synopsis 𓂃 ໒꒱ getting dragged out of bed before sunrise because jack wants you to “keep him company” was never something you agreed to, but somehow it still happens. you end up on the gym floor in his hoodie, half awake and pretending to read while he trains, only to realise he’d much rather bench press you instead of the barbell. (2.7k+)
pairing 𓂃 ໒꒱ jack abbot x fem!reader
content 𓂃 ໒꒱ established relationship, fluff, jack decides you're the workout instead, playful teasing, no reader weight or body type mentioned, not proof read (sorryy).
You don’t remember agreeing to this, though in fairness, Jack has always been annoyingly good at making things sound optional when they very clearly aren’t. Somewhere between him nudging you awake before sunrise and quietly telling you to “come keep me company,” you’d been coaxed out of bed with the promise that you didn’t have to do anything except sit there.
Now you’re cross legged on the rubber flooring with a book balanced across your lap, drowning inside one of his old hoodies while he goes through the last of his workout a few feet away, and you’re beginning to think “keep me company” was just a nicer way of saying watch me work out because I like knowing you’re here.
Not that you’d ever admit he was right.
The page in front of you hasn’t changed in at least five minutes. Every time you start reading, the dull clink of metal meeting metal pulls your attention away again, and before you know it you’re watching Jack instead, following the slow rhythm of another controlled lift before your eyes drift back to the book with all the guilt like a kid who’s just been caught staring out the classroom window.
“You gonna finish that chapter,” Jack asks, easing the bar back onto the rack before reaching for the towel slung over the bench beside him, “or do you plan on giving page twenty three your full attention for the rest of the morning?”
You glance down automatically, almost as though the book might have turned itself while you weren’t looking (it hasn’t)
“I’m reading,” you insist anyway, trying for something convincing and landing somewhere closer to stubborn.
“So I’ve noticed.”
“I am.”
He drags the towel across the back of his neck, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly as he wanders over, looking far too pleased with himself for a man who’s done nothing but catch you in an embarrassingly obvious lie. “Honey,” he says, stopping in front of you, “I’ve watched you look at me more than you’ve looked at that book.”
You felt suddenly hot being in the room with him, “I was observing.”
“Observing.”
“Mhm.” You murmur, pursing your lips together.
“My technique?”
You shrug, making a show of considering it. “Among other things.” That earns you a proper smile, one that always appears when you’ve managed to catch him off guard.
“So,” he says after a moment, folding the towel over one shoulder, “what’s the verdict?”
You let your eyes travel over him with exaggerated seriousness, pretending to assess every possible flaw before giving a thoughtful little hum. “I think your form’s terrible.”
He looks down at himself as though he might actually find something wrong before his eyes settle back on you again, “my form?”
“You keep getting distracted.”
“I do?”
“You’ve looked over here at least six times.”
“I was checking on you.”
“You were absolutely not.”
“I was.”
“You were showing off.”
A laugh escapes him then, low enough that it almost disappears into the room. “I don’t have to show off.”
“Oh?”
“No.” His gaze lingers on you for just a second longer than necessary. “I’ve already got the girl.”
Your stomach betrays you immediately, “that,” you mutter, closing the book before he can see the smile threatening to appear, “was disgustingly smooth.”
Jack’s smile lingers for another second, subtle enough that most people would’ve missed it, but you're not most people, before he reaches for the towel again and drapes it over his shoulder.
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
“Oh, that’s even worse.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, rubbing the towel over the back of his neck before dropping it onto the bench beside him. “How’s that worse?”
“Because if you actually tried, I’d know you were putting it on.” You gesture vaguely in his direction. “When it just happens, it’s unfair.”
“Unfair,” he repeats, like he’s turning the word over in his head.
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“I don’t think I do.”
“You absolutely do.”
His grin grows just enough to tell you he’s enjoying this far more than he should, though he has the decency not to point it out. Instead, he nods toward the bench behind him, his expression settling back into that calm, unreadable look you’ve never quite figured out.
“C’mere for a second.”
“Come here for a second,” you mimic under your breath, lowering your voice in an admittedly terrible impression of him as a reluctant smile tugs at your lips. You’d learned very early on that those five words usually ended with you agreeing to something ridiculous, and the worst part was that you’d follow him anyway. “You know every questionable idea you’ve ever had has started exactly like that, right?”
“I don't think that's true.”
“Oh, really?” You fold your arms across your chest, giving him a look. “You got me to go camping with those exact words.”
A huff of laughter slips from him as he remembers it. “You liked camping.”
“I liked the cabin after we left the campsite,” you correct, unable to stop yourself from smiling. “There's a very important difference.”
“You still came.”
“I was manipulated.”
“You made a choice,” he says, far too calmly for someone revising history right in front of you.
“I made a mistake.”
His grin grows just enough to give him away. “You've made that mistake more than once.”
You try to hold your glare, but he has an annoying habit of waiting you out without saying much. It works far more often than you'd like to admit, and judging by the look on his face, he knows it.
“What is it?” you ask, setting the book beside you, “and don’t say ‘nothing,’ because you’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that gets me into trouble.”
Jack looks genuinely unconvinced. “I don’t get you into trouble.”
You don't even answer straight away. Instead, you just look at him, waiting for him to realise how ridiculous that statement is. He holds your stare without so much as a hint of guilt before the corner of his mouth finally gives him away.
“Often,” he concedes.
“There it is,” you mumble, unable to stop yourself from smiling. “I was wondering how long it'd take you.”
Rather than arguing his case any further, he simply holds out his hand. He never tells you to hurry or asks twice, and somehow that's exactly why it works. You eye his outstretched hand with as much suspicion as you can manage before looking back up at him. “I really should start saying no to you.”
“You do,” he reminds you. “You just never stick to it.”
You let out an exaggerated sigh, already reaching for his hand despite yourself. “I really need to start working on that.”
“That'd be new.”
“It would,” you admit, letting him pull you to your feet before pointing a finger at him. “Don't get used to it.”
“I wasn't planning on it.”
“I hate proving you right,” you grumble as he starts leading you toward the bench, though the complaint loses most of its bite the second his thumb brushes absentmindedly across the back of your hand.
Jack glances over at you with a smile. “No, you don't. If you really hated it, you'd still be sitting on the floor.”
You open your mouth with every intention of arguing, only to realise you're already standing exactly where he'd wanted you. “…Don't,” you say glaring at him.
“I didn't say anything,” he says, looking entirely too innocent.
“You were about to.”
“I was thinking about it.”
“That's close enough,” you decide before he can dig himself into an even deeper hole, earning a laugh from him as he finally lets go of your hand and nods toward the bench.
“Lie down for me.”
Your eyes flick from the bench to him again, suspicion settling in almost immediately. “I'm sorry... are we skipping the explanation entirely?”
“I'll explain in a second,” he promises.
You groan, already shaking your head. “You know, that sentence has never once made me feel better.”
“It'll make sense.”
“It better.”
He doesn't try to convince you after that, he just waits.
You've always admired that about Jack. He never pushes you into a decision or pesters you until you cave. He'll throw an idea your way, then stand back and let you come around on your own, even if the look on his face says he's already got a pretty good idea of how it's going to end.
You shake your head with a laugh as you climb onto the bench. “If this turns out to be one of your terrible ideas, you'll be hearing about it for the rest of your life.”
“I figured as much.”
You settle back folding your hands over your stomach as though you were preparing for surgery instead of whatever ridiculous plan he'd cooked up. Jack hangs back for a moment, looking you over to make sure you're comfortable before taking another step closer.
“So?” you ask, peeking up at him. “Are you finally gonna tell me what this master plan is, or are you just enjoying watching me panic?”
His mouth twitches ever so slightly. “I'm enjoying watching you overthink it.” He moves closer, resting a hand lightly against your side as he straightens the edge of your hoodie without really thinking about it. “I'm gonna lift you.”
You blink at him, waiting for him to laugh, thinking that maybe this was one of his usual awful jokes he tells you often. “You're gonna what?”
“I'm gonna lift you,” he repeats, like he's suggesting the two of you stop for coffee on the way home.
You stare at him for another second before a laugh escapes you, “no, you're not.”
“Yeah,” he replies, looking almost amused by your disbelief. “I am.”
“No.”
“Honey.”
“Jack.”
“You’ll be fine,” he says, like that's somehow the part you've got wrong.
You shake your head, trying not to laugh. “I'm not questioning whether I'll be fine. I'm questioning why this has suddenly become part of your workout.”
“It didn't. It became part of my morning.”
You narrow your eyes at him, “those are two different answers.”
“They're also both true.” The worst part is that he seems perfectly satisfied leaving it there.
“You are so lucky you're charming.”
“I've been told.”
“By who?”
“You.”
That earns him an immediate frown. “I don't remember saying that.”
“You implied it.”
“I absolutely did not.”
A laugh escapes him as he reaches over to fix the sleeve of your hoodie. “Just stay still for me.”
“You say that like I'm a flight risk.”
“You fidget.”
“I do not fidget.” You say mouth agape at the accusation he chucks at you. “You've moved three times since you laid down,” he reminds you, entirely too pleased with himself. “I'd say that counts.”
You scoff, shaking your head slightly like the whole conversation is already getting away from you. “That’s different.”
“How?” he asks, like he’s genuinely willing to wait you out on this.
“I don’t know, it just is,” you say after a second, dragging it out a little because you refuse to give him anything better than that.
“Convenient,” he replies immediately, and you can practically hear the grin in his voice before you even look at him.
“Oh, don’t start,” you warn, though it comes out more tired than threatening, because he’s already in that mood where everything you say is going to make it worse for you. His grin only grows at that, like you’ve confirmed exactly what he wanted. “I can’t stand you.”
“I know,” you say, without missing a beat, though there’s no real bite to it. Then, because he clearly enjoys pushing it too far, he adds, “That wasn’t an invitation to be sweet, by the way.”
“I know that too,” you shoot back immediately, and the second it leaves your mouth you regret it when you catch his expression, which was far too pleased, like he’s just won something he didn’t even have to try for.
That look alone makes you roll your eyes again. “You’re insufferable.”
“Ready?” he asks after a moment, like none of the previous exchange mattered at all, already shifting the focus back to what he actually came here to do.
You exhale, still half annoyed, half amused despite yourself. “As I’ll ever be.”
He slips an arm beneath your shoulders and another beneath your legs, pausing long enough to make sure you're settled before he moves. Even now, with whatever ridiculous idea he's got planned, he's paying more attention to whether you're comfortable than anything else. “Don’t laugh if I scream,” you warn him, narrowing your eyes.
“I wasn’t planning on laughing,” he says, like that alone should settle it.
“You definitely were,” you answer immediately.
“I was planning on smiling.”
“That’s somehow worse,” you mutter, already regretting whatever this is about to turn into.
“It usually is,” he says, like he’s entirely unbothered by your judgement. That’s all the warning you get before everything shifts at once.
One moment you’re lying back on the bench looking up at him, and the next you’re moving with him in one smooth motion that knocks the air out of you more from surprise than anything else. A laugh slips out before you can stop it, half disbelief and half shock, because your brain doesn’t quite catch up fast enough to process how easy it feels. “Oh my God,” you blurt, staring up at him like he’s done something completely unreasonable.
Jack looks down at you, that familiar curve of his mouth showing up the second he hears you laugh. “You alright?”
“Am I alright?” you repeat, still staring at him like he’s lost his mind. “Jack, this is insane.”
“You said that already.”
“I’m saying it again because I mean it.”
He doesn’t respond, just lowers you back down and brings you up again like it’s nothing more than a simple motion, showing no signs of struggle or hesitation , just the steady rhythm that makes it look far too easy to question.
“You keep looking at me,” you point out, laughing when you catch him doing it again.
“I’m making sure you’re comfortable.”
“You’ve checked like five times.”
“I’m checking again.”
“You are the most cautious reckless person I’ve ever met.”
That gets a proper laugh out of him, his head shaking slightly. “I don’t think those words belong together.”
“They do when they’re describing you.”
“They really don’t.”
“They absolutely do.” He lowers you again, and by the time he brings you back up, you’re already laughing before you’ve even reached the top, mostly because of the look on his face, far too satisfied with himself for someone acting like this is normal.
“You planned this,” you accuse immediately.
“I had the idea,” he says, like that somehow clears him of everything.
“Don’t push it,” you warn, though it barely holds any weight, especially not with the way he looks at you when he says, “I wasn’t,” which is obviously a lie you both ignore.
You shake your head, a laugh slipping out as you glance at him properly, “I know exactly what you’re doing,” and he hums like he’s entertained, asking, “Oh yeah?” even though he already knows the answer.
“You want me to admit you were right,” you say, because there’s no point pretending otherwise when he’s standing there like that.
“You didn’t have to,” you shoot back immediately, which is what finally gets him, his expression shifting just enough for a smile to settle in as he holds out his hand like he’s been waiting for this exact ending the whole time, “I still won.”
You take it with a dramatic sigh, letting him pull you up before giving his shoulder a light shove that he barely reacts to, “you are never going to let me forget this, are you?”
“Probably not.”
“I knew it.”
“But,” he adds, slipping an arm around your shoulders as you head toward the door like it’s the most natural thing in the world, “I’ll let you tell everybody it was your idea.”
You look up at him immediately, narrowing your eyes as a laugh slips out of you. “Oh, you are unbelievable.”
i'm not thinking, i know pope cody would apologize after a fight by waking you up and begging for a comfy lil prone bone <3
you and your boyfriend's current dynamic is... complicated. you love him so much that you stay with him even when his family ruins your time together. like tonight, when you two were supposed to have a nice dinner and some rare alone time earlier today, but one phone call from Smurf and he had gone running. you had begged him to stay, telling him how you made him a nice dinner, rented out the first ever movie you watched together, and planned on taking a nice romantic bath with each other before falling asleep in his arms.
pope hadn't budged, he left in a hurry of frustration after a fight ensued between the two of you. he had said things he didn't mean- like calling you needy and clingy- and you had told him you regretted ever asking him to stay. once he was gone, and you had blown out all the candles, threw away the 3 course meal you prepared. and you had cried when you realized he left without even kissing you goodbye :(
you ate alone, showered alone, and went to sleep alone. crying the whole way through. pope had called you multiple times, but you didn't answer. you couldn't bear the thought of answering the phone and him still being mad... or maybe even ending things. you sent him one text that read, 'goodnight. be safe. i love you and i'm sorry.' then you settled into the bed he built for you, wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts that smelled like him, and tried not to cry yourself to sleep.
when you hear popes boots thud against the floor hours later, you think you might be dreaming. you peel your puffy eyes open and blink into the darkness. you're laying on your stomach, arms crossed underneath your tear soaked face. you vaguely hear the sound of a belt clinking, jeans zipping, and clothes being discarded onto the floor. the feeling of the bed dipping confirms that your boyfriend is finally home. popes heavy body crawls over top of you, settling on you like he always does.
he plants small kisses to your cheeks before he even says anything, laying down so his thighs cage in yours and his bare chest presses to your back. you sniffle when you realize he is in his boxers and you feel the warmth you missed so badly. pope freezes. "hey sweetheart. 'm so sorry about earlier." he brings a palm to rub at your side while he continues to whisper apologies in your ear. "shouldn't 've left you like i did-." his words have you shaking your head into your pillow as your bottom lip wobbles.
he sucks in a sharp breath. "fuck- 'm so so sorry honey. i ruined our night, i know. will you lemme make you feel better? p-please sweetheart?" you're half asleep and so gloomy. and even though you're still hurt, all you want to do is let your boyfriend make love to you.
pope kisses at your damp cheek when you nod. "gonna make it all better. promise." his gentle words and his even more gentle movement to slide your t-shirt up over your butt has more tears spilling from your waterline. you never see him this sweet, only when you fight.
he kisses your shoulder while his hand dips down between your legs. your gasp is watery and you shudder when he carefully circles your clit with two calloused fingers. he whispers sweet words the whole time he gets you ready for him. tracing your weepy hole so softly and sweetly. "yer so perfect for me." he slides one thick finger into you and you buck your hips back. "never leavin' you again honey. promise." you cry out when he adds another. "you're my everything sweetheart. love you so much."
the last sentence has you coming on his fingers when he curls them just right. you whimper and squirm underneath his hold while he kisses your hairline the whole way through. "andy..." you voice cracks on the first word you've said to him since he's been back. he shoves down his boxers and nudges your legs apart. "i know. i know. god 'm so sorry. fuck- can i sweet girl? can i please?" you arch ever so slightly as a yes and he immediately shoves his hard cock inside of you. you moan at the stretch his thickness provides every time no matter how nicely he preps you.
popes forehead falls to the nape of your neck. he slowly starts to thrust into you, still whispering. "missed you. hate when we fight. love you so- hnnhg- love you so much."
you're blinking back tears and nodding at his words. you can't form your own right now due to the mix of pleasure and something much deeper you can't quite name. pope rests all his weight atop you, bringing one strong arm to hook underneath your neck. he lightly tilts your head sideways so he can press his lips to yours. you whimper when he ruts his hips until he bottoms out then pauses, letting both of you feel how deep he is.
"didn't mean what i said." you barley hear his quiet, shaky words over your own sniffles and the pulse of his length stilled against your warm walls. "you're not clingy or needy, honey. thats me. i-i need you. god, i love you so much- need you always. wanna stay just like this forever."
its exactly what you needed to hear. tears threaten to spill due to the fact that he knows you so well. you love him so much. you’re choking through your words. " 'm sorry andy-." he cuts you off with a tender "shh shh- jus breathe sweetheart- mhm jus like that." then starts to grind his hips again. pope's heavy weight above you and his thickness dragging inside you only adds to the warmth you feel from his words.
"was my fault. should've stayed. god honey, 'm so sorry i made you upset." you're full on crying now, whimpering his name over and over while he does the same but with " 'm sorry." he's panting soothing words in your ear, muscular forearm tightening around your throat. you feel his thighs twitch on the backs of yours in restraint. you can tell he is trying to keep the slow and sensual pace to match the apology he's giving you.
but you don't want slow. not when you've missed him all night and just want him to make you feel as good as he always does. you push your ass back to fuck yourself onto him a few times as hard as you can with all 200 plus pounds of him on top of you. he complies, instantly knowing what you want, and pressing his cheek to yours and starting to thrust relentlessly. your wet eyes roll into your head as his hips slap harshly against your butt. you feel his fat tip kiss your cervix while the weight of his chest stays glued to your back. a spark starts in your lower belly and tingles start dancing behind your eyes.
a small bit of liquid drops onto your cheekbone and you blink up enough top see pope crying too. it's the first time you've been able to focus on his face. your eyes trace his freckled face thats laced with devastation and his auburn curls that are all messy as if he'd been running his hands through them all night. "t-tell me y'love me sweetheart. please -mmhf fuck- please 'm so sorry. needa hear it."
his small and pathetic words are a stark contrast to the way he's pounding into you. your big strong boyfriend is now sniffling and whimpering just like you had been all night. you comply because it's truly all you feel in this moment. there is nothing else in your euphoria-blanked brain besides the words. "love you andy- loveyouloveyouloveyou-!" he's moaning unashamedly above you as you flutter around his cock. he uses his free hand thats not balancing him to intertwine his fingers with yours that clutching at the sheets.
the tangible pleasure grows and grows till it locks tight behind where your eyes are pouring tears. pope smashes his damp lips to yours once more before starting to beg you. "hnnhg fuck honey- come for me. please. give itta me- i'll keep it safe. promise. come with me please."
he's taken over all of your senses. his words are in the air you breathe, his body is creating the heat you feel, and his throaty groans are taking over the noises you hear.
you can barely move your lips against his as you cry out when you shatter. you're clenching around him so tightly that you're about to push his hefty cock out, but it's all pope needs to come too. your releases are a mix of tears, moans and repeated "iloveyou"s. it's warm and intimate and has your vision blowing white as your hearing fades in and out due to the intensity. when you come down, your body is still shaky and pope is still moving inside of you, even though he's soft and you feel his come warming your insides.
he hasn't stopped whispering sweet nothings to you. "love you. love you so much. yer perfect. don't deserve you." you shake your head in disagreement, brain too fuzzy and body too tired to use words. when he moves to pull out, all you can manage is a raspy whine in protest. pope settles back instantly as if he never actually wanted to move in the first place.
he stays there all night. resting inside of you and laying above you while gently reminding you how much he loves you <3
summary: In an attempt to seduce a past hookup, you accidentally send your attending, Jack Abbot, a lewd photo.
tags/warnings: MDNI 18+, smut, oral (f receiving), piv sex, pussy eating, fingering, pussy slapping, jack abbot certified bush lover, overstimulation, implied age gap (reader is a resident), medical inaccuracies (peritoneal lavages are rarely used nowadays, but who cares), no use of y/n, trauma scene based on an episode of ER teehee.
wc: 9.5k
a/n: okay this is fully like two weeks late to the trend but it was inspired by that “you shaved your bush” tiktok trend lol. I genuinely do not know how this got so long, It was supposed to be a cute little fic but i got carried away, oopsies! I hope you enjoy <3
credits: gif credits to @ho-ii !!
It was Friday afternoon and you were desperately, achingly horny.
You’d tried your old faithful vibrator, which was doing the job fine, but you were desperate for some human connection. Your mind drifted through the mental rolodex of who you could call up for some casual fun. It was a short list, your demanding schedule not lending itself to a particularly vibrant social life. You’d only been on a handful of dates in the past year, most of which ended in disaster.
Alex was out of the running because of his unfortunate odor problem.
Sam was out due to a creepy doll collection he failed to disclose until you made your way to his apartment.
And Daniel was out because, frankly, he was terrible at sex, which is kind of a sticking point for you right now.
That left James, a guy you met on one of the apps and who was decent enough with his mouth that you’d seen him a handful of times. You didn’t hook up with him often, mostly because he was particular about your pubic hair. He preferred for it to be cleanly shaven, or at least heavily trimmed before he would consider going down on you.
So despite the fact that he wasn’t much good at fucking, you tended to go back to him when you needed a release. Yes, your standards were abysmally low, but the truth of the matter was that residency didn’t really give you any time to get out and meet new, better hook-ups. So James it was.
It had been a couple months since you’d hooked up, mostly due to this preference of his. Unfortunately, taking the time to take an ‘everything shower’ just to get your pussy eaten was a luxury that you were not often afforded due your residency schedule.
But today you’d had the time, energy, and desire to get devoured, so you hopped in the shower to take care of everything. By the time you emerged your hair was double cleansed, you’d applied a hair mask, exfoliated, shaved your legs, applied moisturizer and body oil, and–most importantly–your pussy was cleanly shaven.
You had a renewed pep in your step as you made your way over to your bed, ready to entice James. You maneuvered onto the bed and experimented with a few poses before landing on one that showed off your assets the best. You propped up your phone–timer set for 10 seconds–and you scrambled into position, perching back on your haunches and settling back on your feet, back arched a little uncomfortably.
You heard the shutter of the camera going off and quickly extricated yourself from the uncomfortable position. Looking over the image, you were very impressed.
The photo pictured your nude body from the chest down, beginning with the barest hint of the underside of your breasts showing, then the expanse of your stomach and curve of your hips. Lower, your fingers were on your pussy, parting your lips just enough to tease. It was a damn good nude, if you did say so yourself. James was lucky to receive it.
It had been so long since you texted him that instead of scrolling through endless scam messages and bill reminders, you just typed in the first few letters of his name to pull up his contact. As soon as you typed ‘ja’ it popped up, and you quickly began composing your message.
Gnawing at your thumbnail, you went back and forth on a few messages, trying to sound sexy, but playful. After five minutes of deliberation, you decided to just go with what you had. Honestly, it’s not like James was going to give it more than a second thought–if he wanted to fuck he wasn’t going to care about how sultry (or not) the message you sent him was.
You settled on:
you: shaved just for you. want something sweet to eat? ;)
You looked it over for a minute, nodding to yourself and hitting send before you could psych yourself out.
What a mistake.
Jack sat at the work station, mouth open and slackjawed, still staring at his phone screen.
Not at the photo anymore–no, that had been quickly swiped away–but the image was still burned into his retinas, the after image projecting onto the back of his eyelids when he closed them.
Why?
Because three minutes ago he received a text message from one of the day shift residents. He was concerned, initially, because there was little reason for day shift residents to contact him as opposed to Robby. Which is why Jack opened the message as soon as he saw it come in, thinking it might be an emergency, especially because it was you.
Instead, he was greeted with a sight he thought he’d never have the pleasure of seeing.
You, stretched back on your heels, breasts barely visible, pussy on full display for him. Your fingers held you open, your folds glistening in the late summer light that was streaming in, your pretty little clit in the center, just begging to be sucked. It was, quite possibly, the prettiest pussy he’d ever seen.
He couldn’t take his eyes off of the photo for a good 30 seconds, before the logical side of his brain kicked in and he remembered oh yeah, I’m at work and can’t be caught looking at my resident’s cunt.
He wasn’t unfamiliar with you, even though you’d only worked a handful of shifts together. But he saw you every morning at handoff, and you two shared warm smiles and easy jokes, your sardonic wit matching his bar for bar. He knew you were smart, able to hold your own in a trauma, and compassionate and empathetic underneath it all. And he couldn’t ignore the fact that you were gorgeous either.
And he would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of you in this sort of light before, either. Jack Abbot was not a proud man–he could admit that on more than one occasion, he’d stood in his shower fisting his cock to the image of you on your knees for him.
It was especially bad when you did something impressive at work. Like the time you went toe-to-toe with a surgeon about whether a patient really needed surgery when you insisted that all they needed was a pericardiocentesis, and to prove your theory, you stuck the needle into the pericardium and extracted the fluid despite surgery’s objections. A ballsy move, one that would have been deeply problematic if you were wrong, but paid off. He’d had to rub one out in the bathroom that day. He apparently has a thing for competency.
“You’re gonna catch flies, Abbot,” Ellis said, walking out of an exam room, IPad tucked under her arm and smirk wide on her face. Jack shook himself out of his reverie, trying desperately not to think of your photo (but failing miserably).
He cleared his throat, “Sorry, what’ve you got for me?” he asked, still a bit dazed. Ellis looked at him skeptically–there wasn’t much that threw Dr. Jack Abbot–but proceeded to present her case anyway.
Once he approved her plan of treatment, Jack returned to his phone. He sat there for a long moment, contemplating what to do. You hadn’t said anything else, no frantic “I’m so sorry, that obviously wasn’t meant for you,” texts that explained the situation. Jack was positive it wasn’t intended for him, and he didn’t want to embarrass you more than you were sure to be.
His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, dancing nervously as he typed out his reply.
You started getting ready after sending the text, anticipating that James would want to meet up tonight. You did your hair, applied a bit of light make up, and threw on a cute little sundress.
It was about an hour later when you went to check your phone again, fully expecting to see a cheeky message from James inviting you over for some fun.
What you saw made your stomach drop instead. You felt dizzy, nausea washing over you in roiling waves. The text thread you were looking at was addressed to Jack Abbot, not James. And staring back at you was your nude body, followed by a response from Dr. Abbot.
Jack Abbot: I don’t think I’m the intended recipient for that photo.
Jack Abbot: But for what it's worth, a real man would eat it even if you didn’t shave. Would prefer it, actually.
Jack Abbot: Sorry, that was inappropriate. I’ve deleted this text thread, along with the photo. We can pretend this never happened.
There’s no fucking way. Absolutely not. There is no possible way that you accidentally sent a nude photo of yourself to your fucking attending. Not just any attending either, but the one you'd had a big fat stupid crush on for the better part of a year. The one you’d spent endless nights fantasizing about with your fingers plunged deep into your cunt, whose visage you’d pictured hovering over you, fucking you hard and deep; the name you accidentally moaned when James was eating you out the last time you hooked up.
Your mind refused to accept that this was reality, hoping against hope that this was some twisted fucking nightmare.
Shame welled up inside you, your cheeks hot from embarrassment and tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, mortification settling in earnest now. In addition to being humiliating, you also felt like a fucking creep. From his perspective, you just sent him a completely unsolicited nude photo.
Even more so, you hated that this probably killed any chance you had with him, even if that chance had been slim to none to begin with.
You paced your bedroom, thumbnail chewed raw as you tried to do damage control. What does one even say after they accidentally send a nude to their boss? After far too much deliberation, you decided to keep it simple, apologize, and crawl into your bed for the remainder of your two days off.
You: Dr. Abbot, I am so sorry about that!! I obviously didn’t mean to send that to you.
You: I meant to send it to a James and must not have looked closely enough before I sent it.
You: Thank you for deleting the photo, and I’m so sorry once again that you were subjected to seeing that.
You threw your phone as far away from you as possible, recklessly disregarding its safety despite the fact that you most certainly could not afford to repair said phone if it was damaged, and flopped onto the bed, screaming into a pillow. Your throat was raw by the time you surfaced for air, your body limp and exhausted, mind shuffling through worst case scenarios.
In the midst of your spiral, your brain drifted to the other part of his message: a real man would eat it even if you didn’t shave. That was, admittedly, inappropriate, but no more so than sending a nude to your superior, so you figured you were even. He probably just meant it to be supportive; to try and diffuse the awkward situation.
But another part of you wondered if he meant something else. If he was signalling to you that he would eat it, bush or not. The thought was indulgent, if not utterly preposterous. He was an attending; you were a resident. There was no way he’d meant anything by it. But you couldn’t help thinking…
Did he like the photo? Was he picturing you with a bush? Did he think about tasting you, about swirling his tongue around your clit or plunging it deep into you?
A notification dinged, shaking you out of your daydream, and you contemplated whether or not you actually wanted to see what he said, if anything at all. Curiosity eventually won out, hands grappling for your phone and swiping open the notification.
Jack Abbot: No worries. 👍
It was a completely normal response, which almost made it worse. Part of you wished he would lash out, call you disgusting or a whore, at least you’d know what to do with that. Shame or disgust were easier to digest than nonchalance.
You didn’t bother to send the photo to the correct person, your lust dampened, the fire doused with cold water, remnants pulverized to ash. Groaning, you burrowed into your bed with no intention of leaving for the next two days.
You had no idea how you were going to face him Monday.
You woke up two days later and ran through your options.
Flee the country and never return to Pittsburgh ever again (unrealistic, you’d devoted too much time to becoming a doctor, you weren’t giving up because of some catastrophically stupid mistake)
Arrive to work 20 minutes late, hopefully avoiding Jack Abbot by all costs (unlikely, the man worked more overtime than anyone except Robby. He was sure to still be there, and all you’d get was attendance point for your trouble)
Be a mature adult, apologize, and forget this ever happened, like he suggested (undoubtedly the best choice, but could you really ever forget that your attending has seen your pussy? And, a far sicker thought, did you want him to forget?)
Indecision weighed on you as you got ready, ultimately deciding on lucky number option 3. Your only saving grace was the fact that you were on day shift, and Abbot rarely worked days. The only interaction would be at handoff, and maybe if you could busied yourself enough getting a jump on patients, you could avoid him for as long as possible.
That was your plan of action as you walked into chairs, head down as you scanned into the ED and approached the nurses station. You didn’t hear his voice, which was a good sign; typically, you could hear it as soon as you entered, steady barking out orders over the hum of the department. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself and thinking for the first time since you sent that photo that things might be okay.
You spot Ellis at a work station, and beeline to her to get the handover started.
“Hey Ellis, how’d the night go? Any weird and wild cases?” you ask,
“Oh, you know, the usual,” she said, “foreign body extractions, a couple MIs, an insomniac who overdosed on benadryl and swore that the hat man was after him for money,” she laughed, shaking her head.
“To be fair, the hat man could be after him for money,” you said solemnly, face straight for a second before you burst out laughing.
Handover continued smoothly, Ellis updating you on which patients needed labs or imaging and which needed to be discharged. You almost made it through unscathed, your body turning to make your way to North 5 when you heard his voice calling to Ellis.
Your shoulders tensed–body betraying you by freezing in place–and he was next to you before you could scuttle away. Resting his forearms on the counter next to you, he continued talking to Ellis–about what, you couldn’t say, static filling your ears as you remembered what you’d done.
“Morning, Doc,” he said, startling you out of your daze.
“G-good morning, Dr. Abbot,” you stuttered, eyes glancing briefly at him before settling on his chin, unable to meet his eyes for more than a second.
He looked annoyingly normal, showing no sign that anything unseemly had occurred between you. You chanced another look at his eyes, the hazel orbs showing no hint of amusement or belittlement. But there was a look of acknowledgement, a steady one that should have reassured you that everything was okay, that you weren’t a laughingstock. The same look he’d give you in a trauma when things went sideways through no fault of your own.
And In any other situation, it would be reassuring. But right now, all it did was remind you that he’d seen your most sensitive parts, that he’d commented on the state of your pubic hair (or lack thereof). Heat bloomed in your cheeks, and your breath caught in your throat, eyes unable to breakaway from his gaze.
When you did manage to look away, it was, traitorously, to look down at his lips. They looked so soft, and for a split second you imagined yourself leaning in, capturing his lips with yours and kissing him into oblivion. You snapped back to reality half a second too late, seeing the edge of Abbot’s mouth turn up in the barest hint of a smile.
Clearing your throat, you quickly excused yourself to see a patient, all but running to the exam room. You managed to slow your breathing and compose yourself before you entered the room, squaring your shoulders and getting back to work.
This was going to be a lot harder than you anticipated.
Jack was being honest when he told you he deleted the text thread with that photo in it, a fact he was coming to regret as he laid in bed post-shift, body tired but too wired to relax and fall asleep. He’d committed the photo to memory, though, losing himself in it as he dragged his hand up and down his cock, thinking about how soft you’d be, how sweet you’d taste, the sounds he’d pull from you as he fucked you with his tongue. He’d fallen into this routine an embarrassing amount of times since he received that photo, feeling like a pervy, dirty old man all the while, but doing nothing to stop himself either.
His hand glided over his shaft once more, imagining that it was your warm, wet walls wrapped around him instead, and he was coming hard, painting his stomach with streaks of warm, wet goo. He sat there, breathing heavy, as a twitch of shame rolled over him. He shouldn’t be jerking it to the remembered image of a resident’s pussy, a woman at least 15 years younger than him, if not more.
But it was harder than he’d thought it would be to put that photo behind him. It was all he could think about as soon as he saw you that first morning, the image looping in an endless projection in his mind. It was completely unprofessional, and frankly dishonest. He’d told you that you could both pretend it had never happened, but he wasn’t so sure that was possible anymore.
And it was clear you hadn’t forgotten either. You were jumpy around him, the easy quips you used swap in the morning abandoned for stuttered greetings and awkward silences. He’d also caught you looking at his lips on more than one occasion and stealing glances at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. He wasn’t sure if it was true attraction, or just some morbid curiosity that was sparked by the unusual situation you two found yourselves in, but Jack wasn’t about to get his hopes up for the former.
As difficult as it was to keep his head on straight after seeing that photo, the more troubling part was that he’d lost the 10 to 15 minutes he spent every morning talking to you, a small ritual he looked forward to every shift. He hadn’t realized how much those moments meant to him until they were gone. Even the worst nights were magically better when he was able to make you laugh at handoff, your smile making his chest swell with pride and head fuzzy with feelings he had no business feeling.
Jack knew he had to do something to ease the tension, to get things back to normal. Or maybe a new normal, if he had anything to do with it.
The days passed in a similar fashion to that first day. Jack would greet you politely and attempt your typical banter, and you would awkwardly stutter out an adequate reply before making your escape as quickly as possible. You weren’t sure why you weren’t able to be a fucking adult and put it behind you, but you just couldn’t. Every time you thought you had the courage to revert back to your typical routine with Abbot, you chickened out almost immediately, bumbling your wall through some moronic excuse.
To make matters worse, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. It was worse than it ever had been before; what used to be an errant thought that would arise only in the throes of pleasure were now occurring during the most mundane tasks. You thought about what his full, silver curls would look like buried between your thighs while you were doing laundry; what his mouth would feel like on your breasts, teeth pulling at the pebbled skin of your nipples while you cooked dinner; how he would fuck you–would it be soft and slow, or hard and punishing?–while you cleaned the bathroom.
Your luck ran out about a month after the incident, as you were calling it. For the most part, you were able to keep your interactions with Abbot brief, albeit awkward. But today he was scheduled on day shift, covering for Al-Hashimi while she was home sick with her son. You’d only found out when you walked in, seeing his name on the board despite the fact that he was off last night.
You felt a wave of nausea wash over you; how were you supposed to go a whole day avoiding him? You managed pretty well for the first half of your shift, presenting exclusively to Robby, which wasn’t all that different from your normal routine. You avoided the traumas Abbot was running, hiding in exam rooms under the guise of checking vitals or reviewing scans. It was working fairly well until midday, when you were unfortunately in the vicinity of the ambulance bay when paramedics burst through.
“Santos, Mohan,” Abbot paused, eyes flitting over to where you stood before calling your name as well, “with me!” he said, already moving into the trauma room and gowning up. You reluctantly followed, slipping on your own trauma gown. He was behind you before you could secure your gown, fingers brushing against the nape of your neck as he tied the strings for you. It shouldn’t have sent a thrill down your spine, but it did. You stuttered out a thank you as you moved to assess the patient.
The paramedic was halfway through the bullet when you arrived at the bedside, hands moving to transfer them from the stretcher to the bed. “– multiple lacerations, bruises to the face, chest, and abdomen. Possible tib-fib and facial fracture.” You looked down at the patient, a teenage boy who couldn’t have been older than 15.
“BP’s low, 70 palp; pulse ox is 85,” Princess called out.
You slid the chestpiece of your stethoscope over the patient's chest, listening to the lungs. Unfortunately, your brain went blank when Abbot sidled up next to you, arm pressed tight against yours in the cramped trauma room.
“What do you think, Doc?” he asked, listening with his own stethoscope now.
You blinked, brain lagging as you tried to compose yourself; to try and save this boy’s life.
“Uh-um good breath sounds?” you said, a question more than an answer, though you were certain about the breath sounds. “Airway is patent, no tracheal deviation, no blood in the canal,” you finished, regaining a bit of confidence as you averted your gaze from his.
“Good,” he said, hand grasping your elbow and moving you down to the end of the bed. “What do we need to order?”
Santos, blessedly, answered before you could embarrass yourself further, “C-spine, chest and head CT.”
“BP is down to 60!”
“Alright people! What are we dealing with?” Abbot called out, eyebrow quirked at you.
Every differential evaporated from your mind. “He’s bleeding from somewhere,” was all you could come up with, though that was obvious. Instead of dwelling on that, you turned your attention to the boy, your eyes examining his body, searching for the source of bleeding. With Samira’s help you flipped the boy over, desperate to find a stab wound or gash, but coming up empty.
“Must be the belly,” Santos said.
“Alright, lavage kit please!” Abbot said, turning to you, “you ever done one of these?”
You shook your head.
“Well, today’s your lucky day, then,” he said, handing you an 11-blade.
Despite your best efforts, your hand shook as you pressed the blade against the skin.
“I-I can’t,” you whispered, low enough that only he could hear.
“You can,” he said, stepping behind you to steady your hand, guiding as you made the incision. He handed you the tubing next. “Make sure you’re into the peritoneum,” he whispered, lips right next to your ear. His hand was still on top of yours as you slid the tubing in, “I’m in, hook up the saline and extension tubing,” you said, breathing a sigh of relief.
Your relief was short-lived. The results of the lavage came back–negative. “Shit, nothing. It’s not the belly,” you said, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
“What the fuck? Where the hell is this kid bleeding from?” Abbot cursed, pacing around the bed to see if anything was forgotten. “You check his back?” he asked.
“Yes, nothing there. Maybe it’s a faulty blood pressure cuff?” you said, grasping at straws, but moving to flip the boy over and recheck his back again anyway.
Abbot was next to you, eyes raking over systematically to find the source when suddenly Mohan pointed out a tiny mark on the boy’s lower right side, “What is that?” she asked.
“That is a very small puncture wound. Probably an ice pick, if I had to guess,” Abbot answered.
Fuck. You should have caught that. You were standing right there, staring at the lower quadrant of the boy's back. You’d even seen the small mark, but dismissed it as a mole. You felt sick to your stomach, fear and shame welling up in you. You had never had a reaction like this in a trauma, not even on your first day as a med student.
Garcia burst through the door just as Abbot was getting the patient ready to head up to the O.R. “Puncture wound, probably hit the kidney or renal artery,” he said, passing off the patient. She nodded, taking over from there.
“Good pickup,” you congratulated Mohan weakly as you walked out of the trauma bay, hoping you could make it to the bathroom and wallow in self-pity for a few moments.
You heard him call your name shortly after you exited the trauma bay. Heart sinking, you turned to face him. “Yes, Dr. Abbot?” you asked, fidgeting with the hem of your scrub top. You weren’t sure you could handle being yelled at by him today. You’d never been one for tears at being reprimanded, but you could already feel the tell-tale prickling behind your eyes, and you were almost positive that the dam would burst at a harsh word from Abbot.
“A word, please?” he asked, gesturing you to the stairwell, the only place with a semblance of privacy in the ED. You sullenly followed after him, bracing yourself for impact.
You leaned back against the wall, fully expecting him to start yelling as soon as you were situated under the staircase, hidden well enough from passersby, but all you felt was a warm, heavy weight on your shoulder.
“You have to settle down, okay?” he said, one hand planted firmly on your shoulder and the other grasping your chin between his fingers to direct your gaze to his. “Look, I know what you sent me was embarrassing, and we probably should’ve talked about it, but you can’t get this worked up over it when I’m on shift as your attending. It can’t affect your work, you're too good of a doctor to let something like this throw you,” he said earnestly, eyes sincere when you looked into them.
You stood there, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. Your mind still hadn’t fully caught up. “I… you didn’t bring me out here to yell at me?” you asked, voice coming out weaker than you intended it to.
He shook his head, confused, “What? No, of course not. I barely noticed that puncture wound myself,” he said, alleviating your anxiety somewhat.
“What I’m concerned about is how wound tight you are around me. I’m not saying you have to like me or anything, but you have to be comfortable working with me. You didn’t make an error in this trauma, but you could have. And I know it would eat you up if something like that happened,” he said, thumb gently sweeping over your chin.
“I can’t let you jeopardize your education because you’re embarrassed about mistakenly sending me a revealing photo. It would kill me if you didn’t reach your full potential because of something like that, if I had any part of it,” he shook his head, a pained look on his face.
Oh. You couldn’t breathe, your cheeks surely inflamed at this point. You were suddenly very aware of how close he’d gotten–and of his hand on your face. His fingers were warm against your face, skin rough, providing delicious friction as his hand repositioned, thumb stroking along your jaw as he subtly tilted your head back. He smelled like clean laundry and coffee, with a slight tang of antiseptic.
Your lips parted, ragged breaths falling from your lips.
“Dr. Abbot–”
“Jack. Call me Jack,” he murmured, so close that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. If you tipped your head up just a fraction, it would close the distance between you; would bring your lips flush together. Your eyes fluttered shut at the thought.
“Jack, I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about that picture,” you admitted quietly.
“Can I tell you a secret?” he asked, tongue darting out to wet his lips, “I can’t stop thinking about it, either.”
“Really?” you looked up at him from under your eyelashes.
He nodded, moving impossibly closer, lips ghosting against yours. He hesitated briefly, a look of doubt flashing across his face before his gaze steadied–a decision made; a line ready to be crossed. His grip tightened against your jaw, “I can’t stop thinking about you spreading that pretty little pussy open, or about the prick who wanted you to shave before he’d think about going down on you,” he said, shaking his head in disgust.
“You know how many times I fucked my fist to the memory of that photo? How much I’ve thought about how you taste, what sounds you’d make when you cum?” he asked.
A strangled moan escaped your lips at his words. You’d never seen this side of Jack Abbot before, and it was intoxicating. “I-i think about you when I touch myself too,” you whimpered, your admission seeming tame compared to his vulgar words, but you wanted him to know you were also going crazy over him; that this wasn’t one-sided.
“Yeah, pretty girl? You think about me when you stuff that little cunt with your fingers? Wish it was my cock instead?” he asked, his other hand snaking down to your hip, fingers inching their way under your scrub top to caress the skin there.
You nodded, the proximity and dirty talk stealing your breath and leaving you unable to form an intelligible sentence.
“Did he eat your pussy, sugar? You got all dolled up for him, did he at least treat you right?” he asked, breath fanning over your lips, stubble just barely grazing your sensitive skin.
You shook your head, dazed. “I didn’t send it to him,” you said, a little bashful, “was too embarrassed after I sent it to you.”
He groaned, forehead falling against yours, “poor baby, put in all that effort and didn’t even get to cum, did you?” he asked, just the slightest bit condescending.
You let out a pathetic whine, shaking your head ‘no’ at his question. Heat pooled deep in your belly and you felt your panties quickly dampening.
He tsked, “we’ll have to rectify that,” he said, “You shave again? Or you let her grow back natural?” he asked.
You bit your lip, still a bit shy despite all the filthy words that he’d spoken in the last 5 minutes. “I’m au naturelle,” you whispered, a slight smirk tugging at your lips.
“Good fucking girl,” he growled before his mouth was on yours. His lips moved against yours with a ferocity you’d never experienced before. There was nothing uncertain about the kiss, his lips firm as he devoured you, tongue licking into your mouth and sliding against yours deliciously. One of your hands slid up the side of his neck to play with the curls at his nape while the other fisted in the fabric of his scrub top.
His spit tasted like the stale breakroom coffee and the spearmint of his gum, and you couldn’t get enough. You suckled at his tongue, trying to keep up with his relentless pace, but eventually let him take the reins and kiss you silly.
You were both panting when you pulled away, a string of spit drawn taut between your lips before snapping. Jack held your head between his hands, thumbs brushing softly over the apples of your cheeks.
“Talk with me. Tonight. Come have dinner or a drink with me, and we can talk about it all,” he said, a borderline pleading look on his face.
You nodded, still a little dumb from the kiss. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Okay,” you said, slowly extricating your hand from his scrub top.
He let you go with a final squeeze to your jaw, moving to re-enter the ED before you.
You stood there a moment longer, wiping your lips to get rid of your combined saliva and to lessen the kiss bitten look you were sure you were sporting before getting back to work.
The rest of the shift was painfully slow, the hours passing by like molasses. You couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss, the way his lips molded against yours like it was their rightful place. You did make a concentrated effort not to let it impact your work, though. Jack was right about that; nothing could come between you and finishing your residency.
It was just after 7:30 when you exited the hospital, and you immediately spotted Jack leaning against his truck waiting for you. You smiled as you approached him, nervous butterflies erupting in your stomach. Despite that breathtaking kiss, you still didn’t know where you stood. Was he just satisfying a sexual curiosity? Or was it possible that he also had feelings for you?
He cleared his throat, “So I was thinking we could order something to my place and talk there. Unless you want to go somewhere else, to a restaurant or your place,” he rambled, nerves undercutting his typically confident energy.
“Your place sounds good,” you nod, still a bit shy.
His hand was warm on the small of your back as he guided you to the passenger side, opening the door for you and helping you step up into the cab. The ride to his house was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Some 90s alternative rock playlist hummed quietly in the background while you ordered pizza for the two of you–on his phone, with his card, he insisted. His hand rested lightly on your knee, the heat of his palm burning through the fabric of your scrubs.
You arrived at a beautifully manicured house in a suburb far enough from the city to be peacefully quiet. It’s different from what you pictured, you realize as you walk in. You assumed that a man who worked as much as he did wouldn’t have the time or energy to put into making a house a home; you pictured a sterile kitchen and minimalist fixtures, white walls with abstract art.
But it was homey. The walls were painted, photos scattered across them. The couch looked comfy, something picked out with intention, not the first option plucked from a furniture catalog. There were plants, beautiful, well taken care of ferns and pothos littered about. Warm light filtered through the kitchen, the island topped with butcher block and bracketed by two upholstered stools.
“Do you want anything to drink? Water, wine, beer?” he asked, opening the fridge and grabbing a beer for himself.
You focused your attention back on him, abandoning your pseudo-psychoanalysis of his house and drifting over to perch on a stool. “Wine would be nice,” you said, grateful for something to occupy your hands. He nods, pours you a modest glass of red–something French that probably costs ten times the amount of your shitty grocery store wine.
The pizza arrives soon thereafter, and you sit down at the island to eat. Conversation is easy, and you feel more at ease with him now than you ever had before, a drastic 180 from this morning. You talk about your day, life, post-residency plans; he lets loose a few embarrassing stories from his own residency days, one featuring a very unfortunate Robby being pantsed by a 6 year old in the middle of the ED. Eventually, though, plates are cleared and glasses are downed, a natural lull falling over the conversation.
“So,” he starts, head resting against his palm, arm propped up on the counter, “that photo…” He’s got that sly smirk on his face now, comfortable now to tease you about it.
You groan, burying your head in your arms. He laughed, “you don’t have to explain yourself, but I am curious what series of events led to me receiving that photo,” he said… “a series of events for which I am very thankful for, by the way.”
You turned, resting your head sideways on your arms, and started explaining all about James and his preferences, how he was your only real option for some skin-to-skin contact. Jack, for his part, listened quietly, offering little commentary until you finished your great tale.
“So you’re telling me that this kid can’t even fuck you right, yet he demands you shave before he’ll go down on you?” he asks, a horrified look on his face.
“Welcome to the joys of modern dating,” you joke, shooting him a halfhearted smile.
He shook his head, “unacceptable,” he said before hooking his leg around your stool and pulling you closer. You gasp, steadying yourself with a hand on his thigh as you fight not to topple onto him completely. He was close now, one hand coming up to rest on the hollow of your neck while the other slid up your top, thumb strumming over your ribs.
Jack didn’t hesitate this time. This kiss was different–no less searing, but a little more leisurely–like he wasn’t worried about scarcity anymore, confident that he had the time to take you apart and put you back together again before the night was over. His mouth was molten against yours, tongue delving deep in your mouth and swallowing up the steady stream of desperate whines escaping you.
The hand on your neck coasted upward, tangling in your hair and angling your head back to deepen the kiss. Your hands slid under his shirt, groaning as they came to rest on his tummy. He was warm, the muscle firm under your hands as you lightly scraped your nails over his flesh. His chest rumbled under your touch, the hand in your hair tightening, the twinge of pain a welcome contrast to the overwhelming pleasure of his lips against yours.
He barely broke the kiss to whisper into your mouth, “let me show you what its like to have a real man fuck you. Please, sugar,” he pulled away finally, resting his forehead against yours.
“Please fuck me, Jack,” you said, eyes hooded with lust. A moment later you were being scooped up from the stool and carried toward his bedroom. While Jack focused on not running into anything, you trailed open-mouthed kisses along the length of his neck, sucking the skin between your teeth before soothing it over with your tongue. You nipped gently at his adam’s apple, smiling when he yelped at the contact.
“You’re trouble, you know that?” he chuckled before dropping you down onto his bed, your body bouncing slightly before settling. He stood between your legs, face cradled between his meaty hands. “I want you to listen to me, okay?” he asked, waiting for you to nod before continuing, “I want to do so many filthy, obscene things to you tonight; want to fuck you into oblivion as many times as you’ll let me, but I want you to know that if you want to stop, at any point, you just say the word and we’re done. No questions asked. Understand?”
You nodded once more, but that was insufficient for Jack. “need you to use your big girl words, okay, pretty? Tell me you understand,” he said.
“I understand, Jack. If I want to stop, I’ll tell you,” you replied seriously, even though you knew there was no chance you’d want to stop.
“Good. Now, I want you to take off your scrubs, scoot up to the headboard, and get comfortable while I take care of my leg, okay?”
You did as he bade you, left only in a pair of pink cotton panties and bra. You hadn’t planned on being in this situation, but you were glad they were a matching set at the very least. Settling against his pillows, you watched as he shucked his pants off, the sleek metal of his prosthesis glinting in the low lamplight.
He sat down at the edge of the bed, fingers undoing the mechanism with practiced motions, twisting the appendage off and setting it to the side. The skin looked a little chapped, but not raw, which was a good sign.
“Is there anything I could do to make things more comfortable for you?” you asked. You wanted to make sure he knew you weren’t put off by his leg, wanted to make sure he didn’t feel like he had to overcompensate because of it.
“No, thank you, sugar. You’re doin’ plenty already,” he assured, turning around to face you. His eyes darkened as he took you in, his gaze hungrily raking over your newly exposed skin. He moved to hover over you, forearms braced next to your head as kisses you again, this time a sweet press of his lips against yours before he began trailing his mouth along your jaw and down your neck, laving hot kisses all across your neck and collarbone.
A gasp punches out of you when he sucks harshly at the spot just below the ear, the spot that turns your insides to putty. He grins against you, focusing his attention there until you’re a writhing, moaning mess under him. A hand reaches behind you to make quick work of your bra clasp, the flimsy material soon thrown across the room, forgotten immediately. His hands are on you in a flash, thumbs teasing along the underside of your tits.
Whining, you claw at his shirt, desperately wanting to feel his bare chest against your nipples, and he obliges, one-handedly throwing the thing off. The fine silver hair on his chest scrapes against you, your nails digging into his back as you pull him flush to you. Jack groans, hips involuntarily rutting against you, his hard cock a delicious pressure against your aching cunt. Your hips cant up, chasing the friction and grinding yourself against him.
“Careful, you keep doin’ that and this’ll be over before it even starts,” Jack warns, nipping at your bottom lip before continuing his maddening descent, mouth exploring your breasts–conveniently ignoring your painfully hard nipples. “Jaaaack,” you whine, thrusting your chest upward. He takes the hint, lips suctioning against a nipple and using his tongue to flick the pebbled flesh. Your hand fists in his curls, holding him there as his hand moves to tug at your other nipple. When he decides he’s given enough attention to one nipple, he switches sides, giving the other the same treatment. By the time he moves on, your tits are sure to be sore and red tomorrow, but you could not care less about that right now.
He kissed down your stomach, lips lingering at your navel before pulling back, eyes travelling down between your legs. “Fuck sweetheart, is all this just from me playin’ with your pretty tits?” he asked, eyes fixated on the wet spot on your panties. You whimper in response, mind too fuzzy to form words. His fingers skate over your waistband, your tummy contracting in anticipation. Ever so slowly, he drags your panties down your legs, discarding them over his shoulder as he settles between your legs.
His pupils were blown wide, utterly entranced by your pussy. The attention made you want to shrink in on yourself, your legs subconsciously moving to close, but his wide shoulders and firm grip on your thighs stopped you. “Fuck, sugar, this is what she looks like with some curls on ‘er? And you let some boy convince you she needed to be bald?” He shook his head, a genuinely pained look on his face.
He moved to spread you open for him, thumbs stroking up and down your lips as he took you in. Without warning, he surged forward, pressing a chase kiss against your clit before sitting back and continuing to admire your pussy. You squealed, hips twitching forward in search of more friction, the brief contact making you dizzy with need. It was slightly embarrassing, being watched like this, but you were growing impossibly wetter anyway.
Jack’s hands moved back to your thighs as you squirmed, grip tightening, fingers sinking into your soft flesh just enough to ache, and spread you further open. “Don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he said, pressing hot kisses from your knee to your inner thigh, stopping right at the crease between your pussy and thigh, breath fanning over your puffy folds. Your clit was throbbing, your hips subtly shifting against nothing.
“‘m gonna show you just how pretty this pussy is, not gonna stop until you feel it,” he said, looking directly into your eyes, “you okay with that?”
No sooner had you nodded than he was on you. He didn’t waste any time, swiping the flat of his tongue through your folds from entrance to clit in one long stroke. His tongue was hot against your cunt, the muscle firm as it lapped hungrily at your folds, exploring every inch of you. He groaned, nuzzling his face deeper into your pussy. “Fuck, you taste better than I could have ever imagined,” he moaned, tongue dipping into your hole to collect the slick gathering there.
He didn’t surface for air, mouth working against you relentlessly; like he’d been deprived of something vital that had been restored to him, and he wasn’t about to let it go again. It was primal, almost animalistic the way he licked, sucked, and nipped at your cunt. Your back arched almost painfully off the bed, hands fisted in the sheets and moans slipping from your lips unbidden.
He alternated between circling your clit in tight little circles with the tip of his tongue, and suckling on it, lips wrapped snug around the bundle of nerves. Your body was hot, your legs trembling as the coil in your core wound tighter. One hand moved to grip his curls, the hair soft between your fingers as you tugged at it. He moaned into your pussy, the vibrations bringing you right to the edge.
“Fuck, right there, Jack,” you gasped, “I’m so close, so–”
“Cum for me, sugar, let me taste you,” he said quickly, head bowing back down to suck your clit harshly, teeth grazing it just the littlest bit.
And you did, white hot pleasure coursing through you, body contorting, legs squeezing his head between your thighs as you rode out your orgasm. You felt like a live wire, your nerves firing on all cylinders while Jack kept gentle pressure on your clit, drawing out your release as long as possible. Jack lapped up all your spend, not letting a drop go to waste. Boneless, you weakly pushed his head away, the overstimulation too much.
He sat back a fraction, face dripping with your juices and his saliva. There was a gleam in his eye as his thumb replaced his mouth, rubbing soft circles against your clit. A high-pitched whine escaped you, your sensitive nub begging for reprieve.
“You can give me another one, can’t you pretty girl?” he asked, voice brooking no argument.
“I d-don’t–fuck–I don’t know,” you blabbered, the painful overstimulation quickly giving way to pleasure, your hips canting forward against his thumb.
“I think you can,” he murmured, swiping a thick finger through your folds before sinking it in and curling lazily against that sweet spot on your front wall. “Fuck, Jack, feels so good,” you moaned, moving you hips in time with his finger. Before you knew it he was adding another finger, a slight sting accompanying the stretch. All you could do was whimper, his fingers switching between slow and deep, and fast and hard strokes.
Your second orgasm hit you without warning, pleasure reverberating through your body from the top of your head to the soles of your feet, your toes curling as you came harder than you ever had in your life. Jack’s fingers kept moving, wringing every last after shock from your body. You were panting now, trying to catch your breath but failing miserably.
And yet, Jack’s fingers were still moving, scissoring you open now. It was too much, the sensations bordered more on pain than pleasure. “I can’t–can’t do a-another one like this,” you stuttered out.
Jack looked at you, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Tell me you have the prettiest pussy,” he said, fingers slowing a fraction as he waited for you to answer, gaze leveled directly at you.
You whined, face heating at the order, “J-Jack, please, just wanna cum on your cock,” you said, hoping it would break his resolve.
“I’ll fuck you as soon as you say it, sugar. Say you have the prettiest pussy.”
You squirmed, cheeks hot as you whimpered, “I can’t–I’m not–” was all you managed to get out before a sharp slap landed on your pussy. You gasped, the pain shocking but not unwelcome.
“If you want to cum on my cock, you have to be a good girl,” he said, face severe as he continued curling his fingers against your sweet spot. “and good girls do what they’re told. So, I want you to say, ‘Jack, I have the prettiest, sweetest pussy’ okay? Can you do that for me, pretty girl?” he asked, thumb circling your clit.
You huffed, trying to catch your breath. “Ja-aack, fuck, I-I have, hng, I have the p-prettiest, sweet–ah–sweetest pussy,” you stammered out.
“Knew you could do it for me,” he praised, fingers leaving your cunt to pull off his boxers. His cock sprang out, curving slightly and resting against his abdomen. It stole the breath from your lungs–It was obnoxiously thick and decently lengthy, tip flushed red and leaking precum steadily. Your hand reached out to feel him, maybe jerk him off a little before he fucked you, but Jack stopped you, pinning your wrist down on the bed. You whined, lip jutting out in a not-so-faux pout.
“I’m trying not to cum in 5 seconds like a teenager, sugar, and if you put your soft hands on me right now I’m not gonna be able to last,” he said, reaching over to his bedside table to grab a condom. He stroked his cock a few times before rolling the condom on and lining himself up with your entrance, neither one of you interested in teasing anymore.
He eased the tip in, your walls fluttering around him to accommodate his girth. Your legs spread open wider for him as he settled between your hips, pushing the rest of his length in slowly until he was flush against your hips, his pelvic bone rubbing your clit just right. The stretch was intense, your walls fluttering and clenching harshly at the intrusion. Your hips wiggled slightly, trying to get used to the twinge of pain from the sheer size of him.
Jack hovered over you, one arm resting next to your head while the other gripped your hip tight. His face was twisted, almost painful looking. “You gotta relax for me, sugar, you’re gripping me like a fuckin’ vise,” he grit out, head falling into the crook of your neck, placing chaste kisses there, trying to loosen you up. You tried, willing your muscles to relax around him.
A few moments passed before Jack was able to move, pulling out to the tip before thrusting back in harshly, setting a brutal pace. You moaned, Jack’s hips snapping hard against you, cock dragging through your walls exquisitely. You tried to keep up with his pace, your hips meeting each thrust, cunt greedily sucking him back in each time.
Your back was arched, hair splayed out across the pillow as you took what Jack gave you.
“So pretty for me, sweetheart,” he said, sitting back on his haunches, “my perfect little pussy.” He grabbed at your thighs, pushing them up toward your chest, knees nearly at your ears. The new angle forced him deeper than before, his thrusts fucking you into the mattress. You were entranced by the view of him fucking you, curls dripping and chest glistening with sweat as he pounded into your pussy.
The room sounded obscene between the slapping skin, your combined moans, and your squelching cunt. Moans were falling from your lips at a near constant rate, and Jack was louder than you’d expected, throaty groans and grunts reverberating like music to your ears.
You’re honestly not sure you’ve ever come more than twice in a night, but it didn’t take as long as you thought for your third orgasm to build, the waves cresting fast. The only thing you could think about was Jack’s cock hammering into your pussy.
“I think I’m gonna, gonna cum again,” you breathed, “don’t stop, Jack, pleasepleasepleasepleeeeeeease,” you keened.
Jack’s hand found your jaw, tilting your face up to kiss him sloppily, “cum for me, baby, let me feel you milk my cock,” he said, thrusts growing more uncoordinated as he neared his orgasm.
It only took a few more deep, punishing trusts before you were coming undone around his cock. You held eye contact with Jack as your orgasm washed over you, your mouth parted wide, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes at the overwhelming sensations. You felt so full, your walls pulsing mercilessly around him.
Jack gripped your hips in both hands, his trusts faster and harder than before as he chased his release. “wanna feel you cum in me Jack,” you croaked, throat raw, hands reaching out to paw at any skin you could.
Jack groaned, hips stuttering a few more times before thrusting deep into you once last time and cumming. He ground his hips into yours, milking every last drop from his cock. You felt the warmth of his cum through the condom, your cunt clenching again at the feeling, your mind already flashing forward to imagine him fucking you raw–you let about another garbled moan at the thought.
Spent, Jack collapsed into you, cock softening inside your still pulsing cunt. His weight on top of you was comforting, grounding you back to earth. You were content to lay there, coming down and catching your breath.
Eventually Jack rolled off of you, disposing of the condom and grabbing a few wet wipes from his nightstand to clean you both up.
He pulled you against his side, big hand petting your hair, “You okay, sugar? Was that too much?” he asked, voice hoarse.
“no, was so good, Jackie,” you mumbled, feeling floaty and sated.
“Good,” he whispered, pressing soft kisses onto your hairline.
You sat in comfortable silence for a while, head resting on his bare chest, his heartbeat a comforting thrum in your ear. One large hand ran up and down the smooth expanse of your back while the other held your hand against his chest, fingers intertwined together.
“I hope you know this isn’t just a one time thing,” he said suddenly, his arm tightening its hold around you.
“No?” you asked, trying to keep the hopeful edge out of your voice.
“Uh-uh, you’re mine,” he says possessively, hand snaking down to cup your sensitive mound, “this is my pussy now.”
You want to be offended, want to point out that you’re more than your cunt. But you know Jack knows that, and more than anything your head grows warm and fuzzy at the thought of being someone’s. Of being Jack’s.
“Yeah, ‘s all yours, Jackie,” you mumble, falling asleep against the gentle rise and fall of his chest, happier than you’ve been in a long time.
a/n: whew that was a lot!! thank you if you made it all the way through!!
warnings: sitting on face - not proofread. this is about a thick reader.
andrew enjoys being suffocated. he’s an odd guy and to say he wouldn’t enjoy being suffocated normally — or abnormally — would be a lie. he probably enjoys the fight during jobs for the physiological and psychological aspects.
but he enjoys being suffocated by your thighs more than anything. you noticed this obsession when you were intimate for the first time.
the night began with his head resting on your naked thighs and your fingers roaming his curls, jaw that was spackled with stubble, and soft lobes that he loved when you fiddled with. you were watching a boring movie you can’t remember the name of — you only had it playing as white noise to drown out the vulgar thoughts in your mind.
this was the first time he was in your apartment and even though you were okay with watching a movie and perhaps cuddling, you couldn’t stop yourself from hoping it would lead to something else. it didn’t matter if it was full-on sex like you’d been thinking of: face deep in the mattress, your hair wrapped around Andrew’s hand; or letting him pump into you as you straddled him on the couch. or if it was simply having his face between your thighs and his fingers buried so deep inside of you that you could imagine them in your stomach. all you wanted was to feel him with a few less pieces of clothing and hear the whines that would escape his mouth when he’d hug you.
a part of you knew he was desperate because of that. sure, you’d groan when someone tightly hugged you, but it was because of the stress you always hid in your shoulders. with andrew, it was different. you would hug him and he’d nuzzle his face into your neck, let his hands run down your back and to your hips and ass. he’d whimper into your skin. it was always loud in your ears, too, and made every part of you thump.
if he’d express his neediness through a simple hug, you knew he wanted you just as much as you wanted him. all you needed was to try a little harder.
at some point during the movie, andrew’s hands started moving from their original, balled up position on your right thigh. his fingertips danced along your skin before pushing themselves between them.
“what are you doing?” you asked, your voice low and curious.
his head moved now, too, and your hand in his hair with it. he stared up at you and said, “i want you to sit on my face.”
you choked out a sound between a scoff and a laugh. the straightforwardness caught you by surprise though he’d never been anything but.
“i’ve never done that.”
“why not?”
you shrugged. you didn’t lie with andrew. you couldn’t say you didn’t know why, or that the suggestion never presented itself. “i’ve always been too scared.”
then he laughed. it wasn’t mangled like yours. it was a laugh that only leaves people when you say something stupid. “why?”
you rolled your eyes. “i don’t know if you’ve seen me, but i’m not itty-bitty. i have a bit of weight on me and it’s always freaked me out.”
“that’s dumb.”
you pushed him back with your palm. “fuck you. what if i suffocate you?” he shook his head and stood up from the couch. you reached out and grabbed his arm and yanked him back down. he stumbled a bit and ended up kneeling in front of you. “i always think about it. i would like to, i’m just nervous.”
he looked at you with his signature stare — the one that coats his irises black and could probably burn through walls. this time it felt less hot with anger and more hot with horniness.
after what felt like eternity, his hands landed on your thighs. they moved over every inch of skin. then came his lips. he kissed your legs and wide thighs, and bit the skin of your ass that snuck out of your loose shorts.
his face settled in the dip between your thighs and nudged them a part with his nose.
“open,” he whined, and you followed. he kissed your cunt over your shorts and cursed.
he was panting like a dog while he kissed you. he groaned as he kissed your pudge that couldn’t hide behind the clothing he kept pulling. he could feel every groove of your thighs and it drove him to the point of rutting his bulge against your couch.
he pushed himself back after a few minutes and leaned against your coffee table. his hair was messy from your fingers and his lips were plump.
he pulled your leg a bit and said, “get up. take your clothes off.”
you nodded and slowly stood up. you were getting nervous now. you were facing away from him as you took your shirt off but when you only had your ‘thursday’ panties on and your semi-sexy bra, you turned to him. “what if you can’t breathe? and i kill you?”
he rolled his eyes again. “that’d be a nice way to go out.”
you studied him as you pulled your panties down and undid your bra. you tried to see if he was being serious, or if he made a face that showed he was lying and didn’t want you to lay all your weight on his face. but nothing changed. he kept palming his erection and staring at you as if you were his last meal.
you’d realized at the end — as he got on his knees and unbuttoned his jeans while staring at the patch of hair coating your cunt — that he’d been dreaming about this.
“here or my bed?” you asked.
andrew didn’t say anything but he got up and grabbed your hand. he dragged you down the hall to your room like he knew the place by memory and threw off his shirt while you stood by the foot of your bed.
he snuck his hand into his pants and stroked himself awkwardly. “you okay?” he asked.
you shrugged and hugged yourself. you were too bare. “sure.”
he walked over to the bed and sat down beside you. “do you want to do this?”
“yeah,” you answered with a nod. “in my brain it looked a bit different.”
“oh yeah? how?”
“i was just immediately naked,” you chuckled. “i didn’t have to take my clothes off, they just were off. and you don’t stare at me like that in my imagination.”
“but you sit on my face?”
“yeah…”
he scooted back onto your bed and kept moving until his back hit your headboard. he shimmied his pants and boxers lower down his body so that his cock sprung free; and he began stroking himself.
you felt odd standing there like a stranger to your own room, so you joined him on your bed, sitting on your knees in front of him.
“do you just sit or do you ride my face?”
you were getting wet at his words. you bit your lip and nodded. “i pull your hair and usually you’re cursing and moaning. i can always feel it.”
“that it?”
“you seem to enjoy it.”
he cracks a smile. “come here.”
you moved over to him and sit right by his face. you were nervous again. “promise that if you don’t want to do it anymore, you … pinch me or something.”
“that won’t happen.”
“well in case.”
“okay. so are you going to shut up and fuck my face or do i have to force you?”
you didn’t roll your eyes or say anything. you just swallowed the lump in your throat and placed a hand on the headboard. you then rested one thigh on one side of his face, then lowered onto his face. carefully. not all the way down.
“christ,” he mumbled, then pulled you down so you weren’t just hovering, but putting all your weight on his face.
you swore you heard him say, “so fucking wet,” and, “my fucking pussy,” but it was hard because he was sucking on your clit and it pulled a moan out of your throat.
you grabbed your tit and pulled your nipple as andrew started moving his tongue along your pussy. he was already finding his rhythm while you tried to find one with your hips. in your imagination, you just knew. but that was your mind. this was real life, and it wasn’t as easy.
you could hear andrew messily eating your pussy as you panted out his name against your headboard. your forehead was leaning against the cool wall, and it was the only coolness you’d feel. you were hot all over and sweat began forming on your chest.
your free hand snaked down to his head and you tugged on his curls. the movement made him moan against your clit, which he then softly bit. and that had you jerk against his face.
“oh fuck me,” you moaned. it felt more than good — his nose was hitting your clit just right and the more you leaned forward and ground onto him, the better.
so obviously, you kept it up.
andrew moved down the bed just a little bit and you leaned forward a bit more, too. your hands were still deep in his curls as you began fucking his face.
he was whining beneath you. you could both hear and feel it.
it felt like andrew was swallowing the slickness coating your pussy. he was drinking you up and sucking your clit with such fervor it drove you mad.
his tongue would swirl around your clit; he’d nearly makeout with it. his nails were digging into your ass, too. you were in fucking heaven.
there was this high pitched cry that came from andrew right after you said, “you’re such a pretty boy letting me ride your stupid face,” that led to you coming.
it was intense. you kept bucking onto his face and yanking at his hair as you came down from your orgasm.
you nearly forgot andrew was beneath you for a moment as you caught your breath, but him squeezing your ass and slapping it reminded you.
you pulled your thigh over his face and sat on your knees again. “sorry,” you said shyly, as if you hadn’t been suffocating him two seconds prior.
he licked his lips and shrugged. “it’s okay. i would’ve stayed there for longer if you didn’t move.” you brought a hand up to his face to wipe the wetness on his chin but he caught it before you removed anything. “nuh-uh. i want to think about this for longer than five minutes.”
you felt a blush creep up your chest. “okay,” you told him. “it was that good?”
“i want to be between your thighs until i fucking die.”
“really?” you asked with a smile. you then pushed him back against the mattress again. “i think we can make that happen.”
pairing: Jack Abbot x surgeon!f reader
summary: when Jack arrives in the ER in his SWAT uniform, he is surprised to see a new surgeon. and right away, he takes a liking to your brazen tone and notices your skills. he finds you intriguing. except, you hate everything about his hobby, and you aren’t afraid to let him know.
warnings: ACAB! her attitude gives enemies-to-lovers vibes, but Jack is mostly flabbergasted; mentions of a shootout, deaths and guilt; some hurt/comfort (while he’s shirtless...), PLOT TWIST. also, I added one slur (to indicate that the character is racist, not because I would ever use that word irl). P.S. please don’t get offended on Jack’s behalf. he’s fictional, he can take it. / words: 7K / author’s note: guys, I know no one asked for this... but it came to me in a dream. it was also fuled by the rage I feel daily bc I have to work with men. and yes, I love it when Jack is touch-starved and yearning ♡ READ ON AO3 / MASTERLIST
Sweat tastes like salt, and gunshots smell like fireworks, and the loud sounds still echo in his head. Jack takes deep, measured breaths. The car shakes as it takes a turn, but he is staying calm. Collected. He keeps his hand on the bag valve and presses rhythmically to force more air into Hiro’s lungs. His gaze is focused on the deep wound on his neck, the bandages soaked through.
Blood is just blood.
Wet, warm, staining the skin with crimson.
The splatters of it dried up on his hands and vest. It’s been a while since he had to treat an injury this bad. Out in the field, under active fire, with the adrenaline blazing through his bloodstream. Except, that feeling he once loved and chased has recently become less thrilling. More unnerving. And underneath the layers of the synthetic fibers and his years-old restraint, a heaviness has settled in his chest. Jack knows it’s not about the bleeding — at least, not the one he did manage to stop.
Because as they ride through the tunnel, the light flickers — from bright to dull fluorescent one — and Hiro’s face is momentarily replaced by someone else’s.
Someone way younger, in his twenties, his eyes widened in horror, his mouth opening to push the panicked words out. His teeth are colored red —
Then Jack blinks. The sunlight floods the car again.
“How are we doing back there, doc?” Levington asks him from the driver’s seat.
“Those damn beaners got him good. But your guys will patch him up, right? 'Cause I’m supposed to be one of his groomsmen, and let me tell you, those tux rentals ain’t cheap —”
“Lev, can you just shut the fuck up and step on it?” a gruff voice interrupts.
“Got it, Sarge!”
The engine roars.
The weight in Abbot’s chest sinks deeper. But he is nothing if not pro at pushing his emotions down. So he does just that.
They ride straight to the ambulance bay, and two paramedics help them transfer Hiro on a gurney. The numbness in Jack’s wrist gives way to tingling as he moves his hand a little; he keeps his fingers clasped around the bag. He keeps his calm. Pretending that he doesn’t feel the pain stinging his shoulder blade, a deep graze where the bullet missed him.
And there’s some relief in coming into the ER, a safe space with the well-known faces — Robby’s the first to greet him, already on alert.
“Intubated neck wound, sats not great,” Jack explains, his hands moving on autopilot — one pressing on the bag, the other checking Hiro’s pulse. “You got a trauma room open?”
“Trauma 1,” Robby nods, helping to move the gurney in the right direction. “What’s the story?”
“Officer Hiro, high-velocity GSW. Warehouse robbery gone sideways,” Jack lists, avoiding further details.
Because if he says more, he’ll have to deal with questions he has yet to find the answers to. Because he’s used to making clean cuts, having a clear conscience, taking a clear course of action. But the truth is messy. And he doesn’t have time for that.
Instead, Abbot takes notice of Hiro’s barely moving chest, just as they roll the gurney in, Santos and Perlah already in the room.
Trinity’s gaze flits between two men in uniform, not with dismay but with her usual curiosity. With the excitement some might consider odd. Jack doesn’t. He also wonders when was the last time his job made him excited. He can’t remember. Definitely not today.
“Did you do this intubation?” Santos takes the bag from him.
“Under active fire, yeah. I go in with the team in case there’s an injury,” Jack tells her casually, a pair of scissors already in his hands, the metal blades hastily cutting through the bandages.
“That’s badass,” Trinity notes with a small grin, her eyes bright with amusement.
Jack only shrugs. His face expression stays unfazed. Behind it, there’s a roaring concern: with how much air he’s been pumping into Hiro’s lungs, they should inflate way more. They should make his chest rise and fall, a steady breath-like pattern. A vital pattern.
The monitor goes off.
“Sats down to 85,” Robby warns.
A respiratory failure means that they have to act fast. It also means that he missed something. And getting confirmation hurts Jack way more than being shot at.
“Shit, his trachea’s transected,” he grunts as he removes the dirty bandages, “I didn’t notice.”
“So if we intubate again, it will come straight out the wound,” Trinity guesses from behind his shoulder.
“Bingo. Need another plan,” he takes the plastic tube out of Hiro’s mouth, and she promptly puts the mask on him, with the same bag attached to it.
It’s the same working principle: her fingers squeeze the bag, the air goes in. And Jack helplessly watches as it leaks through the neck wound, blood bubbling at the edges.
The beeping doesn’t stop.
Robby shakes his head. “Sats down to 83.”
“He’s not moving any air,” Jack mumbles, “Can’t send him up like this.”
Robby catches his gaze, hums, thinks it over. “How about a neonatal mask?”
“A neonatal?” Santos sounds confused. “But how can it —”
“Put it to his neck,” Jack realizes. “Seals the wound, allows the air to go where it’s supposed to.”
Trinity nods. Then runs up to the supply cabinet, and just a tiny bit of her excitement does rub off on him. Jack lets out a breath, sweat beading on his brow; his heart is still restless with worry. Seconds drag out while he waits, and the neonatal mask actually works — sats climb up to 98, the oxygen finally filling up the lungs. But Abbot knows it’s not a permanent solution.
Robby knows, too. He steps back to give a call to the OR.
Jack figures out a way to keep his hands busy in the meantime: a syringe with a needle and two ampules he asks Perhal for — lidocaine for numbing and epi to reduce the bleeding. He carefully works around the wound, peppering it with injections, as Trinity checks up the lungs.
“Good lung sliding, no pneumo,” she reads the monitor.
This is good news. They are unfortunately followed by Robby hanging up the phone with a loud sigh.
“The OR is packed, they can take him in 20 minutes at best.”
“Wish I could say I am surprised,” Jack huffs, feigning a tone that will not give away how much he hates it — wait, and uncertainly, and feeling like he’s failing someone. “It’s always on this day when people collectively decide to lose a few of their limbs.”
“More like a few of their brain cells,” Perlah mutters, earning a laugh from Santos.
“Think he can hang in there for 20 more minutes?” Robby asks.
“I don’t want to sit and wait,” Jack counters and puts the syringe away. “Any suggestions?”
“Mine would be to sit and wait.”
“That’s just lazy, man.”
“Well, sorry I’m not a wellspring of ideas, some of us been working since 6 a.m.”
They aren’t seriously bickering — it’s just a way to keep Jack’s mind distracted, an impromptu grounding technique. Robby’s aware, so he plays along. Jack welcomes it.
“What do you think I’ve been doing? Does this camo make it look like I returned from a vacation?”
“I’m starting to think you just enjoy watching people shoot at each other.”
“Says the guy whose definition of fun is riding a bike without the damn helmet.”
“Which only happened once, meanwhile you continuously —”
The door swings open, putting their conversation to a halt.
And then a smile stretches Robby’s lips as his eyes land on someone else.
“Do you ever take breaks?”
“Do you?” you quip and hastily throw on a gown. “Cause you aren’t leading by example, that’s for sure.”
Jack instantly turns to the sound. He doesn’t recognize your voice — confident, brazen even — nor your hair color. He only glimpses your profile before you put a mask on, your movements quick, honed. Not hesitating once. He’s yet to learn your name, but your dark scrubs give him a hint: you’re a surgeon.
The one Robby already seems acquainted with. He keeps his gaze on you while you reach for the gloves.
“And why is it always you who comes down to us?”
“That is a weird way of saying thank you.”
“I just don’t want our promising new hire to burn out too fast. And I am seeing some troubling signs.”
“What you are seeing is eight hours of sleep paired with a healthy dose of caffeine. Not that you’d know what it looks like,” you scoff at Robby, mirth in your voice. “Also, promising? What a compliment.”
“We’ve only been working together for two weeks, I can’t go soft on you. Or people will start talking,” Robby steps back to let you take his place, like he is used to it. Like there is a rhythm you two have learned to fall into.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you tell him bluntly, but your attention is on Hiro — you quickly look over his bloodied chest and wounded neck, a slight furrow between your brows. “The neonatal mask was a good call.”
Then finally, you spare Jack a glance.
Your eyes catch on his uniform for a perceptible few seconds, then dart up to his face. And Jack involuntarily, immediately tenses. Because it feels like he is staring down the barrel of a gun, and your gaze is loaded. Like there are words you want to fire at him, a shot that will be deadly.
His heartbeat stutters.
But you don’t say a thing.
You silently look back at Hiro. And suddenly, a thought comes to Jack’s mind: something about you is incredibly familiar.
Robby stands right behind you, oblivious to any tension and still smiling. “You aren’t gonna let me win, will you? Emery warned me —”
“You bring her up so often, I’m starting to suspect you have a crush, Robinavich,” — you throw a look at Trinity, “Santos, help me cut down a 6-0 ET tube,” — then, back at Robby, “Sorry to break it to you, but you are not her type.”
“Is it the beard?”
“Among other things,” you chuckle.
Jack really wants to interfere with your banter — it feels like things are slipping out of his control: no one is asking for his opinion or his help, although it’s his friend who is about to bleed out on the table.
But you’re a natural at multitasking.
You talk while your sharp gaze does the inspection, while you draw up a plan. You tell Trinity where to cut the tube and ask for clamps, your fingers pulling up the mask from Hiro’s neck, your gloves already covered in his blood.
“The problem must be in my erratic working schedule,” Robby muses teasingly, watching you work.
Your eyebrows flicker up at his remark. Behind your mask, there’s an expression that Abbot guesses is a smirk. “No, I’d say it’s more about your pathological refusal to commit to a serious relationship and instead fucking around and calling it casual. Which does sound funny coming from a man in his fifties,” you deadpan.
Perlah gives Robby a pointed look, not hiding that she does agree with you. Santos is trying very hard (and failing) to hold back a laugh. And unexpectedly, despite his whirlpool of emotions that are far from funny, Jack feels his mouth smiling too.
You keep your focus on the wound and add nonchalantly: “Please tell me you haven’t been casual with anyone in this room.”
Robby is blushing — profusely, from his ears to his cheeks. “You overestimate my charm.”
“I’m yet to find any. But somehow that doesn’t stop so many other women,” you tsk. Then mercifully grant him some reprieve. “His sats will tank, he’s in need of an airway. Trinity, come help me with the tube.”
“Allow me,” the words come out before Jack can rationalize them, his body leaning slightly toward yours across the table.
Like he is following a pull.
You don’t object. But now that he is standing closer, Jack catches how your eyes dart to the side, your brows pinched together. Almost as if you fight the urge to look at him again, to say something.
But for the second time, you don’t.
And even though Abbot is not inclined to think about it too hard — of how he looks and how he carries himself, and what effect it might have on people — he cannot help but wonder if your discomfort comes from that. Maybe you also feel the pull, maybe you’re trying to be professional about it.
He doesn’t mind the quiet. It drapes over you two as you work in accidental tandem: Santos gives Jack the tube, and he waits patiently for you to find the distal trachea. He checks the monitors. Although he’s drawn to keep his eyes on you. As much as Abbot is still worried, he is also undeniably intrigued.
His tension slowly eases —
Until the door creaks open, and Levington clumsily pushes half of his body in. The holster on his hip bumps against the wall, the handle of the gun making a dull sound.
“How’s it going, guys? This one didn’t kick the bucket yet?”
Jack doesn’t want to get distracted — or worse, to distract you. Not when you’re concentrated on the task, the metal shanks bloody and gleaming as you rotate them, trying to grip the windpipe and leave everything intact. Abbot looks up at Robby.
Robby first looks at you.
He then loses his smile and the amiability he usually uses around patients. Which is weird. He turns to Levington.
“It’s better if you wait outside, and we’ll update you once he’s out of surgery,” Robby says dryly. His voice drops slightly when he adds, “Should be more careful with the gun.”
“The safety’s on,” Levington brushes off, then chuckles. “Wouldn’t want to shoot myself in the leg and end up on the table too.”
“Weapons of any kind aren’t allowed in the ER,” you say without looking at him, way louder than Robby.
And there’s a stark change in your tone — it’s lacking playfulness, it is completely void of any warmth, each word spoken so firmly that you sound almost... Angry. Jack catches on to that.
Levington doesn’t.
“Oh, I’m a big boy, I can handle —”
“Wasn’t exactly a suggestion,” you cut him off. “You aren’t allowed in here, period. Go flash your gun some place else. Am I being clear?”
For just a second, you do look at him, a brief turn of your masked face in his direction.
And Levington — six feet tall, almost two hundred pounds of chiseled muscles and blissful ignorance — flinches under your stare. He throws both hands up.
“S-sorry, already leaving,” he stutters and backs out of the room.
The sats drop down to 91.
“I got it,” you say in the same second.
Jack’s part is easier: he only needs to place the tube in. Gently, securely. His face inches closer to yours, his gaze grazing the high points of your cheeks, the lines of your throat. You surely can feel him staring, but you don’t move away. Eventually, he does.
“I’m in. Balloon up.”
The chestpiece of Robby’s stethoscope glides over Hiro’s chest. The number on the monitor is climbing up. Everyone shares a sigh of relief.
“Good breath sounds,” Robby confirms, a corner of his mouth curling. “Not bad, you guys.”
But when Jack tries meeting your gaze, you don’t give him the satisfaction, your face not softened one bit. Nor is your voice when you say coolly:
“Good thing that whoever shot him couldn’t aim for shit.”
That scratches off some of Jack’s pretense. Most of his nonchalance. Because you masterfully fish out not only the trachea, but also the damned memories he has been trying to suppress.
The rows of corridors, the piles of packaged and hastily abandoned goods. Shadows that move across the floor, hide behind structured rows of shelves. Hushed conversations. Hectic decisions. They are on the run.
Hiro’s voice booming.
“Kid, you don’t even know how to use that thing! Just put your weapon down!”
Shots fired — intentional, precise, hitting the targets as expected. But one is sudden, accidental, the bullets ricocheting off the metal with bright tiny sparks.
Hiro gets hit.
His hand clasped weakly over his neck, red pouring through his fingers until Jack can apply more pressure. Until they rush him out of the building.
There are two dead bodies left behind.
The third one is still fighting against the imminent demise. Convulsing limbs and bloodied teeth and scared eyes — looking straight at Jack.
Robby’s palm on his shoulder brings him back.
“— don’t have to stay for this,” he repeats, “We can take it from here.”
He sounds more cautious, like he can finally feel that something’s off. But he can’t figure out what exactly. Robby steps to where you’re standing.
“I’ll sew the trachea to the skin. Can’t let you do all the work around here.”
You don’t argue. But your gloved hand brushes Hiro’s half-naked body, your fingers moving to his side. You pull away the piece of his torn t-shirt. There is a spot beneath his ribs — big, blooming violet.
“Missed a bruise. Left upper quadrant.”
Santos picks the ultrasound transducer. “Wasn’t he wearing body armor?”
“High-velocity projectile doesn’t have to penetrate to damage,” Jack notes.
He stays to help Robby with suturing. You take the transducer from Trinity, maneuvering your body and your hand to move around Abbot so you can get an image while still keeping your distance.
And this doesn’t feel like you are fighting an attraction to him, no. It comes off as avoidance. Dislike even.
But why?
“No fluid in the suprasplenic space. Looks like a subcapsular hematoma of his spleen,” you say, ignoring Jack’s existence as if your arm isn’t bumping into his.
“So he needs an abdominal CT,” Santos suggests.
“CT angio of the neck first. Then CT chest, abdomen, pelvis.”
“Geez, I wonder what the other guy looks like,” Trinity mumbles.
Abbot pretends he didn’t hear the question. But now that he’s the one ignoring something obvious, you glance at him. He feels it — your gaze comes with the safety off. And he remembers that he also has a gun. The chances that you haven’t noticed aren’t very high. Which may be what’s been bothering you.
“How did that even happen?” Santos wonders, and this one time Jack wishes she could be less curious. Trinity adds, a tad bit awkward. “I mean, if it’s not a top secret.”
Since everyone is staring at him, he can’t help but talk.
“Some guys naively thought today was the day to rob a goods warehouse. Didn’t think about how long it would take to load the appliances,” Jack explains half-heartedly. “They panicked when the SWAT rolled in. All hell broke loose.”
“His recovery will also feel like hell,” Perlah nods toward Hiro with a small, sympathetic frown.
“Good thing someone else didn’t catch a bullet,” Robby remarks, both disapproving and concerned, his gaze fixed on the wound.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jack notices you move away. As if you aren’t very interested in this discussion. But Perlah is — she squints at Jack, and there’s more confusion than disapproval in her words:
“Why’d you volunteer for something like that?”
You snap your gloves off, one then the other; then your mask.
“My therapist said I needed a hobby,” Abbot says.
It’s an excuse packed as a joke, but both work poorly — there is a glaring proof of how unsafe the job is, with Jack’s hands still on Hiro’s wounded neck. Proof that it isn’t just a fun, carefree pastime.
Because there’s no enjoyment in watching someone die.
And Jack has seen too many deaths already. He doesn’t know how long he can keep pushing it all down, deeper, until he will start cracking at the seams. So he has made it into a habit to talk his way out of situations he struggles to process.
“I mean, they just need someone to help them if things go south,” he continues, seemingly unruffled. “It’s a high-risk job. These guys put their life on the line.”
There is a sound — a huff mixed with a laugh, not airy and mirthful but instead cold and sharp. The sound comes from you.
“Do they really?”
His head snaps in your direction, and there’s no hiding how flabbergasted he is by your tone. You give him no chance to recover.
“You mean the men in military-style tactical gear who usually show up armed to the teeth? In teams, with vests, shields and helmets? Which, by the way, they get paid really well for. So how high is the risk exactly?” You glance at Hiro. “At least this one came in one piece. How many were brought in body bags today thanks to you?”
The room goes silent.
Jack’s face grows hot. And only now, belatedly, he realizes: for you, there is no pull. The only urge you’re fighting is to tear him to shreds.
Correction: you aren’t fighting it.
“Shit happens,” Abbot tries to argue. “You point a gun at a police officer, and they’re allowed to engage.”
“Are they allowed to negotiate first? Or do you usually prefer to skip that part? Sorry, my bad — not you, your team buddies.”
The truth is, he’s not really involved in the decision-making. He stays back and he follows orders, and there is no time to question them. He does sometimes, though. It has been happening more often.
You stare him down like you can read his thoughts.
“Are you allowed to help the other guys? Like, if some criminal is bleeding out on the pavement. Or does the Hippocratic Oath apply only to the upstanding citizens with a clean record and high morals?”
His heart pounds, no doubt fueled by adrenaline that’s triggering the body’s “fight or flight” response. Jack’s always been a fighter, he has learned to be — he went from jumping into fights at school to jumping out of helicopters straight into war zones. But none of that experience can help him.
His vest, his self-restraint, his wit are suddenly all useless against you.
“There are priorities of life. Civilians first, then the acting officers,” Jack forces out, because it feels unbearable not to fight back or at least try to. “The criminals come —”
“Aren’t they innocent until proven guilty? Pointing a gun at someone isn’t against the law.”
“Shooting at people is.”
“Undoubtedly, yes. Shouldn’t they be prosecuted for that?”
“Undoubtedly,” Jack echoes, not wryly but warily, like he’s afraid to walk into a trap. He does.
“Would be hard to do that when they are dead,” you note swiftly, your voice level, but your gaze is burning. Always on him. It makes Jack’s grit falter, so when you change topics, he is caught off guard.
“Where’s that warehouse you mentioned?”
Robby is finishing the stitches, his brown eyes glancing between you two with ever-growing apprehension. Perlah and Trinity are gazing at you like they just got front row tickets to some drama show. Jack doesn’t find any of this entertaining.
“I’m not sure I can disclose that information.”
You let out a hum. Dismissive. Like that’s exactly what you expect from him, like your expectations of him aren’t very high.
“Since he didn’t bleed out, and your hand didn’t fall off from pumping air into his lungs, it can’t be too far. The warehouse in Millvale sounds about right.”
Abbot’s jaw clenches. Your mouth twitches, as if you’re about to sneer.
“Isn’t that the one owned by Amazon? I’m sure one of the world’s richest men is ugly crying over a few boxes of packaged goods someone tried to steal from him.”
There’s so much tension in Jack’s face, he is about to start grinding his teeth.
“I don’t think we should let people steal whatever shit they want.”
“And I do not encourage stealing,” you retort, easily grinding on his nerves, “I’m saying you should take guilty people to court. Not kill them on the spot.”
“You ever heard about self-defence?”
“You ever tried not shooting people in the head?”
“I don’t shoot anyone. Or give orders to.”
“But you work for the men who do. Kinda sounds like you don’t have a problem with it.”
An irritated deep sigh burns his throat, but Abbot holds it back. So you push on.
“I’m not judging,” but it sounds like you are. “The job probably pays well. Wouldn’t hurt to get an extra check in this economy.” He doesn’t buy into you being conciliatory. You prove him right when you add. “I heard that ICE is hiring.”
There’s an immediate shift in the air. The silence deafening, all eyes on Jack again, as if he has to actually prove that he’d never consider that job offering.
“Since you’re so fond of law enforcement —”
“I’m not gonna join fucking ICE,” Jack hisses as he fully turns to you.
Your words send redness creeping across his cheeks, the color of both embarrassment and indignation. You turn a blind eye to his feelings.
“Oh, you have a moral compass? Would you look at that.”
The guilt is back, and now it takes the shape of a dumbbell, the weight so heavy, it’s threatening to crush his chest. At least, that’s what it feels like. His voice comes out a little strangled.
“You seem to like rushing to judgment.”
“I was merely asking. ICE loves recruiting cops.”
It’s in this moment when Robby tries to interfere. He walks closer, his eyes moving from Jack to you and back. “Guys, maybe you should —”
“They will recruit any uneducated douchbag, it has nothing to do with what the SWAT does,” Abbot insists.
“The unit of the public institution that is responsible for quarter of a million civilian injuries a year? I think my judgment is just fine,” you say, adamant in your aversion. “Those are the same guys who do forced-entry raids and treat human rights like a suggestion they are free to ignore.”
“They don’t —”
But Abbot finds himself unable to finish that sentence. We wants to say they aren’t like that, except he actually can’t be certain. He and Hiro did form a surprisingly tight friendship, but Jack has never cared to hang out with the rest. He has a schedule and a full-time job, he gets tired faster, he sometimes feels too old to get their jokes.
He’s getting irritated at how effortlessly you can sniff out his hesitation.
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“But you don’t know it either, do you?” you challenge.
For him, it takes a lot of effort — to push back his emotions, to stop himself from bluntly asking Did something happen to make you so uncompromising? There is a lot of sense in what you’re saying. But Jack sticks to his own version of truth.
“From my experience, many of them are not bad people.”
It backfires. As quickly as if he stepped on another mine. You tell him, ruthlessly straightforward:
“From my experience, half of them choose that job to flaunt their power, the other half just love cosplaying their old army days because they are adrenaline junkies who can’t be left alone with their thoughts.”
Your words land like a punch into his sternum. Because you read him like you’ve got a PhD in Jack Abbot’s supposedly complex internal turmoil. He exhales sharply. Takes a breath and bristles.
“Are you a therapist now too?”
“Am I wrong? Sorry, did it hit too close to home?”
“Guys!” Robby barks out, and that does shut you both up.
You and Jack look at him, and he glances intently at the table. At Hiro, who you two almost forgot about. You only now notice that he’s starting to wake up, his eyelids fluttering as his head moves slightly to the side.
Abbot is sombre and distrustful — he doesn’t want any of your prejudice to hit Hiro, who’s in no shape to argue or to even speak. He watches you with narrowed eyes. You briefly check — the fluids Hiro is hooked up to, his stitched-up neck. And you don’t look at Jack at all.
“Welcome back to consciousness,” you keep your voice down — and you’re believably polite. Perfectly amiable. “You may feel some discomfort in your throat, there is a tube placed there to help you breathe. It’s temporary, and we will take it out during surgery. It won’t take long, and you won’t feel a thing. You may want to stay out of karaoke for a while, though.”
Hiro’s lips curve up a little at the corners.
Jack’s guilt could take half of the room. The floor. (The building?)
He makes his face look less sour as he walks closer. It helps that he is genuinely happy to see Hiro doing better. (Most importantly, not dead.)
Jack pats him on the shoulder, although the touch barely lands. “You’re gonna be okay, Hiro. You’re in good hands.”
Your argument (or was it a fight?) has momentarily gone from sizzling to smoldering. Robby moves to stand between you, a self-proclaimed referee.
“What’s the plan?”
“The Radiology first. Head and Neck will have an OR ready with thoracic standing by,” you explain.
“How soon can they take him?”
“We’re still backed up with Westbridge patients, but I can speed things up. Let’s start with CT.”
“Can I ride up with you?” Trinity asks, never apologetic for her ambitions.
And you must like it, because you give her a half-smile as you nod. “The more the merrier.”
It stings Jack’s pride a little how easily you get along with people. With anyone but him.
He helps to transfer Hiro on a gurney, and you two stand shoulder to shoulder for a moment. You only level him with a glare. Your eyes unreadable, your body moving out of the room like you wish to never share it with Abbot.
The space’s left empty, save for him and Robby.
“What the hell was that?” Jack says under his breath, eyes still glued to the place where you were standing.
“That was our new surgeon,” Robby informs him casually, his tone suggesting you and him work pretty well together. “She likes to come down between the surgeries to check up on the critical cases, see if she can help. No idea when she manages to actually take breaks, but I’m not complaining.”
Jack watches as Robby pulls down his gown, feeling his emotions simmer, his cheeks still warm. “That’s not what I’m asking.”
Robby sends him a glance, then lets out a long exhale.
“Wish I could give you an answer,” although he doesn’t sound too bothered by the lack of it. “Last week, a couple of cops brought in one of theirs, tried to stick by while he was on the table. And she almost dragged them out of the ER with her own hands,” Robby takes off his gloves and tosses them into the trash can. “To be fair, their buddy did shoot himself in the thigh, and they all reeked of beer. So she didn’t seem totally unreasonable, and I didn’t want to push her. Maybe she’s anti-gun, maybe something happened to her? Hell if I know. It’s none of my business unless it affects her job. And it doesn’t. You saw it too.”
Jack can’t argue with that.
He also can’t stop thinking about it — your voice laced with aversion, your words biting, your eyes never shying away from his. You. He doesn’t know how to stop thinking about you.
Robby must see in his face — or maybe he just knows him well enough to guess. He asks Jack quietly:
“She did get under your skin, huh?”
Jack’s mouth is set into a straight line. He cannot master a reply, and Robby knows better than to force one out. He briefly closes his eyes, bringing his hand up to rub his neck.
“Listen, I’m as clueless as you are. But if you want to get some inside scoop, maybe try asking—”
“Dr Robby?” Mel peeks into the room. “Sorry, we’ve got a trauma incoming. A 12-year-old kid, a firecracker exploded in his hand.”
“Not again,” Robby grumbles. “Anyone ever thought of banning those fucking firecrackers? I think we should.”
“Start a petition, I’ll sign it,” Dana chuckles as she walks by.
Robby relents and steps toward the door, his hand landing on Jack’s shoulder to give it a supportive squeeze. Unknowingly, he touches his wound, and Abbot barely manages to hold back a groan.
This time, the pain in his back lingers.
And when he’s left alone, in the room that smells like blood and antiseptics, what lingers on his mind is the thought of you.
Jack looks for an empty exam room so he can quickly change and clean the wound. He doesn’t want to ask for help, knowing how busy this day’s been, which also serves as an excuse for him to stay for a few hours.
He tells himself it has nothing to do with you. It sounds like a lie.
Jack tiredly removes his sweat-stained long-sleeve, wincing when the material drags over his bruised shoulder blade. He takes the holster off, makes sure the gun is safely placed inside, then slowly pulls up his t-shirt. He barely has time to take it off when he hears quick footsteps approaching.
“Mr Diaz?” Samira calls out, loud and excited. The door clicks open. “Mr Diaz, I have a surprise for you,” she yanks the curtain to the side. Her eyes widen a little at the sight of Abbot, her tone quickly dulled to apologetic. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Jack says, a bit self-conscious, hands fumbling with the t-shirt.
Mohan pays him no mind, looking around the room. “Have you seen my patient? Orlando.”
He shakes his head. “This room was empty.”
She curses under her breath, and her face crumbles into an expression of unease that’s borderline on panic. Her eyes wander back to the hall, unsure, until they stop on someone Jack can’t see.
“Have you seen Mr Diaz?”
“The diabetic? He’s up in the med-surg. They’re gonna put him on an insulin protocol and monitor him for a couple of days.”
Jack’s fingers clutch the t-shirt tighter at the sound of your voice. He takes a step back and almost stumbles when he sees you. There’s a short pause while Samira’s scrambling for words.
“Wait, are you— Are you sure? He refused to get admitted, I barely could talk him into staying here, in the ER.”
“Yeah, it looked like he wasn’t gonna stay for long, because I caught him on the stairs in his hospital gown,” you say, a small chuckle tucked in after the last two words. “He seemed very agitated and definitely not in the best shape to leave. So I called for a psych consult.”
“Oh. I didn’t think about that,” Samira sighs, shaking her head, no doubt already taking all the blame. “I should’ve thought about that, I didn’t even— Thank you so much.”
Remarkably, as you approach her, your demeanour changes — your voice goes softer, and so does your gaze; your palm caresses her shoulder in a soothing manner.
“That’s not on you. Today’s been pretty rough, and you have to juggle dozens of cases. You can’t think of every single thing,” and you wait until Samira looks at you, until she breathes out with somewhat of a relief. “Besides, I wasn’t the one to persuade him, it’s all Kiara.”
“Guess I need to thank her too,” Samira mumbles, a bit bashful, way more hopeful.
You nudge her in the direction of the elevators, a hint of a smile on your lips — sincere and friendly, something Jack wishes he could get from you. Your gaze follows Samira as she walks away. You add:
“Maybe grab a snack on your way up. I’m pretty I haven’t seen you sit down once since the morning.”
Mohan is out of Jack’s sight, but she does something to make your almost-smile turn into a wide one, your eyes crinkling at the corners as you laugh. Jack has to sit down. He’s quick to memorize it — joy on your face, the sound of your laugh, your whole stance relaxed, if only for a couple of seconds.
He doesn’t wait for the inevitable change that will come once you see him.
Abbot averts his gaze and reaches for the medkit to take out everything he needs — alcohol wipes and cotton swabs, a tub of Vaseline, gauze pads and band-aids. It is an easy process. And yet, all he can think about is that he didn’t hear you leave. That the door is open.
And even now, after you argued, after you glared at him, after you made it evidently clear how much you hate his principles and choices, the pull is still there. So he glances up.
To find that you’re already looking at him.
Your face unsmiling and emotionless, no softness in your voice when you say:
“You are Hiro’s emergency contact.”
Jack nods and holds your gaze for a long moment. Then looks away, picking a cotton swab to scoop up a globe of Vaseline with it. He’s definitely skipping a few steps. His heart skips — not just one beat, but a couple — as you confidently move into the room.
“He doesn’t want his fiancée to freak out if something happens,” he explains, trying to focus on his wound. “So usually it’s one of us. I’m his pick for the summer since I’m not going on vacation any time soon,” Jack cannot reach his shoulder blade, and each attempt makes him feel more annoyed. Clumsy. He puts the cotton swab down, shifting in place under your stare. And yet, he’s stalling.
“He’s doing alright up there?”
“Neck angio is negative. A small splenic injury, but no free fluid in the abdomen. He’s getting prepped for the surgery,” you tell him flatly.
Nothing in your voice or face suggests you find his company enjoyable. So Jack’s expecting you to turn and go away.
You don’t.
Your gaze sweeps over his body, from his shoulders and chest down to his hands. You suddenly step to the wall to grab a pair of gloves. Before he even thinks to ask what you’re doing, you move closer and take the cotton swab from him.
Then your fingers graze the raw skin on his back.
Jack goes rigid all over.
You don’t ask questions, silently examining his wound. And Abbot doesn’t expect you to be particularly gentle with him. He almost wishes that you won’t be. If you are rough, then your presence will be something he just needs to tolerate. Sit here and wait for you to get it over with.
That’s not what happens.
Because despite your sharp voice and unfriendly attitude, your hands are warm. He feels it even through your gloves, he’s startled by that feeling: you touch him — and goosebumps rise up on his back. You must notice, it would be hard not to. But you don’t comment on it.
You work fast, as you always do: you use a wipe soaked in alcohol to clear the wound, pressing it firmly in a patting motion over the graze. You ditch the cotton swab, choosing to apply the Vaseline with your gloved finger, spreading it carefully in a thin layer. And every time you come in contact with his skin, his body’s drawn to lean into your touch. A treacherous, unfathomable yearning. Of course, Jack stops himself. He’s sitting with his hands crossed over his chest, mentally counting seconds, hoping his torture will be over soon.
Hoping you’ll stay for longer.
Hoping he’ll somehow manage to erase this moment from his memory. And already knowing that he won’t.
You cover his graze with a gauze pad and put four band-aids at the corners of the fabric to secure it in place. You smooth it out with your thumbs —
and then you’re done.
Then comes the part where Jack searches for the right thing to say. His arms still locked together, his heartbeat erratic, just as his thoughts are. He only manages two quiet words:
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
And there’s no stalling on your part because you promptly step away, the gloves off, the shield of your indifference already up.
“I mean that. Don’t bring this up ever, it was just a one-and-done,” you tell him, and now you do turn away, and he isn’t audacious enough to reach for you. But as you’re about to leave, you stop. “And it’s three, by the way.”
His shoulder doesn’t hurt, but something in his chest does. It claws its way out, spills into his arteries and veins, and fills him down to his bones: guilt. Jack knows what you’re about to tell him.
Still, he asks:
“Three what?”
“Three dead bodies,” and when it’s just the two of you, you are less feisty, and you mostly sound tired. Not of your job, he thinks; no, it must be something else — personal, painful, haunting. But you look at him with the same heavy gaze. “They were diverted here from Westbridge. Two were in their mid-thirties, GSWs in head and chest. Probably died fast. The third one was seventeen. Two bullets in his lungs, one in his spleen, one in his arm. Isn’t that too much? He wasn’t a rapist or a murderer, he was just a kid. There should be hope for someone like him. Rehabilitation, reintegration into society, a second chance,” you yourself don’t seem hopeful as you give him the explanation. “Instead, he had to lie there and wait for the blood to fill his lungs while choking on it. But hey, your friend? He will be fine. He was wearing a vest,” and this is so much worse — when you address him not with anger but with disappointment. “As were you.”
You don’t wait for him to come up with a reply, and Abbot watches you walk out into the hall.
His guilt stays.
He sits with it, puts clothes over it, gets on his feet and carries it around as he goes back to the nurse station. He picks a chart, but he’s having a hard time focusing on names and numbers. The noise of the ER is muted while he’s deep in thought.
It’s not a hobby, and there’s rarely any enjoyment in it, and everyone (his therapist included) has found ways to tell him that they do not approve. So why does he keep doing it?
Should he keep doing it?
Someone is walking up to him — Jack catches movement out of the corner of his eye.
“Hi there,” Emery leans on the table, hands in her pockets. “Met the new surgeon?”
Jack barely registers the question, not really in the mood for talking. “Yeah.”
“This is the part where you’re supposed to tell me that I’m the more talented one,” she smirks and tilts her head a little, trying to catch his gaze. Despite it being evident that his attention is elsewhere, she continues. “Okay, talent runs in the family would be a nice second option.”
It takes Jack a second to understand what she just said. And that does make him turn his head to look at her. “What family?”
“She didn’t tell you? I saw you two talking, so I assumed you knew.”
Walsh stares back at him, one of her brows raised, like she is waiting for a punch line. But Jack’s face is a canvas of indeniable confusion. Slowly, a smile tugs at her lips, a little bit amused — and very satisfied that she’s the one to tell him:
“She’s my half-sister.”
He lets her words sink in. And then it hits him — the familiarity he noticed came from you and Emery having the same eyes. The same eye shape and, most importantly, the same gaze — direct, intense and unapologetic. That made him feel like he owed you an apology, but he is yet to figure out what for.
“Wow, Jack Abbot rendered speechless, that’s a new one. What, did she leave that good of a first impression?” Emery chuckles.
That is one way to put it.
Jack is not sure how to tell her that you made him reevaluate the choices he was dead set on. The ones he kept making for months. But he can’t have this conversation with her now, here, when he’s in disarray and operating on barely five hours of sleep.
He manages a smirk. “Maybe talent does run in your family. Hard for me to tell when I’ve barely worked with you.”
“Memory loss is one of the symptoms of senility, you know,” she pats his arm with a mocking sympathy but with no offence. “I’ll make sure to make our every interaction memorable for you from now on.”
There’s a glint in her eyes, not threatening but invigorating, and that’s what Jack has always liked about her: even if their methods clash, even when they argue (which happens often), Emery never holds a grudge.
“Can’t wait for it, Dr. Walsh,” Jack grins.
She flips him off on her way to the elevator.
His phone vibrates.
Jack pulls it out of his pocket and looks down at the pop-up on the screen.
Levington:
You still up for next Friday? We’re placing bets, mine’s on some gang shit. Haven’t gotten one of those in a while, seems sus.
The same question starts flashing through his mind, like a red light at a crossroad. Should he keep doing this?
Hiro will still be in recovery, and he’s the only one Jack usually hangs out with. Except, no one takes on that job to hang out, and all the common reasons don’t resonate with Jack: he isn’t on it for the money, he doesn’t go out on calls to render justice, his morals have become quite flexible over the years. They’ve got enough time to find another medic for the task. And he really should find himself a better hobby.
So Abbot bites the bullet and types a short reply.
Sorry, something came up, I have to pass on this one. I’ll text Sarge.
He turns on silent mode and puts the phone away.
It comes to him way easier than he’d imagined. The harder task will be to not give in when he’s alone in his apartment, when he’s got day-offs and not too many friends to spend them with, when he’ll have to dissect his logic for his therapist.
The hardest will be trying to talk to you.
If not for giving an apology, then just to offer you an explanation. It feels important to let you know he isn’t who you think he is, to get a chance to make things right. To get a chance to be in your proximity for any reason, really.
Because deep down, he grows infatuated with that jarring contrast — your words harsh, but your fingers gentle.
Your voice cold, but your touch warming his whole body up.
And somehow, he craves both.
✧ soooo is this anything? would anyone want a part 2?
the idea behind the fic was to explore how a person’s views can change with time and/or under some dire circumstances. but also what it’s like to fall for someone who’s done things in the past you don’t agree with. I think it would be interesting to find out why Abbot joined the army and how it affected him, but also why he decided to help the SWAT team. because I have a sneaking suspicion that the show will not answer any of these questions... aaanyways, I didn’t want to write a super long oneshot, I think it’d work best as a three-parter, so this is the first one. sorry there’s no smut, I know that’s what everyone cares about these days. I spent almost a week debating if I should even post this fic. but it’s been on my mind for a while, and I just want to move on lol but thank you to the few people who will read this <3 (also, to clarify — yes, reader does have her reasons to hate cops. but the statistics I mentioned are very much real).
✧ dividers by @/pixopix and @/cafekitsune;
⏩ PREV FIC / ⏩ MASTERLIST
✧ English isn’t my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated!
summary: Jack Abbot is many things; a loving husband, a phenomenal doctor, a decorated war veteran, an adrenaline junkie, a lower-leg amputee, and (possibly) a mind reader. But he is not a father. In 4 years of marriage you haven't been able to surprise him even once. But maybe, for his 50th birthday, you can kill two birds with one stone.
warnings: age gap (r is mid 30s, jack is 50), established relationship, afab reader, reader is an attending, brief reference to past power imbalance, minor undescribed medical procedures, IUD insertion and removal mention, gifting someone a used medical device (its sweet and not weird I promise), mention of pap smears, misuse of viagra, slight anxiety, keeping secrets, mediocre communication, BREEDING KINK DUH, trying to get pregnant, mentions of plan b, unprotected sex, creampie, multiple orgasms for everyone, doggy style, missionary, biting, reader is a little bit of a brat, cum play, so much love, fast and hard and then slow and loving, I think that's it but let me know if I missed anything
an: we are playing fast and loose with fertility and medicine here guys
I usually do not like writing multiple rounds of sex in one fic because tbh I find sex scenes a little hard to write and I worry that they get repetitive but I really pushed through for this one
Being married to Jack Abbot was a dream come true.
He was kind, empathetic, passionate, patient, fantastic in bed, and (this is just a theory) psychic.
Or you might just be easy to read. Either way, he almost always seemed to know what you needed or wanted at any given moment.
God forbid you wanted to surprise him with anything, either. He could sniff out any sort of deception, even if it was well intentioned, like some sort of emotional or mental bloodhound.
Jack was also always prepared for almost everything. He had supplies and a game plan for almost every situation and scenario that could possibly come up. Mass casualty incident? Camo duffel in the coat closet by the front door. You had a hard day? Bubble bath kit under his sink in the bathroom.
Combine all of that together and you’d never been able to surprise him. Ever.
Things were changing ever so slowly, though. Now, the two of you had been together for 7 years now, married for 4, so the playing field was starting to level out. You found yourself able to sift through his facial expressions and body language, deciphering some of the thoughts that crossed his mind. Some of it was the familiarity of your everyday routine, any deviation clueing you into something festering on his mind. Some of it was just knowing your husband so intimately in a way that could only come with time.
And even though you were as close to an expert as one could be in Jack Abbot, you still missed some of the more subtle things.
But there was nothing subtle about this. You’d have to have been blind to miss the longing in his eyes anytime the two of you were anywhere close to a baby. It was impossible not to notice how his usually stoic and analytical hazel eyes softened at the sight of their tiny waving hands, the corners of his lips curving up when they cooed, his gaze instinctively snapping towards a crying infant while his shoulders tensed.
Those signs had given you a rather obvious hint, but the final nail in the coffin had been when your sister and her wife had visited from Philly a few months ago. They had some sort of business to take care of in Pittsburgh, so you’d offered to watch their 6 month old son. Jack had been out running errands when he’d been dropped off. When he walked through the door, grocery bags in hand, you’d watched him freeze out of the corner of your eye. There you were, in your shared kitchen, balancing the baby on your hip, talking to the child about nothing in particular while you stirred a pot on the stove.
Jack had unfrozen quickly, but you’d noticed. You noticed everything for the rest of the day until your sister came to collect her child. How Jack swallowed hard anytime you held the baby, how he nearly melted when you cooed and played peek-a-boo, how his eyes stayed locked for just a moment too long on the teeny tiny pair of shoes in his hands before he passed them off to your sister.
Jack Abbot wanted a baby.
And you wanted to finally be able to catch your husband off guard.
And now his 50th birthday was coming up, and you had a great gift planned. And if everything went according to your carefully crafted plan, you’d be able to give him an even better gift next year.
Step 1: remove the biggest obstacle.
Being a doctor married to a doctor made the biggest part of your plan both easier and harder.
You started on Monday. His birthday fell on Friday, and the two of you very conveniently had the following 4 days off. But not before working opposite shifts every day the rest of the week.
That was part luck, part planning on your end. You’d gladly agreed to cover Al Hashimi’s shifts while the ED was down a day shift attending since she was going to a conference. Jack had not been thrilled, but your sacrifice meant the two of you could enjoy an extra-long weekend staycation. He’d grumbled about it for a solid 3 days before finally settling down.
It also gave you time to make a trip upstairs to gynecology while your husband was fast asleep at home and none the wiser.
All it took was a quick lie to Robby about a routine pap smear and a favor called in from a friend upstairs and you were seated with your legs hiked up in stirrups.
“You know, I really did not ever need to see your vagina,” Joan, your gynecologist friend, was grumbling as she completed the procedure.
“You’re the only one I could ask who wouldn’t spill the beans,” your eyes stayed glued on the ceiling. “Everyone else is either a resident and not willing to bend the rules, or older and more loyal to him.”
“This is a hospital,” her expression was unimpressed. “There are no sides, no one is more loyal to him.”
“Yes the fuck they are,” you lowered your legs as she gave you the all clear. “Why do you think I told Robby I was getting a pap smear?”
“Becuase telling your husband's best friend, who is your boss by the way, that you were going to get your contraception removed so that said husband can fuck you six ways to sunday for his birthday is inappropriate workplace conversation,” she turned her back to you, depositing the device in a specimen jar before beginning to clean every thing up.
“That is true,” you conceded, “and Robby’s a snitch.”
“I still can’t believe you’re actually going to give him your IUD for his birthday,” Joan shook her head. “Isn’t that a little gross?”
“I’m obviously going to clean it!” You tugged your black scrubs up, wincing a little at the dull ache in your lower stomach. “Plus, it’ll be romantic. And shouldn’t you be more sex-positive? You’re a fucking gynocologist.”
“Romantic,” her voice was deadpan. “And I am plenty sex-positive. Especially unprotected sex. Creates more patients for me. Kinda like a dentist who recommends nothing but sugar.”
You couldn’t stop your eyes from rolling as you watched her move back to the counter. “Glad to see you are faithfully committed to your oath.”
“Here,” she handed you a little cup with two white pills, choosing to ignore you. “Tylenol. You don’t get anything stronger since you insisted on doing this mid shift.”
“Thanks,” you swallowed them dry. “For the pills and for doing this for me. I can’t have him figuring this out before. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
“I know I always wanted a used medical device for my biggest milestone birthdays,” she grumbled to herself as she wrote down her notes on a sheet of paper. “I’ll wait to put this in your chart until after your insemination.”
“Now you’re making it gross,” your face scrunched up. “Most normal people refer to that as ‘trying for a baby’ you know.”
“Yeah sure. Now, get out of my department and go back to your zoo,” she waved her hand dismissively, fighting a smile the whole time.
Step 2: stay strong.
Now with the most important part of your plan complete, you simply had to make it through the next week without Jack catching on. Even with your separate schedules, that was easier said than done.
Monday night at shift change you were desperately trying to hide the cramps wracking your abdomen as you walked the night shift through handovers alongside Robby.
Jack noticed immediately.
“You ok, baby?” He’d pulled you aside the second the handover was completed, his hand resting on your hip as he guided the two of you into a semi secluded corner.
“Yeah I’m ok,” you couldn’t fight the grimace as another wave washed over you. You really shouldn’t have skipped that second dose of acetaminophen during the 4pm rush. “Just cramping.”
That was the wrong thing to say.
Jack frowned, his eyes sweeping over you more intently. His focus flicked between your lower stomach and your face.
“You’re not supposed to start your period for another 3 weeks.”
“It’s still a little odd that you track them so closely,” you tried to brush him off, shrugging.
“I’m a doctor and you’re my wife,” Jack cracked a grin as your eyes narrowed. “You’re my wife who is also a doctor. An amazing one.”
You gave him a kiss for that, quick and chaste and the most PDA you’d dare express in the ED.
“My IUD is due for replacement in a few months,” you couldn’t beat back a rising smile, fueled by both his care and the knowledge of what you were planning. “It’s probably starting to go and make me irregular.”
“Get that checked out, ok?” His hands cupped your face.
“I will, Jack, I promise.”
“Good we-” he swallowed hard, smile faltering ever so slightly. “We don’t want you to be… unprotected.”
The regret in his voice and the twinge of hope in his eyes as he said unprotected only reinforced what you already knew. He really wanted this.
God, you couldn’t wait to tell him. You weren’t sure if you’d ever been more excited to give a gift before.
Warmth flooded through you at the thought of how he’d react. Would there be happy tears? Maybe he’d simply bend you over the nearest surface, eager to get started. He’d probably double and triple check that you were sure. Jack always did that, no matter how many times you reassured him that you wanted him, you needed him. Like he still couldn’t believe you were his just as much as he was yours.
Thankfully, his mind reading seemed to fail for a moment. Likely because of the cramp that gripped you midway through your rumination, hiding your true expression behind a grimace.
“I’m ok, Jack,” with one more kiss, you were untangling yourself from him. “I’m going to go sleep for twelve hours. I love you.”
“Alright,” he followed you as you gathered your things and headed towards the ambulance bay. “Text me when you get home. If you forget again, I’m not making that pasta you like for a month.”
“Empty threats,” you pecked his cheek on your way past him. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.”
“I love you,” the love written so plainly on his face as you walked away from him and out those doors made you almost want to run back and tell him everything.
Maybe that was why you were semi-convinced he was psychic. It was probably less about an alleged supernatural ability and more about your face being easy to read and your lips unable to keep a secret, combined with the fact that you had resigned yourself to your husband being all-knowing.
In your defense, you’d seen Jack level patients and colleagues and even yourself with that look. Head titled, eyes narrowed, eyebrows lifted, that signature confidence combined with a small sigh of disapproval when he knew he wasn’t getting the whole story. It made everyone spill their guts eventually. No one held out very long.
But he hadn’t used that look on you since you’d been his resident years ago. You were all too aware that the bastard had long since learned that all he had to do was give you a soft smile and tell you he loved you and you melted immediately.
And normally, you didn’t have anything to keep from him. Normally, it was mildly irritating if he managed to figure out
But you had to stay strong.
Step 3: final preparations.
Surprisingly, you did actually manage to hold out. All the way until Friday.
Jack had the overnight shift from Thursday to Friday, but you were done and clear. A full body shower and shave was followed by a few episodes of the trashiest reality TV you could find until it was officially your bed time. You texted him a simple “Happy birthday baby” at 12:01 am before grabbing what little sleep you could before he inevitably came home just as the sun was rising.
At just past 7:30 am, your husband was crawling into the sheets, sliding up behind you and wrapping his arm around your waist as the heat of his bare chest warmed you from the inside out.
You were drifting in that blissfully in that half aware state between sleep and wakefulness as he pressed light kisses along the side of your neck available to him. A soft hum left your lips as you arched back into him, body already aching for him.
But you couldn’t give in.
Not yet, at least. As much as it pained you to deny him the sleepy morning sex you’d grown to crave, especially on his birthday, you couldn’t let him fuck you until you’d given him your present. And you couldn’t give him your present until you had made him dinner and slipped on that beautiful white matching set you’d bought.
So you had to stall. Redirect. Get him to actually get a decent amount of rest for once in his life, so you could ride him off into the sunset.
“Happy birthday, handsome,” your hand reached back to run your fingers through his loose curls.
“Very happy birthday to me, indeed,” his grip on your waist tightened as his front pressed even more firmly against your back. You could just barely feel the faint beginnings of hardness through the thin material of his boxers.
“Uh-uh,” you twisted in his grip. Shifting until you were face to face, you pressed a long, slow kiss to his lips. He sighed into your mouth, allowing you to take the lead as his tongue swiped against yours.
“You need to sleep. You’re exhausted.”
He grumbled as you pulled away, his half lidded eyes flipping between the exhaustion of a week of 12 hour nights shifts and pure desire as he looked at you wrapped in his arms.
Jack had once told you that this was when you looked the most beautiful. Sleepy, wearing just his t-shirt and a pair of underwear with your hair a mess, snuggled in the sheets of your shared bed. He had called the domesticity of it addictive, had said he couldn’t get enough of the quiet moments like this, tangled together with the outside world locked away. The two of you just existing in that warm, heady feeling of safety and security, wrapped up in each other for hours.
You’d always thought you understood. You’d agreed that the soft moments surrounded by his love in the home two of you had built were the best, but you were starting to think you never really got it until now. The idea of your family, of it growing beyond just the small, two person unit the two of you had become over these years, was electrifying.
God, you wanted that. You’d already given him your heart. You wanted to give him everything.
“I’m not too tired to make you feel good,” his hand slid from your hip down to dip beneath the hem of your underwear.
It took every ounce of self control to grab his wrist, stopping him.
“No,” you gave him one more soft kiss before you were pushing him back to lie flat. Throwing one of your legs over his, you curled into his side. He let out a sigh of disappointment as your head rested on his chest, but he was still curling his freckled arms around you to hold you close. “We are going to sleep now. And then, tonight, I am going to make you dinner. Then you get to open your present, and then you can fuck me. However you want, as many times as you want.”
“You’re so cruel,” you couldn’t see his face but you could hear the smile in his voice as he pressed a kiss to your hair. Already, you could tell he was starting to drift off. “But fine. As long as I get to have you for dessert.”
His voice, low and gravelly, vibrating through his chest had your panties growing increasingly uncomfortable. His sturdy thigh pressed between your legs certainly wasn’t helping, but you could do this. You were a grown woman, a doctor of emergency medicine. You had the willpower to make it 10 more hours without jumping your husband.
When you woke around 1pm, Jack was still dead to the world. His lips were parted, hair mussed, and his breaths deep and even. Despite the gray making his curls much more salt than pepper, he looked younger like this.
You gave yourself a moment to take him in before slipping out of the bed and his grasp.
It was time to make the last few preparations.
Your movements were as quiet as you could make them as you got dressed. With one last glance at his sleeping form, you slipped out the front door.
Grocery shopping went smoothly, the bakery passed off the small bourbon chocolate cake you’d ordered with little fuss, and the jeweler down the road didn’t even charge you for the little black velvet box. They had a million of them, she’d said, no big deal.
You were back home by 3:30pm. Jack was up and awake by then, making himself a cup of coffee when you strolled in, arms laden with grocery bags. For just a second, you let your eyes trail over him. He was facing away, giving you a beautiful view of the freckles dusting his muscled back. The sweatpants riding low on his hips, the right leg tied in a knot to stop the hem from dragging, hid the strength and shape of his ass and legs from you, but your imagination filled in the gaps.
“Done objectifying me yet?” Jack just barely looked over his shoulder as he continued to fiddle with the machine before him.
“Never,” you set the bags down, giving his ass a slap as you moved past.
He laughed, reaching for his crutches as he moved to follow you back out to the driveway.
“Let me help you with the bags.”
“Not a chance,” you blocked the doorway. “Go sit down and enjoy your day off.”
He looked like he was going to argue for a moment, but then he acquiesced. With one, chaste kiss to your lips, he moved back to the counter.
Jack was stubborn, though, so he started unloading the grocery bags, placing ingredients in their rightful places.
You watched him move through the space for just a moment before you returned to your car to grab the last few bags and the box with the cake. The jewelry box was tucked into the back pocket of your denim shorts, hidden by your oversized shirt as you deposited everything else onto the counter, next to the first batch of empty bags. Jack had disappeared from the kitchen, but he walked out of the bedroom just as you began to organize the ingredients you needed, his leg fastened on.
“What are you gonna make me?” Jack had settled back against the counter after you swatted his hands away from the cake box, trying to keep his fingers out of the frosting while he tried to steal a taste. He was lazily sipping his coffee, eyes watching as you fluttered about, retrieving some of the items that you needed.
“Steak,” you held up the meat wrapped in butcher paper as you pulled it from the bag. “Cabbage,” his nose wrinkled and your eyes rolled. For a brief moment, you really considered throwing the vegetable at him. “Relax, you big baby. Cabbage au gratin. Lots of cheese and that cream sauce you like.”
“Hmm, ok,” he was smirking over the rim of his mug. “What else?”
“What else? What, that’s not enough for you?”
He set the coffee down, closing the small distance between the two of you so his hands could rest on your hips, chest pressing into your back. You panicked for a moment as his lips met your clothed shoulder, hoping and praying that he didn’t notice the box in your pocket. It was still empty, but you didn’t want to give him any hints about your plan.
“I’m gonna need a lot of energy tonight, baby,” his hands slid underneath your shirt to rest against your bare stomach as he nosed at your hair, his breath brushing over your ear. “I’m pretty sure I was promised however I want, as many times as I want.”
You were so close to breaking. Your resolve was hanging on by a thread.
“And,” his hand slid farther up, cupping your breast through your bra. You could barely restrain a whine. “My dear wife decided to swap shifts. We haven’t had any… quality time in a week. I’ve got a lot of plans for you tonight, baby.”
“Jack,” your voice was weak.
“Not to mention,” his fingers squeezed your nipple through the mesh of your bra. “I wouldn’t be a very good husband if I didn’t help you get your sleep cycle back on track. Gotta get you used to working all night, baby.”
“You’ve gotta wait, Jackie,” you were arching back into him, offering no resistance as his broad hand slid to lay over the span of your stomach.
Fuck.
The feeling of that steady, callous hand laying against the smooth skin of your lower abdomen jolted you back to reality.
You needed to wait. It wouldn’t be fair or right to fuck him before you had a conversation, plus you’d put so much thought into planning the perfect night. You couldn’t let your incubus of a husband seduce you into ruining it now.
“Jack,” your voice was stronger now. “Patience.”
He huffed a laugh against the shell of your ear, his hands tightening against you just once before letting you go and stepping back. You could very clearly see the hard length of him straining through the fabric of his pants as you turned to face him, back braced against the counter. His hands came up to land beside your hips on the stone as he caged you in.
“I don’t know what you have planned, but I might die if I don’t get my hands on you soon,” his lips laid a kiss on your cheek before he was stepping back. “I’m gonna go shower before you torture me anymore.”
Step 4: the proposition.
Jack behaved himself all throughout dinner, his hand settling at a tasteful spot on your bare thigh, exposed by the dress you’d pulled on over the lacy white set he hadn’t seen yet. Entirely appropriate compliments coming from him as you laid the cabbage, the steak, and the salad and rolls he hadn’t let you tell him about earlier before the two of you on the table.
But dinner was done, leftovers packed away, the rest of the cake returned to its box while two half-eaten slices laid before the two of you.
While he was in the shower, you’d managed to retrieve your IUD (very thoroughly sanitized, thank you very much) and place it in the jewelry box. It fit perfectly. You’d tied the box closed with a short length of red ribbon you’d acquired from the Christmas supplies stored in the spare room.
That box had been sitting on the counter while you ate dinner and dessert, but now it sat between the two of you on the table. For the first time all week, your confidence in your plan was starting to falter.
Jack was a great man and an amazing husband. That was undeniable. He was great at so many different things. The one area he fell behind in, though, was communication.
He wasn’t necessarily bad at it, but he definitely wasn’t the best. It wasn’t that he couldn’t or didn’t communicate with you. No, it was more that he held certain things back. He didn’t let himself verbalize things when he thought he didn’t deserve them, or when he thought he was asking for too much.
He hadn’t asked you for a baby. Sure, the two of you had talked about it before getting married, as all couples should, but the conversation hadn’t resurfaced since then. That conversation had been the first time he had truly been completely open and laid bare before you. He had told you he wanted kids, more than anything, but he worried about being too old, too broken, too unavailable.
You’d assured him he was none of those things, that you wanted to start a family with him. You could see on his face that he only half believed you.
It hadn’t been a possibility right when you got married, with you just finishing your residency and settling into being an attending, along with the both of you wanting time to really settle into your relationship before broaching that topic again.
But it hadn’t been brought up again.
Suddenly, the box sitting between you felt like a bomb. What if you had overstepped? Sure, you had thought the look on his face when he saw you with a baby was longing, but what if it wasn’t? What if you were about to blow up your marriage and ruin his 50th birthday?
“Hey,” Jack’s hand came to cover yours, jerking you out of your spiral. “You ok?”
“Yeah,” your throat felt full as you looked up at him. “Just… just nervous to see if you like your present.”
He smiled at that. “I’m sure I’ll love it, baby.”
“I really hope you do.”
You could barely breathe as you watched his fingers undo the red bow keeping the box sealed. The few seconds it took for him to unwind the fabric felt like years, the soft sound of the ribbon sliding against the velvet felt like the loudest noise in the world.
The lid blocked your view of the interior of the box, but you knew exactly what it looked like. That thin plastic ‘T’ sticking up out of the slot where a ring would normally go. Stark white against the deep red interior of the little black box.
Jack’s brow scrunched up for a second as he gazed down at the object in his hands.
“Is this your-”
“Yes,” your voice was quiet when you cut him off, your eyes searching his face. He looked confused, eyes fixed on the IUD, before the expression melted into shock as he looked up at you.
“You-” he floundered over his words, gaze rapidly flicking back and forth between you and the box. “This- you took it- what-”
For a moment, you were concerned he was having a stroke. But then he took a deep breath, set the box down, and scrubbed his hands over his face. Your nerves crept back in, unwelcome and self deprecating as the worst case scenarios ran through your mind.
“I need you to tell me exactly what this means, baby,” his hand was grabbing yours again, squeezing tight. He still looked a little shocked, but you could see his eyes lighting up with what you desperately hoped was happiness.
“I-” your throat locked down, the words stuck as your eyes locked on his.
“Words, baby,” he slipped out of his seat, settling on his knees before you.
“Jack, your leg-”
“I don’t care, I’m fine,” his hands settled on your thighs, just above your knees. His fingers dug in as he looked up at you.
Hope. That’s what you were seeing written plain as day across his features. Hope and love and yearning.
“Baby, please,” he sounded desperate. “I need to know exactly what you meant when you gave me your IUD.”
“I -” your breath faltered for just a second as his hands squeezed tighter as the first syllable left your lips. “I want to have a baby, Jack. I want your baby.”
“Fuck,” his voice was raw and gutteral, like the curse ripped out of him involuntarily. “I want it. So badly, you have no idea.”
You couldn’t help your laugh. The sound was wet, emotion curling in your chest as the worry and anxiety fled. “Trust me, I know exactly how much you want it.”
The confusion crept back onto his face.
“You’re not subtle, Jack.”
“I’m so subtle. I’m an unreadable pillar of strength,” he was smiling, eyes still full of love and adoration.
“You were anything other than subtle with this.”
“Maybe because I want to come home to you and our child everyday,” his words silenced your laughter, tears threatening to spill as he kept speaking. “I want to watch them grow up, teach them how to ride a bike, be obnoxiously loud and embarrassing at sports games.”
Jack was getting to his feet now, pulling you up with him until his forehead was pressed to yours.
“I want to teach them how to drive, cry at their high school graduation, move them into college dorms,” his own voice was thick with emotion as tears dripped silently down your cheeks. His hands came up to cradle your cheeks, swiping the stray droplets away with his thumbs. Your hands gripped his forearms as you listened. “I want it all with you. I want to be horribly, disgustingly domestic and in love, show our kid what love looks like. I want them to be safe and happy and healthy and so, so loved.”
“Jack,” your voice was shaky as you clung to him.
“I want it. I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I want it with you. I want it all with you.”
His lips connected with yours. The kiss was tender and slow, every emotion leaking out as your lips and tongues moved against each other in your dining room. He tasted like the chocolate cake and something so distinctly Jack. It was addictive.
When the two of you parted to gasp for breath, his hands settled on your waist, yours coming up to tangle one in his hair, the other flat against his sturdy chest.
“You know,” you leaned in, tracing feather light kisses over the curve of his throat. “I promised you you could have whatever you want after dinner.”
His head dropped back and he let out a groan. His hands tightened on your waist.
“But do you know what I want?”
“What do you want, baby?” His voice was breathy. One of his hands drifted down to grab a handful of your ass, his leg slipping between yours to apply pressure where you needed him the most.
Your teeth caught the lobe of his ear between your teeth.
“I want you to take me to our bedroom,” your hand in his hair yanked ever so slightly. “I want you to take one of those little pills you keep for emergencies,” your fingers trailed down his chest slowly as his breathing picked up in pace. “And I want you to fuck me until you physically cannot any more.”
Step 5: success.
So maybe you weren’t as good at reading your husband as you thought.
You were so sure as soon as he got you into the bedroom and got an eyeful of the see through lace covering your body, he’d be inside of you immediately, especially with the promise of your uterus open for business.
But he held back, eyes tracing your form, sprawled out on the bed and still covered, barely, by your lingerie. He was moving through the room like he had all the time in the world.
You watched with bated breath as he slowly undid his belt and the button of his pants, leaving both still on. The buttons on his shirt were next, the fabric hanging open and untucked as he approached his nightstand. All you could see of his torso was a thin strip, could just barely spot the light dusting of still auburn hair disappearing in the waist band of his slacks.
His hand dug into the drawer for a second before he was producing the little orange bottle. He held it delicately between his fingers, eyes meeting yours.
“You’re sure this is what you want?” Everything in Jack’s eyes seemed to be begging you to agree, to not dangle this in front of him and then so cruelly rip it away.
“I want this,” you sat up, scooting to the edge of the bed to rest your hands on his hips, his legs between yours as he towered over you. “I want you to put a baby in me, Jack.”
He groaned, his hands fumbling to get the cap off the bottle and one pill in his mouth.
He didn’t usually need those little blue pills, but between the anti depressants he regularly took and the stress of both your jobs, occasionally they came in handy. Today, however, the outline of his erection, right in front of your face, told you he definitely didn’t need it right now. But both of you knew that one round was not going to be even close to enough.
The temptation of that bulge in his pants was too much as you watched his throat bob while he swallowed the pill dry. Your hands drifted from his hips to the undone button of his slacks. Slowly, your fingers pulled the zipper down.
His hand caught yours before you could start sliding the fabric down his legs.
“Not now,” his fingers pressed into your pulse, your heartrate hammering as you looked up at him. “Take off your clothes and lie down.”
For a moment, you wanted to argue, wanted to insist that this was his birthday, you should be taking care of him. But the heat in his eyes and the rapid rise and fall of his chest as his eyes traced over your body had another idea popping into your head, wondering exactly how far you could push him tonight.
Your hands were a little shaky as you unclasped your bra, if the white scrap of barely there lace could even be called that. It fell from your body as you stood from the bed, crowding into Jack.
He took half a step back to give you some space as he watched. Your hands tossed your hair back over your shoulders, taking the opportunity to trail your fingers down your collarbones, loosely cupping and caressing your own breasts. Your lips parted on a gasp as your fingers tweaked your nipples. With half lidded eyes, you arched into him, almost touching as you continued to play with your breasts.
When you decided he’d had enough, you let your hands move on, dragging down your abdomen only to stop just above the waistband of your panties. You laid your hands over the smooth, bumpless skin.
“Can’t wait for your baby to be right here,” you were laying it on thick. Eyelashes fluttering, teeth digging into your lower lip, breaths coming a little too deep to lift your breasts even more with every inhale.
Jack was getting impatient, you could tell. That fire burning in his eyes, his fingers flexing, all while you took your sweet time shimmying out of the underwear.
By the time it hit the floor, he looked ready to pounce, but he was still keeping himself in check. You figured he probably wanted to take things nice and slow, make them tender. At least at first. He usually was attentive and giving, treating you gently especially when emotions were running high. Not like you would break if he didn’t, more like you deserved to be loved softly.
But there was time for soft later. Right now, the tension and knowledge of what he was about to do to you felt explosive. You wanted him to take you hard. To take out the sexual frustration of a week or so of abstinence on your body. To pin you down and have his way with you. Afterwards there’d be time for sweet and tender. And there definitely would be more than just one round tonight given the pill he’d just taken.
You were right about how close he was to snapping. The final straw seemed to be when you reached down, picking your underwear up from the floor. He watched the movement, a warning look on his face, but you didn’t stop. Instead, you took his hand, setting the soaking wet miniscule lace in his palm.
“Happy birthday,” with that, you turned around, crawling onto the bed on all fours, swaying your hips as you went.
You didn’t get very far before his hands were grabbing you by the waist, dragging you back to the edge. Your lower legs hung off the bed as he pressed his hips against your ass. He was burning hot, even through his clothes. You could feel the heat and weight of him as you ground back, smearing the wetness leaking from you onto his pants.
“I wanted to be nice,” behind you, you heard rustling as his shirt finally dropped off his shoulders. The clinking of his belt followed, thudding as it hit the floor next. “I wanted to make love to my sweet little wife, but I don’t think that’s what you want, huh?”
“I want you to fuck me, Jack,” you heard him drag his pants and boxers down, the thick length of his cock springing free to brush agaisnt you. Your hips pushed back, almost involuntarily, craving him inside of you. “Make love to me later, knock me up now.”
“Fuck,” his fingers found your clit, stroking through your folds and finding you oh so ready for him. He was making small, tight circles around the bud, sending small shockwaves of pleasure through you.
“Stop wasting time,” your words were breathy, slowly losing their bite. “At this rate it’ll be another 30 years before I get pregnant.”
“Shut up,” you could feel him lining himself up. “Let me make you feel good.”
“I’ll feel good if you- oh fuck!”
Jack interrupted your whining by slamming in all the way. Usually, he was slow, guiding himself inside, taking the time to let you adjust. Not now, though, now he barely gave you a second to get used to the feeling before he was pulling out and pushing back in.
“Is this what you wanted?” His voice was strained, his hips working vigorously as he used his grip on your waist to drag you back onto him every time he thrust in.
The sound was obscene. Wet slapping accompanied by your whines and gasps as he reached deep inside of you, bumping all the way up against your cervix with each push in. His own panting was nearly drowned out, but the groan that escaped him when you clamped down tight as he shifted angles was loud.
“Right there, huh?” Jack tilted his hips, angling towards that spot while one of his hands pushed down on your upper back. Your arms gave way, head meeting the sheets as he continued to pound away.
“Fuck, Jack, right there!” Your cries were high pitched and needy as he kept up the pace. His pounding was rhythmic, barely faltering even when his fingers found your clit again, and you tightened around him even more. The circles he was drawing were fast, matching the speed and timing of his thrusts.
Jack had long since learned to play your body like a fiddle and he was pulling no punches tonight. His hand not on your clit shifted, sliding down to press the heel of his palm right above your pubic bone. The added pressure had you crying out, walls pulsing as an orgasm washed over you unexpectedly.
It came in waves, your back arching and pushing your hips into his even more fervently as the pleasure grew and radiated out from between your legs. It was sudden, overwhelming, and seemingly never ending as he kept fucking you through it, his pace unchanging, his hands never moving from where they lay.
“Fuck, baby,” he was panting, leaning halfway over you as you twitched. “God, fuck, I’m close.”
“C’mon, do it Jack,” you knew your voice was whiny and breathy, but you couldn’t care less as you begged him. “Please, do it. Cum inside me. I need it!”
This was far from the first time he’d fucked you raw. The two of you hadn’t used a condom since the early days of your relationship. After one broke and forced an incredibly awkward pharmacy run for Plan B, you’d gotten your IUD. Once it was effective, you had never had a barrier between you. Jack was well accustomed to coming inside of you.
But this was different. That protection was gone, sitting on the dining room table where he’d left it after dinner. And now you were begging him to cum inside you, not just because it felt good for both of you, but because you wanted to have his child. You wanted him leaking out of you, filling you up until you had no room left inside. You wanted the consequences of this action, the visible and physical manifestation of him left inside of you.
His hand on your stomach shot out, clutching the duvet beside your head as he leaned even farther over you. Jack’s rhythm grew erratic, faster than before as he folded over you. His fingers never stopped circling but they did hitch, that steady pressure faltering as he got closer.
“Fuck, oh fuck, you feel so good,” he was so close you could feel it. Feel him pulsing and twitching inside of you while his chest, damp with sweat pressed against your back.
“Please,” the word was tangled with a moan as it left your lips. The orgasm that had seemed never ending was rising again, impossibly fast. “Please, Jack, want your baby, please.”
“Oh shit, fuck, fuck! Oh, I’m cumming, oh fuck!”
You felt the heat inside you, that warmth radiating out as he buried himself deep, hips rutting in grinding little thrusts as he came. It was overwhelming. Your own orgasm, much weaker than the previous one, jerked through your body as you felt him fill you.
The two of you stayed quiet, no words exchanged while you rode out the pleasure coursing through both your veins. Jack stayed buried as deep as he could inside of you, his hand finally leaving your clit when you stopped pulsing around him, only for it to find the front of your thigh, keeping you tightly pressed against him.
“I love you,” he whispered against your shoulder blade while he caught his breath.
“I love you, too,” you couldn’t really reach back to touch him in this position. At least, not without the growing ache in your lower back worsening. “I’m getting sore, Jack.”
“If I tell you to lay down and get comfortable, will you actually listen this time?” The smirk on his face as you peaked over your shoulder made you want to simultaneously punch him and kiss him. He slowly pushed himself up, lifting his weight off your body and pulling out.
“Yes, fine, I’ll listen,” you winced a little as his dick left your body, gasping a little when you realized he was still half hard.
“Shit, stop for a sec,” his hand palmed your ass cheek, stopping you from crawling forward to get comfortable. For a moment, you were confused. But then you felt it. His cum was dripping from you, spilling now that he’d finally pulled out. “Fuck, that’s so hot.”
The low groan in his voice had you clenching around nothing, pushing even more out of you.
“Gotta keep it all in there, baby,” his fingers came up, pushing it back inside of you. They curled downwards, brushing against the sensitive skin just behind your clit, your legs shaking as he repeated the motion. “Fuck you’re so wet. So full of me.”
“Jack, please,” you weren’t entirely sure what you were asking for, all you knew was that you needed him. Over your own panting breaths you could just make out the wet sound of his own hand dragging over his length.
“Ok, ok,” his fingers pulled out of you. “Get comfortable, I need you again.”
Your legs were weak and it took you a second to focus again as you made your way to the center of the bed, falling onto your back, your head resting among the pillows. Your eyes found him like a magnet, snapping into focus as he finally pulled his pants all the way down.
He was fully hard again, and you watched with blatant hunger as he sat on the edge of the bed, hastily unfastening his prosthetic before he was climbing over to you.
“Left your hips for me,” you followed his instruction, allowing him to slide a pillow below your ass to keep you propped up for him. “Good girl.”
He settled, kneeling, between your legs, length still glistening from just having been inside you. Jack dragged the head of his cock over your folds, taking in the way your body twisted and undulated, silently begging for him to be back inside you.
“Are you ready?”
How kind and totally unnecessary for him to check in on you. You were mere seconds away from flipping him over and riding him.
“Yes, please Jack,” your hands reached down for him, trying to guide him in yourself.
“Ah-ah,” he tangled your fingers in his, leaning over you to trap your hands above your head with one of his. “I fucked you how you wanted, now we do it how I want it.”
“Just get inside me, please! I want you so bad,” you had a sneaking suspicion he might have wanted to tease you for even longer, but your husband had never been able to resist you for very long. You could see how much he wanted it, and your begging seemed to have won out over his desire to tease.
“God, you’re still so tight,” Jack buried his face in the crook of your neck as he slid inside. “How the fuck are you always so tight?”
“Made for you!” Your voice came out high and squeaky as he began to move.
“Fuck yes you were,” his lips landed on the sensitive skin of your throat, sucking and kissing and no doubt leaving countless marks you’d be struggling to cover when you went back to work.
The pace he set this time was much slower than before, but somehow filthier. The slow, insistent grind of him withdrawing and pushing back in had your clit grinding against the neatly trimmed hair at the base of his cock. The sounds this time were quieter but no less salacious. The unmistakable sound of how wet you were filled the room every time he pushed in as deep as he could get, mixed with the whimpers and gasps of his name you let out as you clung to him. He was rather quiet the first time until he got close, but he must have been more sensitive now as his groans and curses vibrated against your neck.
Those noises only built in volume as the two of you fell into a cycle, pushing each other even higher.
Every time you clenched tightly around him as he hit just the right spot, his teeth would scrape the sensitive skin on your neck or shoulder. In return, your fingernails would dig in tighter against the muscles in his back and his hips would press as deep he could, brushing against the spot that made you clench tighter.
“You feel so good around me, baby,” his movements were beginning to stutter as the two of you got closer again. His hand tangled in your hair as he pulled his head away from your neck, keeping your eyes locked on his.
Jack looked wild. His pupils were blown wide, eyes full of tenderness even as his skin was flushed, his mouth open as he let loose sounds of pleasure.
“You’re all mine.”
You tried to nod against his grip in your hair, eyes slipping shut as he ground even harder into you. Everything was hazy. The pleasurable feeling of every movement sent zaps tingling up your spine.
“No, no keep your eyes open,” you gasped as he broke his semi-steady rhythm to thrust hard into you. Your eyes opened, locking onto his. “Good girl, that’s good.”
He was getting louder now, getting closer and consequently pushing you there as well.
“Say it, baby,” you were tightening around his length uncontrollably now, impossibly close. “Tell me you’re mine.”
“I-I’m fuck!” You could barely get the first word out as his hand once again found its way between your bodies, rubbing against you as you squirmed. The pleasure was almost too much. “I’m your- fuck, fuck! I’m yours, Jack!”
“All mine,” his lips landed on yours while his fingers sped up. The kiss was sloppy, mostly tongues and teeth while you panted into each other's mouths. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum again, ohhh fuck.”
His hips snapped once, twice and then stilled as deep as he could get. Jack never stopped rubbing your clit, though, pushing you through to cum around him for the 3rd time so far as came inside you again.
You could barely feel the extra fluid. The space between your legs was already messy and your orgasm pushed every last thought out of your head as your body shook. Your legs tightened around his hips as your body arched up into him. One of his arms slid beneath your lower back, his hips burying his cock even deeper inside.
As your body trembled and the pleasure slowly faded, you realised he was speaking to you, the bussing in your ears finally fading enough for you to hear him.
“-love you so much, baby,” his head had dropped back down to the crook of your neck, but his lips hadn’t resumed their attack. The words were quiet. You knew he was talking to you, but the words almost seemed too personal. Like Jack’s filter had been fucked out of him, and the words spilling against your skin were his inner monologue. “Can’t believe you want to make me a dad. I swear, I’ll do my best. I’ll be so good. I can’t wait to hold her and love her-”
“Her?” You finally felt coherent enough to interrupt.
Jack jumped like he had forgotten you were there, even with his length still buried inside of you.
He hesitated for a moment, before lifting his head to look you in the eye. “I want a daughter,” his hand came to rest over your lower stomach. “One of the residents told me I seem like a girl-dad a year or so ago and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head. And now, getting you pregnant… I hope it’s a girl.”
You were torn between laughing and crying. You remembered the off hand comment from one of the bolder first year students, along with the look of utter confusion on Jack’s face. He hadn’t understood the comment, simply telling them he didn’t have kids and to get back to work.
But the tenderness in his voice, the absolute love in his eyes as he looked down at you had a lump forming in your throat.
“You know it’s not that quick,” your hand came up to cradle his jaw covered in that silver stubble you loved so much. “It might take a while for me to get pregnant. And there's no way to guarantee it’ll be a girl.”
His head turned slightly to press a kiss to your palm. “I don’t care how long it takes. I’m happy to keep trying.”
Your cheeks flushed at the insinuation, choosing to redirect. “And if it’s a boy?”
Jack lowered himself back over you, his nose brushing yours. “Then I’ll have a son. The only thing that matters is that the both of you are safe, happy, and healthy.”
“I love you,” the words were tight, barely getting out of your throat around the steadily growing lump of overwhelming emotion.
andrew pope cody with his hands braced on the bed on either side of your head, rutting his cock against your slick and puffy cunt and begging you to let him put it inside. his desperate voice repeating the same words over and over, ‘please please please, i’ll make you feel so good, just let me—let me inside your pussy, oh fuck, please—’
giggling and telling him no, tilting your hips up to meet his, just to watch the way his shoulders shake from the effort of holding himself up like this, holding himself back. restraint turning his eyes glassy and wet and deliciously close to tears. and he’s so beautiful like this, so perfect and submissive and made in a good boy factory just for you.
when you finally take pity on him, when you tuck your forefinger under his chin and rub your thumb along his bottom lip, the one that’s already dropped open to accommodate his breathy whines and his pleading, wet with his spit and pink from kissing you for over an hour before this, you tell him, ‘okay, andrew, you can put it inside.’
and the noise he makes is nothing short of a sob, head of his cock catching against your opening before it slips inside, stretches you open. he’s so on edge that he comes after two jerky thrusts, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, wings of his shoulder blades cowing together. the aftershocks run along his spine, making him twitch.
you push the sweat at his hairline into his curls, scratch your nails into his scalp until he shivers, looking up at you as he mouths his way down your body. your collarbone and your breasts, the soft swell of your belly. he shoulders your legs open even wider to accommodate the sheer size of them, presses your knees back to your chest so he can press his mouth against your used cunt.
‘so good for me, andrew,’ you murmur as he slowly licks his cum out of you, eyes locked onto yours and rocking his overstimulated cock into the mattress beneath him. ‘you like the way you taste inside of me?’
and he just groans, sucks on your clit in response.
synopsis: yosemite held so many secrets. thousands of stories were held within those ancient trees, whispers of those lost in the breeze. then there was you—the forest girl. completely wild and untamed. you were good at hiding, at running, just like a forest animal. but you weren’t the only one who thrived in the wilderness.
word count: 10.4k
warnings/content: unspecified legal age gap, fluff, hunter x prey trope, slow burn but storyline is kind of fast paced (?), blood, injuries, switch pov, mentions of death, inexperienced reader but not naive, suggestive content, descriptive making out, implied intimacy (non-descriptive oral f!receiving), mentions of nudity
pae speaks ~ i just watched untamed and i absolutely loved it. this is definitely a longer one but i’m really happy with the way it turned out and hope you do too :) divider by @toastray
The forest was unpredictable, much like you, a girl out of touch with civilized reality. It was a choice, living out where the trees bent too low and the smell of pine often accompanied your rundown shack out in the middle of nowhere.
Nature had become a part of you. The wilderness lived twisted in vines through your skeleton, ran deep like water in your blood, settled in like soil in your skin. You breathed with the breeze, moved with the leaves. You were apart of the landscape of vast forests and underbrush and tributaries.
People agreed Yosemite could never be fully uncovered. There was too much land and mountains. Too much uncharted territory and trees that seemed to wrap their limbs around people, dragging them deeper and deeper until they became ghosts to the world.
Lost.
A simple word that held so much weight.
Some people said you were lost. That you had taken a wrong turn, stepped off the trail.
You didn’t need a trail. Just the map in your head and the untouched vastness of the forest.
Others believed you were some type of mythical creature or a monster. They made up stories about the Forest Girl, or worse, the Forest Creature. Parents told their children to stay close on hikes for fear of the Forest Girl leading them astray in the unforgiving wilderness. Every missing case filed somehow led to a possibility of Yosemite’s creature with pointy teeth and sharp claws luring innocent tourists to their demise.
To you, there was no need in telling them any different. That really, you were just a girl who’d been abandoned and somehow found her footing in a park of wild animals and flowering growth.
Deep within the tall trees was a shack. Long ago in a memory you’d rather forget you’d come across it, not caring what it was or what it used to be. Those simple four walls became your sanctuary of safety from the elements. But your true home was the natural woods and open meadows. A place you knew by heart. One where there was always something more to discover.
The park rangers knew you existed. To your surprise they didn’t put it in their little pamphlets as a tourist attraction of a girl who somehow survived out there all by herself. Come get a glimpse of our wild girl you sometimes expected the brochure to read.
But just because they knew you were out there didn’t mean they felt the need to drive you away.
Maybe some believed the crazy stories people came up with about you but even if they ever did come to take you away from your home, you made sure they’d never be able to catch you.
You were a deer, prancing through a forest that provided food, water, and shelter.
But that meant you were also a prime target for those who wanted to kill innocence and butcher your peace for no good reason.
Living in fear kept you alive. Trusting another human was something you never dared to touch.
Until one day running turned into a chase.
Trees whizzed past your face, branches scraping your skin. Your palms were scraped up from using the bark to pull yourself through the forest, hoping it’d make you go faster. The limp in your gait was very noticeable, pain searing up your leg every time you stepped.
Some steel, man-made trap had sunk deep into the flesh of your left leg. You weren’t sure how you’d missed it. Usually you found the signs of hunters. Even if people called you an animal, you were much more keen on knowing the whereabouts of humans in your vicinity. Staying clear of camp grounds and trails was easy enough. Spotting bear traps was even easier.
But whatever strange contraption that had caught you had been a blind spot.
Stubborn tears stung at your eyes as you pushed open the door to the shack. It was a small wooden building deep within low hanging branches, nearly invisible to the ordinary eye.
In one corner lay a messy heap of old quilts on a dingy mattress that smelled of mildew. There was a tiny table, one of the legs broken and being held up with a book. On it was a candlestick, a box of matches, and a med kit you’d stolen from one of the less attentive park rangers. Tattered clothes were draped over a ripped cushion and a wooden figurine of a fox stood on a rusty stool.
It wasn’t much but you got by.
Blood dripped onto the rickety floorboards as you sank to the ground, biting your lip to keep from alerting any nearby predators. Although, you were pretty sure the blood trail you left was more incriminating than any escaped whimper.
Carefully, you began to unwind the wire that was cut deep into your skin. The pain was enough to make your vision go black at the edges.
Somehow you managed to remove it and moved onto soaking up the blood with one of your shirts. It came away sopping but unfortunately it would have to work. It staunched the flow as best it could and you went to wrapping it in leaves, securing it with a bandage from the kit.
It did little to help the pain but you were sure it would subside at some point.
For a moment you just sat against the mattress, breathing hard.
You listened for an animal to come scratching at your door, pawing to use you as it’s next meal. In your reckless attempt to fix your leg, you had given just about every creature out there your location.
That simply wouldn’t do.
At least an hour had passed before you reached for a pail of water tucked beside the table. You carefully poured it over the wound before splashing some onto your face.
Today was a close call.
One you couldn’t let happen again.
With caution, you slowly pushed open the door and listened. Out there deep in the wilderness, it was never as quiet as people made it seem. There was always a bug buzzing, a bird chirping, a squirrel chittering. They were sounds that lulled you to sleep every night, along with the trickling of a nearby stream.
But right now, you listened closely for a predator stalking through the tall grass or the tell-tale growl of one with a need to sate their hunger.
You knew a thing or two about starvation. It took a while but at some point you’d gotten used to the feeling of an empty stomach most days. Normally you got by on berries and nuts paired with a roasted rodent or reptile. Only a few times had you been fortunate enough to catch a slippery fish or a juicy bird or deer.
Everything when pushed so far into hunger would eventually become a predator.
Time passed quickly but you could’ve easily been sitting in the doorway for hours waiting for something to come and snatch you up.
Soon enough you deemed it safe enough to venture out. You winced as you limped, following the darkened trail you’d left and covering up your tracks with leaves. You scrambled the dirt, doing your best to flip over bloody leaves and trying to wipe any off of nearby rocks.
You were mad at yourself for being so careless about leaving such an easy way for someone to find you.
It didn’t happen often but when it did, you wouldn’t sleep until it was covered up.
Coming across a small stream, you sat down by it and sighed in relief as you dipped your hurt leg in. Crimson bloomed in the current before washing away.
How easy it was to rid yourself of evidence. It was a wonder how nobody managed to track you down.
Glancing up at the canopy, you took note of the way the sun rays streamed through. At the slant they were at, it was nearing mid-day. Time seemed to have gotten away from you with your earlier injury.
Around you, the forest was alive. The sweet smell of Aspen filled your nose as you walked, leaves and twigs crunching softly under your bare feet.
The forest seemed to welcome you as one of its own. A family made of ancient trees and soil. Sometimes you’d whisper just to hear your voice carry with the breeze, wondering if maybe one day your words would reach some other lonesome forest dweller.
Your feet carried you through to a clearing. The meadow was covered in swaying yellow grass, a few wildflowers sprouted over the land. Bugs danced in the warm afternoon light, filling you with a sense of comfort.
They were living. Minding their business just like you were.
Yet it was so juxtaposing how such an undisturbed scene could just as easily be ruined.
You flinched at the sound of a whinnying horse, ducking behind a tree before you could spot it or they could spot you.
The park was so big that sometimes you just took your chances of finding somewhere that looked too far away for an outsider to find. But you never got close enough to know when they would go off-roading.
Carefully, you peeked just a single eye around the tree. In the distance was a horse with a brown coat and a man sitting comfortably on top. You knew who he was. Everyone in Yosemite knew Kyle Turner.
But he didn’t need to know you.
Even with your bad leg you managed to scurry off quick enough that the leaves would settle before they could give you away.
You slowed down once you felt far enough and your leg was burning again. Maybe exploring would have to wait for a day when you weren’t struggling to walk.
As you began your trek back to the shack, you stopped in your tracks when you heard the sound of a motor racing down the trail.
You hadn’t even noticed you’d stumbled upon a trail until you looked down and saw your toes crossing the line where grass met packed dirt.
As the ATV grew closer, you backed up and went to flatten yourself against the ground.
But he’d already seen you.
You felt frozen, blinking at him like a deer in headlights. The breeze snagged on your tattered white dress suddenly a lot more roughly, the air shifting as another presence entered your orbit. Gravity shifted, throwing you off your axis.
You’d seen him before. Shane something? He was a deer hunter for the most part, you knew, but you were also aware of the shady business he sometimes got himself involved in. You’d come across his camp a few times, picking through his belongings and then making it sure it looked just as it did before.
He was a dangerous man. An excellent hunter with that rifle that always sent alarm bells ringing through your head.
So you turned and bolted like a startled rabbit.
You didn’t know if he’d make chase but you weren’t going to stick around and find out either.
Adrenaline made it possible for you to run and not feel the way your leg screamed in agony, the wrap tearing on brambles as you dashed through the thicket.
“Hey!” His deep voice boomed, practically resounding off the trees. His boots pounded against the forest floor, breaking sticks and smashing pine cones. Fear zigzagged through your spine, listening to the way that rifle clinked against his body with every footfall.
Despite the heat of the chase, you gave him credit for being brave enough to stray from the path. To most people, that was a lifeline. No one seemed stupid enough to venture off the path that meant being found.
Except for Shane.
You ran like your life depended on it because out there, it did. Anything willing to give chase was a threat. Especially if you’d given no reason for him to be provoked. You were the uncivilized one but the fear of being caught in a hunters net was what kept your feet moving.
Knowing leading him right to your shack would be a death wish, you snatched a stone and dipped behind a thick tree.
Your chest heaved as you clutched the stone tight to your chest. It was your only weapon against the man with a gun strapped to him.
Shane eventually broke through the branches. You couldn’t see him and you wouldn’t dare to either. Hiding was what you were good at. You didn’t have claws and sharp teeth like people said you did.
You were just a girl who learned how prey stayed clear of the predator.
He was breathing somewhat regularly even after all that running, his rustling giving away his position.
He was close. Too close.
Maybe he wasn’t hunting you or maybe he was. Maybe he just wanted to know more about the tall tale of the Forest Girl up close and personal.
But you’d rather let the vultures pick your carcass clean before you ever let someone get close to you.
Your fingers tightened around the stone as the snap of a twig sounded close to your right.
“I know you’re there,” Shane called, making birds scatter into the sky and you to flinch. “You’re not the only one who knows this forest.”
Trying hard not to breathe too heavily, you matched it to the breeze, becoming one with the air to throw him off track.
But he was a hunter. A really good one at that.
“I know about you,” he continued, his voice nearly taunting. Like he was playing with his next meal. “Our little Forest Girl, ain’t that right?”
Slowly, so slowly, you began to crouch down into the grass. Running wasn’t an option anymore. Hiding only worked so well until you were found.
So, like a katydid, you blended into your surroundings. The grass obscured you as you got low, belly pressing into the ground.
“I ain’t gonna hurt ya,” Shane spoke like he meant it but you didn’t believe him. Not by a long shot. You once watched him shoot a deer from miles away without any hesitation. For all you knew you were just some doe he was looking to hang on his wall.
He turned his attention to behind the tree. You were already long gone, only leaving behind a mark of blood now soaking into the earth.
To anyone who’d even caught a whisper of the Forest Girl stories always seemed to ask more questions about her. Where did she come from? Was she a girl at all? How did she survive in those conditions for so long? The list went on. Some believed she was just a myth. Others thought she was a monster. The park rangers thought she was just a girl who wanted to be left alone.
But Shane Maguire needed her to understand that she didn’t own the forest.
Ever since he heard about her, he’d been fascinated. How could a frail thing like that make it on her own? There were so many things to worry about alone in the wilderness. Diseases were one thing, not to mention hypothermia and heat stroke in certain climates, parasites, venomous reptiles, bloodthirsty wolves and bears, and that was only scratching the surface.
Yet, the more he watched her, the more he started to understand how the wild could raise a person.
Shane was an excellent tracker and hunter, he knew that. Everyone knew that. But catching up to that girl was damn near impossible.
There was no getting close to you. No way to ambush you or trap you. It was like you used the trees and bushes as your eyes and ears.
The closest any ranger had gotten to you was Kyle.
And Shane was more jealous than he should’ve been.
When he wasn’t hunting deer, he was watching you. If and when he could find you. Sometimes he found footprints in the mud, no shoes. Other times he could feel another presence lingering. Almost like you were watching him too.
Usually, he watched you through the scope of his rifle. It was easier that way. It meant you wouldn’t flee, becoming a precious little fawn under his observation.
A sight for him and for him alone.
He was so taken by you. You were as free as a bird, running around in a dirty, tattered dress with wild hair that clearly hadn’t been cut in a while. He observed how wary you were when there was a sudden noise or shift in the air.
But what got him the most was how serene you were when it was just you and the forest. You were so untouched by the world, so pure and untamed.
And no one but him got to witness it.
A part of him wondered what people would say about him if he caught you. If everyone knew that Shane Maguire was the one to get close to the Forest Girl.
But the other, stronger part of him wanted to keep you as his secret. Clearly that’s what you wanted—to remain unseen, hidden in the underbrush or high up in the trees. And he was willing to give you that if only he could be apart of it.
Chasing after you wasn’t the best idea he’d had. You ran like a crazed animal, just like he knew you would.
Then he’d found out you were bleeding. And somehow, you managed to cover your trail this time.
When he got back to his camp, he decided he’d use a different strategy than his previous approaches to get you close. This time, he’d lure you out of hiding instead of chasing you into it.
Shane found a tin of salve in his camp, one he kept on standby just in case of an emergency. But you needed it more than he did.
There was no telling when you’d come back around, especially after what he pulled. And if you did, chances were that you’d stay far, far away from him.
But he knew desperate creatures. How somehow, someway they would be drawn to a safety net.
So he left it a few feet away from his camp, lid unscrewed and left open for the taking.
Patience was something he’d mastered in the army. Waiting was easy for him, having the forest to keep him company. When he thought about it, he came to the conclusion that it was the same way for you.
The day bled into night and back to morning. The adrenaline had long since worn off, leaving your leg throbbing in pain. You barely had gotten any sleep, the mixture of pain and fear of Shane finding your shack being the leading cause.
But it was a new day and you had to fix your leg and fast before infection could finally catch up to you.
On your adventure to find a way to heal your wounds, you came across shed antlers and a bees nest. Usually you’d stop and examine both of them but not today.
Eventually, you could barely walk. Your entire body ached, unusual for you since all you did was move. But the wound was making your muscles and joints tighten, which made everything more difficult.
Just when you thought you had to find a ranger and steal from them, you found a tin with some sort of thick substance inside.
Hesitantly, you took it. It felt like a trap, like it’d been left out for you. But the second you smeared it onto your leg, your defenses dropped a little bit. The relief felt like plunging into a cold river after a long, hot day in the sun. You sighed, leaning back against a tree as the pain slowly but surely eased.
That’s when you felt his gaze.
Like before, you dropped to your stomach, the grass tickling your exposed sun-kissed skin as you watched through the tufts.
Not too far away, you saw Shane. Knowing running would cost you the relief, you didn’t move. You just stayed hunkered down in the foliage, keeping your sharp eyes trained on him like a bird of prey.
He didn’t seem to be doing much. Just sitting there, sipping on a beer. The sun caught the blonde stubble on his chin and jaw, the breeze ruffling his hair.
From afar, he didn’t look like the man who’d chased you through the woods yesterday. He looked calm. Just a man enjoying beautiful Yosemite.
But you weren’t that trusting. Never had you put your trust in a person. You had learned they were unreliable, changing so suddenly that any solid ground would break open at any given moment.
Natures change was constant. The weather, the migration patterns, the seasons. You couldn’t control them, but you knew when they would happen. That’s what made living wild second nature to you.
A few days passed and you steered clear of Shane as best you could. It got easier as your leg started to heal properly thanks to that salve he so generously left out for you. You were wary about it. No person would just do that if they didn’t want something in return.
Which was why you crept around his camp more often now.
You still kept your distance, making sure you were concealed just in case he came wandering back. Sometimes it kept you up at night, thinking about what he’d do if he ever managed to catch you.
As far as you knew, people would pay good money to see the Forest Girl become a tourist attraction. Putting a wild animal in a cage already caught people’s interest so you wondered how much they’d pay to see a wild girl be put in its place.
Shane was rarely at his camp, you noticed. All he did there was eat, drink, and sleep. But when he wasn’t there, he was out hunting deer or you.
On a particularly sunny day, you found a berry bush. You needed to stock up on your food supply and picked a bunch, putting them into the bucket that was usually for water. The forest seemed calm today, like maybe all the predators had taken a break for once.
The suns rays warmed your skin as you walked through the trees, snacking on a few berries. Delicious flavors burst onto your tongue. The juice stained your fingers and you wiped them on your dress, leaving behind dark blue prints.
Finally, for the first time in weeks, you felt like you didn’t have to keep looking over your shoulder.
But it was what was right in front of you that made you freeze.
You darted behind low branches, hiding in the leaves as you watched two park rangers hover by the door to your shack.
Kyle and Naya, dressed in uniform, stood around your slice of safety. They were talking but you weren’t sure what was coming out of their mouths.
You knew they were the only two rangers who knew where you lived. But you never got close enough to know what they wanted from you.
It wasn’t long before Kyle started back towards his horse, Naya looking around before following.
You stayed hidden for long after they were gone before slowly creeping out and approaching the shack with hastened steps.
Before you could open the door, you felt the air shift. Not a bear, not a mountain lion. A person.
Did they come back? Did they somehow see you?
You quickly rushed inside, pushing the small table in front of the door before crouching below the tiny window and looking out at the tree line.
No one stepped out. There was no movement, no noise. Yet, you didn’t stop looking until you couldn’t fight sleep anymore.
For some unknown reason, you began to hang around Shane’s camp more often now. You even started to inch closer just because you wanted to know more. Until one day he wasn’t there anymore. You assumed he’d just moved his camp somewhere else and after days of tracking him through the forest, it led you right to his cabin. You felt better knowing you had eyes on him instead of the other way around.
He was a creature of habit, you noticed, as most people are. He was gone for long periods of time and when he got back he just went through the motions.
You hated living in fear. Paranoia had settled into your bones like an unwanted visitor. But Shane was unpredictable and coexisting with him seemed too hard for both of you.
One night, you sat under the glow of the flickering candle in your shack. Sitting on your bed with a book you couldn’t read, you snacked on some berries and ate parts of a cooked bird you managed to catch.
Outside the tiny four walls, an owl let out a long hoot and the crickets chirped loudly. Wax dripped in a rhythmic pattern against the table, the only sign of human life so deep in the forest.
You skimmed through the pages of a picture book, taking in the pretty drawings of whales and dolphins and sea turtles. Whoever left it rotting on that bench deserved a thank you for giving you such entertainment.
It was hard to focus, though. Your eyes kept darting to the door, to the small window, expecting to see a passing shadow. You stared holes into the broken latch of the door, barely keeping you tucked away from the dangers that lurked in the dark.
But you were prepared.
Next to you was a pile of rocks for throwing and a large bucks antler for wielding. Just a precaution.
And it seemed like you were going to need them.
With the moon high in the starry sky, you were fighting sleep when you heard it. Soft footsteps were coming from the surrounding woods, but there was no clink of metal. A sign of a hunter who knew what they were doing.
You leapt to your feet, rock in hand as you yanked the door open. Frantically, your eyes scanned the darkened woods, expecting anything to jump out at you.
Then the moonlight caught his eye.
Shane emerged from the trees, stepping into the small clearing with his hands raised. You immediately reared the rock back.
“Woah there,” he said lowly but you couldn’t stop staring at the rifle slung over his shoulder. “I ain’t here to hurt ya.”
Your nostrils flared and you launched the rock. “Get away from me!”
Shane barely flinched, just moving enough to dodge the projectile. He watched as you quickly grabbed another rock and secured the antler into your other hand before coming right back out.
“This isn’t your land!” Shane called.
“I still live here!” You shouted back. “I ain’t causing no trouble.”
He let out a deep chuckle, one that sent chills spiraling up your arms. “You scare off the tourists. But I guess you do keep most of them from going off the trails.”
You breathed heavily and threw another rock. “I know what they say ‘bout me. But I did nothin’ to anyone!”
Shane knew you were telling the truth. You were skilled to be able to live out there alone and clearly you could hunt with your bare hands. As much as fables and stories were spread around, none of them came up with a lie about the Forest Girl attacking campers and hikers.
“Now go!” You nearly screamed, flinging yet another rock at him.
This one grazed his arm but he wasn’t bothered by it. He just stared at you, eyes feral and hair unruly. You really did belong in the wilderness.
But he wasn’t giving up that easily.
Slowly, he slipped a thumb under the strap of his rifle. You watched intently, heart beating like a drum. All he did was slip it off his shoulder and toss it into the grass.
“You really are a wild one, huh?” He asked rhetorically, his lips curving into an amused smile.
You knew you’d lose in a fight against him. He was big and broad, strong from carrying around deer carcasses and heavy equipment. You had some height to you but you didn’t have the muscle strength like he did.
You narrowed your eyes at him. “What do you want from me?”
His brows raised, not expecting such a candid question. “Let’s start off simple; what’s your name?”
It was so simple. Didn’t everyone ask for a name the first time they met someone? For your whole life no one had ever cared about your real name. The one that gave you an identity.
Despite it all, your fear and anger, you found yourself wanting to tell him. To be something other than Forest Girl to someone. So you did.
Shane repeated the name, tasting it on his tongue and it felt strange and almost… nice. You hadn’t heard your name in years. You were surprised you even still remembered it.
“Pretty name,” he said before slipping his hand into his pocket.
You tightened your grip on the antler.
“Easy now.” Shane pulled out a few items, crinkling them in his hands. He held them up, showing that they were just snacks—a beef jerky stick, a pack of cheese slices, and a granola bar.
Was this some type of peace offering? You assumed it was considering how he knew you wouldn’t take them and instead tossed them towards you.
They landed in the grass at your feet with a muted thud.
“I’m not asking you to trust me,” Shane said, staying rooted to his spot. “But wouldn’t it be nice to have someone out here looking out for you?” Even though I already do.
“I don’t need anything from you,” you replied, voice clipped and cold. “Or—or anyone.”
Yet, somewhere deep down, you were open to this idea of not being completely alone in the world. It was a desire you’d pushed deep down under moss and roots, but somehow it still kept sprouting when watered upon.
And Shane Maguire was giving it back to you.
“Suit yourself.” Was all he said before picking up his rifle and turning back from where he came. Before he disappeared, he gave you one last glance. “See you around, sweetheart.” Then he left, whistling without a care.
For a moment you didn’t move. You stared at the rustling leaves he’d just disturbed until you could no longer hear his whistles or footsteps.
Eventually you looked down at the food he left. The stubborn part of you didn’t want to take it but you knew that would be a foolish thing to do.
Without a word, you gathered them and went back inside. You ate the granola bar quickly, quietly, like some scavenger would come and take it away. Once your stomach felt satisfied, you laid on your springy mattress and pulled the scratchy quilts over your body.
You counted the lines in the floor as you drifted to sleep. When you finally closed your eyes, Shane was there and this time? You didn’t feel afraid.
A storm had settled over Yosemite, bringing the heavy scent of rain and covering the pines with a thick mist. Rivers and streams were rushing with the downpour and you could hear it even from the shack. Tiny cracks in the ceiling exposed you to the elements, causing a rhythmic drip drip drip as it hit the floor.
At some point you’d gotten annoyed and headed out into the storm.
The smell of damp earth and rain refreshed your system, your feet sinking into the soft soil. The cool air was a nice change from the heat that had swept through the valley.
As you walked, you realized you hadn’t been looking over your shoulder as much. You kept thinking about Shanes words: wouldn’t it be nice to have someone out here looking out for you?
For years you’d made it on your own. But now that someone was offering? It almost hurt how much you wanted to accept it.
You came across a small pond teeming with life. Dragonflies zipped across the surface, fish swam beneath, frogs croaked on lily pads. You sat on the lip above the water where a branch had fallen, letting your toes skim the top. Ripples spread over the water, disorienting your reflection.
You knew what you looked like but out where no one could see you, you didn’t care.
“Hello there,” you said in a soft voice, smiling as a salamander sidled up next to you. You held out a hand, letting it crawl into your palm before stroking its slimy head with a single finger.
“Well would you look at that.”
Your head snapped to the direction of his voice, watching as Shane approached from the other side of the pond. Still, you felt a need to run but you didn’t. Not yet.
“Like a real life Snow White,” Shane said, crouching down to examine the lively pond.
You tracked his every move carefully. “I don’t know what that is.”
“Not surprised.” He breathed out gruffly before looking at you sitting on that branch like some sort of nature princess.
Surprisingly neither of you said much. Just enjoyed the moist atmosphere and the little ecosystem in front of you. You noticed that he didn’t have his rifle on him today. Just a small hand gun tucked into a holster at his belt.
And they consider me as the barbarian you thought to yourself.
Shane, on the other hand, was not thinking about his weapon or even the peaceful forest. He couldn’t take his eyes off of your smooth, untouched skin and how the rain made your thin white dress cling to your curves. It became clear to him that you weren’t wearing a bra, being able to see the faint pink of your breasts and how your nipples perked up in the cold air.
He felt like a dirty man and tried averting his eyes to your hair, frizzy in the humidity and how your lashes caught raindrops. You were so beautiful, he thought. How had no one noticed before?
And right here, right now, he had you all to himself.
He stood up, keeping his hand away from his pistol. “I came out to tell you the storms gonna get worse. Thought I’d give you a heads up.”
You took a brief glance up at the sky. The dark clouds were gathering quickly. They were most likely going to result in a thunderstorm and you definitely didn’t want to be around when the lightning struck.
Gently, you set the salamander down and got to your feet. You didn’t wait for Shane as you turned in the direction of your shack but halfway there a loud crack of thunder rattled through the forest, scattering birds on their perches.
You quickened your pace but the downpour was already there, drenching you.
“Hey!” Shane called over the heavy rain a few steps behind you. You turned around, squinting. He gestured aimlessly. “My cabin is dryer. Plus, sleeping on a mildew infested mattress isn’t healthy.”
You blinked. “How did you know—”
He was already walking in the opposite direction. You stood there for a moment, hesitant. You’d followed people before but not because they wanted you to. This sort of felt like walking into another trap but as another thunderclap hit, you headed off after him.
His cabin wasn’t too far but once you were there, you stopped in the doorway.
Shane ran a hand through his wet hair, his dark shirt clinging to his broad shoulders and thick biceps. He glanced over his shoulder at you, looking like a lost puppy. “Come on. It’s cold out there.”
You still didn’t move.
With a heavy sigh, he disarmed himself and put more distance between the two of you.
With all your courage, you stepped inside. The sleek boards under your feet felt different as you tracked in mud, leaving prints behind. Inside was warm, the walls made of mahogany wood boards and there was a small, stone fireplace on one side. There was a practical kitchen, a table, and two sofas in the main room before a narrow hallway extended into the rest of the rooms.
You tried your best to keep your jaw from falling off as you took it all in. This was how people lived?
You let out a startled gasp as you turned your head only to be met face to face with a taxidermy elk head mounted on the wall. You took a step back, losing your footing on the slippery floor and crashed into the ground.
Shane quickly went to help but you were already up, still locked on that elk head.
He didn’t say anything. You were observing his home, just like he’d done with yours. It wasn’t much but it was exactly what he wanted.
He watched as you reached out to touch the dead elk, a sly smirk making his lips curve. He found it rather endearing, your curiosity. Then he saw how you shivered, goosebumps speckling your arms. You were dirty and probably bathed in the rivers or lakes. And Shane wanted to be the one to give you your first, real, warm bath.
While you observed the decorations, he went down the hallway to the small bathroom and ran the tub.
You listened carefully to the flow of water and wondered where it was coming from. You tip toed after him, peeking around the doorframe as he bent over the bathtub.
Sensing your presence, Shane glanced over at you with a slight smile. “You ever had a bath before?”
You kept your hands braced on the frame as you answered, “couple times. A really long time ago.”
Shane’s mind began to spiral with questions about what truly happened to you. He dipped a hand into the water, making sure it wasn’t too hot before stepping back. “Should be a nice experience then.”
You took a steadying breath before stepping into the bathroom and before Shane could leave, you already had your dress over your head.
A thousand emotions fired through his head as he watched you undress. That was the last thing he was expecting. But it really put it into perspective of how wild you were deep down.
Carefully, you stepped into the warmth and gasped at the temperature. It wasn’t too hot. It felt amazing against your cold skin as you began to sink down into it.
Shane knew it was wrong but he couldn’t stop staring. Every soft curve looked so inviting, and the bliss on your face made his heart do something it hadn’t in a while. He got the sudden urge to take care of you. To treat you how you should’ve been treated long, long ago.
He knelt back down by the side of the tub, almost as if he were approaching a skittish animal. “Do you need help?”
You opened your mouth to tell him no but the warm water had made your limbs go slack. In the small room, you didn’t have to watch your back. It was just Shane and he wanted to help you. No one had ever wanted to do that before.
“Yes,” you whispered.
“Okay.”
He scooped some water into his large hands, bringing it up to your shoulder. You flinched at the prospect of being touched. He caught on and let the water fall back. “It’s alright. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”
His words made your eyes widen a fraction. He was being patient, respectful.
Putting on a brave face, you said, “You can.”
Taken slightly aback by your permission, he nodded and brought the water to your shoulders again. He let it wash over your skin, his fingers just barely grazing you.
But all it took was that one little brush to wake up all of your nerve endings.
Your body felt a rush of warmth that had nothing to do with the water, the contact of another persons skin on yours making it feel like you had been struck by lightning. It was like coming alive from being trapped in your own head for far too long.
Shane noticed this but said nothing. Just kept washing you with gentle hands. Using his soap, he started to carefully detangle your hair and wash it thoroughly. The sensation felt so good that you closed your eyes and sighed.
Thunder boomed outside, breaking whatever trance you’d fallen into but he pressed a heavy hand on your back.
“Hey,” he said, making you look at him. “You’re safe in here, you got that?”
You slowly nodded before he began to wash the suds out of your hair.
After your bath came to an end, he wrapped a towel around you before going off to find you clean clothes and not the tatters of your dress.
While you waited, you stared at yourself in the mirror. It was different than seeing yourself in the ripples of the water. You brought your fingers to your face, touching the shape of it.
Maybe the days of you fending for yourself were over.
Maybe this was the start of something new for your life.
Shane came back with a grey flannel and sweatpants, handing them to you. “You know how to dress yourself, right?”
You took the clothes, the fabric soft from multiple wears. “Yes.”
He nodded. “Good. I’ll go… make you something.”
Once he was gone, finally giving you privacy, you changed into his clothes. They swallowed you whole. It made you look like a trout caught in the mouth of a shark. You gawked at yourself in the mirror, tugging at the sleeves and the sweatpants that wouldn’t stay around your hips. It wasn’t like you were super small, he was just really big.
Deciding you didn’t like the pants, you left them on the floor and padded back into the main space.
A fire had been lit in the hearth and instantly you were drawn to its heat. You sat down on the floor, wondering at the flames contained in the cave-like stone structure.
Shane walked over, crouching down and handing you a piece of toast on a napkin.
You took it with a hesitant hand.
He sat down beside you with a heavy breath.
You nibbled on the bread, too afraid it wouldn’t stave off the hunger if you ate it too quickly. A long silence passed before you decided to speak.
“Did you tell anyone about me?”
Shane looked over at you. Your hair seemed to glow in the firelight, catching on the faint, fading scars on your knees.
“Now just why would I do that?”
“Because any of your ranger friends would throw me in a net if they found me.”
“They ain’t my friends,” Shane replied, unbothered. “But I don’t doubt they would. That’s why I wanted to find you first.”
You looked at him, brows furrowed. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“You were following me.”
“I wasn’t following you.”
“You just said you did.”
“Those weren’t my words.”
You gave a huff. “But you were still watching me.”
Shane smirked, showing his teeth. “Don’t act like you weren’t doin’ the same thing.”
Surprised by his knowledge, you turned your attention to the fire and shoved a bite of bread into your mouth.
It almost bothered you how satisfied he was with himself for rendering you speechless. His grin widened but shockingly enough he let it go for now.
“So, how long you been out there?”
Anticipating the question, you shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not good with time.”
Shane shifted, resting his arms on his knees. “Do you at least know how you got out there?”
The answer to that question was something you hadn’t thought of in a very long time. You chose not to think about what had happened, why you had been thrown into the forest to fend for yourself. But it didn’t bother you as much anymore.
It was the first chapter in a story that was lost to people who thought they knew the whole book.
“Forever ago,” you began solemnly. “Car accident. I… lived, they died. Like a normal child I was terrified, lost in the great unknown by myself. But my dad, I think, had taught me how to handle being lost, how to navigate the woods. That’s what kept me alive.”
Shane watched you, hard eyes softening as much as they could for a man like him. Car crashes weren’t rare for the park but a missing girl as a result of one definitely was.
As he thought back, it suddenly started to click. That case from years ago, the one where they had found out the parents had a daughter but they never did find her body.
Most came to the conclusion that she had been dragged away by some hungry wolves, maybe a mountain lion. But the idea of a girl running into the forest by herself and surviving seemed way too ludicrous for anyone to really believe that theory.
Shane was struck with the fact he had just uncovered the truth to a case that’d been laid to rest so long ago.
“You’re her.”
You sighed, shoulders slumping. “It doesn’t matter anymore, does it? However you know me, I don’t care. I adapted and I endured. I was—I am—happy out there and that’s it.”
“Hey,” Shane said sternly, resting a heavy hand on your knee. Again, his touch felt like electricity shooting up through your leg. It stirred something low in your stomach. Something hot and intimidating.
His eyes bore into yours, the intensity of his gaze enough to start a wildfire. “Stop that. You want to be a secret than you’re going to be a secret. You hear me?”
Too taken aback by the determination in his voice, you just stared at him like he was speaking another language.
His grip tightened. “Look at me and tell me you understand.”
You swallowed hard before nodding. “I understand.”
Every day after that, it wasn’t just the forest anymore. It was the forest and Shane.
There was an understanding between the two of you now—he was still the hunter but never again would you be the one with a target on your back.
After finding the wreckage of what the storm did to your shack, you cried. It was the only piece of you you’d ever had truly to yourself. But instead of having no where to go, Shane let you stay in his cabin.
For months you treated the cabin as just somewhere to stay out of the extreme weather and a place to rest your head.
During the day, you never went there, afraid some ranger would come knocking on his door. So you stayed within the only home that had never collapsed on you—the forest.
Shane got used to taking care of you. He fed you, let you sleep on the floor of his room because you were too scared to sleep elsewhere, bathed you just because he wanted to.
It was easy. You never asked for much, only taking what he gave you.
When he started spending money on you, that’s when Shane knew you were more than just a girl seeking solace in his company.
At first it was just the basics—food, water, feminine and hygiene products. Then it became him buying you clothes, only picking out dresses or loose fitting shorts and shirts because he noticed you hated feeling restricted. Your toothbrush sat on the counter next to his, your floral soap always filling his senses because he found you took interest in scented things. He bought you a pair of shoes that you never wore because again, they felt like they were squeezing your feet even though they were the right size.
You appreciated it more than you could ever express. But it was the moments where it was just the two of you and the quiet of the cabin that spoke louder than any material item.
Most nights you two sat on the floor with dinner, feeling the warmth of the fire on colder days. Around the cabin you liked staying bundled in one of his flannels because it felt like being embraced without actually being touched.
Shane did good keeping his hands to himself since he noted how petrified you looked every time his skin did as much as just graze yours.
But you were not petrified.
Human touch was something you’d gone so long without that it felt overwhelming. Every time his fingers brushed against you, you felt as if you were on a tiny boat in the ocean and it capsized.
But he was also the one who flipped it right side up again.
Being afraid of it became a heady, consuming yearning to be closer. To feel his hands on your unmapped skin. To understand those feelings shoved so far down.
He made you laugh, made you smile, made your heart feel a sort of happiness that you never felt before.
You knew he wasn’t the best man but he was the only one who had ever actually cared.
That was all that mattered to you.
It was a cold November night, Shane just having finished the dishes he’d been putting off for too long. You, of course, were sitting by the fire, curled up in one of the arm chairs instead of the ground for once.
Your fingers ran over the pretty pictures in one of the books Shane had given you. You had a collection piling up of books and magazines just because you liked observing more than reading. He always bought you a new one every time he went by the general store.
“Gray wolf,” you sounded out slowly, fingertips tracing the watercolor lines of the wolf on paper.
Shane glanced over at you, drying his hands on a rag. “Fun fact, gray wolves mate for life.”
You didn’t take your eyes off the page, just nodding along. “Yeah. And once one dies, they typically stay alone for the rest of their life. True love.”
He smothered his smile, finding it almost adorable at you calling animal romance true love.
You glanced over at him. “Are you laughing at me?”
Shane shook his head, raising his hands. “I would never do such a thing.”
You gave a bored look, tilting your head. “You’re laughing at me.”
He couldn’t help it, finding your strict face too cute to stand. He smiled. “Fine. Maybe just a little bit but not because I’m making fun of you.”
“Hmph.” You turned back to your book, flipping the page to a section about birds of prey.
After a while, you spoke up, “did you know sparrowhawks eat smaller males?”
He raised his brows. “Do they now?”
“Yep. It says it right here in my book.”
Shane crossed the room in a few long strides, leaning over you as he scanned the page for where it talked about sparrowhawks. But there wasn’t anything about that type of bird.
His eyes slowly turned to you but you were already smiling. It lit up your eyes, crinkling the corners of them and he couldn’t stop looking. “I think you’re just nature’s greatest observer.”
You laughed softly, closing the book. “I think I can agree with you on that.”
Shane was about to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear before there was a knock. Who could possibly be here at this hour?
You had already leapt to your feet, steering clear of the windows as you made a beeline for his bedroom.
“Open up, Maguire! It’s Kyle!”
A sliver of relief passed through you knowing it was just Kyle but you didn’t trust him. Not like you had found yourself trusting Shane.
You hunkered in his closet, keeping an eye on the window just in case you needed to make an escape.
Moments passed. You couldn’t make out their conversation, only listening to their muffled voices but they both sounded aggravated. Then when Kyle finally left, Shane’s heavy footsteps came down the hallway.
You didn’t emerge until you saw him enter. Once you came out of your hiding spot, he nearly looked relieved.
“What was that about?” You asked quietly, almost afraid you might set off a land mine.
His jaw was tense and his eyes were dark with frustration but it bordered on something more feral. “He saw your shack. Wanted to know if I had anything to do with it.”
It didn’t seem that bad so you just left it be. You hadn’t been in enough arguments to feel confident starting one.
Silently, you stepped closer to the window. You peered into the dark wilderness, still feeling like apart of it even from inside four walls. It was peaceful and you hadn’t realized how scared you were of Kyle ruining that. You liked this slice of tranquil space with Shane, not wanting anyone to intervene.
Shane was frustrated Kyle had almost intruded on it. His anger simmered low in his blood, waiting for a fuse to spark but it never did.
Not when he saw you.
Your hair caught the silver moon, bathing you in liquid steel. His flannel draped over your frame—one he had seen too many times and yet barely got to appreciate.
He wanted to change that.
Shane took a few steps toward you, careful not to crowd but enough for you to feel his warmth.
You felt the shift in the air before you even saw him. Something about it made your heart leap, kickstarting it into a gallop.
Without a word, he brushed his calloused fingers against yours, instantly making your breath hitch.
“Shh,” he shushed quietly, like talking to a startled animal. “It’s alright. Just me.”
You let his fingers curl around yours, the contact making you feel dizzy. He noticed the way you seemed to stop breathing and brought a thumb to your lip. “Breathe, sweetheart.”
His touch was searing. Your brain was sending so many signals to so many different parts of your body, making you nearly malfunction.
Outside you were still a wild one, but in here, you were finally tamed if only for a moment.
One more small step and his body was almost pressing against yours. Your chest started to rise and fall rapidly, your pulse racing under your skin.
He lowered his head slightly, so close you could feel his breath against yours lips which had already started to tingle. “You trust me, right?”
A moment passed as you tried to gather what he was asking you. “Mhm,” you managed to hum. “I do.”
Those two little words were something you never thought you’d ever say to trusting anyone, let alone the man who used to hunt you.
“Good.”
You didn’t have time to grasp what was happening when his lips sealed against yours. You gasped, body freezing up at the foreign feeling.
You couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
All you could feel was his warmth and the scratch of his stubble against your chin and gosh, it felt so amazing.
Shane sensed your shock and pulled away slightly but, feeling brave enough, you put your lips right back to his.
He released a low sound, almost like a growl, as he felt you return what he’d been waiting so long for.
His strong hands settled carefully on your waist but the sensation sent a hot zip of pleasure up your spine. It was a feeling so overwhelmingly and yet you couldn’t get enough.
Despite his best efforts to keep it slow, he deepened it. His tongue pressed against yours lips and you clearly didn’t get the hint so he just pushed right past the barrier. Instantly he groaned at the hot wetness of your mouth, licking into it like he needed to show you what his burning feelings felt like.
He was wary of your reactions, to make sure to pull back if it was too much but it was quite the opposite.
You gasped yet again, only allowing him deeper access. One hand slid up to your nape, fingers tangling in your hair and tilting your head up so he could reach you better.
You both were intoxicating each other. He smelled of pine, rain, cedar, and something distinctly manly. It clogged your senses while he inhaled the scent of your floral shampoo and the way the forest still clung to your skin.
For someone with no experience, he knew you were a fast learner and the way you finally got your hands to grip the fabric of his shirt was proof enough.
He didn’t know how long the two of you stood like that for but when you finally pulled away for air, the sight of you was like a match to gasoline. Your hair was messy from his hand, your pretty lips swollen and wet from his kiss.
“Baby,” he rasped out the nickname like it hurt, pressing his forehead hard against yours.
“Shane.” You whispered shakily, breathily, feeling completely bereft of oxygen.
Somewhere deep in your mind you knew that topped any first kiss ever.
When your knees felt like they were going to buckle, he quickly slipped an arm around your waist, keeping you upright. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
You blinked up at him, wide eyed but something sparkled within those depths. Something new. Something unfamiliar.
And he knew exactly what it was.
“What is it, sweetheart?” Shane asked, smoothing a hand over your hair before pressing a lighter kiss on your lips this time. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
His restraint was fraying and you were not helping at all.
You panted, a new type of high that didn’t come from gallivanting through the forest. “Um… I… my heart’s beating really fast.”
His lips twitched with a smile. “Yeah? So is mine.”
You could feel it beating hard under his chest. It told you that he was feeling very similar to you.
“And… I feel like I can’t get enough air. And I’m uncomfortable because there’s something wet between my legs.”
Shane felt heat lick at his neck and spread far down south. His grip tightened at the implication of your words and had to force himself not to react the way he wanted to.
“Yeah, baby? It’s uncomfortable down there?”
You nodded with a slight pout on your lips. “What is it, Shane?”
Just like before, he found your cluelessness adorable but this time, he felt a possessive urge to help you understand your body and how it was reacting because of him.
“It’s normal,” he said, forcing his voice to be steady. “It’s your body letting you know it wants something.”
Your brows furrowed. “Wants what?”
Shane cupped your face, rough palms catching on soft skin. “Me.”
It clicked to you then, what he was talking about. You read it in books, witnessed it in the wild. How humans and animals weren’t so different in that sense.
He saw when it dawned on you and he saw how panic immediately threatened to seize you.
“We don’t have to do anything, okay?” He whispered. “It’s up to you. But I want you to know that even if you don’t want it, I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
You considered his words, eyes searching his face and you saw the sincerity mixed with his desire. You believed him. You trusted he wouldn’t get mad.
But the ache was getting worse and you whimpered softly. “Can you at least make it go away?”
Shane just about lit up at the request but he nodded, brushing a kiss to your forehead and then your nose and then your cheeks. “Of course I can, baby.”
That night, you felt all your loneliness dissipate. It vanished into the cold night air, going back to cling to the trees the way it had before it clung to you. His hands mapped you like you were a new landscape he had always wanted to explore, tracing every valley and dip of your body.
When he found that wet heat of your need, he dove in without ever thinking about breathing again.
Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you like being caught in the rapids, being thrown every which way and gasping for air every time you surfaced.
Sweat rolled down your chest like snow melt in early spring, your back arching like one of the bridges you stood on to feel like you were flying.
Now? Now you didn’t feel like flying.
As Shane lapped and sucked and licked, you felt like you had slipped off the edge. You barreled towards the ground hard and fast, light rippling behind your eyelids as you crashed into the canopy.
Once you landed, everything felt wet and sticky, tumbling in a lake before crawling onto a ground covered in tacky sap.
And after it was all over? You laid down in a calm meadow where you caught your breath, racing heart slowing down from a high you’d been chasing your entire life.
But you weren’t alone this time.
Shane crawled over you, hands pressing against the mattress and tracing your cheek with a reverence that made you feel warm and wanted.
“You okay?” He whispered, his mouth and chin glistening with your sweetness. He watched how the afterglow set in, your eyes and face relaxed in a way he’d never seen before.
You nodded slowly, a blissed out smile gracing your lips. “Thank you.”
His heart gave a thud before he kissed you, letting you taste your nectar on your tongue. “Don’t needa thank me. Just a man showing his woman what it’s like to not be alone.”
His woman.
You weren’t the Forest Girl anymore. That felt like a distant dream now. You were just a woman who had been by herself her entire life who finally found someone who wanted to show her love.
That night you slept in his bed, his arm draped loosely around your waist. He listened to your heartbeat and traced slow circles on your stomach.
Everyone treated you like you were a monster or a myth or something to be afraid of.
But here in the quiet of his room, Shane Maguire knew he’d follow you blindly through the forest any day if only it meant getting to see his wild girl happy.
He brought his mouth to your ear, hoping you were still awake enough to hear him.
“Go to sleep, sweetheart. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
hi!! i enjoyed writing this so much and i want to share some songs i listened to while writing it…
— white feather hawktail deer hunter | lana del rey
SUMMARY. Bullseye shows up bleeding in Matt Murdock’s arms. You have a clinic, a locked door, and a terrible habit of letting wounded things crawl into your hands.
WORD COUNT. 8.4K
WARNINGS. canon adjacent, wounded dex, mentions of blood, minor injury details and treatment, doctor/patient setup, emotional dependency, jealousy (dex is a jealous bitch), possessiveness, morally messy dynamics, matt murdock cameo, platonic matt, set after the events of episode 5 of DDBA S2, references to foggy’s and vanessa’s death, suicidal ideation/passive death wish from dex (canon😭), MDNI, explicit sexual content, praise, possessive language, riding, groping, tit play, unprotected pnv, creampie, soft aftercare, needy!dex, dex being a feral wounded dog of a man, no use of y/n.
KIE’S NOTES. I’ve been writing this on and off since episode 5 aired, and this is by far one of the hardest things I’ve ever written. Dex is such a complex character to write for holy fuck 😭 there are so many analogies to stray dog, like he just wants to be a good boy, you’ll see
READ ON AO3
A wounded dog will decide who counts as safe long before anyone else understands why it bites.
You learned that before medical school, before emergency rotations and back-alley sutures that made men in masks limp to you and bleed all over your tile at 3 AM. You learned it at eleven, crouched near an alley behind your old apartment, palm full of deli turkey your mother told you was for lunch, watching a stray with a torn ear bare his teeth at every adult who tried to corner him. Animal control had come with poles. A neighbor had come with a towel. Your mother came with her worried mouth pressed thin and her hands hovering near your shoulders, ready to snatch you back if the dog lunged. The dog had lunged at everyone except you. He had stared at you with yellow-brown eyes, ribs moving under filthy fur, every part of him made of pain and suspicion, and he had taken the turkey from your hand so gently that you cried on the spot. Full ugly tears, snot and all, as if tenderness from a ruined thing was the saddest miracle in the world.
Benjamin Poindexter reminds you of that dog every time he appears at your door.
Which is insane, clinically. Dex is a man. Dex is a killer. Dex is precise, lethal, too calm in ways that make the hairs on the back of your neck lift even when he is sitting on your exam stool with his shirt off and three cracked ribs under your palm. Dex looked at you with blood in his teeth and asked if you keep the good suture scissors in the second drawer or if you hide them from your 'less charming clients,' and he smiled when you stared at him too long. He is six feet of bad decisions and worse coping mechanisms, and yet the first thing your mind gives you when you think of Dex is that stray dog taking turkey from your fingers.
That knock at this time is unexpected. Matt.
Matt knocks like a man who hates needing help. Two firm taps, a pause, one more. Spiderman kncoks like he's not allowed to come in. Jessica once kicked the door and yelled your name until you opened. Dex, on his own, never knocks at all. He appears. He waits. Sometimes he bleeds on the mat. Sometimes he makes a small, polite comment about your hallway light going out.
You are across the room before the kettle finishes screaming. Your clinic is technically a closed flower shop with a fake lease and a drain installed under the center table, which makes you look deranged. Until someone comes in with a knife wound and then everyone suddenly appreciates plumbing. The place smells like antiseptic, old brick damp from rain, black tea, and the faint copper ghost that never fully leaves, because blood is part of everything. You unlock the deadbolt, undo the chain, tug the door open, and Matt Murdock nearly falls into you with Bullseye hanging off him like a corpse.
For one bright, stupid second, all your thoughts empty out into his name.
Dex.
His face is a mess. Blood has dried under one nostril and smeared across his mouth in a dark shine. His lower lip is split. One eye is swollen enough that it changes his whole expression, turning him younger in the ugliest way, all that sharpness buried under bruising and exhaustion. His suit is torn at the side, tactical fabric shredded into strips. When Matt adjusts his grip, Dex makes a sound so small you feel it under your bones.
Matt's mouth tightens. Blood mats his dark hair near his temple. Only consolation is that he looks a little better than Dex. "He needs help."
You stare at Dex. Dex stares back, or tries to. His good eye drags over your face with the slow, stunned relief of a man who expected darkness and got a porch light. The part of you with a medical license starts counting injuries in a list that stacks too fast. Facial trauma. Rib involvement. Possible abdominal injury. Scalp laceration. Possible pneumothorax. The part of you that has made the mistake of caring about him too much, looks at his lashes stuck together with rain and blood and wants to put his head in your lap.
With a gentleness reserved for skittish animals, you reach for his jaw, two fingers under his chin to angle his face toward the light. "Dex, can you hear me?"
Blood shines over his teeth, as his mouth twitches. "Hey, Doc."
Matt shifts him higher with a grunt, muscles in his forearms cording from the effort. Dex makes another small sound, angrier this time, as if the pain is just now surfacing. "He took the worst of it. I did what I could, but he kept telling me to leave him."
"Balanced the scales," Dex mumbles, head tipping back against Matt's shoulder. Rainwater slides from his hair down the side of his neck. "You had a city to save."
"Ma — you should come in." You catch yourself at the last second. It rises right up, soft from habit, and catches at the back of your teeth as Dex's good eye opens again.
He smiles at you through the blood. Barely. A broken curve of recognition, jealous even while half-dead, which is so Dex that something in you aches. "I know who he is, doc. You can call him Matt."
You close your eyes, breathe through your nose once, a fond sigh, which also is deeply annoying. "Of course you do."
Dex's smile widens enough to make the split in his lip bleed again. "Smart boy."
No. Nope.
"Table. Keep his neck aligned." You tell Matt, stepping back and sweeping one arm toward the center of the room. "If either of you tracked glass in here, I'm making you both sweep before sunrise." You add, not wanting to sound too soft.
Matt obeys with a silence that says he has learned, through years of being injured in your presence, that arguing only rises blood pressure. Dex tries to help. That is the horrible part. His fingers grip the edge of the exam table once Matt lowers him, knuckles white, body shaking with the effort of being useful. His legs drag a fraction of a second behind the rest of him. Your mind sees it, circles it, hates it. You pull trauma shears from the tray and cut through what remains of the suit before any panic can bloom large enough to slow your hands.
"Eyes on me," you tell Dex, softer than you mean to. "You do exactly what I say for the next hour. That's the deal."
His lashes flutter, and his ruined mouth quirks. "I'm always good for you."
Matt turns his head slightly, lips tugging on a frown half formed.
You feel it. Dex feels it too. They are both bleeding and somehow still measuring each other. Matt's face gives almost nothing away, but you have known him long enough to read the pauses, even the slight angle of his chin. He hears Dex's pulse change around you. He hears your answer. He hears the rotten little truth of it, warm and embarrassing under all the antiseptic.
You press two fingers to Dex's carotid and pretend the pulse under your skin is purely clinical. "That depends on your definition of good."
"Flexible," Dex breathes.
"Try alive."
"That's less flexible."
When you shoot him a look, he settles. It happens so fast Matt's brow pulls in, and despite the blood running down the side of his own face, despite the exhaustion in every line of him, you see him file it away. Dex does that for you. Dex, who would rather spit teeth than accept help from almost anyone, quiets under your hand like you found a switch under his skin.
You hate how much that means to you.
The shears bite up the side of Dex's suit. Rain-wet fabric peels away from him, exposing bruises already darkening over his ribs, long shallow cuts crossing his abdomen, a deeper gash near his left flank with slow, steady bleeding. You talk while you work, partly for him, partly for Matt, mostly for your own sanity. "Breath sounds normal. No deep lacerations. Two tiny blessings. Dex, if you lie about pain severity, I will find out and I will be extremely annoying about it."
His good eye trails over your face. "You already are."
"Funny. You get one joke per liter of blood loss."
Matt huffs through his nose, almost a laugh, then winces. You point at the chair by the wall without looking up. "Sit."
"I can take care of myself."
The room goes quiet enough for the kettle to click off in the corner.
You turn your head slowly, gloved fingers still pressed to Dex's side. Matt is standing near the exam table, one shoulder lower than the other, blood sliding past his ear, jaw set in that martyr shape you have wanted to smack off his face for years. "Sit down, Matthew."
Dex makes a low sound, a grunt, or an attemp at it. "Matthew."
Matt's eyes go over Dex, jaw clenching and unclenching. "This is a bad time."
"For you, maybe," Dex says, and then coughs hard enough that the joke breaks.
You lean over him fast, one hand at his shoulder, the other bracing his ribs. "Small breaths. Look at me." His eye finds yours again, frantic for a second. He would kill anyone else for witnessing this, but not now. Your voice drops even further. "That's it. You can hate me after."
He breathes the way you tell him to. Obedient.
When Matt sits, some ridiculous, childish part of you wants to clap. Another part wants to cry. You do neither, since your hands are full of a man who has decided your voice is a leash he can tolerate.
The first twenty minutes disappear into work. Blood pressure readings, pupils, pulses, lung sounds again, neuro checks, wound depth, rib stability. You listen to Dex's chest and feel him try to keep still under the stethoscope, sweat shining at his hairline while his fingers curl over the table edge. When you clean his lip, he keeps his eyes on you as if the room might vanish if he looks away. When you probe near the gash at his side, his breathing goes jagged, but he bites down on the inside of his cheek instead of jerking away.
"Hey." You catch his face in your hand before he can sink his teeth deeper. "Open."
He opens his mouth, shaking while he does it.
You can feel Matt's head turn again. You ignore it, cheeks heating as you slide gauze between Dex's teeth to keep him from chewing himself bloody. "Better. Bite this if you need to. No hero teeth."
Dex's gaze moves over you, half-lidded, feverish, words coming out mumbled over the piece of gauze. "Do you treat all your patients like dogs?"
You secure a dressing against his side and let the pressure hold under your palm. "Only my favourite strays."
His eye softens like he cannot control himself. It is small. A tiny failure of the mask. A starved thing hearing a bowl set down.
Matt hears that too. You can tell from his silence, from the careful stillness in his chair. When you finish with Dex, you cross the room with a suture kit for the cut at his temple. Matt turns his face towards you before your knees touch the edge of the chair. He smells like rain, blood, city smoke, and that faint soap he uses which you have always found unfairly comforting. You have stitched Matt under worse circumstances. You have dug glass out of his shoulder while he spit blood into your sink. You have fed him soup with one hand while keeping pressure on his dressing with another. That comfort is old. It sits between you now.
Dex watches it like it is a blade aimed at him.
You dab antiseptic at Matt's temple. "This is shallow. You are lucky."
Matt's mouth curves in that tired, self-punishing way. "People keep telling me that."
"Maybe try believing them once in a while."
Ignoring that, he dips his chin towards Dex. "How bad is he?"
You glance back at Dex. He has his head turned toward the ceiling now, but his eye is still angled in your direction. Watching. Always listening. "Bad enough that moving him tonight would be stupid. He's stable enough. But I need imaging he will never agree to. Possible rib fractures, soft tissue trauma, no obvious neuro deficit from what I can assess here, but I want repeat checks every hour. He needs observation."
"He wanted me to leave him," Matt says quietly, like his voice won't carry in the small room.
Dex speaks from the table, voice rough around the gauze and dried blood. "You should've. Still think you should."
You thread the needle through Matt's skin with more force than strictly needed, anger showing up in a different place. Matt says nothing, but his mouth pinches.
"No one dies in my clinic unless I say so," you call over your shoulder.
Dex exhales, a soft sigh followed by a start of a complaint. "You really —"
"Please lie down and stop talking."
Matt's hand closes around your wrist after you finish the last stitch. He does it carefully, fingers warm, thumb pressing once against your radius as if he is asking permission through touch. Comfort. Familiar, heavy with years of people trying to survive horrible nights. "Fisk is still moving," he says. "Karen..." His voice thins for half a breath. "Karen may kill him if I bring him anywhere near her."
Dex smiles at the ceiling. "Smart woman."
You look from Matt to Dex, then down at the blood-speckled gauze piled near your knee. "You want to leave him here."
"I think he is safer here than anywhere else tonight." Matt's mouth tightens, next words dragging through his teeth. "I think everyone else is safer too."
Your laugh comes out dry and humorless. "So I get custody of the homicidal puppy while you go deal with the rest of the apocalypse."
Dex turns his head toward you. Even wrecked, even pale, even with gauze stuffed in his mouth and bruises swallowing half his face, the look he gives you has teeth in it. Offended by the word puppy. Pleased by the word custody. Matt catches every ugly shade of it.
"He listens to you," Matt says.
"He has limited hobbies."
Dex murmurs, "You."
The word drops into the room with a wet little thud. One syllable dragged over broken lips, and still it finds some secret place under your ribs and presses. You hate him a little for that. You hate Matt a little for hearing it. You hate yourself most of all for wanting to go back to the table and touch Dex's hair until his eyes close.
Matt rises slowly. You stand with him, suddenly aware of how small the clinic is with three people and so many things no one should say. He reaches for the cowl, then stops. "Call me if he gets worse. If he loses consciousness, if he starts vomiting, if he says anything about numbness or weakness."
"I went to med school, Matt."
His mouth tilts, a small smile, the first real one from him tonight.
You can feel Dex watching you, clear enough to hurt. Pain pulls his face tight, yet jealousy sits in him like a second pulse, stubborn and alive. He has killed for balance tonight. He has decided dying would be neat, fair. Still, your hand on Matt's wrist bothers him. Your voice saying Matt's name bothers him. The fact that you can tease the Devil of Hell's Kitchen into sitting down while Dex lies cut open on your table bothers him so much that he has dragged himself back from the edge purely to be petty about it.
Trying to ignore him, you walk Matt to the door and keep your voice low. "You owe me."
"I do."
"No, you really do. This is beyond the usual owe me. This is pay my fake flower shop's electric bill for six months owe me."
His hand finds the doorframe. "Send the amount."
You blink at him, at his audacity. "I was making a point."
"I heard the point." His face softens toward yours, bruised and tired, but warmth nonetheless. "Thank you."
You almost touch his arm. You stop yourself, which is silly, since Matt would sense the hesitation anyway and Dex would read the shape of it from across the room. "Go. Try to keep your skull intact."
Before the door closes, Matt turns his head toward Dex. "If you hurt her, I will hear it."
Dex laughs once, and the sound turns into a wince. "If I hurt her, you can have what's left."
The clinic holds the echo of Matt's footsteps after he leaves. Rain ticks against the front window. Dex's breath is slow but uneven, the gauze in his mouth damp with blood and spit. You stand with your hand on the lock and try to make sense of this situation. A murderer on your table. A city outside eating itself alive. A man who wants to die looking at you like he would crawl back through hell if you asked him to stay.
You lock the door.
Dex watches the motion, tracking you. "You're awfully close."
You cross to the sink and strip off your gloves. The snap of latex feels too loud. "You were actively bleeding out fifteen minutes ago. Pick a smarter topic."
"Answer."
Water runs pink down the drain. Your hands shake only after the gloves are off. "Matt and I have history."
Dex's jaw works around the gauze. "So do we."
"You show up here, bleed on my furniture, say alarming things, refuse hospital transfer, and once asked if I had a membership program after your fifth visit." You shut the water off and look at him. His face makes you angry. But only a little. That hungry stare from a man who has no right to demand any part of you after deciding twenty minutes ago that death sounded fine. Yet under it is the dog with the torn ear. The animal watching every hand, every doorway, every flick of attention, trying to figure out who belongs to him, who might leave, who might choose some other dog with a clean fur.
You walk back to the table and take the gauze gently from his mouth. "You are exhausting."
Dex's throat move with effort, swallowing, saliva wetting his mouth. "Do you look at him like this?"
The question is quieter than the others. Worse. It has no blade in it. Only a man lying open under fluorescent light, too hurt to hide the wound he actually cares about.
Your fingers hover near his cheek. You let them settle at his jaw, light enough that he can turn away if he wants. He does no such thing. He leans into the touch so fast it ruins you.
"Dex."
His lashes lower, tickling your palm when he seeks the warmth.
"I am going to clean you up, give you fluids, keep you awake for neuro checks, and cuff you to the bed in the back room so you avoid doing some noble-suicidal assassin bullshit the second I blink." Your thumb moves once along the unmarred edge of his jaw. His skin is cold. "After that, you can interrogate me about Matt Murdock until I regret saving your life."
A sad smile curves his lips. "You already regret it."
"No." The word comes out so soft. "I really, really do not."
The clinic's back room used to serve as a supply closet, then you stopped having supplies. Now it holds a narrow bed bolted to the wall, clean sheets, a cabinet of emergency meds, and a chain you bought after a masked idiot with a concussion tried to wander into traffic with three fresh staples in his scalp.
Dex sees the cuff and laughs until pain takes the laugh away from him. You roll your eyes while helping him shift down onto the mattress, every inch a negotiation with his battered ribs.
"You chain all your favourite patients?" He asks once his uninjured ankle is secured with a padded restraint and the chain runs through the bedframe.
You tug the blanket over his waist. "Only the flight risks."
"Matt ever get the chain?"
Your hands pause, which already gives him a lot without meaning to.
Dex smiles without opening his eyes. "Interesting."
You secure the IV line, check the dressing at his side, and sit on the small chair beside the bed with your back against the cabinet. "Go to sleep, Dex."
"Can't."
"Then lie still and pretend. You're talented."
His fingers slide over the edge of the mattress until they find your sleeve. He grips the soft cotton near your wrist, clumsy but careful. He has enough strength left to hurt you if he wanted. He holds the fabric instead.
You let him.
Near dawn, after the third neuro check, after he has told you the year, the president, your clinic address, and the exact number of tiles in the ceiling section above him like an asshole, his voice comes out thin and drugged by exhaustion rather than meds. "I did it."
You sit up straighter. Hearing him talk through pain is something you don't want to go through, but have to. "Did what?"
"Balanced it. Vanessa for Foggy."
A chill moves through you so slowly it feels like a hand closing around your heart. Foggy. Matt's grief. Karen's rage. Dex's worst crime. The city's endless appetite for payment. You look at him and see, for one horrible second, a man lying at the bottom of a ledger with a red line drawn under his own name. "And now?"
Dex's fingers tighten in your sleeve, holding you closer. "Now I'm tired."
You reach up and press your hand over his. He looks at the place where your skin covers his knuckles. His expression is too human for the man the papers called Bullseye, and you hate every person who helped turn him into a weapon, including Dex himself. He leans toward the comfort like he never learned how to ask.
"Then be tired here," you whisper. "I can handle tired."
He studies you for a long moment. "Can you handle me?"
You should say something clinical. Something careful. Something with the kind of boundaries you teach medical students when they come through your legitimate daytime job, wide-eyed and terrified of liability. But, you tell the truth. "I keep opening the door, don't I?"
Dex's eye closes. His fingers stay wrapped in your sleeve until sleep finally drags him under.
By late morning, the rain has stopped. The city has that scrubbed-clean look it gets after a night of lying through its teeth. Pale sunlight presses through the frosted glass in the back room, turning the sheets gold where Dex's hand rests on top of them. You wake in the chair with your neck bent at an angle that will punish you for days, hair coming loose from its clip. For one muzzy second, you forget the night. Then the chain gives a soft metallic scrape, and you remember every part of it at once.
Dex is awake.
He is lying still, which is encouraging. Too still, which is irritating. His good eye follows you as you straighten. He looks better, at least in the way people look better when they are still severely injured but no longer actively trying to bleed into the afterlife. Less gray. More focused. The swelling around his eye has deepened purple. His mouth is still split and tender. Stubble darkens his jaw. His bare chest is bandaged in three places, bruises blooming under the tape like ugly weather.
"You stayed," he says.
Your back cracks when you shift, a grunt escaping you. "I live here during disasters now, apparently."
His gaze drops to your wrinkled shirt, the blanket you must have pulled over yourself at some point. "You slept in a chair."
"I have made worse choices." Liking him was one.
His mouth moves like he wants to smile, but the split in his lip stops him. "Name one."
"You, repeatedly." Apparently early morning you has no filter.
That pleases him far more than it should. He watches you stand, and when you come over to check his pupils, he tilts his face up before you ask. Trying to be good again. It is awful to your chest, that easy offering. Dex, who fights everyone, lets you put your fingers under his jaw and angle him towards the light, eyes tracking your face more than the penlight.
"Headache?" you ask.
"Not really."
"Nausea?"
"No."
"Vision changes?"
"Ugly curtains."
"Those are original to the building, and they have seen too much to be insulted by you."
Ignoring that, he looks toward the ankle cuff. "Am I still a flight risk?"
"You murdered someone last night, tried to die at least twice by my count, and keep making jealous comments about a blind lawyer. So, Id say yes."
Dex's eye comes back to you. Slower now. "You're bringing him up."
The audacity if this stupid, beautiful, injured man. "You were going to."
"I was waiting."
"That must have been hard for you."
His fingers flex against the sheet, head dipping once towards his ankle. "Take it off."
You fold your arms, and his gaze moves briefly over your chest before he makes himself look back at your face. The tiny effort, the discipline of it, should not be as intimate as it is. "Tell me why."
"So I can leave if I want."
"Wrong answer."
The old Dex sits up under the wounded one for a second, teeth showing in spirit, even if his mouth is too sore for the full shape. He exhales, irritated. "So I can stop feeling like you expect me to run."
That one is a better answer. He sees that getting to you, which is annoying. Your mouth softening by degrees, fingers loosening against your arms, he sees all of it. You crouch near the bed and unlock the cuff with the key on your necklace. His eyes follow it, the little brass thing sliding from between your breasts, then the lock, then your hand closing around his ankle to ease the padding away from skin.
The chain falls with a dull clink.
Half of you, the pessimistic half, expects him to lunge. But he just lies there and looks at you with wonder in his eyes, as if you have handed him a weapon and he has chosen, for this one morning, to set it down.
"If you run, I will find you and sedate you in public," you say.
"You promise?"
"Dex."
With effort, his hand lifts. The tremor is subtle, visible only because you have spent too many nights learning his tells. He reaches for your wrist and stops halfway, waiting.
You wouldn't have thought more about this if he'd just reached. The waiting is what burrows under your ribs.
When you give him your wrist, his fingers close around it with almost no pressure, thumb restinh over your pulse like he wants to feel proof you are still here, flesh and warmth, no trick. "Does he get this?"
He should feel your pulse jump under his thumb, as you sigh and look at him. "Matt gets stitches. Lectures. Soup if he looks starved."
Dex studies your face, eyes tracking every one of your features, scanning. "And me?"
"You get the chain."
He huffs out something close to a laugh, with whatever energy that's left in him.
"You get me missing sleep, changing your dressings while you say upsetting things. You get me pretending I don't worry when you vanish for weeks and then show up with half your side open like a wounded dog dragging itself under a porch."
His hand tightens around the hold, eyes darkening. They are fixed on you with concentration, feeling more like a touch than his actual hands.
Dex has always looked at targets with focus. You have seen him do it through security footage Matt once brought you, body still, gaze calm, all the world narrowed into distance and outcome. This is different. Messier. He looks at you like he wants to crawl into the space behind your ribs and sleep there where no one can reach him.
"Do you want him?" The question comes out blunt. Too wounded. Subtlety has been stripped from him. What remains is one battered man, waiting to hear if he has already lost something he never properly held.
You sit on the edge of the mattress, careful near his ribs. The warmth of his body seeps into yours. "Matt is my friend."
"He touches you like he has rights."
"He touches me like he trusts me."
Dex's eyes looks pained, his jaw tightening. When you lean closer, his gaze drops to your mouth. Your eyes cleanly capture that small betrayal. His thumb strokes once over your pulse, helplessly possessive. You could still walk away. Probably change his dressing, make tea, text Matt an update, maybe contact someone with imaging access who asks fewer questions than the hospital would. Your brain produces tasks in a neat row. Your body knocks the row over like dominoes.
"He doesn't get this look," you sigh. Hazel eye lifts to yours, stripped clean. You almost laugh at yourself for what you're about to say, too honest for this setting. "No one else gets this look."
His breathing changes. Shallow for a second, then controlled since his ribs hurt. He has to choose restraint with every inhale. It makes the want on his face worse. A man who can hit a target precisely even in motion, is trying to keep still under your hand. The effort has sweat gathering at his temples. His hand closed around your wrist tugs you towards him, wordless, but you don't think words are needed.
"You have bruised ribs, multiple lacerations, and an ego wound the size of Manhattan," you say, but lean towards him anyway.
"Your bedside manner was better last night."
"Last night you were closer to death."
His mouth curves faintly, the split lip threatening to open with themotion. "I'm improving. Reward me."
The nerve of him. The absurd, devastating nerve of him, lying in your bed bandaged to hell, asking for you like he has any right, like he has every right. He has learned the existence of a spot in you where affection, fear and desire knot together, and has decided to press his thumb there. This is medically stupid, ethically worse, emotionally catastrophic.
But his hand on your wrist makes you feel chosen by a creature who has bitten everyone else, torn ear flashing before your eyes once more.
You bend down and kiss him. You mean to make it careful. A little thing. A test. Dex makes a sound into your mouth, and the kiss opens wider before you can organize your thoughts. His lips are split, so you keep the pressure light, but he chases you anyway, hungry in a ruined, restrained way that sends a wave of heat through your skin. His hand rises to the back of your neck. You expect him to pull your closer, but he just holds you there, that being somehow worse. His palm is warm, fingers trembling slightly against your hairline, whole body focusing on the point where your mouth meets his.
You pull back first, breathing hard, sharing oxygen. "Pain?"
His eyes open slowly, hazel swallowed by black. "Yes."
"From the kiss?"
"No."
"Dex."
"Everything hurts," he says, voice rough, like he's holding on by a thread. "That felt better."
The thread is thin. Your forehead lowers to his temple for one second. Just one. But it's enough to smell antiseptic on his skin, blood in his mouth, rain still caught somewhere in his hair. Enough to feel him exhale like the thread has finally snapped.
"This stays slow," you whisper against his mouth. "You tell me if I need to stop."
His thumb moves along your jaw, soft, so soft. "I'll behave."
That word is so gentle, that he has no practice giving, and you kiss him again before you can lose your nerve. Dex kisses like survival has always been a contact sport. Even injured, even careful, his mouth has a desperate steadiness to it, as if he is memorizing the limits of what he can take from you without breaking the spell. His hand slides from your neck to your waist, then stops. Waiting again.
You place his hand over your hip.
A sound leaves him, too soft to be a groan, too hungry to be a sigh, and his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips. Your thighs press together, his eye tracking the movement with a precision that makes your skin prickle. "Doc," he murmurs against your mouth.
"Mm?"
"You're shaking."
"So are you."
"I have an excuse."
A laugh from your mouth, but it comes out breathy and uneven, not nearly as cool as you need it to be. "Shut up."
You don't have a comeback, no sharp thing to say. You're letting Ben Poindexter slide his hand up under your shirt. There's an awful tenderness in being wanted by someone who rarely wants anything without destroying it. So, no. No sharp comeback.
His palm spreads over your waist, careful of his taped fingers, of the bruises on his own knuckles, careful with you in a way that feels learned from watching rather than experience. His thumb brushes the lower curve of your breast through your bra, and your breath goes thin.
His gaze locks on that reaction. "Can I?"
When you nod, his hand moves higher, cupping you with an aching slowness that makes your hips shift on the mattress. Dex's eyelid lowers, mouth parting slightly as if the feel of you under his palm is enough to daze him more than his injuries. He squeezes once, gentle at first, then firmer when your fingers curl into the sheet.
"Tell me," he says.
"Half-dead, but still you demand."
He ignores your words. "Tell me what you like."
The command, irritating from any other mouth, only drags heat through every inch of you now. You cover his hand with yours and guide him, showing him the pressure, the spot, how your nipple tightens when his thumb rubs over it through cotton. His attention is unbearable. "Like that," you breathe. "A little harder. Yeah, like that."
"He ever hear you sound like that?"
You kiss him harder, stealing those words from his mouth. He absorbs it with a shudder, hand tightening around your breast while his other reaches for your thigh.
The position is so awkward, you help him a little to sit up. Two bodies learning each other in the small space of a spare room cot.
Jealousy is still there, you can feel it threaded through every question, but now it has heat behind it, a wounded need that makes him cling and challenge at once. You swing one leg over his hips before he can try to move too much, settling carefully over his thighs, your palms braced on either side of his shoulders so none of your weight hits his ribs.
For once, Bullseye looks struck.
You look down at him, at the swelling, the bruises, the blood cleaned from his mouth, the bandages you placed over skin you are now aching to touch.
A man who tried to die last night is now staring at you like your thighs around him might be a reason to reconsider.
"This okay?" you ask, voice soft, not to startle him.
Dex swallows as he nuzzles closer, as if it was even possible. "Better than okay."
"Hands stay where they won't pull stitches."
A faint smile, soft enough to pull your heartstrings, looks up at you as if you have given him an order he would follow through fire. "Yes, doctor."
Your fingers tighten in the sheet beside his hip at his words. His thumb keeps moving on the bare strip of your stomach like he has found a place warm enough to keep him, palm heavy with feverish want and restraint that looks painful on him.
When you reach for your shirt, his hand tightens at your thigh. "Slow… let me see."
You almost laugh at the nerve of him. When the shirt drags up your ribs, his eyes follow every inch as if the fabric itself has offended him by hiding you this long. You pull it over your head and toss it to your back. Your bra is plain, worn from too many overnight shifts, and the fact that he looks at it like lace from some altar makes heat crawl over your cheeks. "Say something," you murmur, fingers hovering near the clasp.
Dex's mouth parts, then closes again. The split along the lower one shines where he has worried it open with every kiss. "I'm trying to think like a man with blood left in his head."
"That bad?"
His thumb brushes under the curve of your breast, barely grazing the band of your bra. "Worse."
You unhook it before the embarrassment can make you hesitate. The straps slip down your arms, and Dex goes still. Your breasts fall free, nipples already tight from his earlier touch, and the look on his face makes you feel naked in a deeper place than skin. He reaches up with both hands, then winces at the pull across his ribs. His frustration flashes sharp in his jaw.
"Let me come to you," you offer.
He gives a tiny shake of his head, annoyed at himself. "I hate this."
"You hate being cared for."
"I hate having hands and not able to use them."
That almost makes you smile. You shift closer, one hand cupping the back of his head, other hand cupping your breast and guiding him towards it. "Then use your mouth."
Dex groans like that instruction broke him. His lips close around your nipple, careful for all of two seconds before the pull turns needy. His tongue works over you, slow at first, then firmer when your hips shift against his. He makes a sound into your skin, less like hunger, more comfort, like he has found some impossible warmth in you and intends to live there now.
One of his hands finds your waist. The other slides around to your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh he can reach. He cannot pull you hard without hurting himself, so he holds you in place and sucks like he needs the taste of you to steady him.
"Dex," you breathe, your hand tightening in his hair. His eye lifts without his mouth leaving you. "That's... yeah. Keep doing that."
He answers by drawing you deeper into his mouth, cheeks hollowing with a careful pull that sends a wet, aching spark down between your legs. The sound you make embarrasses you, and he hears it. Feels it. His hand slides lower, greedy over the curve of your ass. When you rock against him, his cock presses thick and hard under the loose pants you put on him hours earlier.
He releases your nipple with a soft sound, mouth shining. "Take these off me."
"Demanding, are we?"
His gaze drags up to meet yours. "Please. I need you closer, and these are in my way."
That is worse than anything filthy he could have said. Your fingers go to his waistband, tugging carefully, your focus split between wanting him and watching the tight pinch around his mouth whenever his ribs object. He helps as much as he can, lifting his hips an inch, hissing through his teeth. His cock slips free against his stomach, hard, already wet at the tip.
You stare for half a second too long. Even when he's injured, Dex notices everything. "Still want to scold me?"
"Constantly," you say, hating the softness in it, and wrap your hand around him.
His laugh turns into a groan, head dropping back against the wall while your thumb spreads the wetness at his tip down his shaft. He is warm in your hand, heavy, alive. The thought makes your throat ache, so you lean in and kiss him instead, messy and careful at once, your bare chest pressed near his bandages, your fingers stroking him until his hips twitch. "Stop moving," you whisper against his mouth.
"I barely moved."
"You moved enough." Your fingers don't stop their graze on his cock.
"I missed you." His voice comes apart on the last word. "Grant me a little mercy."
You rise onto your knees instead of answering the smarter way, tugging at your pants with one impatient hand while the other stays braced near his shoulder. The fabric catches at your knees, and for one stupid second you almost laugh. This is so ungraceful, far from the kind of fantasy you would have let yourself have about him. Dex does not laugh. His gaze follows the slow drag of your pants down your thighs like he is watching something holy and obscene at once. By the time you kick them off near the foot of the cot, your underwear is damp enough to cling, and his fingers flex against your hips like he is fighting the urge to help. "Those too."
"You're very annoying for a man who can barely sit upright, you know?"
"Please." There's just desperation.
You push your underwear down just enough at first, suddenly shy under his gaze, then give up and pull them off completely. Your slick coats your fingers when you touch yourself, and Dex's mouth parts like the sight has taken the last good thought from his head.
He watches entranced while you drag that wetness over his cock, making the slide easier, making a filthy shine of both of you. His hands flex against your hips, then still when you lower yourself over him.
The first stretch steals the words from both of you. You sink slowly, one hand braced on the wall over his shoulder, the other gripping his upper arm where the muscle tenses under your palm. Dex looks wrecked before you are even halfway down. His mouth hangs open, eyes fixed on your face, then dropping to where his cock disappears into you, then come back up as if he needs to see you take him more than he needs air. "Too much?" he asks.
Lowering anothet inch, you shake your head, thighs already trembling from the angle. "Just — just let me take my time."
"I'm yours," he says. "Take all of it."
The words do terrible things to you. You sink the rest of the way, cunt closing around him in hot, slick pulses.
Dex's hands clamp down on your ass with a force that almost breaks through his weakness. His forehead falls against your sternum. He breathes there, mouth brushing your skin, then he turns his face and sucks one breast back between his lips while you start to ride him.
The cot creaks under. Your thighs burn almost immediately, cramped from sleep in the chair and the span of his hips beneath yours. Still, you lift and sink, taking him deeper each time.
Dex tries to stay still. You feel the fight in him. His palms keep sliding under your ass, helping you rise, helping you drop, giving you just enough strength to keep moving without letting his ribs tear at him.
Then he thrusts up like he can't stop himself. A sharp little cry leaves you, pleasure striking so deep your knees almost give. Dex makes a pained sound in the same second, and your hand flies to his shoulder "Do that again and I swear I'll chain you back to the bed."
His face is tight, sweat shining at his temple. "I can take this."
"You are actively proving the opposite."
"Please." He says it into your breast, lips brushing the skin as he speaks, hands still cupping your ass. "Let me help. Sitting still while you do everything hurts worse."
Your scolding dies half-formed. If there's a tease, you could've gone through with it. But there's only need. Nodding your head against him, you let his hands guide you again.
He lifts as much as he can with his arms, careful of his side, and you ride the motion, cunt sliding down his cock with a wet sound that makes both of you shudder. His mouth finds your nipple again, sucking harder, and you feel him everywhere, under your skin, in your thighs, between your ribs. "I'm close," you tell him.
His hand leaves your ass, searching between your bodies. But when he twists wrong, pain catches him. You grab his wrist and press it back to your hip. "No. I'll do it."
"I want to make you cum."
"You are." You touch your clit with slick fingers and circle it the way you need, riding him in short, deep rolls. "Just stay with me. That's what I need."
His head drops back against the wall, watching your hand move, watching his cock fill you, then watches your face break open around pleasure. "Look at me. P-please. Let me see you."
When your eyes find his, your orgasm hits you you hard enough to turn your thighs useless, cunt clenching around him in tight, wet pulls.
Dex curses softly, hands locking on your ass as he spills inside you, hot and endless, body going rigid beneath yours while he tries to keep from thrusting. You keep your mouth against his, breathing into him until the shaking eases.
He says something too low for you to catch.
"What?"
His eye opens, glassy and spent. "Mine."
Your fingers slide along his jaw, careful around the bruising. "You don't get to say that unless you stay alive."
"I'll stay alive." The answer comes fast, hoarse, almost angry with how badly he means it.
Before you can respond, he catches the wrist of the hand you used on your clit and brings your fingers to his mouth. His lips close around them, sucking you off your own skin with a slow hunger that makes you clench again around his softening cock.
Like he cannot bear another second apart, he pulls you down and kisses you, your taste on his tongue, his hand weak but certain at the back of your neck. His pulse slams under your palm where it's holding onto his neck. Alive. Alive. Alive.
Getting off him is slow and messy. His cum slides down your thigh while you stand naked beside the cot.
Dex watches with a dazed, almost helpless look that follows you even when you grab a warm cloth. You sit beside him and clean his cock first, gentle around oversensitive skin, and he inhales like this care is harder to take than the sex. "I can do that," he mutters.
"You are injured. Shut up." You continue your path down his thighs.
"You like telling me what to do."
"I like keeping you alive." You check the bandage at his side next, still naked, still dripping, fingers clinical even while his gaze keeps dropping to the mess he left between your thighs. "Looks okay. Nothing opened."
When you clean yourself, he watches your hand move between your thighs with a frown that is almost offended. "That should be me."
"You can do that when you aren't fighting for your life."
His eye lifts to yours, begging, exhausted. "Next time?"
"Next time." Next time means he's planning on staying.
Your phone buzzes, the sound cutting through the moment. One small vibration against the metal cabinet, and Dex already knows. His eye shifts before yours does, tired and sharp at the same time, like the rest of him is sinking under but that sharp little blade in him still knows how to lift its head. "Matt," he says.
Offering him a bottle of water, you pick up your phone. Sure enough it is Matt.
"Tell him I didn't vanish." The bottle is unopened at his hands.
Sighing, you grab it from him, uncap and press it to his lips. Dex looks at you stunned, almost offended that you're holding a bottle to his mouth. "Drink."
Whatever response that was about to spill from his lips is interrupted by another buzz of your phone, currently on the cot beside him.
Dex's eyes drop to the screen. Bruised, naked under the too-thin blanket, barely keeping himself awake, and still he finds the one thing in the room pulling your attention away from him. "Persistent," he rasps.
"You're one to talk." The bottle stays at his mouth until he takes one grudging swallow, then another. His throat works, lashes lowering for a second.
The phone buzzes again.
Dex's mouth leaves the bottle. "Just — just reply him."
You pick up the phone with a sigh, and type back a response.
Still here. Stable.
Dex's eye tracks every letter. "That's all?"
"You want a performance review?"
His almost-smile tugs at the torn corner of his mouth. "Five stars. Charming. Didn't vanish."
You set the phone facedown beside his hip and lift the bottle again. "One more sip."
He groans, but drinks. This time he doesn't look offended. When a drop slips from the corner of his mouth, you wipe it with your thumb before thinking better of it. Dex catches your wrist before you can pull back. His grip has almost no strength left, but he holds you like letting go is the worst thing that could happen. "I behaved."
Just two words, like that wounded dog setting its head down because it has run out of places, but has finally found home. Your eyes sting so fast it's embarrassing. You settle your palm against his cheek. "Yes, you did."
Matt's reply comes through, unseen and ignored.
Dex's eyes close as he nuzzles deeper into your palm, your wrist still trapped in his loose hold. And all you can think is, stay.
MY MASTERLIST
EXTRAS. you can tell i almost gave up in the end. also… my man is so puppy dog. prove me wrong…
"All because my head is full of poison
And my heart is full of doubt
I got toxins in my bloodstream
You tried so hard to suck out
—the cure, Olivia Rodrigo
summary: you’re the ray of sunshine and overly dependable smiling intern the night shift crew has been needing. But a certain attending begins noticing you might need more help than you let on.
wc: 11.7k (a short one sorry guys)
warnings: crippling perfectionism, high-key people pleasing, reader is bright and bubbly to compensate for how awful she feels day to day, one vomiting scene, service dom jack, santos is on nightshift bc i love her and i wanted her in this fic. trinity and dennis and reader r basically siblings, jack’s characterization in this is DEF andrew pope cody-esque panic attacks, mental health struggles, reader is an intern again but i swear it’s just cause i watch a lot of greys and interns r the only stage of medical career i know enough about to write semi-well T-T
acknowledgments: once again a round of applause for @wesandresons for the lovely gif, and @uzmacchiato and @cursed-carmine for the dividers!
a/n: i’m not rlly sure i like how this turned out but oh well @leeknowpegger i hope this keeps you company
masterlist
When you first get to the PTMC, Jack can’t decide what he thinks about you.
He vaguely remembers you— you’d done a rotation here, some time ago. One of the unfortunate ones who’d drawn the short stick and been stuck on the night shift. He has a hazy recollection of your face during an MVC, your jaw hard set and a permanent smile to your face. He vaguely remembers, at the time, the only thing he’d really though was:
Jesus, this kid needs to dial it back.
The sentiment, of course, remains the same when it’s handoff time, and Robby is telling him all about what an awful fucking day it’s been, and of course now he says “Oh, remember that med student you got stuck with awhile back? Smiley-face? You must’ve done something right, because she matched into the ED for her residency. She starts today.”
Not exactly the news an attending wants to hear right after the horror show the day has been so far. Especially when intern/baby resident in question is… charismatic.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ellis says, her eyes trained on you as you soothe a crying teenager who just got wheeled in. “If you ask me, we could use someone who actually smiles. Bit too dark and dreary in here for my taste.”
“You like dark and dreary.”
She gives him an unimpressed raised eyebrow. “So? We can’t all be doing it. Like, we’ve got Shen, but his is more iced-coffee induced than actual smiling charm.”
“I can be charming when I want to be.”
“No, you can be flirty or suggestive. There’s a difference.”
Jack does not justify her response with one of his own, instead choosing to look down at his tablet and pretend to chart while he listens to how you’re interacting with the patient. The teenager seems to be calmed down, and the parents don't sound frantic or worried.
Maybe Ellis is right. Unfortunately, this tends to be the case fairly often.
He sighs and focuses on the chart he’s supposed to be doing and attempts to wipe his mind of bright smiles and glittering eyes.
—
The PTMC and Emergency Medicine in general was not, actually, your first choice. It wasn’t even your second, or your third.
First was surgical. Everybody wants to be surgical. You wanted surgical. It’s flashy, it pays well, and it’s cool as fuck. Plus, unlike some of your classmates, you actually have the stomach for it (one of the many things that eventually translated well to emergency medicine.)
Second was Ortho. Because bones are cool. Ortho surgeries are fun too, when they’re not arthroscopy after arthroscopy.
Third was any kind of unit like Burn or ICU. A high stress program that wouldn’t let you think, let you run on adrenaline all day.
But then you did your rotation in general surgery and absolutely fucking hated it.
Surgeons are assholes. Surgeons are uptight nerds who like to subject anyone they consider beneath them to cruel and unusual punishment.
Even in during the short duration of your rotation through surgery, it almost killed you. You could practically feel the light in your soul dimming at every pointed comment, every sharp correction, every barked insult and something or other cruel word.
And then there was the PTMC. The stupid ED that wasn’t supposed to fun, was supposed to be grueling and exhausting (especially since you’d gotten assigned to the night shift.) But instead of awful you got amazing, which sucked.
Seems counterintuitive, but it’s true.
You wanted to like surgery enough to power though. But not a single rotation after the ED even came close to measuring up. The speed, the action, the gore, and the kind but firm guiding direction from the attending’s and residents.
Matching into the PTMC was an event actually worth celebrating. As in, you decided to un-tense minutely and splurge on actual champagne that you drank in your apartment while dancing to your favorite music.
And now, you’re here. Determined to not fuck this up. To keep moving, keep going, and be a fucking excellent ED doctor.
Except your attending, Dr. Jack Abbot, one of the reasons you joined the ED in the first place, keeps giving you funny looks when he thinks you’re not looking.
You’re not sure if he’s aware that you know that he’s staring at you. You do have a wider than normal field of peripheral vision, so maybe he doesn’t know that you can still see him out of the corner of your eye?
Regardless of if he knows or not, it’s unnerving. Because he’s your boss. And you know he’s capable of being an incredible doctor and mentor, because you see it every single day.
Just not directed at you.
He’s not really mean, or standoffish, or anything like that, he’s just… not necessarily kind. Not in the way that you see him with the other residents on his service or even with you, during your rotation as a med student.
Hell, he’s nicer to Santos than he is to you.
“Did I like, say something to offend him and I don’t know?”
Trinity makes a face at you from over the edge of the monitor. “Isn’t that more my area of expertise?”
“No. You offend people on purpose.”
“True.”
You prop your head on your hands, resting your elbows on the counter above her. Your keycard, attached to your breast pocket via a red, heart-shaped badge reel is lovingly adorned with pink rhinestones and cute stickers. The pocket itself is filled with several glitter gel pens (and regular pens, just in case.)
“I just don’t get it. I’m nice, right?”
“Disturbingly so.”
“Exactly. The only thing I can think of is that I’ve messed up or something, but it’s Dr. Abbot. He’d tell me if I did. He doesn’t exactly hold back.”
“Do you really need me for this conversation?”
You level her with a look, but she just groans.
“Why do you even care? So what, one guy doesn’t like you, boohoo.”
“He’s not just some guy. He’s my attending. And you might’ve secured your spot here, but i’m all shiny and new. I can’t exactly earn people’s respect if our boss doesn’t like me.”
Trinity doesn’t immediately respond with a scathing remark, which usually means that you’ve made a valid point.
“Should I talk to him?”
She sighs. “I think you’re overreacting. You’ve only been here for like, two weeks? Three? He’ll probably calm down the more you work together.”
“Did he stare at you all weirdly when you first started?”
“Well, no, but that’s because I don’t suck at my job.”
Now it’s your turn to glare.
“Sorry. I guess you’re not completely hopeless.”
You roll your eyes. “Thanks, Trin.”
She scrunches her nose up at the nickname like you knew she would, because she hates it, which makes it one of the only weapons you have against her.
Trinity wasn’t as helpful as you’d hoped, and night shift means no Dana to ask for advice. There’s Dr. Ellis, but she’s pretty close to Dr. Abbot, which means there’s a high chance that whatever you ask her will make it back to him. You aren’t really close enough to Dr. Shen to ask him “Hey, how come Dr. Abbot stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking and isn’t as nice to me as he is to you guys?”
The question is stupid and kind of pathetic, so really, you shouldn’t be asking anybody, but you’ve always been crippled by an intense need to be well-liked. It feels like winning, and it feels good and safe. Safe is good. Safe is great.
Wanting the guy who's essentially your boss to like you is completely rational, right?
You just wish he’d tell you what you’re doing wrong, so you can fix it.
Also, it’s just driving you crazy.
Even if he just legitimately didn’t like you, and made that apparent, it’d be something. You could work with that. You could figure out what it was he didn't like via intense pattern recognitin and fix it. Problem solved!
But he isn't obvious about it. He behaves indifferent and detatched- like you could die tomorrow and he wouldn't care.
It’s the not knowing. If you could just ask him, if he could just give you an answer, then you’d know where you stood, and everything could be fine.
What changed? You want to beg, What happened after my med student rotation? Do you even remember that? What did I do? Where did I go wrong?
It eats away at you over the course of the week. It has been since you noticed, which was pretty much on day one. You don’t show this outwardly of course, because you’re pretty sure you can get through to him and level out the wrong-footedness you feel around him through stubborn determination. Surely, at some point your unwavering nature will win out and he’ll finally see there isn’t anything he needs to hate about you. This is an incredibly healthy mindset to move through life with.
The week closes with an MCI around 5pm, which is just everyone’s favorite thing in the world. The night shift gets called in, minus Trinity, who was already there working a double, and everyone sets in for the long haul. You do your best to focus on the patients and do not at all think about the ease and camaraderie between Mohan and Abbot, because that would be a very fucked up progression of priorities.
Eventually it’s all over— patients are stabilized, some aren’t. Overtime ends with phantom blood on your hands and being strong-armed into drinks in the park afterwards.
You feel awkward, because you don’t work with the day shift people that often, so you’re not really sure how best to be yourself and not come across as weird. Neither of your “safe” people (Trinity and Dennis) are present, so there’s no way in hell you’re going to be capable of relaxing.
You take the beer that’s tossed to you, even though you think beer is gross (why does it taste like that? Why do people enjoy it?) and sip on it excruciatingly slowly, trying to hide a grimace and occasionally chiming in with mentally rehearsed and carefully crafted jokes and comments.
It’s exhausting, and not at all how you wanted to spend your night after an MCI. In a dream world, you don’t have the social backbone of a wet paper bag, and you say no, and you go home to your house and shower, then watch one, maybe two episodes of a tv show, scroll through Pinterest, and then go the fuck to bed.
But for the low low price of much needed rest, you get to drink one of the most disgusting alcoholic beverages known to man and worry if everyone thinks you’re being weird! Yay!
Also. Side note. Minor comment. Little issue.
Jack Abbot is sitting next to you. Like, right next to you on the bench. Because he came late and it was the last spot open. So he’s just right there. Posture loose and open and not at all like he didn’t just help you try to save a girl your age who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like two hours ago your elbows weren’t brushing, elbow deep in a man’s organs, saving his life.
Jack, unlike you, looks comfortable to be at the park with everyone. He doesn’t look like he’s analyzing conversation to determine the best thing to say next.
Jack isn’t looking at everyone. He’s not looking at anyone. He’s looking at you.
You turn, give him a little smile.
Again.
Maybe he doesn’t know you can still see him out of the corner of your eye. (No, he’s a vet, he’d definitely also have wide peripheral vision. But maybe he thinks that you don’t have it, because you’re not a vet.)
(You’re probably thinking too much about the peripheral vision.)
Jack doesn’t stop staring at you. Instead, he reaches over to where your barely-drunk beer is in your hands, and says:
“Here, give me that.”
And then he just. Takes your beer. Straight out of your hands.
Jesus fucking fuck he so hates you.
—
“He took your beer?”
“Yes,” You groan from the kitchen island in Trinity’s apartment, “He said ‘here, give me that’ and then just took it. He didn’t say anything else to me for the rest of the night.”
She lets out a low whistle. “Maybe he doesn’t like you. What could you have possibly done to make him not like you?”
“I don’t know!”
“Well, you better fix it. Having your attending hate your guts will like, majorly suck.”
“I don’t know how to fix it. That’s what i’m over here for. To brainstorm.”
“I thought you were here to steal the cookies Huckleberry made?”
Dennis peeks his head up from the couch. “Wait, what?”
You wave a hand. “Semantics. Focus.”
“Okay,” Trinity taps a pencil on a notepad, “Have you tried sleeping with him?”
“He’s like, probably over twenty years older than me.”
“So? I know your type.”
You roll your eyes. “As if he’d go after me, Trin. He doesn’t like me.”
“Hate sex is a thing.”
“Name one time hate sex solved the hate part.”
She purses her lips. “Touché. What about like, baking him shit, like Huckleberry does for—“
“Shut up Trinity!”
You both snicker.
“No dice,” You sigh, “I can’t bake for shit. Recipes never have enough context. They’re never specific enough.”
“Two tablespoons of sugar isn’t specific enough for you?”
“You’re not helping.”
Trinity holds up her hands in mock surrender. “To be fair, I never agreed to help. I just said we’d both be here if you wanted to come over.”
“I think you should just ask him.” Dennis pipes up.
He shuffles off the couch and slides into the second chair at the kitchen island adjacent to you. “Dr. Abbot is a straightforward guy. He appreciates honesty. Doesn’t beat around the bush. I can’t imagine him being truly upset that you tried to fix a problem.”
“I want to, but that’s like. Too straightforward. What if—“
“Oh my god,” Trinity moans, “Just ask him. Or fuck him. Do something so I don’t have to hear about it anymore.”
You frown, opening your mouth to object, then close it with a sigh.
She’s right.
You have to just move on. Either deal with it or deal with it by… not dealing with it. Talk to him or don’t.
Easier said than done.
—
It takes two more shifts of unrequited awkwardness for you to finally reach your limit. At a certain point, probably when you almost snapped at him for hovering (doing his job) while you were trying to intubate a patient, you realize that you cannot, actually, just get through to him via stubborn determination.
Damn.
So when you have a second, you corner him in one of the quieter hallways. The conversation has the potential to be horrifically embarrassing and mortifying, so it’s best if there’s no audience.
“Do you have a minute, Dr. Abbot?”
He glances down at his watch, then crosses his arms and leans against the opposite wall.
He doesn’t talk (unnerving, annoying) and his sharp, ever analyzing gaze makes your skin prickle as you cross your hands behind your back and mirror his position, leaning against the wall.
He’s so irritating. He won’t even give you a fucking inch. There’s nothing to go on.
“Did I do something wrong?”
For the first time since you became a resident in the ED, he makes an expression: surprise.
“Why do you think you did something wrong?”
“Because you won’t fucking talk to me!” You hiss, absolutely fed up with Dr. Jack Abbot, “Half the time you only look at me when you think I won’t notice. You don’t talk to me unless it’s required for teaching, and even then, it’s short and stilted. I’ve seen how you interact with literally every other person who works here. I know you can be nice. You’re just not nice to me, and I’d like to know why.”
You pause. “And you took my beer!”
There’s a moment of silence, and then there’s a breathy, almost wheezing sound that takes you a minute to place.
He’s laughing.
Jack fucking Abbot starts laughing.
You honest to God want to kill him.
“Sorry,” He says, eyes sparkling with mirth and shoulders loose, “I can see how all of that can be taken negatively—“
“How else was I supposed to take that.”
Jack levels you with a look, and you shut your mouth. “But it was not my intention.”
He just stops speaking there, like that’s a perfectly adequate explanation and not at all vague and almost more disconcerting.
“So…,” You drawl, “What was your intention?”
Something interesting, a little more heated than just analytical sparks in his gaze, and he tilts his head, eyes flicking up and down your body.
Under the silence and scrutiny, you resist the urge to squirm in place, hands squeezing themselves in an effort to subdue the itch.
“You hate confrontation.”
Your chest feels like a cinder block just slammed onto it. “What?”
“You,” He levels a finger at your chest, “Hate confrontation. You hate it so much that you lie about yourself to people instead of saying things they might not like.”
You laugh nervously, voice high and reedy. “A lot of people do that. I don’t think that’s a crime.”
“It’s not. But it doesn’t exactly make me want to trust you with my residents. With my team.”
“You’re worried I’ll what? Get somebody in trouble? Do something shitty?”
“I’m worried that something is going to happen to you, and you won’t tell anyone about it.”
The hallway grows silent. In this distance there’s beeping, someone shouting orders, a child crying. But not in the five feet of space you, Jack, and the conversion currently occupies.
“Why do all of this?” You gesture vaguely to the space between you two, unwilling to be more specific. He does not deserve the itemized list you assembled in your head.
“I wanted to see if you’d confront me about it or not. Confirm my suspicions.”
“That’s—“ You wrinkle your nose, “Actually kind of shitty of you.”
Jack just hums.
“So what now? Did I prove myself to you?” Your tone is mocking.
He scoffs, “God, you really hate confrontation, don’t you?”
Your skin prickles again. “No.”
“Lying again.”
“Shut up.”
He knows how uncomfortable he’s making you. He’s doing it on purpose. And right then and there, you decide you don’t care what Jack Abbot thinks, because if Jack Abbot is going to be a self-assured asshole, Jack Abbot can go fuck himself.
Your pager going off saves you from verbalizing any of this, and with one last glare, you’re gone.
—
If Jack was an obnoxious lurker before, it doesn’t hold a damn candle to how he behaves now.
He’s just. Everywhere. Around every corner. Driving you crazy.
When you bring this up to Trinity, she looks at you like you’ve finally lost it.
Which. Okay. You probably have. But that’s beside the point! The point is…
…The point is that Jack Abbot is getting on your last nerve and you really don’t have any to spare. Life has been stomping all over the other ones, so the singular nerve Jack is stabbing with his annoying pointed looks and almost lingering touches and stupid little questions (“Hey, that was a rough one, are you alright?”) is just worn out. It doesn’t have anything left to give. You don’t have anything left to give.
But, like you were brought up to do, you keep right on giving. And working. And smiling.
Because it goes a little something like this: There’s no one to pick you up if you fall. You pick yourself up when you fall, and you’ve gotten pretty fucking good at it. All of your friends (read: Trinity and Dennis and maybe Mel) are doctors, which means you all have shitty work/life balance and no one would even be available if you called and said “Hey, every morning I lie awake and stare at the ceiling and convince myself to get up while listening to Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley, after which I will inevitably cry on the bus to work. Would you mind helping me with my laundry?”
Okay. Well. Trinity would probably show up if you asked because once she decides that you’re her friend she’s really intense about it (she’s a bit like a Doberman or some other dog like that, not that you would ever tell her) and Dennis probably would too, but only because he never says no when someone asks for help so it kind of just feels like you’re taking advantage of him. Mel is far too busy juggling being an ED doctor and caring for Becca for you to even think about asking her without feeling intense, soul crushing guilt.
So yeah. You don’t really have a best friend, unless one would count the singular romance book you’ve read so much the spine is completely fucked and the pages are yellow from years of travel and rereading. Counting any book as a best friend is probably very pathetic. But hey, don’t fix what isn’t broken.
So you have a system and a method and crying before and after work every single day is totally, completely normal, healthy, and sustainable. Probably even more so in the medical field, and especially since you’re a PGY1. Interns gotta suffer and all that jazz.
Jack Abbot does not need to make the suffering worse by existing near you constantly. Things are really honestly bad enough.
“Hey,” Trinity grabs your arm as you’re going by during a mellow shift, grip not tight enough to hurt but enough to be a bit past uncomfortable, especially for a girl not used to physical contact, “You good?”
‘No,’ You want to shout, collapsing on the floor in a heap of bones and tears, ‘I haven’t done laundry in so long that I’ve started wearing my cleanest dirty socks instead of washing more. I don’t have the energy to spend my days off doing anything productive, but every time I sleep instead of doing chores the anxiety eats me alive. I can’t sleep at night because the guilt makes me so nervous sometimes I throw up. Sometimes I don’t wash myself in the shower and I just stand in the water until it gets cold. Every day I wake up with the same headache, and then I take medicine for it, but by the time it’s gone I’m going to bed and then I wake up with it all over again. I think my liver is shot from over-the-counter medication usage. Everything hurts. I’m so tired.’
Trinity needs you to be okay. Trinity is too busy and under too much stress to worry about you. She needs you to be okay. Everyone needs you be okay.
“Mhm!” You nod, lips spread wide, “Pretty good day actually, all things considered.”
It’s not a total lie. The headache relief you’ve been taking religiously is kicking in faster than it usually does today.
Trinity scans your face, looking for signs of a lie, and she must find something (not shocking, it’s very hard to pretend that everything isn’t awful when Everything Is Really Awful) because her grip tightens minutely and she does that pursed lip thing she does when she’s worried and about to express it through anger or bitchiness.
“Don’t fuck with me. I don’t want to find out you’re like, doing drugs or something stupid like that. If you’re having a hard time—“
“Trin,” You interrupt, skin prickling uncomfortably as she implies that you’re not capable of handling things on your own, “If I need help, I know I can ask for it. And look,”
You tap your unbroken collection of glitter gel pens still intact in the front pocket of your scrubs. “It’s gotta be a good day. I still got my glitter.”
She wrinkles her nose, but drops your arm. “I don’t even know why you keep those. You can’t use them on like, anything. It’s against hospital policy.”
You shrug. “Glitter is a great motivator and mood elevator. Plus, kids love ‘em.”
You manage to feign something important coming up and duck out of the conversation and then, when the coast is clear, dart into one of the lesser used bathrooms and tuck yourself in the darkest stall.
Even in a hospital, toilet seats are disgusting, but you can’t quite summon any actual disgust as you plop down on the white porcelain, only lightly cracked, and cradle your exhausted head in your hands.
You have to keep going. There is no alternative. There is no other option.
Your chest feels tight and loose at the same time, and your skin feels clammy and wrong. Everything feels wrong. The lights are too bright and the material of your scrubs is scratchy and awful, and the longer you sit in the stall the more you want to throw up.
Someone knocks on the door before you get the chance to move down to your knees and start worshipping the porcelain altar. Assuming it to be Mel, who sometimes has a habit of showing up at the wrong time, you open the stall door to reveal none other than Jack Fucking Abbot.
You stare at him blankly for a few beats, too bewildered to feel sick. “You’re not allowed to be in here.”
“In the men’s bathroom?”
“This isn’t the men’s bathroom.”
“The sign on the door would say otherwise.”
Embarrassment brings the nausea back tenfold. You hold the stall door in a white knuckle grip to keep yourself upright and from hurling onto your boss.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t do this on purpose—“
Jack raises an eyebrow, his hands folded behind his back. Military man, right.
“Clearly.”
You stumble forward. “I need to go—“
“Woah, down girl. I didn’t knock because I cared which toilet you use. You work here. Use whatever toilet you want. Preferably not the one in the attending’s lounge.”
“There’s an attending’s lounge?”
“No.” He grins, a devilish upturn to just the corner of his lips.
“Oh,” You pause, then catch up to the rest of what he said, “Then why’d you knock?”
“Cause it kind of sounded like you were dying in there, and I’d rather if you didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“The paperwork, for one. Two, Santos would probably shank me.”
“Ah.”
“Also,” He shrugs, “I’d miss you.”
You scoff. “No you wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
“You don’t like me. You don’t even trust me.”
Jack gets this pinched look on his face; his lips pull down, his brows furrow and he narrows his eyes, just a bit.
He opens his mouth to respond when the door bangs open.
Jack doesn’t even look up before he’s barking:
“Find another bathroom.”
“But I have to—“
“Find another bathroom or I’ll cut your dick off.”
The guy grumbles away, but Jack never takes his eyes off you. It’s unnerving— to be the sole focus of his attention.
You’re the first to break the now tense silence of the bathroom.
“That seemed a bit extreme.”
“I’m not a man who does things by halves.”
“No,” You sigh, “I suppose you’re not.”
Jack cocks his head to side, almost predatory. More methodical than anything. He looks at you— really looks at you. Shamelessly drags his eyes up your body, likely cataloguing every mystery bruise, frown line, eye bag, freckle, and all the million lines of exhaustion that seem etched on your very being, right down through the bones and marrow.
He sighs, crossing his arms before leaning back on the opposite wall of the bathroom.
“What am I going to do with you?”
His words instantly have you on edge, bristling at all the unsaid things behind his tone.
“I’m not something to be dealt with. I’m a person, not some fucking—“
“You’re like a stray cat,” He interrupts, “Always hissing. Do I need to win you over with treats? Should I start bringing canned tuna?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re drowning.”
Just like that, all the humor gets sucked from the room, replaced with the cold, sharp grip of reality. Suddenly exhausted by the weight of it all, you drop back down onto the toilet seat.
Jack gives you a few moments to respond, get angry, or defend yourself, but you don’t. He’s too good at reading you, it seems. What is there to say?
When you don’t speak, he does.
“Did you think no one would notice?”
“No one has.”
“Am I no one?”
You lean back, closing your eyes and awkwardly resting the back of your head against the wall and the back of the toilet.
“You’re nosy.”
If this were any other moment, any other scenario with any other person, you would never ever act so contrary. But you’re tired and Jack seems to bring out the worst in you.
He makes an amused huffing noise. “You’re good at what you do, I’ll give you that.”
“What, exactly, am I doing?”
“Pretending.”
You scoff. “Fuck off.”
“Come on, sweetheart. How much longer are you going to do this to yourself?”
You lift your head off the back of the toilet. “You act like I’m killing myself:”
“You are,” His inclined his head, “Just really slowly.”
You scrub a hand down your face.
“Look. I understand why you think you have to care, but you don’t. I’m just going through a rough patch. I’ll get through them like I always do. I’m not gonna crash and burn or endanger myself or do whatever it is you’re worried I’m going to do, okay? So you can leave me alone. I’m fine.”
Jack doesn’t get to respond, because the second the words are out of your mouth the nausea that’s been churning in your stomach since you made it to the bathroom rises all at once, and you barely have time to slide off the toilet and turn before you’re throwing up hard enough to almost choke.
The worst part is that you forgot to eat lunch so your stomach is woefully, painfully empty. You’re throwing up nothing but bile, throat burning and tears streaming down your face.
“Alright, come on,” A warm hand rubs soothing circles on your back, and if you weren’t busy hurling your guts out, you’d marvel at the feeling and juxtaposition between the Jack you know, who’s all cold indifference, and the Jack currently holding your hair out of your face while you vomit.
“Let it out,” He soothes, hand still rubbing, “Don’t fight it. It’ll be over soon.”
“I hate throwing up.” You choke, coughing and gasping.
“No one does. But you’ll feel better when it’s over.”
Over feels like it’s never going to come. But eventually your stomach stops clenching, you manage to stop heaving, and you’re slumped over the toilet, sucking down gulps of air, sweat beading on your forehead and the back of your neck.
“This,” You mumble in between gasps, “Means nothing.”
You can’t see Jack’s expression, but his response is so quiet you almost miss it.
“Okay.”
You can’t see his face, but you know this isn’t over.
—
Jack sends you home once you’re capable of standing on your own two feet without shaking like a newborn fawn.
(“You can’t send me home.”
“Yes I can. You’re not allowed to come back to work after throwing up in the bathroom.”
“We both know I’m not the only person to do it.”
“Yeah, but I haven’t caught the other people in the wrong bathroom and held their hair back while they vomited.”
“…”
“You only have two hours left anyway. Go home.”)
The problem lies in the fact that the buses aren’t running yet, which means that you can’t, actually, get home. Your house is an hour away on foot. An hour you’d normally be capable of walking, but your phone is almost dead, you’re exhausted, and you still feel a little weak because of the vomiting.
So after retrieving your things from your locker, you find yourself sitting on the little bench outside the PTMC, waiting for the minutes to tick by. If you didn’t bring at least one book with you everywhere you go in case of emergencies (like this one) you probably would have just walked into oncoming traffic.
It’s cold out and your jacket is cheap so you have to burrow into it, hood up to retain any semblance of warmth. It would be almost cozy —huddled in your jacket, watching the city go by, tucked into your favorite romance book— if the shift hadn’t gone the way it had and if a grueling bus ride and half mile walk didn’t await you once the buses finally start running. Waiting for you beyond that is just chores and an empty apartment.
Your fingers tighten on the edges of your book.
“Why the fuck are you still here?”
You jolt in place, cracking your neck over to the side and blinking blearily.
Jack. Again.
He makes an expectant face at you as if to say ‘Well?’ when you don’t answer immediately.
Your eyes dart back and forth nervously, even though you know you haven’t done anything wrong. “The buses aren’t running yet. It’s an hour walk to my house.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face and curses under his breath.
“How long until your bus gets here?”
You check your phone. Shit. Only four percent left.
“And hour and a half. Maybe a little longer if it’s running behind more than usual.”
He seems put out by your answer, as if the bus’s heavily fluctuating schedule is of personal consequence and offense to him.
“Um,” You start, both uncomfortable at having been caught reading a romance book in public and at the general air of frustration Jack seems to be venting at the moment, “I’m fine. I have my book. I don’t mind waiting.”
Jack just sighs.
“Do you really think I’m just going to leave you out here, in the cold, after you threw up in the bathroom, to wait for the bus, for nearly two more hours?”
You wince. “Well, it doesn’t sound great when you put it like that.”
He works his jaw. “Have you eaten?”
“No…?”
He shakes his head.
“Come on. You’re coming with me.”
—
“I have to admit, this isn’t where I thought we were going.
Thirty minutes later finds you seated on the cracked vinyl seat of a booth in a cheap diner, staring at a menu and rationalizing spending your last $15 on what will probably be mediocre pancakes.
Jack is seated across from you, already two mugs of coffee —black, but oddly enough, decaf— and not even bothering to pretend to look at his menu. He either comes here often or doesn’t care to act like he isn’t staring at you.
Probably both.
“Where did you think we were going?”
Steam curls out of your own untouched mug of coffee —ordered for you by Jack, also unfortunately decaf— and you debate just getting up and running out of here.
Too bad you’re too exhausted to run anywhere. Jack’s probably banking on that.
“I don’t know,” You shrug, setting the menu down, “Maybe to Gloria’s office to write me up or something.”
“What would I even be writing you up for?”
“Disobeying direction? I’m sure you could come up with something.”
The waitress chooses that moment to appear, notepad in hand. “Are we ready to order?”
Jack rattles off his order, and then two sets of eyes turn to you expectantly. Before you can order the single fruit bowl you were planning on getting (the cheapest thing on the menu) Jack pipes up:
“Order whatever you actually want. Not whatever you think is cheapest or easiest.”
The waitress, a middle aged woman who has probably seen much worse than whatever the two of you have going on, just chuckles lightly under her breath.
You hesitantly list the item you’d been eyeing and thank the waitress.
It isn’t until after the menus have been taken and Jack’s coffee re-upped for the third time that you manage to courage to speak.
“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean,” your fingers curl on the edge of the table, desperate for something to hold onto, “I can’t— It’ll be awhile until I can pay you back. I barely made rent this month.”
“Do you think I would take you to breakfast and then make you pay?”
“Yes…?”
“You’re not touching the bill, kid. I’m a gentleman.”
“Oh,” You didn’t really see that coming, “Okay.”
Jack gets a funny expression on his face, then resumes his drinking coffee and glancing out the window routine.
“So,” You say after a beat, “Was there something you wanted to talk about…?”
The silence just feels so awkward. It’s killing you.
He raises a brow. “Do you want to talk?”
“I’m asking you.”
“And I’m asking you what you want to do. What do you usually do when you come out to eat?”
“I don’t? Eating out is expensive, so. But when I do it’s usually by myself, so I end up just reading.”
Jack gestures to your bag beside you. “Don’t let me stop you.”
“What?”
“Read your book.”
“But that’s— isn’t that boring for you?”
He sets his mug down. “I didn’t bring you here because I wanted something from you. I brought you here because you had a shitty day and it seemed like you could use some cheering up. If reading makes you feel better, then do it.”
You have to look out the window to avoid his gaze. You don’t understand how your perfectly crafted facade just crumbles into fucking dust around him. How he manages to see right through you at every turn, how he manages to uncover every lie and every half truth.
“How did you even know I like diner food?”
“Because I pay attention to you.”
You finally look back over at him, arms folded across your chest; not really defensively, more like you’re trying to hold your entire body together by sheer force of will.
Jack’s lips twitch. Not really a smile, but almost. “You bring it up every time Santos wants to get food after a shift. She always says no, because she hates it, but it never stops you from suggesting it.”
It’s just one detail. One tiny, inconsequential detail that he’s apparently memorized and held onto because to him, it’s important. For some impossible to understand reason, he seems to care.
"Also," He shrugs, "I'd miss you."
You scoff. "No you wouldn't."
"I would."
“Do you hate me?”
Jack looks back at you, seemingly startled by the abrupt question.
“No.”
You take a deep, shuddering breath.
“Okay.”
—
“You did what?”
You wince from your spot lying face-down on Trinity’s couch.
“Not so loud, Trin. I have a headache.”
She ignores you, seated on the floor almost directly in front of you. “So you’ve gone from hating each other to going on a date?”
“It wasn’t a date,” You groan, “We spent almost the entire time in silence. I read my book and he stared out the window and did… whatever it is men like him do when they stare out the window.”
“Brooding,” Trinity says, “He paid. That means it’s a date.”
“No it doesn’t!”
It doesn't. It totally doesn't. Just because Jack said he doesn't hate you doesn't mean he likes you either. There are a lot of emotions in between hate and love. Like toleration, for example. Mild amusement. Exasperation. An appropriate amount of annoyance.
Trinity pokes you on the back of your head, having none of it.
"He likes you. Why else would he willingly hang out with one of us after work?"
"He goes out for drinks in the park sometimes." You mumble.
"Yeah, after an MCI."
What Trinity doesn't know is the events leading up to breakfast at the diner, because that would involve telling her about the whole throwing up from anxiety in the men's bathroom directly after a mini-panic attack because she confronted you about your unhealthy lifestyle (which all just sounds a lot worse than it is), so there isn't really a way to give her the kind of context necessary to get her off your back and dissuade her from her (insanely insane) belief that Jack likes you. Romantically.
"Trust me Trin, he was just being nice. Nothing romantic about it."
It was kind of romantic. Just eating surprisingly good food in the company of someone you don't need to pretend around, enjoying being in the company of another human being without worry or expectation.
Not that she needs to know that.
"Jack doesn't do nice. Have you seen him? What happened to the hating?"
You shrug. "You'll just have to ask him, because I don't know."
You do know. He told you. Explained it.
It doesn't make sense.
Trinity throws her hands in the air dramatically.
"Whatever. You two are impossible."
She finally withdraws, leaving you to wallow in your headache-induced misery by yourself on her couch.
Your phone vibrates on the floor next to you, and you groan, rolling further over to hide yourself in the crack of the couch, shunning the light like the reclusive vampire you are.
Your phone vibrates again.
“Dennis,” your voice is muffled by the couch cushion so it ends up sounding more like ‘denim’, “Can you please see who’s texting me and tell them to fuck off?”
Dennis, who was eating cereal at the tiny table near the kitchen when you first showed up fifteen minutes ago and has pointedly stayed silent throughout the entire exchange between you and Trinity, finally speaks.
“Your phone is two inches away from your hand.”
“I have a headache I don’t wanna look at the screen.”
You feel rather than actually see him roll his eyes, but then there’s the clink of a spoon against a bowl and the faint sound of socked —you’ve genuinely never seen him ever be barefoot under any circumstances, no matter what, he’s always wearing socks— feet as they make their way over to your temporary pit (couch) of despair.
There’s a quiet rustle as he picks up your phone off the floor.
“Oh.”
You whine, dramatic and upset. “What?”
“Um,” He grabs your shoulder, slowly rolling you over and away from the back of the couch, “It’s Jack?”
“What!?” You screech.
You throw yourself up, wincing as you immediately regret it when the pain in your head doubles, take a steadying breath to ignore it, and then grab the phone from Dennis’s outstretched hand.
You turn on the phone and— yep. Sure enough. A text from Jack, complete with the stupid picture of a dinosaur you made his profile picture. Because he’s old.
(It was funnier at the time.)
Somewhere behind you there’s a crash, and then the thump thump thump that can only mean a person running towards you at dangerous speeds for sock covered feet on cheap linoleum.
“Incoming,” Dennis mutters.
“Did I just hear that right?” Trinity gasps, nearly giving herself blunt force trauma via the back of the couch, “Did Jack just text you?”
“I don’t know!” You cry.
“How do you not know! Your phone is right in your fucking hands!”
“I’m tired! Stop yelling at me!”
“Guys!” Dennis shouts, holding up his hands, “I refuse to spend my day off listening to you two argue over the validity of romance with our attending. Give me the phone.”
He snatches the phone without waiting for a response, quickly typing in your password (if there was ever a moment you regret telling him in case of emergency…) and opening the text.
He makes an incredulous face at the phone before saying:
“He asked what you’re doing today.”
Trinity claps once. “Fucking called it!”
“Trinity!” Dennis snaps, before sighing and tapping at your keyboard, “I’m telling him that you have a headache and you’re at our place and to please not text again—“
“No!” You squeal, launching yourself off the couch, arms outstretched, but your legs tangle over each other and you fall and slam, gloriously and beautifully, face first into the coffee table.
“Oo!” Trinity winces, covering her mouth.
“Oh my god!” Dennis balks, “Are you okay?”
“Just give me the fucking phone.”
Peeling your face off, you grab the phone, squinting at the screen and ignoring the black spots in the corner of your vision.
hi, you type, I’m at Trinity and Dennis’s. Did you need something?
You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.
“We,” You haul yourself to your feet and stagger over to the kitchen table, “Will never speak of this.”
“I definitely am. When I’m the maid of honor at your guys wedding, I’m gonna give a speech and be all ‘you guys, she gave herself a concussion the first time he texted—‘“
“There will be no wedding!”
“That’s just what you think.”
Your phone vibrates again, signaling a response.
Just wondering how you were doing. Surprised to hear you’re not holed up in your apartment reading something.
Ah, sexy old men and their correct grammar and punctuation when texting. Shouldn’t be endearing.
“What’s he saying?”
“Go away!”
You tap out a quick response.
Not today unfortunately lol I have a headache so no reading for me
Isn’t this the sixth day in a row you’ve had a headache? Should I give neuro a call?
You stomach flips.
nooo I’m fine i get them all the time
That’s not exactly reassuring.
I went to the doctor for them awhile ago apparently they’re normal
Who?
if I tell you, are you going to call him and make him send over my chart?
Yes.
Your heart is starting to pound a fluttering beat in your chest, and you hunch over your phone.
then i’m not telling you. it’s fine, really
they usually go away when i take over the counter stuff
So your plan is just to destroy your liver?
pretty much
We need to work on your planning skills.
we?
I’m not doing all the work.
Now stop looking at your phone. Drink some Gatorade and take a nap.
this is a resident apartment there’s no gatorade here just redbulls
Have either of them buy you one. I’ll pay whichever one it is later. Go to sleep. You need it.
You turn off your phone, shuffling back over to the couch and flopping down onto it.
“I’m taking a nap. Jack wants one of you to go buy me a Gatorade. He said he’d pay you back later.”
“He said what?”
—
You end up sleeping the entire day away, which should have screwed up your sleep schedule, but thankfully you live in a state of perpetual exhaustion and are fully capable of falling asleep anytime, anywhere, no matter how much you last sleep. It’s a gift.
Shockingly, the shift you work the next day is actually much easier to survive and your smiles aren’t nearly as forced. Go figure. Who knew that getting an appropriate amount of sleep would be so helpful?
“Somebody’s in a better mood today.” Jack mutters as you sidle up next to him under the board.
“I’m pretty sure I slept for like, fourteen straight hours. Thanks for the Gatorade, by the way. I woke up around hour three, chugged it, and then went back to sleep. No headache when I woke up!”
“Wonderful,” He drawls, “It’s almost like taking care of yourself is actually beneficial.”
“I take care of myself plenty.”
He casts you a sidelong glance, expression pinched.
“When was the last time you drank water without being prompted?”
“That’s different.”
“Okay,” He dips his head, “When was the last time you ever felt truly relaxed?”
You give him a beaming smile, so wide it hurts. “We’re not going to talk about this right now!”
“You started this conversation. I’m trying to do my job.”
You snort. “You’re waiting to see if someone else is going to take the sunburn guy.”
“Are you accusing an attending of cherry picking?”
“Of course not. Just observing, sir.”
Jack’s turned to look at you now, head tilted up, hands folded behind his back.
When you say sir, his eyes flick down to your lips, and then his jaw tightens.
The air suddenly becomes charged, the space between you two filled with something too electric to be air.
It smells like aftershave, hospital antiseptic, wanting, and something that’s distinctly masculine.
You look away first, swallowing hard past the sudden dryness of your mouth.
“You know,” You say, crossing your arms and looking up at the board, “Trinity thinks you like me. Romantically.”
“Mm.”
“I told her that was dumb,” You babble, “Obviously it’s not true, but. She won’t let it go, so if she says something, just ignore her. Or not. Whatever you want.”
“Why wouldn’t it be true?”
You whip your head around so fast you’re pretty sure something cracks. “What?”
“I mean,” Jack’s voice is gruff as he shrugs once, “Is that really so unrealistic?”
“Of course it is,” You sputter, “You don’t like me.”
“I’ve actually never said that. That was a conclusion you came to on your own. I distinctly recall telling you that I don’t hate you.”
“Just because you don’t hate me doesn’t mean that you like me, let alone— like that.”
Jack tilts his head, almost predatory, and all that sharp tension rushes straight back in.
“Like what?”
Something hot and dangerous is starting to unfurl in your chest, untethering from where it was previously lodged deep behind your ribs, out of sight, out of feeling.
“Code Blue en route, ETA two minutes.”
Jack jerks his head in the direction of the ambulance bay. “You gonna go get that?”
“Uh,” You’re pretty sure you’re stroking out, having a seizure, or something, because the only thing you’re capable of comprehending is the fact that Jack just not-so-subtly implied to actually liking you. Romantically.
“Get going then.”
You scurry away, hot all over and absolutely done with emotions in their entirety.
—
The rest of the week is hell on Earth. Perks of being in your twenties.
Things could be worse though!
Kind of.
It’s just that it’s been several days since Jack basically confirmed Trinity’s suspicions on romance and you can’t stop thinking about it. Obsessively.
It’s bad.
Bad enough that when Mel asked if there was any way you could cover her shift, you said yes.
“Okay,” Dennis stage-whispers as you’re downing your third coffee of the day, miserably charting at the nurses station, “I feel the need to ask how bad things can possibly be if you’re covering a day shift.”
“Mel asked.”
Dennis blinks incredulously. “You love Mel, but not enough to work a day shift voluntarily.”
“What exactly are you asking me here?”
“Did you and Jack hit a rough patch or something?”
“Keep your voice down!” You hiss, ducking your head as if you can hide from Princess and Perlah, “And for your information, no. We didn’t. I just wanted to do something nice for Mel.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t need you to believe me.”
Day-shift crawls on in a whirlwind of chaos and a level of dumb-fuckery that can only be achieved from the hours of 8 a.m to 8 p.m. As usual, the place is understaffed, overcrowded, and filled with a lingering sense of impending doom.
By the time night-shift starts filtering in, you’re ready to completely give up and start a new life a sheep rancher in New Zealand. It’s always been the plan if being a doctor didn’t work out.
Jack finds you in the locker room once the handoff is over, sitting on the little bench in the same position Dennis found you in earlier. Face in your hands, heels in your eyes, methodically counting breaths and wondering if that fluttering feeling in your chest is from caffeine consumption or sleep deprivation.
It’s fine. Your fine. Everything is fine.
“You don’t look too good.”
“I’m—“
“Don’t say you’re fine.”
“But I am,” You grit, “I just need a minute.”
“Okay.”
There’s the distinct sound of Jack’s slightly uneven footsteps, and then there’s a warm weight pressed against your side.
You take another shuddering breath that feels less like breathing and more like placing a single brick in a wobbly foundation.
“Shouldn’t you be out on the floor?”
“I don’t work tonight.”
You raise your head just enough to look at him. “You don’t? I thought I saw you on the schedule. Why are you here if you don’t work?”
Now that you’re looking at him and not starburst patterns on the back of your eyelids, you can see that he’s wearing casual clothes, not scrubs, and he doesn’t have his usual army-issue backpack with him.
“I got Shen to cover me. I came here for you.”
Your next breath in almost gets stuck in your chest, air struggling to move past that alive and wriggling thing that keeps moving every time Jack is around.
“What’d you do that for?”
The barest hints of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Dennis called me. He said you’d need picking up after your shift.”
Shame, guilt, and embarrassment flood your veins, turning your blood into sickly-sweet poison that makes your stomach roll and twist.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I have no idea why he did that. You really didn’t have to drive all the way over here, I swear I didn’t tell him to call you or something like that—“
“I know you didn’t,” Jack soothes, voice a rumbly, smooth timber that washes over your permanently-frazzled nerves like a balm, “Which is why I came.”
“I don’t understand.”
Jack stands, pulling your bag and change of clothes out of your locker.
“I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me, so you don’t have to answer it again. Can you do that for me?”
You nod once.
“Words.”
“Uh— yeah. Yes.”
“Good.”
Thank god the locker room is empty— everyone’s either on the floor or already left for their homes.
He closes your locker down, shoulders your bag, and hands you your clothes.
“Is it easier for you to accept help when you don’t have to ask and don’t get the chance to say no?”
It sounds so pathetic, hearing it laid out like that. The ugly guts of you; cut open, laid bare, and marked for research. Exhibit A, the inside of the girl no one ever needed to worry about.
You don’t want to agree. You want to laugh it off, maybe run away from it. Sit up straight, wipe your face, take the bag from Jack and explain that this is all a big misunderstanding and you’re perfectly fine and he can stop worrying about you now.
“Yes.”
Jack doesn’t verbally acknowledge your response besides a single dip of his head, like he knows that if he does anything more it’ll turn your response into a confession and that’s just too vulnerable for the hospital locker room.
“I’ll drive you home.”
“I don’t mean to be this way, you know.”
The passenger seat of Jack’s car isn’t somewhere you’d ever imagined yourself being. Not even late at night or on the bus when you’re pretending to be someone else who’s better at chasing what they want.
“It stopped being intentional a long time ago,” your hands are fisted into the material of your sweatpants, nails digging into the fabric, “It was just the natural progression of things. I like being liked.”
What you don’t say, what becomes an unspoken truth that lingers in the air despite not being verbalized, is the survival aspect of it. Why and how a person fuses this kind of thing to their personality; to their life. The circumstances that makes the natural progression of things end it being better for everyone if you just don’t have needs.
“I know.”
“I know you know, I just… needed to tell you. Myself.”
It’s odd seeing Jack illuminated by streetlights instead of fluorescent overheads. It’s odd being able to watch his hand flex on the steering wheel, watching his forearm tense as he shifts gears in his old stick-shift.
“You like being told what to do.”
Your face heats, but you’re determined not to lose face now. Especially after managing to survive being emotionally flayed open, willingly, by him.
“It feels safe. If I know what yo— someone wants, then I can’t mess it up, and I can relax.”
You can practically see the gears turning in Jack’s mind.
“Makes sense.”
The rest of the drive is quiet, the silence only filled by the sounds of Pittsburgh around you and the gentle crackle of something from the radio turned down too low to hear.
And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you begin feeling something that approaches calm.
Jack doesn’t have any expectations. There isn’t any one particular way he wants you to act or expects you to behave like. There’s nothing he wants you to do.
So you do what you want to do.
You relax.
—
In the weeks following Jack driving you home, there is a quantifiable shift in behavior between the two of you.
He starts pulling back.
It strikes you as odd first, and your natural inclination is to pull back too— to guard the soft, vulnerable bits you’ve showed him in case he throws them back at you.
But then you realize what he’s doing.
Instead of telling you how to proceed on a case when you come to him for advice, he asks you questions and steers you to the answer. He holds back when he’s evaluating a case with you, patiently following your lead and only interjecting when necessary.
He’s making space for you try new things and learn without fear of rejection. Building your confidence bit by bit.
It feels more intimate than sex.
After much deliberation, screaming into your pillow, and Reddit forum searching for HR violations, you decide to get him a card. Because he’s actually been really kind and helpful and he makes you feel like you can actually survive residency.
“What’s this?”
“A thank you card.”
You’re staring at your shoes, eyes flicking up and down between Jack’s face and the floor.
“What for?”
“It says it in the card.”
You scurry away, attaching yourself to the closest patient to avoid seeing Jack’s face when he does finally open it.
But when you look back, he’s just staring at it, a small smile on his face.
—
It’s the card that does him in.
Jack hasn’t made his feelings for you a secret, despite your unwillingness to see him as anything other than standoffish in the beginning.
He came on too strong at first— that was his fault. He didn’t yet understand how imbedded your need ran and how long it’d been since anyone bothered to look deeper.
He’d hoped, at least, that you were letting Whitaker and Santos help, and though you let them closer than most, it was clear you still seemed intent on holding up yourself and everyone around you on your own.
But it wasn’t just that. It was the way you oozed kindness— like it was a byproduct of your existence. He watched you get so wrapped up in being the perfect resident, perfect friend, perfect person, that no one ever stopped to let you know how good you were just by being.
He hadn’t planned on developing feelings or anything of the sort. At first, you’d just been one of his residents. Smart and capable but lacking confidence in yourself to fully commit. Then there was that MCI, and drinks in the park afterwards where he’d painfully watched you sip a beer you clearly hated, and everything just clicked right into place.
He never intends to flirt with you. It just happens. He can’t help himself. He’s a weak fucking man when it comes to you.
And then you bring him a card. A fucking card. To thank him for doing his job as an attending, a job he should’ve been doing better from the start. It has an illustration of bananas on it and says “Thanks a bunch!”.
He knows he’s completely gone, then. He was capable of being in denial before, could delude himself into thinking that what he felt was casual, but the sight of you before him, hands nervously wringing, your glitter gel pens sparkling as they caught the light was just the final nail in the coffin.
He allows himself a modicum of flirting on a day to day basis, mostly because if he couldn’t tease that real smile out of you at least once per day, he’d lose his mind.
Sometimes he takes you back to the diner, especially on longer days where none of your smiles reach your eyes and you start obsessively uncapping and capping your gel pens.
Even though you think it “looks dumb” you’ve also taken to sitting shoulder to shoulder with him in the booth, and he pretends he can’t see you sneaking fries off his plate because he knows how much effort it takes you to ask him if you can sit with him instead of on the opposite side.
Then he starts driving you home during a string of bad weather after you start sneezing from walking in the rain everyday, but even after the storm passes and the weather clears up he still finds you at the lockers, every day, car keys in hand. No matter how many times he does it, you always look so happily surprised that he’s still offering.
As if he’s not wrapped around your finger.
One day, after things have been mellow for awhile, Whitaker calls him and says that neither he nor Trinity have seen you in three days and you called out of work.
So naturally, as a calm and collected man, he showed up to your house.
You’d answered the door after the third time he knocked (which was great, because he was gearing up to force the door open) and you just looked miserable. Your hair was a mess, you head blanket wrinkles imprinted onto your face, and your eyes were puffy.
“Jack?” You’d mumbled, squinting your eyes against the not very bright light in the hallway, “Why are you at my apartment?”
“No one’s heard from you in three days.”
You wince. “I swear I meant to text Trinity. I just have a bad headache.”
His fingers twitch towards a penlight he doesn’t have. “How bad?”
“I don’t know. Like a seven on the pain scale?”
“Jesus— I’m coming in.”
“Nooo,” You cry, but shuffle back from the door and put up very little fight as he ushers you to the couch.
Your apartment is….. exactly as messy as he’d imagined a resident who lives alone would be. For someone who doesn’t drink enough water, there are an incredible amount of beverage bottles and cans littered about.
“Do you have headache relief?”
You gesture to the kitchen. “Cabinet furthest to the left.”
While rifling through your very disorganized medicine cabinet, he spies an orange prescription bottle with your name on it, dated for the previous year.
“Why do you have a prescription for a high level antihistamine?”
“Stop snooping. It’s for my migraines.”
“You’ve had a prescription this entire time and you’ve been taking all that over the counter shit?”
“Stop being mad,” You mumble into the couch cushion, “My migraine meds put me to sleep, so I can’t take them when I’m working. Plus I don’t have any refills left so I save them for when it’s really bad.”
“You called out of work and haven’t left your apartment in three days and you don’t consider this bad?”
“Could be worse. Could be throwing up.”
He sighs. Sets the bottle on the counter, breathes in once, then lets it out slowly. Imagines all the ways he could murder whoever made you think suffering alone for three days is preferable to asking for help.
“I’m going to help you back to bed,” He starts, voice low as he rounds the couch, “And then you’re going to drink some electrolytes, have a snack, and take your meds. Okay?”
The migraine has clearly taken it out of you, because you put up zero fight as he manhandles you to your feet and helps you drag yourself back to your bed.
“M’ sorry my apartment is a mess. I was supposed to clean it.”
“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” He says, tucking the blankets up around you, lips twitching as you make grabby hands for a giant triceratops plushie that looks to be the size of your upper body. “I’m gonna make you a snack, so try to stay awake until I come back. Can you do that?”
“Mhm. I’ll try.”
“Good girl.”
He manages to find a cucumber in your fridge, cuts it into slices and then adds a few pieces of lunch meat for protein. Last but not least, he snags a bottle of blue Gatorade from your pantry.
(He only knows they were there because he bought them for you a few weeks ago.)
He doesn’t make you sit up to eat, but instead scoots you a little ways away from the edge of your bed so there’s space for the plate.
You slowly nibble your way through, taking little sips of Gatorade when he nudges the bottle into your hands.
You finish the cucumbers, eat most of the lunch meat, and drink half the Gatorade before burrowing back into the blankets and declaring yourself done.
“Can I have my sleep mask please? I think it’s on the floor under my nightstand?”
“Of course you can.”
After your face mask is on and the curtains closed, he gives you the correct dose of your meds and gently shuts the door to your bedroom.
He fires off a quick text to Whitaker (he doesn’t have Santos’s number) that says you’re fine, stuck in bed with a migraine, and that he’s handling it.
And then he gets to work.
Two hours later your apartment is clean, your laundry is started, and Jack’s relaxing on your couch, aimlessly watching the news.
He hears the door creak open but knows you hate feeling on the spot, so he keeps his gaze trained on the tv even as he hears the sound of you shuffling over to the couch.
And then you pause.
“Jack.”
“Yes?”
“Did you clean my apartment?”
He finally looks over to you, and when his gaze reaches your face his stomach drops.
You’re crying.
He hauls himself off the couch (he’s thankful that he put his leg back on a few minutes prior) and stops in front of you, arms twitching at his sides with the need to fix, help, to stop whatever it is that’s making you cry.
“What’s wrong? Did I overstep?”
“No,” You warble, voice wet, “I just haven’t had the time or energy to clean in here for so long, and it’s been stressing me out so bad I avoid staying here during my off days. It’s just really, really nice of you.”
You look at him, eyebrows pinched and eyes wide with worry, “I— I’m not sure how to repay you for all of this. I know you said going to the diner was fine, but this is— a lot.”
“Sweetheart,” He starts, bracing one hand on the side of your face, thumb deftly sweeping across your cheek and wiping away the quickly drying tears, “I’m not doing any of this because I expect you to repay me. I’m doing it because I care about you and I want to see you happy.”
You sniff hard. “This is a lot of work, though.”
“I like doing it. I like taking care of you.”
Another sniff. “It doesn’t seem very fun.”
“I told you. You’re like a cat. Had to coax you over and now look at you,” he thumb rubs circles over your cheekbone, “Practically purring.”
You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t know if I like this metaphor.”
“Get used to it.”
You sigh, dramatic and long.
“I suppose I’ll allow it.”
“Oh, you’ll allow it, huh.”
You fold your hands behind your back, rocking back and forth on your heels. “Yes. I’ll allow it.”
“Well, aren’t I lucky.”
Later, when you’re lying on the couch, two movies into what Jack thinks is an unofficial early 2000s rom-com marathon (your favorite genre) you turn to look up at him from your spot tucked into his side.
“This is romantic, right?”
He presses a lazy kiss to your forehead, because he knows how much you like physical affirmations as well as verbal ones.
“Yes.”
“You’re serious about this?”
“You need confirmation?”
“I’d rather have it in writing, but this will do for now.”
He huffs a breathy laugh, tucks you closer to his chest.
“I’ll put it in writing for you later.”
You hum, pleased, and snuggle back into him, letting out a content sigh.
Summary: Everyone knows that Pope Cody's girlfriend is a real sweetheart. What they don't know is that, behind closed doors, you're a real fuckin' freak, too.
Warnings: +18 explicit content MDNI, porn without plot, established relationship, shy!reader, unspecified age gap, size difference, pope teaches you how to shoot a gun and touches you at the same time, face slapping, face fucking, reader has hair that can be styled, messy blowjob, reader helps complete a job, praise, car sex, reader makes out with pope over a mask so masked sex, restrained hands, creampie, overstimulation kinda, only barely lightly edited
Note: take that p w/o plot tag seriously cause uh....yeah. this is just me wanting to fuck pope cody bad
WC: 2.3k
[masterlist] [AO3]
Everyone thought Andrew Cody was a pervert.
And, really, how could they not?
They see him; all big and brooding, with wrinkles around his eyes and rough hands. And beside him stands you; soft and innocent, all shy smiles and quiet words. A sweetheart by every definition of the word.
He's older than you. Bigger than you. Meaner than you. All it takes is one glance at your manicured fingers around his broad bicep and your cheek pressed to his shoulder to know that, yeah. He's probably (definitely) taking advantage of you.
A girl your age doesn't know any better. Naive little thing. All you see is the handsome man that stands in front of you, who foots the bill when he takes you out to a nice restaurant or on a shopping spree. You see the way he stares down a guy who looks in your general direction a little too long and the way he walks just a step in front of you in a public setting, clearing a path of safety.
What young girl wouldn't want a man like that?
But what they don't see is the way you don't even flinch when you're riding shotgun in his truck and Andrew sets his pistol in your lap. They don't see the blade he'd bought for you—sharp and small, wedged right between your breasts every time you leave the house without him.
They don't see the way your skin prickles when he teaches you the proper way to shoot a gun, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, pointing the barrel at your reflection.
His hands are at your hips, thumbs resting at the elastic band of your pretty, red panties. Andrew's voice is low and slow in your ear. "Mm. Tuck your elbow in. Squeeze the handle a little harder. Yeah, there you go. Now put your finger on the trigger, baby. Just like that. And when you're ready, you just gotta pull it."
You breathe in slowly, and your finger presses down on the exhale.
The gun clicks.
"Yeah, that's it," he says, sliding his hands lower, beneath the crimson fabric. What he finds is unsurprising to him, of course. Arousal pooling between your thighs, your clit slick and swollen and desperate to be touched. He circles it slowly, tentatively, lovingly. "Again, sweetheart."
Andrew doesn't speak much on the rumors that go around about the two of you. He's sure even his brothers believe some of them.
It's to be expected, really, with that mousy demeanor of yours.
You put your hair up a different way one day and when Craig compliments you on it you get all shy, hiding behind Andrew's shoulder with your cheeks flaming.
He thinks it's real cute. The way you act all timid in front of them, murmuring a thank you with that soft voice of yours, unable to meet Craig's eyes all because he complimented you.
But only an hour later, Pope's undoing the clips in your hair while you look up at him from down on your knees, saying—begging, "Hit me."
And Pope does. Smacks you hard, one good time with his palm against your cheek. The sound is like lightning through the open air. He doesn't do it because he wants to, he does it because of that misty look in your eye, because of the way you moan at the impact.
Because of the way you look up at him through your lashes and smile real wide, giggles falling off your kiss-swollen lips, like there's no place you'd rather be.
He gives you just what you need, fucking your mouth until you're crying for it, burying himself at the back of your throat.
Each little gasp for air you make pushes him closer and closer to release, but what really does him in is the way your hand finds his thigh, tracing a little heart-shape into the denim of his jeans while you choke on his length.
Andrew finishes at the back of your mouth without warning, filling you until his release spills from the corners of your plush lips.
His cock still aches when he pulls himself out of you. Your pretty makeup that you spent all that time doing this morning runs down your cheeks now, and sticky webs of saliva and cum connect his cock to your tongue.
"You look so pretty, swallowing me down like that. My beautiful girl. Say it."
Your eyes are bloodshot and watery but filled with love as you look up at him. "I'm your beautiful girl," you say, smiling wide, sticking out your tongue to show him the mess he's made of you before swallowing hard.
"Yeah you are," he murmurs. "My sweetheart."
You've even got Smurf fooled.
They're having a family meeting one afternoon, planning out the details on how to rob a marijuana dispensary that pays its employees exclusively in cash.
While you're moving around easily in the kitchen, Smurf watches you from the living room with a drink in her hand.
Craig and Deran are bickering, trying to figure out a way to distract the night shift security guards that stand watch at the front entrance.
And then Smurf suddenly says, pointing with the rim of her crystal glass, "Her."
Pope shakes his head. "No. Not happening."
"Think about it," Smurf says. "You go in right as the last employee walks out. She walks up, begging to be let in, and says she'll pay extra. Girl like her? They won't expect anything. Just a pretty sweetheart looking to end her day with a little indica."
His brothers are quiet, looking between you and Pope, toeing the line of choice.
In the end, Andrew lets you choose. Makes it clear that if working a job with them makes you feel uncomfortable in any way, they'll figure something else out. He lays out the risks and the reward and reminds you to be honest about your feelings.
But you agree almost immediately and no amount of talking on Andrew's part sways you. It's over the moment you take his big hand, press his palm to your cheek and say, "I love you, Andrew. Even this part of you. Especially this part."
It melts his heart and fills him with this almost uncomfortable level of tenderness. He would kill for you, die for you—all to keep you here by his side.
The job goes perfectly. Andrew and his brothers are able to slip through the ceiling vents unseen, all because you're batting your eyelashes and making your shy little jokes to the guards out front.
They leave the warehouse with duffel bags full of cash and get away clean and undetected.
You're waiting three blocks away in Pope's truck, sitting casually behind the wheel, coating your lips in that pretty lipgloss while looking in the rearview mirror. But your phone is clutched tight in your hand waiting on a text of confirmation.
Pope makes Deran drop him off so he can set his eyes on you sooner rather than later.
And the moment you see him, your eyes light up in this way he knows all too well. Pope nods, adrenaline high as he lifts the clear plastic mask over his face just enough to set it on the top of his head. "We're good," he says.
The hesitant look on your face turns into a grin, soft giggles flitting off your tongue. You slide back across the cab to make room for Pope behind the wheel. You look past him, to Craig and Deran in the car with no plates full of stolen cash. "We'll see you at home," you tell them.
And maybe they don't understand at first, but Pope does. Of course he does—he can feel the way that wanting, lustful energy buzzes beneath your skin.
He puts the truck in drive and pulls out of the lot, but he doesn't make it two blocks before you're wrapping those sharp, painted nails around his bicep.
Pope just smiles as you kiss his shoulder repeatedly, nuzzling the cords of muscle through the fabric of his black hoodie. It seems like such an innocent, sweet touch. But he knows the truth—knows it's not only sweetness in your heart, it's hunger.
"Hang on, baby," he says, hand resting on the inside of your thigh, squeezing tightly. "Lemme pull over."
He finds a secluded alleyway that offers just enough darkness to remain undetected. And the minute he puts his truck in park, you're climbing into his lap.
Pope welcomes the taste of your hungry tongue. Lets you slide it into his mouth, over his teeth, licking and sucking like your life depends on it. He's already half hard in his jeans, but the second you tilt your hips, grinding yourself down against his bulge, he's done for.
"You look—god, you look so good," you whimper, hands around his neck. You don't squeeze, but rather just rest them there, thumbs feeling the quickening beat of his pulse through his jugular.
"Did such a great job today," Andrew says, fingers flexing hard around your hips. "My perfect girl. Such a sweetheart."
You whimper at the namesake, a term he'd coined just for you, his shy, gentle girl. "Andrew, please."
He knows what you're asking for. And who is he, after all, to deny a girl like you? Someone good and soft and so very desperate.
He reaches beneath you, between your legs to find the buckle of his belt. In one swift movement, he undoes it with a clink, and pushes his jeans and boxers down.
"Wait."
Andrew freezes.
At first he fears he might've done something wrong. Assumed wrong or maybe gone too far or pushed too hard. Like usual. Like usual.
His mind starts to spiral, because who could ever hurt you if not a monster? Sweet girl. Sweet heart.
He's a monster. He's a fucking—
And then you smile, and those invasive thoughts disappear as quickly as they'd manifested.
You bat your eyelashes at him with this innocent look on your face, and tug the plastic mask on the top of his head down.
Pope understands then. Of course he does—because you're his filthy, sweet girl. His.
Your clit pulses and he can feel it against his cock, even through the cotton barrier of your underwear.
Andrew tilts his head, watching you through slightly plastic-obstructed vision. He waits for you to move first.
And you do so by leaning forward and laying a wet, open-mouthed kiss against the mask, right over his lips.
It's the most erotic thing Pope has ever experienced.
Because he knows you want him—the awkward, quiet Andrew.
But right now, you're asking for a different version of him. A much more violent version of him; you want Pope.
The part that thieves and breaks and kills. The very worst of him. And not only do you want it, you're twitching for it. Breath coming out like a sigh, hands clutched tight, pussy aching for him.
And the realization—God. He could die. He could fucking die from how much he loves you.
He takes you right then and there. Pulls your underwear to the side beneath your skirt and sinks his cock into you in one hard, claiming thrust.
Pope holds your wrists together tightly behind your back and makes it hurt, because he knows good and well that's what you want. All the while your tongue laves against the plastic of his mask, breath fogging up the surface, a sick, perverted indulgence that drives him insane.
He circles your clit with his free hand, reveling in the way it throbs beneath his rough hands.
It doesn't take long. It never does. He feels the slick velvet of your center squeeze his cock like a vice. Pope doesn't let up, rubbing your clit until you lean back with your eyes squeezed tightly closed, chasing the release you've needed since the moment he'd asked you to help them on this job.
"Look at me," he demands. It's not a request but an order.
You do, mouth open to make room for the cute moans that echo in the cab of his truck. "I'm gonna—god, please please I'm gonna fucking cum—fuck—"
He doesn't say anything. Just tilts his head and watches you.
It hits a second later, and it's beautiful. The way you fall apart in his lap, thighs shaking, fingers flexing beneath his hold, fighting desperately to keep your brain tethered to the earth.
Andrew fucks you through it. Circles your clit until you're squeezing your thighs together, running from the sensitivity.
He finishes inside you a moment later, cock twitching as his orgasm settles low in his belly. And when he's finished, spasming with the aftershocks, you lift the plastic mask from his face and discard it on the floor of the passenger seat.
You smile and kiss him softly and say, "Let's go home. I'm hungry now."
Andrew knows the two of you will take one step into that house and they'll all know what you've gotten caught up doing. They'll see the mess of his curls and the flush on his face. They'll see your swollen lips and the spit drying at the corners and they'll think, 'Jesus, Pope. You can't get off that poor girl for even ten minutes?'
And he won't say anything, of course. He'll just let them go on believing the rumors, believing that he's the one who's insatiable for the shy girl who's gotten caught up in his gravitational pull.
Pope will let them keep on believing you're just a sweetheart.
You come back home to your daddy's place when things got rough, and there's a small job listing in the paper. Part one.
W: LOTS of plot build up, idk got many words. AU takes place in the 80/90s but Pope is still his old fine self. A world where he finally got away and was able to live his life. Usage of "daddy" but not towards him, Pope calls you a lot of sweet names, "good girl," "sweetheart" "sugar." Huge age gap, reader is described to be a young thing, entering her early 20s and Pope is canon age. A little power imbalance. Readers a daddy's girl. Pope likes that. A lot. Mentions of weed, Pope experienced, you're not.
A lilitle ooc but bare with me, yes I know the real Pope wouldn't have a country accent. or talk that much. Reader is described to be bubbly and punctual. Now to get into the good stuff, light smut in this part, grinding, mentions of masturbation, cherry popping. Pope has an accident. I think that's all of it. I will say I sort of curated this for black readers, I say braids and brown skin, but anyone can read of course!!
A/N: I got this idea scrolling on Pinterest when I saw the first picture, like hmmm that kinda...that could be.... like it would be so hot to see Popes big arms working a field in the hot sun all day...Imao I hope you enjoy!! This dragged on a little long I'm sorry :(
A/A/N: you guys piss me offfff ugh here you go🙄🩷
“Baby doll, I love you, but I can’t take of you forever,” Your dear old dad says with a sigh.
You’d called over the phone in tears, your landlord in your big city had been screwing you over, your job wasn’t paying you enough. You were overwhelmed, you’d never thought things would get so tough when you moved out three years ago.
You didn’t have to say much, your dad just told you to come on home and he’d help you the best he could, but he was gettin’ older in age. He couldn’t hold you on his hip anymore and guide you through life like he used to.
Being back home felt good, you didn’t have to worry about not knowing anyone, about when you were next gonna eat. Everyone loved you, so when your daddy told the town you were coming home, it was like you’d never left. Three years gone, four months back, and nothing felt different. You were just a woman now.
“Now I’m not kickin’ you out, okay? But you’re gonna have to get a job here soon.” He says, laying a newspaper on your bed. And it’s not like you haven’t been looking, but no one wanted your help. Not the grocery store, not the children’s center.
You’d spent your days helping around the house, the land and with the older neighbors, keeping them company like you used to always do. You were circling ads at breakfast, a small one catching your eye. “6/XX ACTIVE. Looking for a hand around my land. Has to be good with animals and know your way around a crop field. Pay weekly. Call at—” you look for the name, Andrew Cody.
“Daddy do you know of a ‘Andrew Cody’?” You say, shoveling eggs into your mouth as you hold the paper. He looks up at you with a confused look. “..Pope? Yeah uh…yeah he’s been down here a while, good friend of mine. You’ve seen him at the market a few times. Why?”
“He has an ad in the paper for a farmhand. Should I do it? Seems easy enough. Doesn’t sound like somethin’ I’m not used to.” You shrug, not noticing the look you were getting shot as you finish breakfast.
Andrew wasn’t a…bad role model per se, he was just an odd fella. Quiet, always wary of anyone he met, shacked up in that house all alone. Honestly, to anybody that didn’t already make good friends with him he seemed kinda mean. He never talked about where he came from, all anyone knew was that he came up one day and popped out the prettiest flowers you’d ever seen, and the reddest tomatoes.
“Yeah sweetheart, go for it. I’m sure you’d do good and keep him great company.” He says, and you smile, hopping up to the telephone around the corner and dialing the number, holding the phone up to your ear.
It rings a few seconds before it picks up, and you’re nervous immediately. “Go for Andrew Cody.” A gruff voice answers with a sigh. “Hel-Hello Mr. Cody,” you clear your throat before saying your name to him, “I saw your ad for a farm hand, I wanted to take you up on the position. I’m free all the time, and I’ve got some experience behind my belt.” You say, and he recognizes your last name.
“[last name] you said? This is his daughter? how are you,” “Oh i’m doing alright, having breakfast. How are you sir?” You say politely. “I’m doin’ alright miss, feedin’ the litter. What time can you come over? I’ve got a lot of stuff to get started on.”
“Oh-I can head on over after I freshen up and finish breakfast!” You smile. “Okay, well go ahead and finish your breakfast and I’ll see you soon.” He finishes off with telling you the address, and you politely thank him.
“So?” Your dad asks as you clean off your plate. “He said come over when I can, I guess he’ll show me around and stuff. The pay is weekly, and I’m sure he’ll tell me how much when I get there.” You smile.
Pope sat back in his recliner with a sigh, rubbing his head. He was happy someone finally picked up on his ad. He didn’t think of himself as friendly, but he wanted..the community. He just didn’t know how to get there.
He volunteered as much as he could, went to church, spoke to anyone who spoke to him. But it still just seemed like no one wanted him around, at least as much as he could pick up on, he knew he was self kept. And for the most part it was fine, it wasn’t something he was foreign to, people noticing he was offputting. But he wanted this fresh start.
Pope moved on from the life his mom gave him years ago, almost a decade now. He left with nothing but cash, a few outfits and distant land waiting for him, a small farmhouse on the outskirts of town, away from any smog being produced that would fuck up his crops.
He made luck with good people, working for his own seed, cattle and other animals which over time allowed him to sell independently. His name grew, as mysterious as he was.
“That man down the road sold em to me. Sweet as hell he is, right?”
“His prices are reasonable too, not like xyz. Think he goes by Andrew?”
Nobody really cared how he just planted his feet into the ground and became a shoulder to the poeple, they just knew they weren’t letting go. It wasn’t much, and sure he wanted more people in his life now that he was healing, but it kept him alive.
“Go down to Andrew and ask him if I could get some sugar, and an egg or two. He knows I’m good for it.”
“Go over there n’ tell Andrew that the milks ready for him when he needs it.”
“Ask Mr. Cody if I can ride along to church with him.”
He never told nobody no, not for the right price at least. He didn’t care about money, as long as he got by he never worried.
He was quiet, didn’t go out unless it was to the bar for a quick drink, into town for the market or to church, and you’d be drunk off your tail if you ever thought you saw him with a women. Just him and his livestock.
Don’t get it wrong, though. He was aged, but Pope was far from ugly. No, he had a beautiful head of auburn curls that shined red and a bit silver in the light when he didn’t have a cap on, a chiseled face and the body of a heavyweight champ, the kind you see on television.
Older ladies he grew to knew always had a daughter or niece waiting on his hand but he always, always said he was too busy with work, and that he already had a girl in his life. His pup, Lucky. A beautiful golden girl.
His face was sunkissed and led with freckles that trailed everywhere for miles, and he put up well. You’d never see Pope around the town looking like he came from hell. He was tidy, white shirt tight against his body, tucked under his belt and jeans that outlines his tight ass and strong legs.
The small town was ran by majority older people, so he wasn’t surprised when very few even glanced at his ad. The people that did were growing teens lookin’ for quick summer jobs, or someone thinkin’ they could slack off on his property. Not on his watch.
He sat on the porch when you came, parking your little car next to his truck, shushing his dog that barked at the new arrival. You waved as you walked up, your little frilly top rustling in the wind a little. He knew who you were, your dad talked about you often before you got back, and even after.
He listened when your dad vented about you moving upstate, and was there for your family when times got tough in the winter. Though he never got a good look at you up until now, he always heard good things.
Bright young lady, wanting something more for yourself. You knew just about everyone in town, never fussed or fought, always lended a hand. He saw you in church a few times since you got back, never up close since you sat in the front. But seeing you now, you were beautiful.
Pretty thing, with chubby apple red cheeks he could take a bite of. Your dark skin glistened under the sun, your pearly smile bright as you come up the porch, eyes squinted. “Goodmorning to you sir,” you say as he stands, calming his dog down.
“Goodmorning missy, you have a good breakfast?” He shakes your hand, it’s firm. “Yes sir, I’m ready for the day. What’re we gettin’ up to?” You say, and he cracks a smile at your enthusiasm. “Well let me show you ‘round first, then imma introduce you to everything I call mine. Then we might get started, that sound good? Alright, let’s get to it.” He cocks his head for you to follow him, watching you eye his girl.
“She’s friendly, you’re just a new face so don’t worry. Lucky.” He tells you her name as she clops beside you, enjoying the head scratches you give her. “Now, imma warn you first. If you’re looking for a quick job for the summer, or you think you can get off scratch free by standin’ around here you’re sadly mistaken. My ship is tight, and my work is honest, okay? So when I give you tasks, you need to be on it.”
“Yes sir,” you nod earnestly. “Okay, great. What you got under your belt girlfriend, I know your old man so I know you know somethin.” “Mhm! I know how to tend to gardens and chickens, but it’s..been a while. So I’m rusty but I could get it again in no time.” You say and he nods.
“What about a tractor, you think you can get on onea’ those? And do you know how to shuck?” “Uhm…never got on a tractor before but I can drive..? And yeah that’s light work.” You say, watching nod and look around, deciding with himself if he wanted to teach you or not.
“Alright, well I got pigs, cows, chickens, and a horse that’ll come by every so often,” he jokes. “So I need to know that you’re not gonna be shy with them. They’re my girls and guys but they’re not easy company. Can you handle that?” He says, and you nod enthusiastically.
“I’ve never wrestled with pigs, but I’ve handled a cow once or twice, and get along with chicks well. Daddy has em’.” You chirp, and he smiled internally at your bubbliness. “Good, good,” he examines your small frame, eyes poking at your bicep, weary of how you’re gonna be handling any heavy loads.
“Stay here, imma get you somethin.” He walks off the lawn and around back, and at first you think he’s getting you a shirt for your exposed arms, but he comes back hailing a big tin pale, huffing as he sits it in front of you. It was almost filled to the brim with brown slop, and smelled of something almost rotten.
“This is for my pigs, their breakfast is near. Go carry this to their bin.” He points, and you realize he’s pointing to the back of his house. You examine it, trying to eye if it was gonna be a hassle or not as you tuck your braids behind your ears.
You grab the pail by its handles and lift into the air with a small groan, waddling round his lawn as quick as you could. “Don’t be scared to spill it either, or hold it to your chest. It doesn’t smell like flowers but it won’t kill ya’.” He follows close behind you, watching as you reach the fence of his pigs.
You sit it on top and pour it over, bending slightly to make sure it all goes in their slop bucket. Your little top goes up slightly with the wind, exposing the small of your back and your tiny shorts. He tried not to look too hard.
Once you’re done you look back at him, catching your breath. “Good?” You ask, and he nods, taking it from you and throwing it somewhere out his eyesight. “These guys you’ll feed once, only in the morning when you get here. I’ll feed them again but you’ll be gone before I do. You feed them first, then my chicks. You don’t feed my cows, I handle them. Don’t touch my girls,” he jokes, throwing a playful nudge your way.
“You can handle that? It won’t be like that everyday.” He shakes his head, and you nod. “Yeah, sounds like no trouble really.” You say, and he almost wants to laugh.
“Good, cmon. Crops are on the side.” He says, letting his arms fall on the side. You find yourself staring as he took lead, his wide frame that tore out of his dirty shirt, bulging muscles with veins so big it would only take a dull knife to get into em. You didn’t know why you didn’t notice it sooner, he was hot.
“I have cucumbers, lettuce, tomatoes, squash, zucchini, cabbage, and onions in the ground. I have em all marked so you shouldn’t have a problem. In my trees, I just recently started sprouting oranges, peaches.” He pointed around before facing you.
“Over there,” he pointed to a small space away from all his crops, a little patch that was tented by a clear tarp, seeing some bushes being occupied with a few sticks. “You don’t touch that. That’s something else, and you will never have to touch that ever in the whole time you’ll be here. Understood?” He says, and you nod earnestly, your eyes big and attentive on his.
“Do you know what it is, just by maybe looking at it? Or can you guess?” He asks you, a little smile creeping on his face. From where you are you squint, playing with your hands as you think as to what it could’ve been. There was no color besides green that you could see, and even then you still had no clue.
You shake your head, “A type of flower?” You guess, and his brows raise in shock that you almost had an idea. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Yeah. A flower.” He starts to chuckle lightly, shaking his head at you as he walks off, and you follow.
“Your routine will never be something straightforward, I could have you tending to the animals one day only or I could have you doin’ it all while I kick back and watch.” He takes you back to his porch.
“But, that doesn’t mean you won’t be working. You will most likely always have something to do. You’ll be here only a few hours, from 9, maybe 10 am to nightfall. You don’t have to be here every day, though work is gonna be tough whenever you get back, but any days you won’t, just let me know. We’ll trade off on work, you’ll never be doing just something while I do another. Any questions so far?” He pays for you to sit next to him on his bench.
“Will there any days I absolutely have to be here? I don’t like..do much anyway, but if there is I’d wanna be there.” “Yeah uh, I need you Sundays, every Sunday. Sundays market day, so me and you will go on down for a few hours and sell whatever we can. I got church and I know you do too, so I’ll let you go home with your folks to change becuase—god help us—it’ll be hot, and then I’ll come by to get you. It’s imperative that you’re there with me, becuase it does get hectic. And, that’s also your pay day. Every week, every Sunday, in cash.”
Every Sunday, in cash, got it. “Okay, okay that sounds easy enough. Does this mean I’m hired?” You ask,, and he finally lets out a laugh, his eyes closing slightly. “Yes sweetheart, you’re hired. And I want you here startin’ nine sharp.” He flinched slightly when you squeal, stomping your feet happily.
He smiled and pushed his head back when you hop onto him for a hug, holding you carefully respectfully in his grasp, your knee crossing over his thigh slightly in the act. You pull off, arms still around his shoulders, seated where his knee met his thick thigh, your foot that wasn’t propped up on him holding yourself against the floorboard.
“Thank you so much Mr. Cody, I’ll be good I promise, and I’ll do you even better! I’ve been lookin’ for a job for so long, and I really appreciate it, I do. No one would hire me at all, not even the daycares. But I think I’ll like working with you, I always liked working on..” You ramble on, not noticing Popes uncomfortable expression growing, even though he tried his best to hide it.
His hand just barely rests on your back, still lingering from the hug. He let you talk, shifting in his seat so he’d be more comfortable, ignoring the growing heat within him as he watched you ramble contently. Yes, it was inappropriate. Yes, he knew just about anyone could ride by and see it. Yes, he let you keep going.
“And daddy always told me that being around animals anyway was therapeutic. Which is why I moved to the city…” he tilts his head, skimming down your frame quickly before landing back on your face, he could tell you had been wantin’ to talk the whole time, and it was odd for him too, he was never one for leading conversation. He liked listening, though. So it wasn’t much trouble, even if you were practically on top of him.
“So you like the animals? Imma start you with them first then. And then I’ll get you on that tractor.” He finds a second to interject. He noticed your hesitation, “It’s not hard, and it’s not scary, promise. It’ll be like ridin’ a big ass bike.” He shrugged, and you giggle at his language.
“Do you need me today?” You ask, and he shrugs. “Not really, I mean, today I have laundry to run down and some deliveries. Boring stuff, I’ll just get you started tomorrow.” He starts to bounce his leg, and it hits you. Where you were, what you were doing.
You feel heat rush over you, his hard thigh nudging against your cunt, immediately feeling the rush of heat pool in your panties, and had you not been in the right mind you would’ve almost grinded against it. You look away from his eyes and unfist his shirt from his hands, something you didn’t even notice you were doing as you get up, trying to act casual as you pull your purse back on your body.
“Okay!” Is all you say to him, and his expression twists, he could tell you were flustered, but by what? “O-okay Mr. Cody, I’m gonna get on home then, hang out and stuff. Thank you for having me and everything.” You gulp and stare everywhere but at him as you stumble off his porch, not giving him a second glance as he gives you a confused farewell, watching you pull out and skirt off.
He wondered if it was something he did, did he touch you the wrong way when you were on him? He tried to be good, not let his hands wander. Tried not to look too into your body, admiring how you filled out the dip of your blouse you wore. He noticed how you bunched up his shirt for a split second, your lashes flickering as you went quiet. You had seem just fine, it was like something flushed over you.
He found himself staring into space again like he used to, but this time, he was looking at the thigh of his jeans, which coincidentally was right where you were rested on him. The spot was…warm. Warm with a different heat that radiated from the heat the sun provided. The same sort of heat that came from his growing bulge.
Gross, he thought, cringing at himself. For fucks sake, she’s 20 years younger than you. Keep it tucked. He sighs as he stands, wanting to go adjust himself, but he finds he has no time as a different car pulls into his driveway, a patron of the town. Business comes first, then pleasure.
You went home in a frenzy, your mind racing. No, he hadn’t meant to do that, no way. You thought, gripping the steering wheel. He’s old, he was probably tired. I was all over him too, I probably got too heavy. I didn’t even realize it until… the feeling rushed over you again, your heartbeat fluttering, legs feeling like they were sticking together.
You take a deep breath, you were driving for Pete’s sake. His hands were on me, on my back. He didn’t seem to mind it I guess..he even looked into—You shake your head, no, no. Not happening. Not with your boss. Your day goes by foggy, you couldn’t help yourself.
Your head was filled with Mr. Cody, it was…weird. It felt like when you were in high school and you’d gained a crush on one of your male teachers for simply being nice to you. As you lay your head to rest, there it goes again. That feeling of butterflies in your stomach, the wetness pooling to your panties.
You reminisced on his gaze he had on you, the one you thought you saw peek down your shirt. You found yourself creeping into your panties, eyes flickering to the door, scared someone was gonna wanna check up on you even in the dead of night.
Your head brings you back to his arms, the small shirt hugging against his big biceps and riding up just enough for you to see his exposed v-line. You moan behind your bit lip, circling your clit faster as your legs fall on the side of you.
“Yes, sweetheart,” “I’m doin’ alright miss,” you hear his gruff voice in your head, sweat beading down your forehead as your other hand lodges a finger into yourself, as awkward as the position is you work on yourself with a quickness, almost imagining it was Mr. Cody’s rough, dirty hand in you. His working man hands on you.
You wondered if he could ever think of you how you were thinking of him. If he could get all hot in bothered in the night like this, maybe palming himself at the thought of getting you under him? Hearing you squeal for him like you were in the moment, maybe cumming with your name under his breath.
And with that your climax runs at you fast, trying to conceal your gasps of air and tiny moans as you bring yourself to your high. Juices stain the sheets as you dirty up your fingers until you can’t move no more, catching up to your breath and letting your scent fill the room as sleep overtakes you.
You’re up and at ‘em early for your first day, greeting the day with a nice shower and a quick breakfast before you get ready, conversing with daddy about what you might get into today, as well as what your new schedule looks like.
He’s happy for you, telling you how now that you’re getting paid your own you can buy your own clothes, which you laugh off. You put on small shorts and an even smaller shirt for the day, seeing the sun beam down on the green already.
You rub lotion on your newly shaved legs (fresh shave=just in case, in girl terms) before going in with some sunscreen and pulling your hair back cutely, dabbing on some blush and gloss before heading out with a water.
You talk yourself into being normal on the way there, not gonna be weird again, you reflect on how you scurried out of his place just yesterday. And no staring, no holding onto him, no licking your lips, don’t even think about anything but work actually. Actually just don’t even look at him, at all. Don’t make eye contact either.
You park next to his truck, searching the green for him from the front, though he’s no where to be seen. Not an issue. Sitting your purse on the porch, you give Lucky a little kiss and scratch before heading to your first duty, feeding time.
You were a little early, by the time you got there it was only just hitting ten till nine, but early is on time, something you were always told. You were thankful seeing he set the feed out for you by the barn, a quick walk from each pen.
You speak sweetly to the pigs and chickens as you feed em, giving them little, “Y’all ain’t ate since last night, must’ve been starving.” “Don’t get angry with me, you gotta get in there. Push ‘em out the way if you’re that hungry.” And when you’re done, you stand back to gander at the cows contently, listening to their conversations between another.
“Good morning young lady.” You turn your head to see Pope approach from your right, his chest already wet with sweat through his white beater and dirt kissing his knees and below. “Good morning sir. Sleep alright?” You hold your hands behind your back respectfully, he walks up to you like whatever’s in his pants is heavy against him.
“Tried my best, I’m always gettin’ torn outta sleep though. And yourself?” “It-it was alright,” you swallow back drool pooling in your mouth, “My brothers, they got a few new toys so they were up longer than I anticipated.” You lie with ease, your hand coming up to cover your eyes, squinting at him as he takes in your clothes. What was he gonna do with you.
“We’ll keep your eyes open, don’t want you fallin in the dirt,” he says, looking over you to look at what you’ve gotten done. “Atta girl.” He coos, patting your back. “You ain’t touch my girls did you?” “N-no sir, just takin’ a look,” you giggle, kicking at the dirt.
“They’re beautiful, nice pretty lashes. You take care of ‘em I can tell.” “Hell yeah I do, these are my babies. And, one day if you get well acquainted I’ll have you milk ‘em, but they’re uhm…” he snaps his fingers like he’s trying to remember something.
“Divas.” He points at you, and you laugh, you wouldn’t expect a man of his age to even know that word. “They are divas, they don’t even like me half the time, so I know it’ll take you a little while. But you’re here, earlier than I expected actually. I’m on the side gettin’ ahead of the field, but since you’ve got the animals all good, you can let em roam around in the fences. Cows shouldn’t bother you, they got their own little patch, and if they get near my flowers Lucky will handle em.” He says, whistling her over quickly.
“When I call you for somethin’ else, that’s when they go back in. Lucky can heard em in, you won’t have to do nothin’ but tell her go, and close the gates. That sounds easy enough?” “Like a Sunday morning sir. After that?” “I haven’t decided, I might have you collect eggs, I might have you on the side with me. But don’t let it trouble you, I’ll get you when I get you okay?” He rubs your back and you nod, looking into his eyes.
They’re pretty, a nice hazel that illuminated in the sunlight even as he squinted. “Atta girl, you got this. My door is never ever locked, so you need anything just run it by me and run inside. And if you need a second to cool off don’t hesitate, if you faint, those pigs won’t waste a second on your lil’ bones,” he pops a smile at you, making you giggle again.
He wipes his forehead off before turning his back to you and off to his duties, “If anyone pulls up, holler for me.” Is all he says. You do as told and let your new buddies out, watching Lucy run with glee, her tongue in the wind as she rips and runs around the yard.
You were kinda sad you guys weren’t working together directly, you only saw him when he went inside, sending a little wave your way. You whine, you were bored and you missed looking at him. You tell Lucky go, watching her wrangle up the livestock before you close the pens.
“Mr. Cody,” you come up behind him as he’s down on one knee, your hands behind your back as he looks up at you, dirt on his cheek and hands. “Can I uhh..get the eggs? I’m bored.” You say, and he scoffs a laugh as he stands. “Bored? Clearly I’m goin too easy on you, on your first day at that.” He pats your back as he looks around.
“You put the animals up, that’s good. Yeah, go get the eggs. The bins are in the barn next to the opening, get as much as you can, just be gentle. When you’re done, put ‘em on the porch then come find me. I’ll give you somethin’ else to do.” He winks and sends you off, watching you jog up to his barn.
He thought about giving you something to do alright. He couldn’t believe how much you’ve grown, you weren’t that young when you left but you’re..much more. Fuller, a..woman. You were never introduced to him when you were home, never ran to his house, saw him like he saw you, but in your defense he saw everyone.
You weren’t sheltered, just protected. So your dad did the runs to Popes, took you to and from anywhere you needed, and god help his heart if he ever found out about a damn “boyfriend”.
Pope thought about what you might’ve gotten up to when you went up into the city, if you’ve had your first drinks yet, how you spent your birthdays, if you found a boyfriend up there or anything. If you blossomed, if your sounds were high or not. If your cunt was as plump as your rosey cheeks were.
God, ew, he thought. He didn’t know what was coming over him, he saw beautiful women everyday, women that threw themselves onto him even after timeless rejections. He never felt compelled to do something so..lustful, not in a long time at least.
You pull him out of his thoughts as you call out to him from the porch, watching him pull that big dusty tractor out the shed. “You done?” He pulls it up to the side of his house, stretching his arms. “Yes sir, I only filled one bin though. They kept biting me.” You frown, making him chuckle. “That’s ok sugar, you did good anyway. Cmon, imma show you somethin’ before we get started.”
He walks you to his flower beds, colors shining under the sun, yellows, pinks, reds, purples. “So pretty!” You tell him, bending down to smell. “Thank you. I take good care of everything you see on this grass, and a lot of people depend on me. You wouldn’t believe how many men and women get in an uproar over these flowers.” He lifts his cap up to rustle his hair.
“So when I get you on that thing,” he points to his tractor, “I need you careful, okay? You go over any one of them flowers, and you gon’ have about four or five ladies here lining up to rip you a new one.” He says and you giggle, nodding.
“Now imma’ teach you of course,” he walks you over with him. “She’s not the newest one out. But she’s good, she’s reliable and she gets the job done. She’s bout as old as me,” he says, hopping over and sitting down with a huff, arm over the back of the seat. “She’s a little bumpy too, but it won’t be a problem. The problem is the gear shifts.” He says, and he waits for you to step on, nodding you over.
“Oh-you-you want me to get on now or after?” “Yeah now, I gotta show you how to do it don’t I?” He says, and you nod, duh. You swallow back spit as you reach your leg over and into his lap, looking back at him as you put your hands on the wheel.
“This good?” You ask, and you don’t get an answer as he fixes your positioning, putting your feet in the slots of the vehicle, leaning himself back as he pulls you more onto him, “Like this. I’m only gonna sit with you on it for a little while before you take over on your own, and it’s okay for me but a little big for you. Is that okay?” He asks, and you just barely tune back in to nod a little.
You were too focused on the bulge of his jeans pressing against your crotch, the only thing saving you from sitting on his cock directly was the thick denim you both wore, and though you couldn’t see it, he thought the same. “M’kay,” he holds your hip gently as he pulls the tractor on, bracing you for the bumps that follow.
“Oh!” Your body flushed, heat racing through you as you feel his bulge nudge against you every half second, your grip on the wheel tightening. “Mhm.” He clears his throat, watching your hips, “Yeah, she’s rough n’ loud. You’ll get used to it, it won’t be too bad after a while. Now,” he pulls a lever from the side, which jolts as you wheel forward.
“That’s how you go, and that button is how you start and stop. You can’t go forward without that button first.” He exhaled hard through his nose, feeling your legs spread a little more against him, to get more comfortable he assumed, but it was all the more distracting as you bounce against him.
You fight to keep your eyes open, trying not to get tied up in the pleasure thrusted upon you as you listen to Mr. Cody’s voice over the loud engine of it. “You’re gonna uhm,” he swallows hard, looking away from your body rocking against him, trying to remember what he was gonna say.
“I’m always gonna push it out to where we were, and when you get on you’re gonna always go to the end of the lawn, turn and snake it. You know what I mean by snake it?” “Yeah,” you respond absentmindedly, licking your lips and swallowing hard before you realized what was said. “I-I mean no, no I don’t. Sorry.” You try and lock in, straightening up and tightening on the steering wheel.
He takes in the whiney sound you’d let out, “It’s okay.” He says gently, trying to get a good look at your face from behind, failing. “What I mean is, when you turn,” he pulls the turning lever for you, placing his hands on yours and turning the wheel, his back against yours now that he’s more sat up.
“You’re gonna go all the way down till you meet the rocks of my driveway, and then turn again, restarting. Like a snake.” He puts his arm over the seat, his other hand steady on your body, shirt bunched up under his grip. “O-okay, yeah. Sounds easy enough.” You nod, fighting the little noises that desperately wanna come out of you.
He’s eyeing you, so hard you can almost feel it bore into your head. He just hoped you didn’t feel him hardening under you, though, how could he not? Your hips rock against him so much with this thing he’d thought you were doing it on purpose, and sure the tractor was noisy, but his ears worked fine. Were you doin’ that on purpose too?
And the thing is..you were rocking against him more on purpose, and though you didn’t mean to whine and moan, you did. You couldn’t help it. It felt so, incredibly good against your aching cunt, feeling the friction you hadn’t felt in so long. As much as you tried to shush yourself especially over the loud tractor, a sound or two slipped out every once in a while.
All you could do was pray he didn’t hear you, and pray he didn’t see how your hips roll with every bounce, or your hands that grip the wheel. You’re only snapped out your head when he calls your name louder over the tractor, making you flinch. “Yes sir?” You look back, and his face is flushed as his brows come together.
“You hear me? I asked if you were ok.” He rubs your back, bucking up and adjusting his place. “Yeah, yeah I’m ok. Sorry.” You nod, eyes bouncing back between him, the lawn in front and his bicep that lays on the head of the seat. “You sure? You want me to get off?” He asks, and you shake your head with a quickness.
“No, I’m okay. This is good. Am I too heavy?” You ask, and he gives you a slow nod, assuring you. “Not at all sweetheart, light as a feather.” His hands drifts downwards as he ran his eyes down your body, the curve of your back peaking out of the small cropped tee you had on.
He could see your little panty band peak above your shorts, his head resting on his shoulder. He doesn’t even realize his hand was resting against where your thigh and hip met until he had to pull you back a bit from sliding off him. His hand wrapping around the fat with ease, finding his finger trace along where your thigh busts out the denim.
He sucks in a breath, reminding himself to behave. He wanted to say sorry for touching up on you, but you didn’t seem to mind, in fact, you didn’t seem to have a care in the world. From his view of you, it’d seemed you were really into the work you were putting into his lawn.
Your posture straight, face forward with a hard grip on the wheel, focused. He didn’t even know how you bit into your lip like you wanted it to bleed, forcing your silence as you ride his bulge as sneakily as you could, humping against lightly with each bump against the piece of shit tractor hit.
How were you supposed to manage? He made your brain so fuzzy, his sweat stained shirt, shining muscles, big, rough hands that latched onto your body. And then that face, his gorgeous eyes, chiseled jaw and dimples that just barely shine through.
He was perfect for your sexually neglected cunt, perfect to look at, to think about. Even with the little bit of friction his jeans gave you, you took it in full, it’d been so long. And he could say that same.
Pope didn’t even remember the last time he got some actual tail, it had to have been before he left. He didn’t pursue anyone, it wasn’t what he came for, and he wasn’t ready for anything serious yet. But your plump body perched against him made him want it, he felt like he was drooling over the sight of you, even if it was something as innocent as you simply on his lap.
He found himself pulling you back against his bulge, rocking you against him slightly. And he knew it was wrong, but you wouldn’t notice, right? Not with how the tractor bumped and thumped, no. He felt perverse, he knew it was, but he couldn’t stop.
His mouth parted slightly as he watched your ass against him, almost finding the nerve to grab at you or something. Keeping his hand on your thigh, he sighs harsh, a short whisper to Jesus falling off his tongue. He wants to tell you to get off, that you don’t need him to “help you” anymore. But the more his cock strained against his jeans, the more the thought disappeared, and turned into..something it shouldn’t.
Turning into imagining you on top of him in his recliner, riding him just like this. Ass nudging against his stomach while he bounced you on his cock, hearing you moan into the room while you hold onto his knees. He bites his lip, feeling heat overcome his chest as his mouth parts, blinking harsh.
He thought about how you sounded over the phone, how that word came off your tongue so effortlessly. Daddy. He heard you in his head, actually. Heard you say, “it feels so good, daddy,” “daddy m’gonna cum,” in his ears, and he shudders at the thought.
And before he knew it, his thighs twitches under you, a cold sweat ran down his torso to his aching balls, and he stammered out a shakes gasp, feeling himself cum in his boxers, grabbing at your hips roughly to hoist you off. “Stop, stop the tractor.” He says hurriedly, his foggy mind running a mile a minute. And you obey with a quickness, nervousness running over your body as you stay in the air, your ass in his direct eye sight.
It only makes it harder for him as he sighs, looking down at his pants that haven’t made a spot yet. “Are..are you okay, Mr. Cody? Did I do something?” You look back, seeing his face a deep shade of red as he looks around nervously. “Yeah uh..y-yeah,” he hops up and off the tractor, making you fall back into the seat abruptly, he doesn’t face you, not as he looks down at the mess that grows dark on the denim. “I uhm..sorry babydoll, I gotta run and do something. You finish up, ok?”
He doesn’t wait for your answer as he beelines for the door, cursing himself for something so gross, so..lustful of himself. He stomps to his room, peeling his pants off to see the oozing of his cum stain his boxers, cursing again and running his hands down his face. “God..fucking dammit Pope..” he sighs, throwing his hat down.
She’s his daughter, Pope. Just a little girl, a familiar voice in his head says. Shaking his head, he readies himself, changing out the messy garments and into something fresh, watching you through the blinds to see if you suspected anything, thankfully it seemed foggy to you. He’d die if you found out he came in his pants, because he thought about you calling him daddy, the way you do for your actual dad.
When he looks out the window again, you’re no where to be seen. The tractor still in its spot, unfinished lawn in his face. “Mr. Cody?” Pope hears your voice down the hall, and he quickly fixes his belt before exiting. “I’m down here, honey!” He meets you halfway, catching you in his hallway as if you were gonna come find him yourself.
“Sorry for coming in unannounced..but are you alright? You seem kind of agitated..” you twiddle with the belt loops of your shorts, a nerved expression tainting your face. He should die, for making you worry. He thinks. “Yeah I..yeah, I didn’t mean to startle you. I had to use the bathroom.” He tucks his shirt back in, and you give him a once over. His cheeks are still flushed, his hats discarded behind him, and he’s..in new jeans?
“Okay..I didn’t do anything wrong, right?” Did you feel me throbbing? Did you feel me grind on your bulge, did you hear my moans?? I didn’t mean to, Mr. Cody. I just couldn’t help myself. “No, of course not. How bout we get some water, then we can go back on the land, ok?” He guides you down the hall, his hand on the small of your back, which makes you tingle.
“Are we getting back on the tractor?” You look up at him, and the images that flash in his mind are hellish. “Uh..you can. I think you got it, I’m just taking up space. Then we can work on my hedges.” He’s gotta learn to keep an arms length. Who knows what he’ll do if that happens again.
summary: All it takes is one glance at the pretty girl who lives in the apartment across from his for Andrew Cody to become obsessed. But what begins as innocent observation from his window turns into something far more intense.
warnings: +18 MDNI. obsessive behavior, stalking, multiple scenes of male masturbation, themes of shame, reader has type b youngho vibes and andrew is stupidly into it, feminine reader who has hair and wears press on nails, unspecified but implied age gap, reader shares one kiss with a female friend (not super detailed), J pulls your cell phone records as a favor, andrew breaks into your apartment and raids your panty drawer, male masturbation with a vibrator, nipple play, alcohol consumption and mentioned drunkenness, lingerie, exhibitionism on readers part, mutual masturbation, jealousy, bratting/a touch of brat taming, reader tries to make pope jealous with another man, death threats (not to reader or pope), dirty talk, sloppy makeouts, spit swapping, over the clothes nipple sucking, finger sucking, f!use of a vibrator, clit play, rough fingering, unprotected piv, dacryphilia, light angst, insecure pope, reader matches his freak, stalker!reader, forced love confessions, begging, creampie
note: wow ok i think that might be the longest warning i've ever written whoops!! thank u sm to my angel @thykingdoncome for reassuring me through this whole process and taking a lil looksie at this for me love u 4ever
wc: 10.4k
[masterlist] [AO3]
Andrew knows it's weird.
He knows that.
But as long as you don't know he's doing it, what does it hurt?
It's not like he's doing anything weird. He's just…watching you. It almost feels like fate, the way your apartment is positioned directly across from his. There's the courtyard and a pool lying between you, but the windows of his apartment mirror yours so perfectly.
And…you don't have blinds.
No curtains, no shades. There's not even a half-effort of an old sheet hung up over the glass pane. And at night? When he can't sleep, and the moths circle the flickering porch lights, and you've got those blue or red or purple LED lights on…well.
Pope can see right into your apartment.
Can see you, watching TV on the couch or cooking boxed macaroni in nothing but a loose tank top and a pair of lace underwear.
He thinks you might be the only good thing about the apartment that Smurf forced him into only three days after he was released from prison.
It's been a long time since he's looked at a woman, you know. Longer since he's seen one as pretty as you.
He's not lacking self awareness or anything. Pope knows your open windows and ever changing LEDs aren't an invitation to stare, but…sometimes it feels like one.
You fall asleep on the couch most nights. Which is good for him, because Pope can't see into your bedroom.
Some things, he begins to realize, are a sort of chaotic routine.
You tend to fall asleep with your phone in your hand and scramble to find it each morning (it's always under the couch, beneath the hot pink throw pillow you kick off in your sleep).
You don't eat breakfast because you don't wake up early enough to (don't you know it's the most important meal of the day?). Most mornings, you wake up with just enough time to doll yourself up in the bathroom, prioritizing glittery eyeshadow and shimmering lip gloss rather than the sustenance of a bowl of cereal.
He doesn't know what you do for work, but it's something with an inconsistent schedule. You sleep until noon on your days off, which could be any day of the week, Pope learns.
Work doesn't stop you from going out, though. Saturday nights are reserved for those miniskirts and stiletto heels and all your giggling girlfriends who get ready on your living room floor with a hand mirror. You share perfume and makeup and clothes with them before you all climb into a shared uber.
A few times, Andrew finds himself tempted to follow you. He tells himself it's not like he'd be doing it for his own satisfaction. He'd just be doing it to keep an eye on you, that's all. You're a young girl (too young for someone his age). Don't you know there are predators out there?
But he never does. Because that would be weird, right? You don't even know him. But…he certainly starts to feel like he knows you.
You and your friends always stumble back to your apartment, sometimes falling up the concrete steps to the second floor. One of them will make pizza rolls or messy peanut butter sandwiches and you'll pass around cold bottles of water and spill electrolyte drink mixes on the kitchen counter.
You'll share your things with them even after the club, selfless girl. Passing out hair ties and makeup removing wipes and big t-shirts for them to sleep in. On one particular night, when most of them are passed out on the couch, legs and arms tangled together, Pope even watches you you share a kiss with one of them under pink LEDs.
That night, Andrew has to force his attention away. It feels way too close to the beginning of that porno Craig left open on the family computer years ago.
But this doesn't feel erotic. Watching your mouth move against someone else's doesn't elicit any warmth beneath the fabric of his jeans.
No, it makes Andrew...upset. Angry, even.
It makes him jealous.
He tries not to think about it again. Tries even harder (and fails, repeatedly) to give you some privacy on Saturday nights.
But Sundays…Sundays are sacred.
Both for you and for him.
So much so that he pulls out on a job when his brothers plan it for a Sunday. Tells them he has to check in with his parole officer that day. Lies to their faces, because he doesn't want to miss out on you.
Because every Sunday, without fail, Andrew gets to see you naked.
You start by cleaning your apartment. Wiping down the counters and vacuuming the carpet and dusting the top of the cabinets. Then you light the candle on the coffee table (pink champagne, he's pretty sure, after looking endlessly online to match up the glass container. Twenty six dollars. Four day shipping. Currently sitting unlit on his nightstand).
And when you're ready, you strip off all your clothes and discard them in the bathroom.
You put oil in your hair and nineties R&B on your bluetooth speaker. You paint your toes (usually white or black, occasionally an electric blue) and glue artificial nails with sparkling gems onto your fingers.
Sunday showers are the longest, Pope knows. Sometimes thirty minutes. And when you emerge from the bathroom, steam rolls out from the open door and you've got your hair wrapped up in a towel. You balance yourself with a foot on the edge of the couch and massage lotion into your skin first.
From top to bottom, moisturizing your entire body. And then you repeat the motion with an oil, and it's during this particular step that Andrew starts feeling a little lightheaded.
He'd bet you feel all smooth and soft and smell so fucking good. Maybe like vanilla or cherry or coconut. And, god. He wants to touch you. He wants to touch himself.
But he resists.
The first three times, anyway.
By the fourth Sunday, though…well. His cock gets so fucking hard in his jeans that it's leaking. Making a big fucking mess in his boxers. It hurts, you know?
And it's not like you'll know he's doing it. He's had a little over a month to perfect his setup—lights off, chair angled perfectly so if anyone glanced into his apartment they'd have to really look in order to see him.
So, he takes his cock in his hand and imagines it's your delicate fingers wrapped around him instead. Imagines it's his hands rubbing oil into your shoulders, over the swell of your breasts, pressing into your hips, squeezing at the supple flesh of your thighs.
He'd make sure to do it just how you like. And Pope wouldn't need to be told how to, either. Because he's spent so much time watching you now that he would just know.
He wonders if your head would fall back, wet hair clinging to your slick skin. He wonders if he pressed just right into that tender spot at the small of your back that you're always so gentle with if you'd moan or whine or whimper. Maybe even say his name.
Andrew cums at the thought alone, grunting low, lips parted, his release spilling over his hand and down the hard length of his cock.
The shame doesn't take hold of him for a while.
Not until later that night, when your hair is blow dried and you're dressed in a pretty silk pajama set. You've got some trashy reality show on the TV, and you're eating the pizza you had delivered right out of the box.
Andrew takes the moment to clean himself up. To change out of his clothes and into something more comfortable. He brushes his teeth and climbs in bed, but lays with his head propped up by an extra pillow so he can still see clearly out of his window.
He knows it's weird. He knows he shouldn't be staring at a naked girl who's probably half his age and doesn't know there's some fucking creep across the courtyard who watches her every fucking day. He knows he shouldn't be fucking his fist watching you put lotion on your skin. He knows he shouldn't be changing his plans with family or friends around your schedule, just so he can watch you a little longer.
He knows he should stop.
The problem, however, lies in the wanting.
Andrew's never had much. Not when it comes to women. But you…god. You're so beautiful, and so pure and so different from anything he's ever seen. You don't belong to anyone but yourself, and once he sees you, he finds it impossible to look away.
Things change late one Friday night.
Andrew gets sloppy. He gets comfortable, here in this routine he's created around you.
There's music coming from your apartment, some electronic pop ballad that's at a volume so loud he can hear it from across the courtyard (there will be complaints to the office manager tomorrow morning, he knows. But you don't have to worry. Pope will take care of it for you, baby. He'll make sure you can keep having your fun).
You're wearing just a lacy bra and a pair of linen sleep shorts. There's a seltzer in your hand, and you're singing and dancing like you've somehow summoned all the energy from the club right there in your apartment.
It's a beautiful sight, truly. You're so happy and carefree. The warmest ray of sunshine that he wants to find himself basking under.
Andrew gets comfortable, posture relaxing in the chair that now lives permanently in front of his window. He watches you dance around your apartment, the easy smile on your face reflected back on his own.
He thinks he could really take care of you. Keep you safe. Protect all that girlish whimsy that lives in your heart. He'd make you real happy, Andrew thinks. Would watch you dance with your friends at the club, leaning against the bar. He'd take you shopping and add more of those short dresses into your closet. He'd make you breakfast in the mornings before work and Christ—he'd buy you a set of fucking curtains.
Pope is so lost in the fantasy of it that he doesn't register in time that your dancing has slowed. And you've put your seltzer down on the coffee table.
And you're staring right back at him.
His heart kicks up, pounding against his chest. He knows he should move out of sight, shut his blinds, pass this off as a mistake, maybe even pretend he hadn't seen you.
But he doesn't do any of that.
He's frozen in time, terrified and exhilarated all at once by simply being perceived by you.
Pope just…stares.
It seems to be the only fucking thing he's capable of these days.
He expects you to flip him off or maybe come barreling out of the door and across the courtyard to confront him. Or maybe you'll scurry away into your room. Maybe you'll order a set of curtains online.
But you don't do any of that.
You just stare right back.
Andrew tilts his head curiously. It's an involuntary movement.
In the end, you're the first to look away. You pick up your seltzer, dump it down the drain in the kitchen, and then disappear into the bathroom to brush your teeth.
Your routine remains the exact same. You find your phone beneath the throw blanket on the couch and turn off the TV. You turn the kitchen light off and turn on the light above the stove instead. You grab a water bottle from the fridge, and then go to bed in your room.
It's not rushed, and you don't seem nervous or fearful that there's someone watching you.
And Andrew thinks to himself, see. This is why you need him. This is why you need someone looking out for you. Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
He would never hurt you, Andrew knows. But you don't know that.
He doesn't sleep that night. He doesn't sleep often as it is, but his mind is running too fast. Cataloguing all the potential scenarios in which you cut off all access he has to you, severing the comfort he finds in his new favorite, voyeuristic hobby.
And Andrew wouldn't—couldn't—blame you for it. He thinks that's what you should do.
You don't.
The following morning, your routine changes.
On the nights you fall asleep in your bed, you're usually dressed in a pair of jeans with gems decorating the pockets and a low-cut top by the time you emerge from your room.
But not this time.
No, this time you're still wearing the same clothes you'd fallen asleep in. A lacy bra and cotton shorts.
Andrew watches, freshly emerged from the quickest shower of his life, hair still wet, as you stand in front of the fridge to find the fizzy energy drink you'd brought home with you last night.
He watches you struggle for a moment to crack the seal open (Those pretty nails of yours. He could help you with that, you know). You take a slow sip, put the aluminum can down on the counter, and turn your head just enough to let Pope know you see him.
You know he's there, in the window. You know he's watching.
And then, painfully slow, you drag your shorts down your thighs. The fabric pools at your feet, and Pope loses all train of thought.
Because this is no accident. You want this. You want him to watch you.
Your bra is next. You reach around to unclasp it and soon after the lace joins the linen fabric on the linoleum floor.
Warmth blooms beneath his skin as he watches you press your hands to your abdomen, feeling your skin, running your hands up your chest and over the swell of your breasts.
You try and play it off like a stretch, lifting your arms above your head and arching your back.
Andrew knows it's not.
You get ready the rest of the morning like normal. And Andrew…God. He doesn't know what to think.
He knows he should stop this before it goes too far. He thinks it already has.
It's…it's weird, right?
Everything about it is wrong.
He doesn't want to stop, but he knows he should.
He tries, though. For what little it's worth.
Tries to busy himself building a fountain at Smurf's. Tries to find small jobs he can do himself to pass the time. He still thinks about you all hours of the day, though. Like a thorn stuck beneath his skin, aching when he moves just the wrong way.
He overhears Nicky explaining to Deran what an 'everything shower' is and thinks about your Sunday ritual. He walks into a hungover Craig making boxed macaroni in his boxers and thinks of you. Smurf lights a candle called pink cashmere and even though it's not pink champagne, it still makes him think of you.
The pretty little girl in the apartment across from his, who he finds himself certifiably, insanely, obsessed with.
One Thursday afternoon, Andrew returns home earlier than he'd planned. He tells himself he just wants to get a little glance.
Just one look. You know, to soothe the ache the thought of you brings. To see if maybe he imagined the weight of your stare.
What he finds, though, is somehow more concerning.
You're pacing your living room, cell phone pressed to your ear, still wearing jeans and your sneakers. There's tension in your shoulders and even though he can't hear the conversation you're having with the person on the other end of the phone, he can see that you're shouting.
It drags on for the better half of an hour. The pacing, the frustrated hand waving, the pinching of the bridge of your nose. Whatever it is, Andrew bets he could help with it.
He hates seeing you stressed. Thinks you should be living your fun, carefree life like normal. You shouldn't be burdened with…whatever it is that's got you so upset.
But it's not like he can go over and just ask.
So, he chooses a different path instead.
Gets the key to the office of the apartment complex from Smurf. Rummages through the paper files until he finds the lease contract linked to your apartment number.
Andrew thinks he should've done this weeks ago. He learns an awful lot about you this way. Like your name, which he begins to recite like a mantra in his head. He learns your birthday and, regretfully, your age.
But, most importantly, he discovers (and memorizes) your phone number.
And that same day, he returns to Smurf's with a torn piece of paper with the digits scribbled on it. He hands it to his nephew and says, "Need you to get a few phone call records. Can you do that for me?"
J furrows his brows in confusion. "Who's number?"
Pope shrugs. "No one," he lies. "Can you get the records or not?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, probably. Anything specific you're looking for?"
"I wanna know about a call that happened today. Around two or so. Lasted almost an hour. Just get me the number of whoever was on the other line."
J hesitates for a single moment, and then nods slowly. "Alright. I'll get back to you on it."
In the meantime, Andrew spirals.
The thought of you having a boyfriend never really crossed his mind until now. You don't really have men over. Just your girl friends.
But there are some Saturday nights you don't come home, stumbling in early Sunday morning instead with sunglasses on and your hair a mess. So, Pope thinks you very well could have a boyfriend and he never would've known it.
Pope tells himself if it is a boyfriend, he won't…he won't do anything. It's not his place to make decisions for you, right?
Still. You shouldn't let a man stress you out so much. Whoever it is, they're not worth it. You deserve better. You deserve more.
You deserve someone who knows you.
Less than two hours later, Pope gets a phone call from J, who explains that the person on the other end of that phone call wasn't a person at all.
It was your phone company.
Your stupid fucking service provider who just so happened to put an extra two hundred dollar fee on your bill this month, claiming data overages.
All that stress wasn't over a boyfriend. It was over money.
And money is something Andrew can provide.
He waits until you leave for work, locking up tight behind you. But that doesn't matter, not now. Andrew has a key to the office, which means he has access to the spare key to your apartment.
He is fully aware that he shouldn't be doing this, but ten minutes after you leave he unlocks the door and steps inside anyway.
Your apartment smells sweet. Like sugar and citrus. He wonders if you smell the same way, and the thought alone makes Andrew's mouth water.
He moves slowly into your space, fingers tracing over the TV stand, feeling the wood beneath his calloused fingertips. He straightens the crooked throw pillow on the couch and puts the lighter for your candle back into the tray on the coffee table.
Andrew knows he should just…leave the cash and go. He shouldn't be snooping around, invading your privacy.
But you left a knife point-side up in the strainer in the sink. And you could get hurt doing something like that.
And once he's already in the kitchen, turning the knife over so the sharp edge is down, well…what will it hurt if he opens a couple of drawers?
None of your silverware matches. Andrew finds this little fact sort of endearing. Messy and chaotic in the same way you are, but that's okay. Maybe he can fix that for you one day, too.
Your bathroom is cluttered. There's makeup products littering the porcelain sink and the cabinet mirror is left wide open. Andrew picks up a few different products to read the labels and finds lip liners and leave-in conditioners and powdered blush with pilled pigment on the counter.
He finds that lotion you're always using on Sundays and opens the lid. Andrew brings the container to his nose, inhales deeply, and feels suddenly too hot.
The scent of it is sweet, like you. There's notes of syrupy amber and warm florals and it has the muscles in his abdomen squeezing tight as he thinks about how potent the scent would be if he were between your legs, freshly oiled, calves resting on his shoulders as he licks and sucks at your clit.
His cock has been half hard since the moment he stepped foot in your apartment, but by the time he makes it to your bedroom?
Pope is aching.
Your clothes are strewn all over. There's t-shirts on the floor and jeans inside out near the hamper and a dress you'd worn two weekends ago lying on the edge of your unmade bed.
It smells like you in here, too. Even more so. There's less perfume, but Andrew swears he can smell the scent of your skin. Sweet and intoxicating, sending sparks of arousal straight to his groin.
Your bedside table has a lamp on it and three half-empty bottles of water. There's one drawer, and he pries it open and gives a slow exhale to see all the silk and lace inside.
Going through your underwear drawer is, quite literally, the very last thing someone like Andrew Cody should be doing.
He does it anyway.
Rummages around until he finds that little black pair you like to sleep in. He runs his fingers over the lace band, feeling the softness beneath the rough pad of his thumb. His cock is throbbing, even before he brings the fabric to his nose and inhales the scent of laundry detergent and faint mahogany from the nightstand and—there. The scent of you.
As close as he can get.
As close as he'll probably ever get.
He needs to leave. Andrew is painfully aware that this is crossing a line of a whole new degree. Levels above simply watching.
This is obsession. This is addiction. Sick and twisted and perverted.
Andrew does not leave.
He climbs into your bed instead. Kicks off his boots and discards his hoodie until he's in nothing but his jeans. He slips beneath your sheets—satin, and pink, and filled with the scent of your shampoo and your skin and—fuck.
His cock is leaking by the time he undoes his belt. Andrew reaches beneath your blankets and shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself.
And it's almost enough to blow his load right fucking there, when the underside of his heavy length brushes against the fabric of your sheets. It's almost too much, being in your room, in your bed, breathing in your scent.
But he resists. Grits his teeth and takes his cock in one hand and uses the other to wrap the soft fabric of your underwear around his aching length.
This time, there's nothing slow about the way he strokes himself to the thought of you. He's desperate for it. Release already clouds the edges of his mind and he needs the relief it'll provide.
His brain feels hazy and his vision blurs, just thinking about you, lying here, hand between your legs. He wonders how you touch yourself, if you just play with your clit or if you fuck yourself on your fingers.
The thought crosses his mind that you might be using more than just your hand, and Pope finds himself sitting up. He leans over the edge of your bed and sticks his hand back into your panty drawer, reaching to the very bottom, feeling around until the tips of his fingers brush over silicone.
His heart is beating fast.
It's a small thing. Pink, of course. With only a small, almost hidden power button.
Pope leans back in your pillows and turns the little vibrator on. It buzzes to life in his hand, and when he pushes the button again, the intensity ratchets even higher.
There's only three settings. He turns it to the highest one and imagines holding it against your swollen clit. He imagines you lying under him, thighs around his waist, hips bucking wildly, chasing the vibration that he gives and gives and then takes away.
He turns so he's lying face down in your sheets now, nose pressed into your pillow. Pope puts the vibrator between his cock and the soft expanse of his abdomen, and he feels the sensation everywhere.
He's still got your underwear wrapped around his cock, and he gives a tentative roll of his hips against the mattress.
The groan he lets out is guttural. With his eyes closed, he can imagine its not your panties he's fucking but you. The tight, wet cunt between your legs. He can imagine it's the curve of your throat he's got his nose buried in and not your pillow. He can imagine that sweet, intense vibration is reverberating through your pelvic bone, little toy pressed hard against your clit.
Pope tells himself he'd make it so fucking good for you. He'd bury his cock so deep you'd never forget the weight of it inside you. He'd whisper how beautiful you are in your ear and make you look him in the eyes while he watches you cum over and over and over.
His release is…embarrassingly fast.
A few rolls of his hips against your mattress and he's cumming into the lace fabric of your panties, the vibration of the toy milking him until he's so overstimulated it almost hurts.
Pope rolls over, turns the toy off, and buries it back in the bottom of your drawer. He gives himself a few more moments to gather himself. To catch his breath, to wipe himself clean (never mind the couple of drops that now stain your satin sheets. That could be from anything, right?).
He tucks himself back into his jeans, pulls on his boots and his hoodie, and tosses your underwear in the pile of clothes next to the laundry bin.
There's a pair of your jeans in the middle of the floor, away from the rest. One leg of the denim is inside out. Pope takes the cash from his wallet and tucks it into the pocket, leaving out just enough that he knows you'll notice it.
He leaves.
Locks the door behind him with the spare key.
Makes it halfway across the courtyard before he doubles back, lets himself back into your apartment and into the bathroom where he pockets one of the many different chapsticks on the sink.
It isn't until he's home, tucked safe back in his own apartment, that he realizes it's strawberries and cream flavored.
Andrew puts it on, swiping the transparent petroleum over his lips. He tells himself it's almost like kissing.
Later that day, Craig calls a family meeting. But you've just gotten home, and he knows you'll find the cash within a few minutes when you go to change out of your clothes.
So Andrew waits at the bottom of the stairs on his side of the courtyard. He can't see into your apartment from here, though. And he decides he'll only wait for thirty minutes.
He responds to text messages and opens his blank, photo-less Instagram (that he definitely didn't make only to look at your profile. The one filled with selfies under neon lights and bikini photos on the beach and mirror pictures in the dressing room at that one boutique in the mall).
Twenty nine minutes later, he hears an apartment door slam shut and looks up to see you.
You've got your bag over one shoulder and a grin on your face and the cash in your hand. Enough to cover the additional charges and a little extra, too.
You notice him at the bottom of the cement stairs and freeze, but you don't look…scared, like he expects. Maybe a little startled at first, but the tension bleeds from your face the moment you recognize him.
He should say something. Talk to you. Apologize, maybe, for staring at you.
But Andrew isn't sorry.
And he's never really been good at talking, anyway.
You tilt your head and give him the sweetest fucking smile he's ever seen. It's somehow innocent and knowing at the same time, and Andrew feels the corners of his mouth lifting in response.
Something passes silently between you. An understanding, maybe. You know he watches you, and he knows you know, but…you don't stop him. You just let it happen.
You smile at him from fifteen feet away.
And then you turn to leave, no doubt making your way to pay off that stupid bill that caused you so much unrest.
Pope watches you go, like always.
But this time, you glance back at him over your shoulder with…something lingering in your pretty eyes. Excitement, maybe. He can't be sure.
He needs to get closer.
During the family meeting, he isn't very present. His mind is so far away, stuck on you, that he just blindly agrees to whatever job they're doing next and trusts that it'll all work out.
When he returns to his apartment, there's a note stuck to his door.
A pink sticky note with nothing but a phone number and a heart with an arrow through it scribbled on the paper.
Your phone number, Pope knows.
He knows he shouldn't text you.
It's stupid and dangerous and god, you really shouldn't be giving your number to random men. He could be a creep. He could be a stalker or something.
His message just says,
Hello.
Your response is immediate, with no capitalization which seems quite…fitting for you. He finds it strangely endearing.
hey
are u the guy from apt 212 ???
Pope can feel that this is a bad idea already. But he's already here, and there's no going back now, is there? He doesn't want to hurt your feelings. He doesn't want to leave you on read and make you think he's not interested when the problem is the exact opposite.
Yes.
The typing bubble pops up, disappears, and appears again three different times before you send another message.
im gonna be home in like an hr
will u be watching ???
Always, he wants to say. Fucking always. He can't take his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how shameful it feels.
Andrew's hands shake as he types out a response.
Do you want me to be?
No hesitation this time. Your message comes through a second later.
uhmmm tbh yeah <3
He exhales a long breath. It doesn't feel real. Like he's imagining the entire thing. How could he not be? Why on earth would the sweetest, prettiest little thing want someone to watch her?
But the weight of his cell phone in his hand is real.
And the text message is real.
And this…this is real.
Then yes. I will be.
You don't reply, and Andrew's heart flutters in his chest as he takes his practiced position in the chair in front of his window and waits.
True to your word, you're skipping up the steps fifty three minutes after the last message is sent. You turn on those LEDs and and move about your apartment like normal, kicking off your sneakers and dropping your bag by the door. You change out of your clothes and put on a worn in t-shirt that's two sizes too big for you, but underneath…
Pope can see the sheer thigh highs you wear and the black, lace edge of them. He can see those strappy garters attached to them, but nothing else. The straps disappear beneath your shirt, leaving him wanting for more.
You're teasing him, Pope realizes.
He watches with bated breath as you lay on the couch, getting comfortable with the throw pillow against the arm.
And then, for the first time, Andrew watches you touch yourself.
You start slowly, hands roaming over your body, on top of the fabric, massaging gently at the inside of your thighs.
His cock's always hard watching you, truth be told. But this…
His skin feels hot. His lungs feel tight.
Your fingers curl around the edge of your t-shirt, and you pull it over your head to discard it on the floor.
Andrew hasn't seen you wear this set before, not even on those sacred Sundays.
It's pretty. Matching black lace. The bra is low cut and pushes your breasts up your chest, the soft flesh swelling over the top. The waistband of the matching panties is decorated in shining silver gems, laying so perfectly against your hips that he feels dizzy just looking at it.
The prettiest package, just begging to be unraveled by his big, mean hands.
You dressed up for him.
You dressed up for him.
Your hands start to move again, palming your breasts, pulling the lace down until they spill out of the top. Your nipples are so pretty that his mouth waters. He wants to kiss them, to feel the shape of them under his tongue. He wants to kneel over top of you and jerk himself off until they're covered in his sticky white release.
You squeeze your breasts until your nipples form pretty little peaks, and then your hands slide lower. Over your abdomen, and your hips, and then your thighs. You bring them slowly back up, only to slide them over the lace fabric of your panties, right down the center of your cunt.
Andrew thinks he could die.
He could fucking die, just looking at you.
Carefully, you unbuckle the chrome latch of your garter. The left side first, and then the right quickly follows. You leave the lace belt on, but hook your thumbs around the bedazzled lace of your panties and pull them down your thighs painfully slowly.
Your knees fall apart.
Pope swallows hard.
He can see everything from here. The seam of your thighs that he's dreamt about. The pretty shape of your pussy. The wetness that's gathered between your folds, slick and shiny with arousal. With want.
For him. It's for him.
His cock throbs so hard it hurts.
Pope doesn't touch himself. He can't. Can he? All you asked of him was that he watched.
That's what you wanted.
But wouldn't it be better if he was there? Wouldn't it be better if he could touch you, if he could taste you, if he could fuck you?
All you'd have to do is let him in.
Your fingers stroke gently over your clit in small circles, and he watches in awe as your lips part and your spine bends.
He can't hear your moans but god does he wish he could. Thinks about putting a little microphone in your lampshade the next time he sneaks into your apartment.
Your fingers drift lower, over your center, and slowly press inside.
Pope wants it to be him so fucking bad.
If not his cock inside you then his fingers. They're bigger. Longer. Thicker. They'd please you more. Reach places your fingers can't.
Maybe his tongue. He'd drink you right from the fucking source and cum in his jeans, probably. But he'd make sure to find that sweet, velvety spot inside you first and he'd spell his full fucking name over it with a pointed tongue.
Silly girl. Don't you know what he could do for you? Don't you know what he could do to you?
Pope squeezes the bulge in his jeans to try and alleviate the pain of his lust.
You fuck yourself with your fingers, stuffing in one and then two and then three, stretching yourself on them, slick dripping down the seam of your cunt. Your back arches when your free hand finds your clit, and he knows you're close.
He knows he shouldn't, but he searches frantically for his phone anyway and sends another text message.
I want to hear you.
You pause only long enough to grab your phone off the coffee table, read the text, and lay your phone on the arm of the couch behind you.
Pope's phone buzzes in his hand.
You're calling him.
He answers on the first ring, and the sounds that greet him are so erotic it steals the breath from his lungs.
You sound so pretty. So sweet and feminine, everything he's imagined yet somehow so, so much more. He's sure you can hear his heavy breaths on the other end of the phone, but Pope can't find it in himself to care. Can't think of much else besides the way you whimper and the sight of your fingers stuffed inside you.
"Oh, god—"
His inhale is shaky.
"I'm gonna cum," you choke out, words hazy with your moans. "I'm so close, I'm so fucking—hmm. Yes. What's your name?"
He almost doesn't hear you, so lost in the sight before him. Immersed in the euphoria of it. But then he says, voice a low, uncertain whisper, "Andrew."
Your spine bends and the fingers on your clit slow. "Oh my god. Fuck, Andrew—I'm cumming, I'm—yes, yes—god."
His cock twitches and when he tries to soothe it with another tight squeeze, he sends himself careening off the precipice of release instead. His head falls back and his once heavy breaths get stuck in his lungs. Pope rubs himself over his jeans, making a sticky, hot mess in his boxers, generating what little friction he can.
He watches you come down in real time. Not his dreams, not his imagination. He watches it happen. Watches that fucked-out, hazy look cross your face. Watches the tension in your muscles melt away, wishing he could kiss the junction of your throat.
Pope wishes he could worship you. Wishes he could clean you up and put on that trashy reality show you like and hold you against his chest, comforting you while your brain comes back to earth.
Instead, you lean up. Grab your phone and press it to your ear, staring right at him through his wide open window.
He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it's certainly not, "Have you been inside my apartment, Andrew?"
For a second, he thinks about lying. Because there's no way you know, right? Not for sure. It's not like you have cameras or anything (he knows, because he checked).
But he doesn't want to lie. Not to you.
"I…might have been. Once, yes."
"Did you steal my chapstick?"
"You have ten of them."
He hears your laugh for the first time, and the sound is like sunlight in his chest. "You took the best flavor."
"I'm…I'm sorry. I'll return it."
"Keep it. I already got a new one," you say. "Cost me five hundred dollars, though."
So, you know it was him who left the cash, too.
Smart, pretty girl.
He doesn't say anything, too afraid he'll say something stupid or awkward the way he usually does. He doesn't want to ruin this moment. This absolutely perfect moment.
You smile at him, kiss your palm, and blow it towards your window. "Goodnight, Andrew."
He feels his face heat. "Goodnight."
Pope rides the high of it for days.
Can't shake the sight of you open and bare for him. Can't stop thinking about the sound of your moans or the way you'd said his name in the peak of euphoria. He fucks his first to the thought of it more times than he can count.
And Andrew's never been a really sexual person. Not unless it's with someone he loves.
But is that what this is? Love?
You've never met. Not really, not properly. How could it be something so intense? You don't know him. You don't know who he is or what he does. You don't know how he's hurt and maimed and killed.
Would you be afraid, finding out? Would you run to the police if you knew? Would you recoil away from him with terror in your eyes?
All things left unsaid. All things that may, very well, never be said.
Pope feels so uncertain with all of this that he finds himself resorting to fucking google, even. Search history littered with questions and Reddit threads that never provide any real clarity.
Define love.
Define obsession.
How to know if you're in love?
How to ask a girl out?
How to get over a girl.
Define voyeur.
Define fetish.
How big of an age gap is too big?
Apartments for sale on the east coast.
Pink champagne candle.
Strawberries and cream chapstick bulk pack.
You text him again a week after your exhibitionistic display.
do u wanna like go out sometime?? been thinking about u a lot
He's at Smurf's when he reads the message.
Pope doesn't even realize he's smiling until Deran slides a beer across the counter at him and asks, "What's got you all happy today?"
And Pope just shakes his head. Schools his features back into neutrality and says, "Nothing. Just won a bet."
He can tell his brother doesn't believe him, not even for a second. But thankfully, Deran doesn't push any further. He lets the subject go, but the question stays stuck in Andrew's head for hours.
It takes him a while to decide on a response. It's honest, and…mostly true.
We shouldn't. I'm a lot older than you.
Your response is a single, painful letter.
k
He doesn't respond to try his hand at damage control, even though he wants to. It's probably better this way, he thinks. Better that there's some distance between you. Better that you hate him and see him as the creepy neighbor he is.
But that Saturday night, when you return home, it's not with your friends.
Pope watches from his window as you guide a man up the stairs and into your apartment.
He's tall. Dark haired, with bright eyes and white teeth and a good smile. Closer to your age. Handsome like a man allowed into your space should be.
You're fumbling a little with your apartment key and Pope watches as the man stands behind you and slides his hands down the back of your thighs.
Thighs he should be touching. Thighs he's watched for months. Thighs that spread for him, long before this fucking loser ever laid his eyes on you.
He tells himself he won't interfere.
You're your own woman. You deserve to feel good, even if it's with…someone else.
And Pope knows he's just going to have to get the fuck over it.
He did it to himself, really.
He should look away.
But he watches instead.
Watches the two of you fall onto the couch. Watches another man kiss down the column of your throat and squeeze the supple curve of your ass over your sequined dress.
Your eyes find his from across the courtyard, and Pope's jaw clenches.
Putting on another show for him. Filthy, filthy girl.
And you're just going to give it to some random man? Someone who doesn't know you like Pope does? Someone who doesn't know how you like to be touched?
He needs to look away. Close his own fucking blinds for once.
But he feels frozen. Knowing this time, you're watching him. Looking for him. Goading for a reaction.
Pope watches the slow ascent of the man's hand. Promises himself he won't interfere. He'll just watch to make sure you're safe, that's all.
But the moment that greedy hand disappears beneath your dress, Andrew's moving. Throwing open his door and slamming it closed behind him. He crosses the courtyard and takes the steps two at a time.
His fist against your apartment door is incessant. He doesn't stop, even when he hears the uttered, male voice ask, "Who is that?"
When the door opens, it's you who stands in front of him, chin tilted up as you stare at him, pupils flared wide.
The man you'd brought home with you hovers over your shoulder.
Pope doesn't even look at him. He stares only at you as he says, a little snarl in his voice, "Tell him to leave."
"Dude, what the fuck? Who is this guy?"
Your lips curl at the corners. A devilish little smile. "Okay," you say, nodding, your voice soft and pliant. You turn your head to look at the man who stands behind you. "Sorry, but you've gotta go."
"You're joking," he responds flatly. "You said I could—!"
Andrew reaches past you and takes him by the collar, pulling him out of your apartment and slamming him up against the paneled siding. "I ever see you in this apartment again, I'll fucking kill you. You understand me?"
"Jesus fucking—yeah, okay. Alright. Sorry."
Pope isn't joking. Doesn't say it to scare him off but rather as a warning.
He lets him go and watches him scramble down the stairs. He doesn't turn back to face you until the little tool you used for attention gets in his car and drives away.
And when he does finally turn back to you…Christ. Your eyes are half lidded and full of lust. Pope's close enough this time that there's no mistaking it.
He should be a gentleman. Should take you out first. Bring you home and kiss you on your doorstep and leave you untouched.
He knows he should.
What he does instead is curl his hand around the back of your neck and pull you to him. He leans down, mouth hovering over yours, breathing in your panicky exhales. "This what you want?"
Your grin is immediate and undeniable. You nod and breathe out the word, "Please."
Andrew kisses you hard, crowding you back into your apartment. He kicks the door closed behind him and slides his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness. There's mint and strawberry and you, his favorite flavor.
He feels drunk on it. On the taste of your tongue, the glide of your wet lips over his, the way your hands scramble and tug desperately at his belt.
"Fuck," he sighs, pulling back just enough to see you. "Open your mouth, baby. Wide. And stick out your tongue."
The way you immediately obey has his cock twitching. Good girl. So fucking good for him when he gives you exactly what you need.
Andrew licks the flat of your tongue once, delighting in the way you whimper in response, before bringing his hand to your mouth. He slides two fingers behind your teeth and orders, "Suck."
You do, lips closing tight around the digits, wet tongue swirling over his thick knuckles. He pushes them further down your throat, your eyes locked on his as he makes you choke on them.
"So fucking pretty," he tells you. "You always look so pretty."
Andrew pulls the straps of your mini dress over your shoulders, roughly tugging the fabric over your chest down to expose your breasts.
You're wearing the same lace bra you'd worn when you dressed up for him, he realizes. He can see the peaks of your nipples through the semi-sheer fabric, and leans down to lock his lips around the left one over the lace.
The fabric is rough beneath his tongue, a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. He sucks hard, spreading the wetness of his saliva over the lace. You push your dress further down your waist and over your hips.
Andrew slides his fingers out of your mouth, sticky and dripping with your spit. He brings them to his own lips instead and sucks them clean, watching your breath hitch and your eyes grow impossibly more hazy.
He lowers himself to his knees before you and his slick fingers work quickly at the straps of your heels, unbuckling them to free your pretty, white-painted toes.
Your hands find his shoulders for balance. "I like that you watch me," you tell him. "I think about it sometimes and it makes me so…god, Andrew. It gets me so wet."
He looks up at you from his knees, big brown eyes glassy and full of adoration. "Good," he says. "'Cause I'm gonna watch you a little closer tonight."
That pretty smile finds its way to your face again.
Andrew presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the apex of your thighs. Over your panties, right where he knows your clit lies beneath. He then stands to his feet, towering over you now without the added height of your heels, and presses you forward.
You take a careful step back, nearly losing your balance.
Andrew grins, taking another step, crowding you back towards your bedroom. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress.
You stumble backwards, falling into the plush sheets that he's all too familiar with. Lying on your back, propped up by your elbows, you stare up at him with wide eyes and he's reminded of a timid little animal caught in the trap of a predator.
Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
You don't look afraid. You actually look…eager.
Pope stands tall at the edge of your mattress. "Take off your clothes."
You do. Unclasping your bra first, tossing the fabric into the already existing mess on the floor. And then your panties follow, thumbs hooking around the fabric to drag it down your legs.
Andrew reaches around and fists the collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He feels warm all over, watching you greedily drink up the sight of him. He thinks he'd feel a little nervous, in any other setting. If it were anyone but you.
His sweet, filthy girl.
Andrew reaches into the half-open drawer of your nightstand, searching until he finds your vibrator again.
Your brows furrow as you watch him find it with practiced ease. "You went through my underwear drawer, too?"
"Did more than that," he admits.
You inhale like you're going to speak again, but the words melt to nothing when he tosses the small toy onto the bed beside you.
"Use it," Pope orders.
"What?"
He crawls onto the mattress between your legs, spreading them wide, laying your calves on either side of his hips. "Let me watch you."
There's a moment of hesitation, but you don't look nervous. Only…curious.
You pick up the vibrator and slide the pink silicone through your folds, spreading your arousal before you press the power button. You circle your clit with the tip of it a few times, teasing yourself.
When you turn the toy on, he can feel the vibration against his hands that grip your thighs. You let out a syrupy moan and turn the intensity higher, drawing tight circles around your pretty clit.
He watches you, eyes locked on the pink silicone between your legs. He watches your entrance flutter, tightening around nothing, begging to be filled. "Your pussy is so pretty," he mutters. "Do you know that?"
Your only response is a breathy whimper. You click the intensity up again, putting it on the highest setting, and Pope sighs when your legs begin to shake around him.
He wants to watch you make yourself cum. Wants another scene to fuck his fist to in the shower or in his bed or in his truck.
But he's here. Finally, finally here, in your bed, with you, and he can't help himself.
Pope grips your hips hard and pulls you closer, tilting your hips up into his lap. The vibrator falls from your hand at the sudden movement, but he's quick to return it to you. "Keep going."
You press the silicone back to your clit, and Andrew spreads you open with gentle thumbs. He gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip from his lips and onto the seam of your cunt.
And then he's sliding his middle finger inside of your entrance, curling it upwards, searching for that sweet spot that makes you writhe.
It doesn't take long. He's watched you. He knows just what you like and what angle to hit. And the second the tip of his finger presses hard against it, you fist your free hand in the sheets and curses fall from your sweet mouth.
Pope slides another thick finger inside, watching the way you squirm, feeling the walls of your cunt flutter around the swell of his knuckles.
"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—oh, fuck. Feels so good, feels so fucking—"
A long, throaty moan leaves your mouth, and he feels the warmth of your release pool in his palm. You're so slick that each wet thrust of his fingers echoes against the walls of your room.
He doesn't stop until you're twitching. Until you click the vibrator off and shove it away from you. And even then, he still gives a few, slow curls of his fingers inside of you. Not touching with intent, just…feeling. Memorizing.
Once you catch your breath, you lean up enough to find his eyes again. You say timidly, shyly, "I want…I want to feel you, Andrew. I want you inside me. Do you…do you want to fuck me?"
It's the most asinine question he's ever been asked in his fucking life. Does he want to fuck you?
He's thought of nothing else for months. Every night when he fights for sleep, it's the thought of you under him that puts him to bed.
It's such an impractical concern from his point of view that he laughs. Actually laughs, for the first time in years. "Oh, baby."
Pope takes your hands in his. He presses one to his chest, right over his heart, and the other against the hardness in his jeans.
"I have never wanted another woman as bad as I want you," he says truthfully. "But I…you…you deserve better than this. Better than me. You understand that, don't you?"
You shake your head. "You don't know me, Andrew. Not really. You don't know if—"
"No, no. I do. I know you're the kind of friend who would give the shirt off their back. The kind of girl who'd let her phone get cut off before asking for help. The kind of girl who gets up every morning and just…tries. Every day. And you fucking…you smile about it. You're good. You're so fucking good and I…"
He stops.
Remembers the last time he loved someone like this and how he'd made a stupid confession he should've taken to his grave and how it'd fucked him completely.
"You're what, Andrew?"
Pope swallows. "I'm...I'm a bad man. I've hurt people. I will…hurt people, I—" His voice cracks. He lowers his eyes, trying to turn away, unable to find the strength to face you.
But you take his jaw in your gentle hands and force him to look at you. Sweet, angel of a girl that you are. And then you say without a waver to be found in your voice, "I like who you are. Do you think I gave the man who watches me through my window my phone number because I want some guy I could match with on Tinder?"
He tries to slow the rapid pounding of his heart. He wonders if love is supposed to be like this. To feel like this. All consuming and terrifying and devastatingly hopeful above all.
You shake your head and tuck your legs beneath you, sitting up on your knees. He sits stone still as you lean forward and kiss his cheek, whispering against his ear, "I've been watching you, too, Andrew Cody."
Something shifts inside of him as you say it. Uttering his last name that he'd never given you, that isn't even on his lease because this is a fake apartment under a fake name to launder the money they steal.
Oh—sweet, smart girl. Smarter than he thought.
How silly of him to ever doubt you.
There's a newfound wildness in your eyes when they meet his again. An unveiling. Like he's seeing you for who you truly are for the first time.
And you're…god. So fucking beautiful.
And, yeah. Pope thinks he's been right this whole fucking time.
He's weird and wrong and sickly obsessed.
But you are, too.
Andrew takes you by the back of the neck and kisses you hard, desperate to taste you, to close what little physical space remains between your body and his. He pushes you back against the mattress and follows you down.
Your hands find his belt buckle before he does, and he stares down at you as your deft fingers pry the leather open and unbutton his jeans. He helps you push the denim down his legs until his cock springs free, heavy and leaking. Wanting for you, twitching as you take it carefully in your hand.
A groan reverberates at the back of his mouth. Your hands are so soft. Perfect and pliant. One day, he swears he'll show you how he likes to be touched. He'll let you sit in his lap and watch him stroke his cock for you.
But for now, he lets you touch him slowly. Experimental. Feeling the heavy weight of him in your palm. You spit on your fingertips and spread your saliva over his sensitive tip, flushed red and pulsing beneath your touch.
You lean back and guide him between your thighs, sliding the head of his cock through your syrupy folds and over your clit.
The moment you line him up at your entrance, Pope eases inside and you let out the sweetest fucking sigh he's ever heard in his entire life. Sweet and soft and so, so satisfied.
It's so beautiful. You're so beautiful. And you feel warm and heavenly and wet around him. He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then drives his cock back into your cunt.
You squeal and those sharp, acrylic nails dig into his spine. But your legs circle his hips, and so Pope does it again.
He fucks you hard. Claiming that spot at the back of your cunt, pressed right up against your cervix. He rolls his hips and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing up those desperate, carnal sounds he pulls out of our chest.
Sweet girl. Sweet fucking girl. He reaches between you and circles your clit. "My girl now," he says, words spoken against your lips. "You'll never need anyone else, baby. No one but me."
You nod, the velvety walls of your pussy squeezing around the hard length of his cock.
Andrew puts his whole weight on top of you, grinding himself between your thighs, giving you everything he has. Everything he is.
"I'm yours," you choke out. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"
It becomes a mantra. One that feeds his desire, in perfect sync with the rhythm of his thrusts. He watches your arousal begin to crest, nearing the summit, the muscles in your thighs twitching. "Look at me, baby," he says. "Tell me you love me when I make you cum."
You're so lost in it, head all spacey, that your eyes remain closed until he takes your jaw in a firm grip.
There are pretty tears in your eyes when you open them, but that smile on your face is present, too. He feels you pulse around him and your breath gets all shallow and then—
"I love you, Andrew, I fucking—oh my god please, please—I love you."
The words are music to his ears, tingling down his spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He thought the sound of his name in your mouth was beautiful but this…fuck. He could die.
Pope thinks he would. For you, he would.
He fucks you through it. Tastes your moans and says, "Yeah, that's it. Give it to me. Look so pretty when you cum for me."
He doesn't let his pace falter until your muscles loosen, until your nails stroke gently over his spin instead of leaving marks.
You pepper sweet kisses over his jaw, tongue sliding up the shell of his ear. "I want you to cum inside me," you tell him.
He's been fighting it the whole time, trying desperately not to blow his load before he'd at least gotten you there first.
But when you say that?
When you say, "Please, Andrew. Want you to give it to me. Want you to fill me up with your cum. Please. I need it."
He thinks about telling you that you don't have to beg. Not him, not for anything (especially this). But you just sound so pretty, begging for his cum, that he can't bring himself to do it.
So, he gives you what you want instead. Fucks his cum into you, groaning low in your ear, cock pulsing inside you. You feel so good wrapped around him it's euphoric. Otherworldly.
Your pussy grips tight, milking him dry, taking every last drop (he knows you're on birth control. Don't you know the women's clinic downtown keeps a spare key beneath the plant in front of their door?).
Andrew is careful when he slides out of you. And he wastes no time before kicking his jeans the rest of the way off and pulling you against his chest.
He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your hairline. His voice wavers a little as he says, "Sorry if I…if I was a little rough."
You shake your head, pressing your nose to the divot between his pectorals. "It was perfect," you murmur against his skin.
Silence settles between you. Comfortable and easy, the sound of your breathing in perfect synchronization.
After some time you say, "I meant it, you know. Wouldn't have said it if I didn't. I really think I might be in love with you, Andrew. Is that…crazy?"
Yes, he wants to say.
But he feels it, too.
So instead he says, "You know, I don't…I don't have much experience with that sorta thing. Don't really know how to…to navigate it, I guess. But, uhm…yeah. Me, too."
He feels that smile of yours against his chest.
Andrew knows that this dynamic the two of you have created is weird.
summary: All it takes is one glance at the pretty girl who lives in the apartment across from his for Andrew Cody to become obsessed. But what begins as innocent observation from his window turns into something far more intense.
warnings: +18 MDNI. obsessive behavior, stalking, multiple scenes of male masturbation, themes of shame, reader has type b youngho vibes and andrew is stupidly into it, feminine reader who has hair and wears press on nails, unspecified but implied age gap, reader shares one kiss with a female friend (not super detailed), J pulls your cell phone records as a favor, andrew breaks into your apartment and raids your panty drawer, male masturbation with a vibrator, nipple play, alcohol consumption and mentioned drunkenness, lingerie, exhibitionism on readers part, mutual masturbation, jealousy, bratting/a touch of brat taming, reader tries to make pope jealous with another man, death threats (not to reader or pope), dirty talk, sloppy makeouts, spit swapping, over the clothes nipple sucking, finger sucking, f!use of a vibrator, clit play, rough fingering, unprotected piv, dacryphilia, light angst, insecure pope, reader matches his freak, stalker!reader, forced love confessions, begging, creampie
note: wow ok i think that might be the longest warning i've ever written whoops!! thank u sm to my angel @thykingdoncome for reassuring me through this whole process and taking a lil looksie at this for me love u 4ever
wc: 10.4k
[masterlist] [AO3]
Andrew knows it's weird.
He knows that.
But as long as you don't know he's doing it, what does it hurt?
It's not like he's doing anything weird. He's just…watching you. It almost feels like fate, the way your apartment is positioned directly across from his. There's the courtyard and a pool lying between you, but the windows of his apartment mirror yours so perfectly.
And…you don't have blinds.
No curtains, no shades. There's not even a half-effort of an old sheet hung up over the glass pane. And at night? When he can't sleep, and the moths circle the flickering porch lights, and you've got those blue or red or purple LED lights on…well.
Pope can see right into your apartment.
Can see you, watching TV on the couch or cooking boxed macaroni in nothing but a loose tank top and a pair of lace underwear.
He thinks you might be the only good thing about the apartment that Smurf forced him into only three days after he was released from prison.
It's been a long time since he's looked at a woman, you know. Longer since he's seen one as pretty as you.
He's not lacking self awareness or anything. Pope knows your open windows and ever changing LEDs aren't an invitation to stare, but…sometimes it feels like one.
You fall asleep on the couch most nights. Which is good for him, because Pope can't see into your bedroom.
Some things, he begins to realize, are a sort of chaotic routine.
You tend to fall asleep with your phone in your hand and scramble to find it each morning (it's always under the couch, beneath the hot pink throw pillow you kick off in your sleep).
You don't eat breakfast because you don't wake up early enough to (don't you know it's the most important meal of the day?). Most mornings, you wake up with just enough time to doll yourself up in the bathroom, prioritizing glittery eyeshadow and shimmering lip gloss rather than the sustenance of a bowl of cereal.
He doesn't know what you do for work, but it's something with an inconsistent schedule. You sleep until noon on your days off, which could be any day of the week, Pope learns.
Work doesn't stop you from going out, though. Saturday nights are reserved for those miniskirts and stiletto heels and all your giggling girlfriends who get ready on your living room floor with a hand mirror. You share perfume and makeup and clothes with them before you all climb into a shared uber.
A few times, Andrew finds himself tempted to follow you. He tells himself it's not like he'd be doing it for his own satisfaction. He'd just be doing it to keep an eye on you, that's all. You're a young girl (too young for someone his age). Don't you know there are predators out there?
But he never does. Because that would be weird, right? You don't even know him. But…he certainly starts to feel like he knows you.
You and your friends always stumble back to your apartment, sometimes falling up the concrete steps to the second floor. One of them will make pizza rolls or messy peanut butter sandwiches and you'll pass around cold bottles of water and spill electrolyte drink mixes on the kitchen counter.
You'll share your things with them even after the club, selfless girl. Passing out hair ties and makeup removing wipes and big t-shirts for them to sleep in. On one particular night, when most of them are passed out on the couch, legs and arms tangled together, Pope even watches you you share a kiss with one of them under pink LEDs.
That night, Andrew has to force his attention away. It feels way too close to the beginning of that porno Craig left open on the family computer years ago.
But this doesn't feel erotic. Watching your mouth move against someone else's doesn't elicit any warmth beneath the fabric of his jeans.
No, it makes Andrew...upset. Angry, even.
It makes him jealous.
He tries not to think about it again. Tries even harder (and fails, repeatedly) to give you some privacy on Saturday nights.
But Sundays…Sundays are sacred.
Both for you and for him.
So much so that he pulls out on a job when his brothers plan it for a Sunday. Tells them he has to check in with his parole officer that day. Lies to their faces, because he doesn't want to miss out on you.
Because every Sunday, without fail, Andrew gets to see you naked.
You start by cleaning your apartment. Wiping down the counters and vacuuming the carpet and dusting the top of the cabinets. Then you light the candle on the coffee table (pink champagne, he's pretty sure, after looking endlessly online to match up the glass container. Twenty six dollars. Four day shipping. Currently sitting unlit on his nightstand).
And when you're ready, you strip off all your clothes and discard them in the bathroom.
You put oil in your hair and nineties R&B on your bluetooth speaker. You paint your toes (usually white or black, occasionally an electric blue) and glue artificial nails with sparkling gems onto your fingers.
Sunday showers are the longest, Pope knows. Sometimes thirty minutes. And when you emerge from the bathroom, steam rolls out from the open door and you've got your hair wrapped up in a towel. You balance yourself with a foot on the edge of the couch and massage lotion into your skin first.
From top to bottom, moisturizing your entire body. And then you repeat the motion with an oil, and it's during this particular step that Andrew starts feeling a little lightheaded.
He'd bet you feel all smooth and soft and smell so fucking good. Maybe like vanilla or cherry or coconut. And, god. He wants to touch you. He wants to touch himself.
But he resists.
The first three times, anyway.
By the fourth Sunday, though…well. His cock gets so fucking hard in his jeans that it's leaking. Making a big fucking mess in his boxers. It hurts, you know?
And it's not like you'll know he's doing it. He's had a little over a month to perfect his setup—lights off, chair angled perfectly so if anyone glanced into his apartment they'd have to really look in order to see him.
So, he takes his cock in his hand and imagines it's your delicate fingers wrapped around him instead. Imagines it's his hands rubbing oil into your shoulders, over the swell of your breasts, pressing into your hips, squeezing at the supple flesh of your thighs.
He'd make sure to do it just how you like. And Pope wouldn't need to be told how to, either. Because he's spent so much time watching you now that he would just know.
He wonders if your head would fall back, wet hair clinging to your slick skin. He wonders if he pressed just right into that tender spot at the small of your back that you're always so gentle with if you'd moan or whine or whimper. Maybe even say his name.
Andrew cums at the thought alone, grunting low, lips parted, his release spilling over his hand and down the hard length of his cock.
The shame doesn't take hold of him for a while.
Not until later that night, when your hair is blow dried and you're dressed in a pretty silk pajama set. You've got some trashy reality show on the TV, and you're eating the pizza you had delivered right out of the box.
Andrew takes the moment to clean himself up. To change out of his clothes and into something more comfortable. He brushes his teeth and climbs in bed, but lays with his head propped up by an extra pillow so he can still see clearly out of his window.
He knows it's weird. He knows he shouldn't be staring at a naked girl who's probably half his age and doesn't know there's some fucking creep across the courtyard who watches her every fucking day. He knows he shouldn't be fucking his fist watching you put lotion on your skin. He knows he shouldn't be changing his plans with family or friends around your schedule, just so he can watch you a little longer.
He knows he should stop.
The problem, however, lies in the wanting.
Andrew's never had much. Not when it comes to women. But you…god. You're so beautiful, and so pure and so different from anything he's ever seen. You don't belong to anyone but yourself, and once he sees you, he finds it impossible to look away.
Things change late one Friday night.
Andrew gets sloppy. He gets comfortable, here in this routine he's created around you.
There's music coming from your apartment, some electronic pop ballad that's at a volume so loud he can hear it from across the courtyard (there will be complaints to the office manager tomorrow morning, he knows. But you don't have to worry. Pope will take care of it for you, baby. He'll make sure you can keep having your fun).
You're wearing just a lacy bra and a pair of linen sleep shorts. There's a seltzer in your hand, and you're singing and dancing like you've somehow summoned all the energy from the club right there in your apartment.
It's a beautiful sight, truly. You're so happy and carefree. The warmest ray of sunshine that he wants to find himself basking under.
Andrew gets comfortable, posture relaxing in the chair that now lives permanently in front of his window. He watches you dance around your apartment, the easy smile on your face reflected back on his own.
He thinks he could really take care of you. Keep you safe. Protect all that girlish whimsy that lives in your heart. He'd make you real happy, Andrew thinks. Would watch you dance with your friends at the club, leaning against the bar. He'd take you shopping and add more of those short dresses into your closet. He'd make you breakfast in the mornings before work and Christ—he'd buy you a set of fucking curtains.
Pope is so lost in the fantasy of it that he doesn't register in time that your dancing has slowed. And you've put your seltzer down on the coffee table.
And you're staring right back at him.
His heart kicks up, pounding against his chest. He knows he should move out of sight, shut his blinds, pass this off as a mistake, maybe even pretend he hadn't seen you.
But he doesn't do any of that.
He's frozen in time, terrified and exhilarated all at once by simply being perceived by you.
Pope just…stares.
It seems to be the only fucking thing he's capable of these days.
He expects you to flip him off or maybe come barreling out of the door and across the courtyard to confront him. Or maybe you'll scurry away into your room. Maybe you'll order a set of curtains online.
But you don't do any of that.
You just stare right back.
Andrew tilts his head curiously. It's an involuntary movement.
In the end, you're the first to look away. You pick up your seltzer, dump it down the drain in the kitchen, and then disappear into the bathroom to brush your teeth.
Your routine remains the exact same. You find your phone beneath the throw blanket on the couch and turn off the TV. You turn the kitchen light off and turn on the light above the stove instead. You grab a water bottle from the fridge, and then go to bed in your room.
It's not rushed, and you don't seem nervous or fearful that there's someone watching you.
And Andrew thinks to himself, see. This is why you need him. This is why you need someone looking out for you. Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
He would never hurt you, Andrew knows. But you don't know that.
He doesn't sleep that night. He doesn't sleep often as it is, but his mind is running too fast. Cataloguing all the potential scenarios in which you cut off all access he has to you, severing the comfort he finds in his new favorite, voyeuristic hobby.
And Andrew wouldn't—couldn't—blame you for it. He thinks that's what you should do.
You don't.
The following morning, your routine changes.
On the nights you fall asleep in your bed, you're usually dressed in a pair of jeans with gems decorating the pockets and a low-cut top by the time you emerge from your room.
But not this time.
No, this time you're still wearing the same clothes you'd fallen asleep in. A lacy bra and cotton shorts.
Andrew watches, freshly emerged from the quickest shower of his life, hair still wet, as you stand in front of the fridge to find the fizzy energy drink you'd brought home with you last night.
He watches you struggle for a moment to crack the seal open (Those pretty nails of yours. He could help you with that, you know). You take a slow sip, put the aluminum can down on the counter, and turn your head just enough to let Pope know you see him.
You know he's there, in the window. You know he's watching.
And then, painfully slow, you drag your shorts down your thighs. The fabric pools at your feet, and Pope loses all train of thought.
Because this is no accident. You want this. You want him to watch you.
Your bra is next. You reach around to unclasp it and soon after the lace joins the linen fabric on the linoleum floor.
Warmth blooms beneath his skin as he watches you press your hands to your abdomen, feeling your skin, running your hands up your chest and over the swell of your breasts.
You try and play it off like a stretch, lifting your arms above your head and arching your back.
Andrew knows it's not.
You get ready the rest of the morning like normal. And Andrew…God. He doesn't know what to think.
He knows he should stop this before it goes too far. He thinks it already has.
It's…it's weird, right?
Everything about it is wrong.
He doesn't want to stop, but he knows he should.
He tries, though. For what little it's worth.
Tries to busy himself building a fountain at Smurf's. Tries to find small jobs he can do himself to pass the time. He still thinks about you all hours of the day, though. Like a thorn stuck beneath his skin, aching when he moves just the wrong way.
He overhears Nicky explaining to Deran what an 'everything shower' is and thinks about your Sunday ritual. He walks into a hungover Craig making boxed macaroni in his boxers and thinks of you. Smurf lights a candle called pink cashmere and even though it's not pink champagne, it still makes him think of you.
The pretty little girl in the apartment across from his, who he finds himself certifiably, insanely, obsessed with.
One Thursday afternoon, Andrew returns home earlier than he'd planned. He tells himself he just wants to get a little glance.
Just one look. You know, to soothe the ache the thought of you brings. To see if maybe he imagined the weight of your stare.
What he finds, though, is somehow more concerning.
You're pacing your living room, cell phone pressed to your ear, still wearing jeans and your sneakers. There's tension in your shoulders and even though he can't hear the conversation you're having with the person on the other end of the phone, he can see that you're shouting.
It drags on for the better half of an hour. The pacing, the frustrated hand waving, the pinching of the bridge of your nose. Whatever it is, Andrew bets he could help with it.
He hates seeing you stressed. Thinks you should be living your fun, carefree life like normal. You shouldn't be burdened with…whatever it is that's got you so upset.
But it's not like he can go over and just ask.
So, he chooses a different path instead.
Gets the key to the office of the apartment complex from Smurf. Rummages through the paper files until he finds the lease contract linked to your apartment number.
Andrew thinks he should've done this weeks ago. He learns an awful lot about you this way. Like your name, which he begins to recite like a mantra in his head. He learns your birthday and, regretfully, your age.
But, most importantly, he discovers (and memorizes) your phone number.
And that same day, he returns to Smurf's with a torn piece of paper with the digits scribbled on it. He hands it to his nephew and says, "Need you to get a few phone call records. Can you do that for me?"
J furrows his brows in confusion. "Who's number?"
Pope shrugs. "No one," he lies. "Can you get the records or not?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, probably. Anything specific you're looking for?"
"I wanna know about a call that happened today. Around two or so. Lasted almost an hour. Just get me the number of whoever was on the other line."
J hesitates for a single moment, and then nods slowly. "Alright. I'll get back to you on it."
In the meantime, Andrew spirals.
The thought of you having a boyfriend never really crossed his mind until now. You don't really have men over. Just your girl friends.
But there are some Saturday nights you don't come home, stumbling in early Sunday morning instead with sunglasses on and your hair a mess. So, Pope thinks you very well could have a boyfriend and he never would've known it.
Pope tells himself if it is a boyfriend, he won't…he won't do anything. It's not his place to make decisions for you, right?
Still. You shouldn't let a man stress you out so much. Whoever it is, they're not worth it. You deserve better. You deserve more.
You deserve someone who knows you.
Less than two hours later, Pope gets a phone call from J, who explains that the person on the other end of that phone call wasn't a person at all.
It was your phone company.
Your stupid fucking service provider who just so happened to put an extra two hundred dollar fee on your bill this month, claiming data overages.
All that stress wasn't over a boyfriend. It was over money.
And money is something Andrew can provide.
He waits until you leave for work, locking up tight behind you. But that doesn't matter, not now. Andrew has a key to the office, which means he has access to the spare key to your apartment.
He is fully aware that he shouldn't be doing this, but ten minutes after you leave he unlocks the door and steps inside anyway.
Your apartment smells sweet. Like sugar and citrus. He wonders if you smell the same way, and the thought alone makes Andrew's mouth water.
He moves slowly into your space, fingers tracing over the TV stand, feeling the wood beneath his calloused fingertips. He straightens the crooked throw pillow on the couch and puts the lighter for your candle back into the tray on the coffee table.
Andrew knows he should just…leave the cash and go. He shouldn't be snooping around, invading your privacy.
But you left a knife point-side up in the strainer in the sink. And you could get hurt doing something like that.
And once he's already in the kitchen, turning the knife over so the sharp edge is down, well…what will it hurt if he opens a couple of drawers?
None of your silverware matches. Andrew finds this little fact sort of endearing. Messy and chaotic in the same way you are, but that's okay. Maybe he can fix that for you one day, too.
Your bathroom is cluttered. There's makeup products littering the porcelain sink and the cabinet mirror is left wide open. Andrew picks up a few different products to read the labels and finds lip liners and leave-in conditioners and powdered blush with pilled pigment on the counter.
He finds that lotion you're always using on Sundays and opens the lid. Andrew brings the container to his nose, inhales deeply, and feels suddenly too hot.
The scent of it is sweet, like you. There's notes of syrupy amber and warm florals and it has the muscles in his abdomen squeezing tight as he thinks about how potent the scent would be if he were between your legs, freshly oiled, calves resting on his shoulders as he licks and sucks at your clit.
His cock has been half hard since the moment he stepped foot in your apartment, but by the time he makes it to your bedroom?
Pope is aching.
Your clothes are strewn all over. There's t-shirts on the floor and jeans inside out near the hamper and a dress you'd worn two weekends ago lying on the edge of your unmade bed.
It smells like you in here, too. Even more so. There's less perfume, but Andrew swears he can smell the scent of your skin. Sweet and intoxicating, sending sparks of arousal straight to his groin.
Your bedside table has a lamp on it and three half-empty bottles of water. There's one drawer, and he pries it open and gives a slow exhale to see all the silk and lace inside.
Going through your underwear drawer is, quite literally, the very last thing someone like Andrew Cody should be doing.
He does it anyway.
Rummages around until he finds that little black pair you like to sleep in. He runs his fingers over the lace band, feeling the softness beneath the rough pad of his thumb. His cock is throbbing, even before he brings the fabric to his nose and inhales the scent of laundry detergent and faint mahogany from the nightstand and—there. The scent of you.
As close as he can get.
As close as he'll probably ever get.
He needs to leave. Andrew is painfully aware that this is crossing a line of a whole new degree. Levels above simply watching.
This is obsession. This is addiction. Sick and twisted and perverted.
Andrew does not leave.
He climbs into your bed instead. Kicks off his boots and discards his hoodie until he's in nothing but his jeans. He slips beneath your sheets—satin, and pink, and filled with the scent of your shampoo and your skin and—fuck.
His cock is leaking by the time he undoes his belt. Andrew reaches beneath your blankets and shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself.
And it's almost enough to blow his load right fucking there, when the underside of his heavy length brushes against the fabric of your sheets. It's almost too much, being in your room, in your bed, breathing in your scent.
But he resists. Grits his teeth and takes his cock in one hand and uses the other to wrap the soft fabric of your underwear around his aching length.
This time, there's nothing slow about the way he strokes himself to the thought of you. He's desperate for it. Release already clouds the edges of his mind and he needs the relief it'll provide.
His brain feels hazy and his vision blurs, just thinking about you, lying here, hand between your legs. He wonders how you touch yourself, if you just play with your clit or if you fuck yourself on your fingers.
The thought crosses his mind that you might be using more than just your hand, and Pope finds himself sitting up. He leans over the edge of your bed and sticks his hand back into your panty drawer, reaching to the very bottom, feeling around until the tips of his fingers brush over silicone.
His heart is beating fast.
It's a small thing. Pink, of course. With only a small, almost hidden power button.
Pope leans back in your pillows and turns the little vibrator on. It buzzes to life in his hand, and when he pushes the button again, the intensity ratchets even higher.
There's only three settings. He turns it to the highest one and imagines holding it against your swollen clit. He imagines you lying under him, thighs around his waist, hips bucking wildly, chasing the vibration that he gives and gives and then takes away.
He turns so he's lying face down in your sheets now, nose pressed into your pillow. Pope puts the vibrator between his cock and the soft expanse of his abdomen, and he feels the sensation everywhere.
He's still got your underwear wrapped around his cock, and he gives a tentative roll of his hips against the mattress.
The groan he lets out is guttural. With his eyes closed, he can imagine its not your panties he's fucking but you. The tight, wet cunt between your legs. He can imagine it's the curve of your throat he's got his nose buried in and not your pillow. He can imagine that sweet, intense vibration is reverberating through your pelvic bone, little toy pressed hard against your clit.
Pope tells himself he'd make it so fucking good for you. He'd bury his cock so deep you'd never forget the weight of it inside you. He'd whisper how beautiful you are in your ear and make you look him in the eyes while he watches you cum over and over and over.
His release is…embarrassingly fast.
A few rolls of his hips against your mattress and he's cumming into the lace fabric of your panties, the vibration of the toy milking him until he's so overstimulated it almost hurts.
Pope rolls over, turns the toy off, and buries it back in the bottom of your drawer. He gives himself a few more moments to gather himself. To catch his breath, to wipe himself clean (never mind the couple of drops that now stain your satin sheets. That could be from anything, right?).
He tucks himself back into his jeans, pulls on his boots and his hoodie, and tosses your underwear in the pile of clothes next to the laundry bin.
There's a pair of your jeans in the middle of the floor, away from the rest. One leg of the denim is inside out. Pope takes the cash from his wallet and tucks it into the pocket, leaving out just enough that he knows you'll notice it.
He leaves.
Locks the door behind him with the spare key.
Makes it halfway across the courtyard before he doubles back, lets himself back into your apartment and into the bathroom where he pockets one of the many different chapsticks on the sink.
It isn't until he's home, tucked safe back in his own apartment, that he realizes it's strawberries and cream flavored.
Andrew puts it on, swiping the transparent petroleum over his lips. He tells himself it's almost like kissing.
Later that day, Craig calls a family meeting. But you've just gotten home, and he knows you'll find the cash within a few minutes when you go to change out of your clothes.
So Andrew waits at the bottom of the stairs on his side of the courtyard. He can't see into your apartment from here, though. And he decides he'll only wait for thirty minutes.
He responds to text messages and opens his blank, photo-less Instagram (that he definitely didn't make only to look at your profile. The one filled with selfies under neon lights and bikini photos on the beach and mirror pictures in the dressing room at that one boutique in the mall).
Twenty nine minutes later, he hears an apartment door slam shut and looks up to see you.
You've got your bag over one shoulder and a grin on your face and the cash in your hand. Enough to cover the additional charges and a little extra, too.
You notice him at the bottom of the cement stairs and freeze, but you don't look…scared, like he expects. Maybe a little startled at first, but the tension bleeds from your face the moment you recognize him.
He should say something. Talk to you. Apologize, maybe, for staring at you.
But Andrew isn't sorry.
And he's never really been good at talking, anyway.
You tilt your head and give him the sweetest fucking smile he's ever seen. It's somehow innocent and knowing at the same time, and Andrew feels the corners of his mouth lifting in response.
Something passes silently between you. An understanding, maybe. You know he watches you, and he knows you know, but…you don't stop him. You just let it happen.
You smile at him from fifteen feet away.
And then you turn to leave, no doubt making your way to pay off that stupid bill that caused you so much unrest.
Pope watches you go, like always.
But this time, you glance back at him over your shoulder with…something lingering in your pretty eyes. Excitement, maybe. He can't be sure.
He needs to get closer.
During the family meeting, he isn't very present. His mind is so far away, stuck on you, that he just blindly agrees to whatever job they're doing next and trusts that it'll all work out.
When he returns to his apartment, there's a note stuck to his door.
A pink sticky note with nothing but a phone number and a heart with an arrow through it scribbled on the paper.
Your phone number, Pope knows.
He knows he shouldn't text you.
It's stupid and dangerous and god, you really shouldn't be giving your number to random men. He could be a creep. He could be a stalker or something.
His message just says,
Hello.
Your response is immediate, with no capitalization which seems quite…fitting for you. He finds it strangely endearing.
hey
are u the guy from apt 212 ???
Pope can feel that this is a bad idea already. But he's already here, and there's no going back now, is there? He doesn't want to hurt your feelings. He doesn't want to leave you on read and make you think he's not interested when the problem is the exact opposite.
Yes.
The typing bubble pops up, disappears, and appears again three different times before you send another message.
im gonna be home in like an hr
will u be watching ???
Always, he wants to say. Fucking always. He can't take his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how shameful it feels.
Andrew's hands shake as he types out a response.
Do you want me to be?
No hesitation this time. Your message comes through a second later.
uhmmm tbh yeah <3
He exhales a long breath. It doesn't feel real. Like he's imagining the entire thing. How could he not be? Why on earth would the sweetest, prettiest little thing want someone to watch her?
But the weight of his cell phone in his hand is real.
And the text message is real.
And this…this is real.
Then yes. I will be.
You don't reply, and Andrew's heart flutters in his chest as he takes his practiced position in the chair in front of his window and waits.
True to your word, you're skipping up the steps fifty three minutes after the last message is sent. You turn on those LEDs and and move about your apartment like normal, kicking off your sneakers and dropping your bag by the door. You change out of your clothes and put on a worn in t-shirt that's two sizes too big for you, but underneath…
Pope can see the sheer thigh highs you wear and the black, lace edge of them. He can see those strappy garters attached to them, but nothing else. The straps disappear beneath your shirt, leaving him wanting for more.
You're teasing him, Pope realizes.
He watches with bated breath as you lay on the couch, getting comfortable with the throw pillow against the arm.
And then, for the first time, Andrew watches you touch yourself.
You start slowly, hands roaming over your body, on top of the fabric, massaging gently at the inside of your thighs.
His cock's always hard watching you, truth be told. But this…
His skin feels hot. His lungs feel tight.
Your fingers curl around the edge of your t-shirt, and you pull it over your head to discard it on the floor.
Andrew hasn't seen you wear this set before, not even on those sacred Sundays.
It's pretty. Matching black lace. The bra is low cut and pushes your breasts up your chest, the soft flesh swelling over the top. The waistband of the matching panties is decorated in shining silver gems, laying so perfectly against your hips that he feels dizzy just looking at it.
The prettiest package, just begging to be unraveled by his big, mean hands.
You dressed up for him.
You dressed up for him.
Your hands start to move again, palming your breasts, pulling the lace down until they spill out of the top. Your nipples are so pretty that his mouth waters. He wants to kiss them, to feel the shape of them under his tongue. He wants to kneel over top of you and jerk himself off until they're covered in his sticky white release.
You squeeze your breasts until your nipples form pretty little peaks, and then your hands slide lower. Over your abdomen, and your hips, and then your thighs. You bring them slowly back up, only to slide them over the lace fabric of your panties, right down the center of your cunt.
Andrew thinks he could die.
He could fucking die, just looking at you.
Carefully, you unbuckle the chrome latch of your garter. The left side first, and then the right quickly follows. You leave the lace belt on, but hook your thumbs around the bedazzled lace of your panties and pull them down your thighs painfully slowly.
Your knees fall apart.
Pope swallows hard.
He can see everything from here. The seam of your thighs that he's dreamt about. The pretty shape of your pussy. The wetness that's gathered between your folds, slick and shiny with arousal. With want.
For him. It's for him.
His cock throbs so hard it hurts.
Pope doesn't touch himself. He can't. Can he? All you asked of him was that he watched.
That's what you wanted.
But wouldn't it be better if he was there? Wouldn't it be better if he could touch you, if he could taste you, if he could fuck you?
All you'd have to do is let him in.
Your fingers stroke gently over your clit in small circles, and he watches in awe as your lips part and your spine bends.
He can't hear your moans but god does he wish he could. Thinks about putting a little microphone in your lampshade the next time he sneaks into your apartment.
Your fingers drift lower, over your center, and slowly press inside.
Pope wants it to be him so fucking bad.
If not his cock inside you then his fingers. They're bigger. Longer. Thicker. They'd please you more. Reach places your fingers can't.
Maybe his tongue. He'd drink you right from the fucking source and cum in his jeans, probably. But he'd make sure to find that sweet, velvety spot inside you first and he'd spell his full fucking name over it with a pointed tongue.
Silly girl. Don't you know what he could do for you? Don't you know what he could do to you?
Pope squeezes the bulge in his jeans to try and alleviate the pain of his lust.
You fuck yourself with your fingers, stuffing in one and then two and then three, stretching yourself on them, slick dripping down the seam of your cunt. Your back arches when your free hand finds your clit, and he knows you're close.
He knows he shouldn't, but he searches frantically for his phone anyway and sends another text message.
I want to hear you.
You pause only long enough to grab your phone off the coffee table, read the text, and lay your phone on the arm of the couch behind you.
Pope's phone buzzes in his hand.
You're calling him.
He answers on the first ring, and the sounds that greet him are so erotic it steals the breath from his lungs.
You sound so pretty. So sweet and feminine, everything he's imagined yet somehow so, so much more. He's sure you can hear his heavy breaths on the other end of the phone, but Pope can't find it in himself to care. Can't think of much else besides the way you whimper and the sight of your fingers stuffed inside you.
"Oh, god—"
His inhale is shaky.
"I'm gonna cum," you choke out, words hazy with your moans. "I'm so close, I'm so fucking—hmm. Yes. What's your name?"
He almost doesn't hear you, so lost in the sight before him. Immersed in the euphoria of it. But then he says, voice a low, uncertain whisper, "Andrew."
Your spine bends and the fingers on your clit slow. "Oh my god. Fuck, Andrew—I'm cumming, I'm—yes, yes—god."
His cock twitches and when he tries to soothe it with another tight squeeze, he sends himself careening off the precipice of release instead. His head falls back and his once heavy breaths get stuck in his lungs. Pope rubs himself over his jeans, making a sticky, hot mess in his boxers, generating what little friction he can.
He watches you come down in real time. Not his dreams, not his imagination. He watches it happen. Watches that fucked-out, hazy look cross your face. Watches the tension in your muscles melt away, wishing he could kiss the junction of your throat.
Pope wishes he could worship you. Wishes he could clean you up and put on that trashy reality show you like and hold you against his chest, comforting you while your brain comes back to earth.
Instead, you lean up. Grab your phone and press it to your ear, staring right at him through his wide open window.
He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it's certainly not, "Have you been inside my apartment, Andrew?"
For a second, he thinks about lying. Because there's no way you know, right? Not for sure. It's not like you have cameras or anything (he knows, because he checked).
But he doesn't want to lie. Not to you.
"I…might have been. Once, yes."
"Did you steal my chapstick?"
"You have ten of them."
He hears your laugh for the first time, and the sound is like sunlight in his chest. "You took the best flavor."
"I'm…I'm sorry. I'll return it."
"Keep it. I already got a new one," you say. "Cost me five hundred dollars, though."
So, you know it was him who left the cash, too.
Smart, pretty girl.
He doesn't say anything, too afraid he'll say something stupid or awkward the way he usually does. He doesn't want to ruin this moment. This absolutely perfect moment.
You smile at him, kiss your palm, and blow it towards your window. "Goodnight, Andrew."
He feels his face heat. "Goodnight."
Pope rides the high of it for days.
Can't shake the sight of you open and bare for him. Can't stop thinking about the sound of your moans or the way you'd said his name in the peak of euphoria. He fucks his first to the thought of it more times than he can count.
And Andrew's never been a really sexual person. Not unless it's with someone he loves.
But is that what this is? Love?
You've never met. Not really, not properly. How could it be something so intense? You don't know him. You don't know who he is or what he does. You don't know how he's hurt and maimed and killed.
Would you be afraid, finding out? Would you run to the police if you knew? Would you recoil away from him with terror in your eyes?
All things left unsaid. All things that may, very well, never be said.
Pope feels so uncertain with all of this that he finds himself resorting to fucking google, even. Search history littered with questions and Reddit threads that never provide any real clarity.
Define love.
Define obsession.
How to know if you're in love?
How to ask a girl out?
How to get over a girl.
Define voyeur.
Define fetish.
How big of an age gap is too big?
Apartments for sale on the east coast.
Pink champagne candle.
Strawberries and cream chapstick bulk pack.
You text him again a week after your exhibitionistic display.
do u wanna like go out sometime?? been thinking about u a lot
He's at Smurf's when he reads the message.
Pope doesn't even realize he's smiling until Deran slides a beer across the counter at him and asks, "What's got you all happy today?"
And Pope just shakes his head. Schools his features back into neutrality and says, "Nothing. Just won a bet."
He can tell his brother doesn't believe him, not even for a second. But thankfully, Deran doesn't push any further. He lets the subject go, but the question stays stuck in Andrew's head for hours.
It takes him a while to decide on a response. It's honest, and…mostly true.
We shouldn't. I'm a lot older than you.
Your response is a single, painful letter.
k
He doesn't respond to try his hand at damage control, even though he wants to. It's probably better this way, he thinks. Better that there's some distance between you. Better that you hate him and see him as the creepy neighbor he is.
But that Saturday night, when you return home, it's not with your friends.
Pope watches from his window as you guide a man up the stairs and into your apartment.
He's tall. Dark haired, with bright eyes and white teeth and a good smile. Closer to your age. Handsome like a man allowed into your space should be.
You're fumbling a little with your apartment key and Pope watches as the man stands behind you and slides his hands down the back of your thighs.
Thighs he should be touching. Thighs he's watched for months. Thighs that spread for him, long before this fucking loser ever laid his eyes on you.
He tells himself he won't interfere.
You're your own woman. You deserve to feel good, even if it's with…someone else.
And Pope knows he's just going to have to get the fuck over it.
He did it to himself, really.
He should look away.
But he watches instead.
Watches the two of you fall onto the couch. Watches another man kiss down the column of your throat and squeeze the supple curve of your ass over your sequined dress.
Your eyes find his from across the courtyard, and Pope's jaw clenches.
Putting on another show for him. Filthy, filthy girl.
And you're just going to give it to some random man? Someone who doesn't know you like Pope does? Someone who doesn't know how you like to be touched?
He needs to look away. Close his own fucking blinds for once.
But he feels frozen. Knowing this time, you're watching him. Looking for him. Goading for a reaction.
Pope watches the slow ascent of the man's hand. Promises himself he won't interfere. He'll just watch to make sure you're safe, that's all.
But the moment that greedy hand disappears beneath your dress, Andrew's moving. Throwing open his door and slamming it closed behind him. He crosses the courtyard and takes the steps two at a time.
His fist against your apartment door is incessant. He doesn't stop, even when he hears the uttered, male voice ask, "Who is that?"
When the door opens, it's you who stands in front of him, chin tilted up as you stare at him, pupils flared wide.
The man you'd brought home with you hovers over your shoulder.
Pope doesn't even look at him. He stares only at you as he says, a little snarl in his voice, "Tell him to leave."
"Dude, what the fuck? Who is this guy?"
Your lips curl at the corners. A devilish little smile. "Okay," you say, nodding, your voice soft and pliant. You turn your head to look at the man who stands behind you. "Sorry, but you've gotta go."
"You're joking," he responds flatly. "You said I could—!"
Andrew reaches past you and takes him by the collar, pulling him out of your apartment and slamming him up against the paneled siding. "I ever see you in this apartment again, I'll fucking kill you. You understand me?"
"Jesus fucking—yeah, okay. Alright. Sorry."
Pope isn't joking. Doesn't say it to scare him off but rather as a warning.
He lets him go and watches him scramble down the stairs. He doesn't turn back to face you until the little tool you used for attention gets in his car and drives away.
And when he does finally turn back to you…Christ. Your eyes are half lidded and full of lust. Pope's close enough this time that there's no mistaking it.
He should be a gentleman. Should take you out first. Bring you home and kiss you on your doorstep and leave you untouched.
He knows he should.
What he does instead is curl his hand around the back of your neck and pull you to him. He leans down, mouth hovering over yours, breathing in your panicky exhales. "This what you want?"
Your grin is immediate and undeniable. You nod and breathe out the word, "Please."
Andrew kisses you hard, crowding you back into your apartment. He kicks the door closed behind him and slides his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness. There's mint and strawberry and you, his favorite flavor.
He feels drunk on it. On the taste of your tongue, the glide of your wet lips over his, the way your hands scramble and tug desperately at his belt.
"Fuck," he sighs, pulling back just enough to see you. "Open your mouth, baby. Wide. And stick out your tongue."
The way you immediately obey has his cock twitching. Good girl. So fucking good for him when he gives you exactly what you need.
Andrew licks the flat of your tongue once, delighting in the way you whimper in response, before bringing his hand to your mouth. He slides two fingers behind your teeth and orders, "Suck."
You do, lips closing tight around the digits, wet tongue swirling over his thick knuckles. He pushes them further down your throat, your eyes locked on his as he makes you choke on them.
"So fucking pretty," he tells you. "You always look so pretty."
Andrew pulls the straps of your mini dress over your shoulders, roughly tugging the fabric over your chest down to expose your breasts.
You're wearing the same lace bra you'd worn when you dressed up for him, he realizes. He can see the peaks of your nipples through the semi-sheer fabric, and leans down to lock his lips around the left one over the lace.
The fabric is rough beneath his tongue, a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. He sucks hard, spreading the wetness of his saliva over the lace. You push your dress further down your waist and over your hips.
Andrew slides his fingers out of your mouth, sticky and dripping with your spit. He brings them to his own lips instead and sucks them clean, watching your breath hitch and your eyes grow impossibly more hazy.
He lowers himself to his knees before you and his slick fingers work quickly at the straps of your heels, unbuckling them to free your pretty, white-painted toes.
Your hands find his shoulders for balance. "I like that you watch me," you tell him. "I think about it sometimes and it makes me so…god, Andrew. It gets me so wet."
He looks up at you from his knees, big brown eyes glassy and full of adoration. "Good," he says. "'Cause I'm gonna watch you a little closer tonight."
That pretty smile finds its way to your face again.
Andrew presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the apex of your thighs. Over your panties, right where he knows your clit lies beneath. He then stands to his feet, towering over you now without the added height of your heels, and presses you forward.
You take a careful step back, nearly losing your balance.
Andrew grins, taking another step, crowding you back towards your bedroom. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress.
You stumble backwards, falling into the plush sheets that he's all too familiar with. Lying on your back, propped up by your elbows, you stare up at him with wide eyes and he's reminded of a timid little animal caught in the trap of a predator.
Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
You don't look afraid. You actually look…eager.
Pope stands tall at the edge of your mattress. "Take off your clothes."
You do. Unclasping your bra first, tossing the fabric into the already existing mess on the floor. And then your panties follow, thumbs hooking around the fabric to drag it down your legs.
Andrew reaches around and fists the collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He feels warm all over, watching you greedily drink up the sight of him. He thinks he'd feel a little nervous, in any other setting. If it were anyone but you.
His sweet, filthy girl.
Andrew reaches into the half-open drawer of your nightstand, searching until he finds your vibrator again.
Your brows furrow as you watch him find it with practiced ease. "You went through my underwear drawer, too?"
"Did more than that," he admits.
You inhale like you're going to speak again, but the words melt to nothing when he tosses the small toy onto the bed beside you.
"Use it," Pope orders.
"What?"
He crawls onto the mattress between your legs, spreading them wide, laying your calves on either side of his hips. "Let me watch you."
There's a moment of hesitation, but you don't look nervous. Only…curious.
You pick up the vibrator and slide the pink silicone through your folds, spreading your arousal before you press the power button. You circle your clit with the tip of it a few times, teasing yourself.
When you turn the toy on, he can feel the vibration against his hands that grip your thighs. You let out a syrupy moan and turn the intensity higher, drawing tight circles around your pretty clit.
He watches you, eyes locked on the pink silicone between your legs. He watches your entrance flutter, tightening around nothing, begging to be filled. "Your pussy is so pretty," he mutters. "Do you know that?"
Your only response is a breathy whimper. You click the intensity up again, putting it on the highest setting, and Pope sighs when your legs begin to shake around him.
He wants to watch you make yourself cum. Wants another scene to fuck his fist to in the shower or in his bed or in his truck.
But he's here. Finally, finally here, in your bed, with you, and he can't help himself.
Pope grips your hips hard and pulls you closer, tilting your hips up into his lap. The vibrator falls from your hand at the sudden movement, but he's quick to return it to you. "Keep going."
You press the silicone back to your clit, and Andrew spreads you open with gentle thumbs. He gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip from his lips and onto the seam of your cunt.
And then he's sliding his middle finger inside of your entrance, curling it upwards, searching for that sweet spot that makes you writhe.
It doesn't take long. He's watched you. He knows just what you like and what angle to hit. And the second the tip of his finger presses hard against it, you fist your free hand in the sheets and curses fall from your sweet mouth.
Pope slides another thick finger inside, watching the way you squirm, feeling the walls of your cunt flutter around the swell of his knuckles.
"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—oh, fuck. Feels so good, feels so fucking—"
A long, throaty moan leaves your mouth, and he feels the warmth of your release pool in his palm. You're so slick that each wet thrust of his fingers echoes against the walls of your room.
He doesn't stop until you're twitching. Until you click the vibrator off and shove it away from you. And even then, he still gives a few, slow curls of his fingers inside of you. Not touching with intent, just…feeling. Memorizing.
Once you catch your breath, you lean up enough to find his eyes again. You say timidly, shyly, "I want…I want to feel you, Andrew. I want you inside me. Do you…do you want to fuck me?"
It's the most asinine question he's ever been asked in his fucking life. Does he want to fuck you?
He's thought of nothing else for months. Every night when he fights for sleep, it's the thought of you under him that puts him to bed.
It's such an impractical concern from his point of view that he laughs. Actually laughs, for the first time in years. "Oh, baby."
Pope takes your hands in his. He presses one to his chest, right over his heart, and the other against the hardness in his jeans.
"I have never wanted another woman as bad as I want you," he says truthfully. "But I…you…you deserve better than this. Better than me. You understand that, don't you?"
You shake your head. "You don't know me, Andrew. Not really. You don't know if—"
"No, no. I do. I know you're the kind of friend who would give the shirt off their back. The kind of girl who'd let her phone get cut off before asking for help. The kind of girl who gets up every morning and just…tries. Every day. And you fucking…you smile about it. You're good. You're so fucking good and I…"
He stops.
Remembers the last time he loved someone like this and how he'd made a stupid confession he should've taken to his grave and how it'd fucked him completely.
"You're what, Andrew?"
Pope swallows. "I'm...I'm a bad man. I've hurt people. I will…hurt people, I—" His voice cracks. He lowers his eyes, trying to turn away, unable to find the strength to face you.
But you take his jaw in your gentle hands and force him to look at you. Sweet, angel of a girl that you are. And then you say without a waver to be found in your voice, "I like who you are. Do you think I gave the man who watches me through my window my phone number because I want some guy I could match with on Tinder?"
He tries to slow the rapid pounding of his heart. He wonders if love is supposed to be like this. To feel like this. All consuming and terrifying and devastatingly hopeful above all.
You shake your head and tuck your legs beneath you, sitting up on your knees. He sits stone still as you lean forward and kiss his cheek, whispering against his ear, "I've been watching you, too, Andrew Cody."
Something shifts inside of him as you say it. Uttering his last name that he'd never given you, that isn't even on his lease because this is a fake apartment under a fake name to launder the money they steal.
Oh—sweet, smart girl. Smarter than he thought.
How silly of him to ever doubt you.
There's a newfound wildness in your eyes when they meet his again. An unveiling. Like he's seeing you for who you truly are for the first time.
And you're…god. So fucking beautiful.
And, yeah. Pope thinks he's been right this whole fucking time.
He's weird and wrong and sickly obsessed.
But you are, too.
Andrew takes you by the back of the neck and kisses you hard, desperate to taste you, to close what little physical space remains between your body and his. He pushes you back against the mattress and follows you down.
Your hands find his belt buckle before he does, and he stares down at you as your deft fingers pry the leather open and unbutton his jeans. He helps you push the denim down his legs until his cock springs free, heavy and leaking. Wanting for you, twitching as you take it carefully in your hand.
A groan reverberates at the back of his mouth. Your hands are so soft. Perfect and pliant. One day, he swears he'll show you how he likes to be touched. He'll let you sit in his lap and watch him stroke his cock for you.
But for now, he lets you touch him slowly. Experimental. Feeling the heavy weight of him in your palm. You spit on your fingertips and spread your saliva over his sensitive tip, flushed red and pulsing beneath your touch.
You lean back and guide him between your thighs, sliding the head of his cock through your syrupy folds and over your clit.
The moment you line him up at your entrance, Pope eases inside and you let out the sweetest fucking sigh he's ever heard in his entire life. Sweet and soft and so, so satisfied.
It's so beautiful. You're so beautiful. And you feel warm and heavenly and wet around him. He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then drives his cock back into your cunt.
You squeal and those sharp, acrylic nails dig into his spine. But your legs circle his hips, and so Pope does it again.
He fucks you hard. Claiming that spot at the back of your cunt, pressed right up against your cervix. He rolls his hips and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing up those desperate, carnal sounds he pulls out of our chest.
Sweet girl. Sweet fucking girl. He reaches between you and circles your clit. "My girl now," he says, words spoken against your lips. "You'll never need anyone else, baby. No one but me."
You nod, the velvety walls of your pussy squeezing around the hard length of his cock.
Andrew puts his whole weight on top of you, grinding himself between your thighs, giving you everything he has. Everything he is.
"I'm yours," you choke out. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"
It becomes a mantra. One that feeds his desire, in perfect sync with the rhythm of his thrusts. He watches your arousal begin to crest, nearing the summit, the muscles in your thighs twitching. "Look at me, baby," he says. "Tell me you love me when I make you cum."
You're so lost in it, head all spacey, that your eyes remain closed until he takes your jaw in a firm grip.
There are pretty tears in your eyes when you open them, but that smile on your face is present, too. He feels you pulse around him and your breath gets all shallow and then—
"I love you, Andrew, I fucking—oh my god please, please—I love you."
The words are music to his ears, tingling down his spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He thought the sound of his name in your mouth was beautiful but this…fuck. He could die.
Pope thinks he would. For you, he would.
He fucks you through it. Tastes your moans and says, "Yeah, that's it. Give it to me. Look so pretty when you cum for me."
He doesn't let his pace falter until your muscles loosen, until your nails stroke gently over his spin instead of leaving marks.
You pepper sweet kisses over his jaw, tongue sliding up the shell of his ear. "I want you to cum inside me," you tell him.
He's been fighting it the whole time, trying desperately not to blow his load before he'd at least gotten you there first.
But when you say that?
When you say, "Please, Andrew. Want you to give it to me. Want you to fill me up with your cum. Please. I need it."
He thinks about telling you that you don't have to beg. Not him, not for anything (especially this). But you just sound so pretty, begging for his cum, that he can't bring himself to do it.
So, he gives you what you want instead. Fucks his cum into you, groaning low in your ear, cock pulsing inside you. You feel so good wrapped around him it's euphoric. Otherworldly.
Your pussy grips tight, milking him dry, taking every last drop (he knows you're on birth control. Don't you know the women's clinic downtown keeps a spare key beneath the plant in front of their door?).
Andrew is careful when he slides out of you. And he wastes no time before kicking his jeans the rest of the way off and pulling you against his chest.
He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your hairline. His voice wavers a little as he says, "Sorry if I…if I was a little rough."
You shake your head, pressing your nose to the divot between his pectorals. "It was perfect," you murmur against his skin.
Silence settles between you. Comfortable and easy, the sound of your breathing in perfect synchronization.
After some time you say, "I meant it, you know. Wouldn't have said it if I didn't. I really think I might be in love with you, Andrew. Is that…crazy?"
Yes, he wants to say.
But he feels it, too.
So instead he says, "You know, I don't…I don't have much experience with that sorta thing. Don't really know how to…to navigate it, I guess. But, uhm…yeah. Me, too."
He feels that smile of yours against his chest.
Andrew knows that this dynamic the two of you have created is weird.
He knows that.
But at least, now, he's not alone in it.
thank you for reading, i love you!
⋆˚࿔ millie 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ @v1gilant3heart - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
