby, daddy’s so sorry,” he’s huffing and puffing from behind you, groaning into your ear as he uses your cunt, stuffing you full, hips jittering as he approaches his peak quickly. “baby i-i wanna cum, wanna cum so fucking bad i can’t take it,” he pushes your head to the side, angling you just enough to catch your lips and kiss you hurriedly.
you moan upon impact, snaking your hand backwards to run your fingers through his hair. “i’ll-ill fuckin’ stop if you want but i wanna cum so bad baby, can daddy cum in you? pretty please?” how can you say no to him? you’re already putty in his hands, mouth open as you moan into each others mouth.
“you can cum daddy, m’all yours..always gonna let you use me..!” you whine, and he groans out in relief, whines getting raspy and weaker, bruising your tits in his hand as he comes in you, hips twitches while he fills you, panting over your shoulder as he runs his hand down to your stomach, caressing you lovingly.
“oh baby, you’re so fucking good. can never resist you..” he whispers, pulling his soaked cock out of you with a shudder. “wanna cum..” you whine, rolling onto your back as he lifts up. “i know honey, open your legs for me, mhm. gonna make you cum as much as you want,” us kissing down your stomach, his cum is seeping out of you onto the sheets, “promise.”
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