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[dudewithastick]

Warlord Yautja/Reader; An Act of Revenge

Title: An Act of Revenge Rating: Explicit Fandom: Predator: Killer of Killers Ship: Warlord Predator/Grendel King (Male Yautja) x AFAB!Reader Word Count: 7,4k Warnings: Dubcon, canon typical violence, knifeplay >> Warlord series Part 01 Author Note: This is the first part of this fic. The whole work is up on AO3! :)

The Hkr'Rcho is an enormous ship. It's so big that it's easy to get lost in its many corridors, especially if you can't read the Yautja language signs. If someone were to get stuck on a clan ship like the Hkr'Rcho without knowing the language or culture of this species, they'd be in serious trouble. Well, sucks to be you! Your karma must be pretty bad considering how the last six months have gone.

You're lying on your back, staring at the ceiling, bopping one foot up and down, which is resting on your bent knee. As always, the constant hum of the ship's engines and the omnipresent heat on board this ship almost lull you into a light sleep. Humidity also creeps into every corner of the Hkr'Rcho, even the Warlord's quarters. As you quickly learned, he's the leader of an entire clan of warriors.

And you? You're the pet.  

The exploding collar has been replaced by an invisible leash that is more effective than anything else – there's no way off this ship. Even if you manage to sneak out of your lord and master's quarters unnoticed, the route to the shuttle bay is lined with Yautja warriors who recognise you and know who you belong to. You've been caught and brought back more than once, locked in his quarters and left to stew like a roast.

The imposing Warchief isn't stupid. He knows he can punish you physically — and he does so occasionally — but the boredom and waiting are far worse. Being confined to his quarters with nothing but the sound of the engine and the occasional passing of a new solar system for days on end is enough to drive a person crazy. It's like solitary confinement when he decides to punish you for misbehaving. Even your food is hurriedly thrown into the room before the door is locked again.

He's not stupid. He quickly figured out how to make you furious, how to make you behave. Although being the Warlord's pet has its advantages, it's also a double-edged sword. Hey, on the one hand, you are well fed and clothed, and truly safe from the horrors of space.

The Yautja's diet mainly consists of meat, often even raw or severely undercooked, but they make sure you get exotic fruits and vegetables. In your position as the leader's favourite, they ensure you are fit for your rank. Considering that you have to endure the chief's needs, you need to be well fed. Being mounted by a 350 kg alien warrior is as dangerous as an extreme sport, if not more so.

And you are dressed in high-quality Yautja clothing. The revealing attire definitely shows off your body – you may not have an eight-pack, but the hearty food means the skimpy clothing fits. Not that it would be of much use when the Warlord returns from a hunt or a successful arena tournament. The fabric is no match for his claws and the hunger of the highly decorated warrior from Yautja Prime. On this ship and in this ongoing situation, it's truly a case of give and take: you've never lived in such luxury before. As a Weyland-Yutani employee, you were paid a meagre wage, given tiny food rations and your life was worth less than the cargo you transported. Under Weyland-Yutani, there were no richly decorated clothes resembling Yautja scales and no sweet, juicy fruit to make your mouth water.

All you have to do is serve the Warlord. You're his pet, his toy and his concubine. You are both his slave and his mate. His scent clings to you, signalling to every other Yautja on this ship that you are out of bounds. Bowing down to the muscle-bound warrior is the price you pay for living in luxury. Should you dare to rebel against him, he will be only too happy to show you who's boss. He has grabbed and taken you by force more than once, but you would be lying if you said you didn't get a strangely erotic kick out of it. Sometimes you act a little more rebellious than you really are because that's what gets him going.

But no matter how you look at it, you share your bed with a brutal killing machine. Truth be told, you don't really like him. This isn't romance; it's a state of affairs. In this tactical game, you're not an equal opponent, but an object: a pet monkey dancing for the Warlord to laugh at. He can throw you across the room and onto the bed with one hand while he loosens his belt with the other. He knows you watch him every time he takes off his armour. He knows you want him.

His bed, a collection of furs — also trophies — is soft and inviting; huge, it beckons you to rest and laze around. Most of the time, you lie bored on this nest of trophies, covered in the Warlord's and your own scent, and the memory of all the times he bent you over and brutally took what he wanted. It's always associated with pain in some way, but when you think about it, you feel a hot tingling sensation running up the inside of your thighs. It's not just bad. One thing you quickly learn on a Yautja clan ship is that violent sex is normal for these warriors. It's not at all uncommon for them to fight in the corridors and then have sex, sinking into each other with claws and tusks amid blood and bodily fluids. Sex isn't considered good unless there are open wounds or broken bones, and the females often put up a fierce fight. If you take these fights as a yardstick, you're actually being treated relatively gently - this is probably because you break more easily than a Yautja warrior. Don't wanna break the new toy, right? While you're brooding in frustration and thinking that you could escape through the air vents again if necessary, you hear heavy footsteps approaching. From far away, you can hear battle cries growing louder and echoing through the ship like a dark choir. Great — the hunting party is back. That means the annoying part of this situation is about to begin. No matter what one might think about the Yautja, a successful hunt is always celebrated extensively. Contrary to all expectations, these people definitely know how to party: they drink sour, high-proof wine and dine as befits great warriors. There are fights, songs and more fights. A good Yautja party doesn't end until someone is seriously injured. Not that you'd ever be invited to something like that, though. The door opens and, from the thunderous footsteps in the hallway, you already knew 30 seconds ago that your owner was returning to his quarters. The Warlord is as impressive as ever, though now he's covered with blood and has several fresh wounds on his upper body and arm. As the door hisses shut behind him, he doesn't even glance at you. Instead, he places his bone axe among the many other trophies adorning the room.

It's a game. A test. Another way to humiliate you.

He doesn't deign to greet or even acknowledge you when he returns to his quarters from a hunt. You never take your gaze off his body, out of pure caution, and he knows it. This makes him even more eager to put on a show, carefully placing new hunting trophies on the wall or in a corner. He takes his time, occasionally making quiet growling and clicking noises as though humming to himself in a relaxed manner. Meanwhile, you're tense, like nervous prey waiting to be pounced on by a predator.

Next, he takes off his heavy bone coat. This trophy, consisting of xenomorph skeletons, is ridiculously heavy. You could only lift it on your own if you put all your strength into it. He, on the other hand, moves smoothly and gracefully, even with this imposing adornment. He moves his massive body with a robust elegance that lulls you into a false sense of security all too often. Good-looking, is the word that forms in your brain when you look at him. His muscles glisten in the soft light of the room, making you clench your teeth in anger. You're only too happy to convince yourself that this is pure survival instinct. This physical attraction to the Warlord is your brain's desperate attempt to twist this terrible, traumatic situation into something bearable so that you suffer as little long-term damage as possible. Of course, there are often cases where hostages are attracted to their captors. This is obviously just another such case. Or ist it?

>>> Continue on AO3

[dudewithastick]

menace to society – harry styles . ✦

content: chaotic couple energy, pda, teasing, public mischief, soft!harry behind it all

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The thing about dating Harry Styles was that people expected charm. Grace. Mystery, maybe. Something refined and a little poetic.

What they didn’t expect? You.

You—his loud-mouthed, snort-laughing, lip-gloss-wearing girlfriend with an attitude and a complete disregard for appropriate public behavior. And, somehow, the absolute love of his life.

It starts with you dragging him into a photo booth at a random LA diner at 11pm, both of you tipsy on milkshakes and fries. He tries to behave, poses with a shy little smirk for the first photo—but then you lick his neck in the second one, and he’s gone. There’s no recovery from that. The third frame is a mess of teeth and hands and your laughter echoing way too loud for the sleepy place you’re in.

He has the strip of photos in his wallet to this day.

Then there’s the incident at Whole Foods.

Harry’s just trying to get oat milk. That’s all he wanted. Oat milk.

But you’re pushing the cart and suddenly you’re leaning in, whispering in his ear, “If you bend over like that again in those pants, I will climb you like a tree in aisle seven.”

He chokes on air. Knocks over a box of granola bars. An old lady gasps. You grin like the devil.

Later that day, you’re walking down Melrose hand in hand, and you keep pulling him into alleys to “make out like teenagers.” You make him hold your leg up against a brick wall. Harry can’t stop giggling, hiding behind his sunglasses as if they make you both less obvious. The paparazzi photos are wild. You’re labeled “the menace.” Harry’s grinning in every single one.

At a dinner party, you slide your hand under the table and trace your name on his thigh while maintaining a perfectly polite conversation with Olivia Wilde. Harry nearly knocks over his wine glass when your fingers go a little too high. “Can’t take you anywhere,” he hisses, cheeks red, eyes dark.

“Then stop taking me,” you shrug, licking dessert off your spoon like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.

But the truth? He lives for it. For you.

You with your shameless affection and chaotic flirting and your need to pull him into dressing rooms just to "check how the lighting looks on your outfit while he's inside."

You are a menace.

And Harry Styles is happily your accomplice.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work.

© lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[dudewithastick]

my entire political stance basically boils down to "I care about other people" and MAN does it make people MAD

[dudewithastick]

this blog is not a well-curated museum. it’s my bedroom & i’m putting things on my shelf & taping things on the wall

[dudewithastick]

WALK THE PLANK | Part 1

Happy Mermay! 𓂃𓂁𓂃 ོ

— mershark!Simon Riley × fem!Reader — 18+ | Pirates of the Caribbean AU; magic; strangers to lovers; slowburn-ish; monsterfucking; possessive/territorial! Simon; breeding kink; time skips; loss of virginity; canon-typical violence; smut; fluff; dub-con (to be safe)

You have been drawn to the sea since your mother gave birth on a pirate ship.

Even though your father warned you to stay away from the Gems Cove many a times while growing up, told you to stop swimming there, stop feeding the fish, stop praying to Calypso, stop serenading the bloody sea at dusk when the last golden rays of sunlight disappear behind the horizon, because you cannot even comprehend what lingers in the depths of the reef, sweet lassie, you never listened, and when your father left one last time to follow after his Captain’s orders one last time, there was no one left to tell you to stop going there.  

And with your dear father’s disappearance, your feet only carried you towards the cove with more purpose—and a lot more spite. 

Raised and fed by kind townspeople who took pity on your situation, you continued to spend your teenhood at Gems Cove, glaring at the horizon and quietly cursing ever ship that sailed by and didn’t magically take you away. 

A warm breeze sweeps through your hair, swirls around your bare legs as you stand there in your flowy white undergarments, dress and boots discarded in a haphazard heap in the shade of a rock, salt curling the strands and sticking to your dewy skin, sunrays dancing on the crystal-clear water, sparkling like a million gemstones. 

“Perhaps I’ll become a bloody pirate like you, eh? How does that fucking sound, father?” you sneer again, angrily flicking another broken seashell over the glittering surface as you stand on the rotten boards of the old jetty, gentle waves lapping against the jagged rocks and wooden pillars supporting the planks. 

It’s what you’ve been doing for the past decade, whenever you realize once again how incredibly meaningless and mundane your life has turned out to be, like a ruffled feather blowing in the wind—working as a hierling on fishing boats to get by, helping out as a seamstress and barmaid, selling self-made jewellery to drunken travellers, and avoiding the local brothel at all costs like Davy Jones avoids dry land. 

Your father had always promised to take you with him—“when you’re old enough, sweet lassie”—though it was too late when you realized that he was simply staving you off. You would have never been old enough, always his little lassie, too soft for the ocean—a pebble with no edges, smoothed by the current. 

“Perhaps... Perhaps I’ll have a child only to abandon it, too, huh? Or even better, I bloody snuff it givin’ birth to it like mother did!” You scoff, and the sound ricochets around the enclosing cliffs sharply, like the shot of a well-maintained pistol. 

A murder of crows and a few scattered seagulls feeding on a large mutt’s cadaver at the beach nearby, are startled by the sound and take off flight; distracting you momentarily as you glance over your shoulder, squinting against the slowly setting sunlight. 

You barely register the gentle sloshing of waves behind you. The mass that heaves itself out of the water to peek up at the jetty, and the quiet, steady dribble of fat drops dripping off sleek skin, back into the ocean.  

When you turn around again, you let out a surprised yelp and nearly jump backwards at the sudden sight that greets you, stumbling on bare feet, almost slipping on slick algae. 

He’s huge, and it’s barely half his torso that’s sticking out of the water. 

Black, beady eyes—marbles containing the depths of the sea—staring at you, with a rather curious twinkle, from behind a mask crafted out of what you assume must be a cracked human skull, secured around his head with a frayed string of hemp rope, its upper row of teeth twinkling with a gold tooth. It exposes a crown of short brown hair sticking to his skull, the sharp curve of jawline and a plump, rosy bottom lip. 

His skin is pale, with a silvery shimmer and faint grey stripes along his upper arms and ribs, depending how the light catches it. Paler than the white sand on the beach, like it has never been kissed by the afternoon sun. 

Blessed with wide shoulders, a bulky chest, chiselled abs, and large arms with bulging muscles and protruding blue veins running along the inside of his forearms. Half a brown leather harness is secured around his upper torso, a short and tattered sheath attached to it, the blade’s ivory handle seemingly carved from some great fishbone. 

You’ve never seen a man quite this large, not even on your father’s crew, but once you spot the row of gills on each side of his neck, you know that you’re not faced with a man, but a beast—and suddenly, all doubts you once held vanish. 

As it turns out, your father didn’t lie in his bedtime stories, didn’t exaggerate when he warned you all those years ago: “There are things–beings–lingerin’ below the surface that might not make sense to us, but it don’t mean they’re not real. Aye? If ye feel like ye’re bein’ stalked by the water, chances are bloody high tha’ ye are, lassie.” 

“Who–Who are you?” You shake your head, rubbing your eyes on wobbly legs to make sure you’re not dreaming again. 

He doesn’t answer at first, only regards you with those dark, soulless eyes, head tilted like a puppy experiencing something new while his chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, until you find your footing again, slowly backing away from the edge of the jetty, holding your breath despite the salty air scratching in your lungs. 

“Wait!” He calls out firmly with a voice like gravel coated in oil, barking like a captain yet pleading like a lost boy. You freeze, exhaling a shuddering breath while your sweaty skin pebbles with goosebumps. 

The water parts as he glides through it with ease, closing distance while your eyes flicker to observe the large silhouette of his lower half moving below the surface, causing your eyes to widen in fear and disbelief—and curiosity as it begins to tickle you in the back of your mind. 

You should grab your clothes and run far away, but you stay where you are, mesmerized by the creature who is now pulling himself out of the water, bracing his forearms on the edge of the first planks while they creak under his added weight.  

For a moment, you’re distracted by his body and the sheer power emanating from him; his hands so brawny and veined, he looks like he could crack a coconut without any effort. 

“My name,” he takes a deep breath as if it strains him to speak, “is Simon.”  

“Simon,” you repeat, and something splashes sharply behind him, breaking the surface like he’s excited to hear you utter his name, and you wonder if your eyes have deceived you—or if you’ve truly just seen a shark tail. 

There is a brief yet tense pause, then he speaks your name, loud and clear, and your heart throbs inside your chest. “Why are ya so angry again?” he asks casually, as if he’s talking to an old friend. 

Simon belongs to the mythical merfolk. 

Different than the mermaids and men you’ve heard of through legends and lore, and the heresy fishermen and pirates alike love to spread, the creatures who call the territory around Whitecap Bay and Isla Sirena their home, he’s a maverick, a lone sea ghoul. 

Unlike them, he doesn’t belong to any pod. He’s been on his own for most of his life. 

Mershark, they call themselves. “Aye, stronger than those pretty fish,” he tells you one day two, chortling when he adds, “smarter, too.” 

He does look like a ruthless tiger shark, his lower half nearly twice as long as a human body, with tough skin, criss-crossed with battle and other scars. And when he catches how your gaze lingers on his unique body, a rare smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, nearly preening under your attention. 

Simon lets you inspect and learn as you please, answers your questions about his tail, and why it doesn’t look like any of the merfolk drawings you’ve seen in books—his large caudal fin like a shark’s, undulating from side to side rather than up and down whenever he swims. 

And you start spending more time at the cove and less at your hometown, ignoring your lack of money and possibilities in favour of being with him—your scarily handsome sea beast. 

After five days, you bring what is necessary, along with a tattered pillow and thin blanket as you stay more nights at the beach, reading aloud old books to him as he can neither read nor write, and sleeping in the sand while Simon prowls his territory underwater, hunting at night. 

You’ve never had a friend quite like him, if any at all, but neither ever did he, from what you can tell. 

He gets terribly restless when you do end up leaving the cove a couple of hours a day, pacing while the big trademark fin of a shark swims circles in the bay until you return, and Simon ends up bringing you fish to cook over an open bonfire and fresh clams to slurp with lemon juice to keep you from having to leave him again; always making sure you’re fed while he lingers; sometimes sitting awkwardly in the shallows with you, when the tide is lowest, and the temperature burns too hot. 

It’s peaceful, being with him.  

“Everyone always told me to stay away from Gems Cove. Said it’s too dangerous and cursed,” you remark, kissing your teeth in snide as you gaze out on the calm water. “Nothin’ ever happened, and they stopped pestering me eventually, though.” 

There is a pause after you tell him, and you wonder if he’s even listening to you, but then he opens his mouth to speak, and you realize that he’d been hesitating. 

“I’ve watched over you whenever ya swam here. Nothin’ would’ve ever happened to you, because I never allowed it,” he admits sheepishly after barely ten days of knowing each other, as the late afternoon sun inches towards the horizon. He points a finger at the span of the cove. “F’all these years, y’know?” 

Simon looks straight ahead as you gaze up at him, his skull mask resting in your lap after taking it off for him, and you use the moment to admire how the sunlight makes his dark blonde hair shine, the unruly strands now close-cropped, thanks to you, exposing the three deep claw marks at the side of his skull from a fight with a merman.  

Then his jaw clenches and his cheek ticks as if he regrets telling you now, but your heart skips a beat at his admission, utterly touched by it.  

“Why?” you croak, and your eyes sting with salty sea spray.  

His head tips down at your hand now resting where his hip should be and where his body turns twisted, abnormal. Still, your thumb rubs soothing circles on his sleek looking yet rough skin, sharp like sand and fine glass shards. 

Reaching out, he takes your right hand, turns it over to look at your palm, tracing the jagged scar in the middle of it, and huffing through his nose at the memories flooding his mind, before he speaks: “Because you saved me and almost bloody died doin’ it.” 

You don’t remember it, but Simon recounts that you’d lost consciousness back then. He could never forget it—stuck and tangled up in a net, thin ropes biting into his skin while a fat hook was piercing his dorsal fin, his own blood attracting more sharks. 

You’d jumped into the dark water without hesitation, the full moon the only light illuminating the restless waves, and you cut him free with a rusty pocketknife before pulling out the hook. And Simon remembers your sharp cry of pain, the one that made his heart drop heavy in his chest, then the sweet and copper scent of your blood as it dripped onto him and into the sea, when the hook went through your palm.  

Barely a decade old the both of you, when he had to watch from afar how loud men hauled you out of the angry water, pressing down on your still flat chest with force until you sputtered and coughed gallons of salty water while death kept clinging to your complexion. 

Simon still wishes he could’ve kissed you back then, protect you from drowning like that, but he was still a silly pup—oblivious to his own powers, because nobody close to him was still alive to teach him. 

His shoulders slouch, dry skin pulling taut over his muscles after spending too much time out of the water. 

“I never even got to say ‘thank you’ back then.” 

The sourness of lemons from supper is still sticking to your lips as you lick them, the taste of seafood lingering in the back of your throat as you listen and watch, barely breathing while Simon paints a vivid picture in your head; lifting the fog of a sad, lonely childhood for a smidge to teach you how you got that nasty scar on your hand. 

“You don’t have to thank me,” you reply, not moving your hand as he keeps cradling it in his. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” 

Then, your father’s words come to your mind: “Whenever the sea calls out to ye, ye walk the plank and take a jump, lassie.” He’d always laugh fondly. “One fearless minx, ye are. Every pirate cap’n would fear the lass who’d cheated Calypso of another innocent soul.” 

It makes more sense now, but before you can think about it, Simon turns to you, his eyes dark pools of nothingness, swallowing up all the molten golden brown in his irises.  

“That’s what I’m afraid of, love. Bloody reckless y'are.” There is no malice in his baritone voice, just a hint of exasperation and fatigue, as if he’s done with your bollocks after years of playing guardian angel and keeping himself hidden in a desperate attempt not to scare you away, but then there’s a faint smile lifting the scarred corner of his lip—a gnarly scar caused by another fisherman's hook, he’d told you. 

A genuine smile graces your lips when you entwine your fingers with his, feeling the smooth, translucent webbing between his fingers, while his body tenses, nostrils flaring with a sharp inhale of breath. 

“Wouldn’t have met ya if I was some prudent, Si.” 

It’s still a foreign feeling for him to feel air burn in his lungs for so long, but Simon can’t help the way his breath stutters and hitches whenever you’re close to him—whenever you touch him so effortlessly, just as confidently as when you’d jumped into the water to save him from a cruel death. 

And Simon is almost sure you don’t know, not yet anyway, but you’re doing things to him he’s never experienced before. 

The naturally fearless mershark continues to crumble under your gaze, your voice, your every touch, like a delicate sandcastle blown over by the breeze. He’d endure the burn of air in his lungs, of sunrays on his sensitive skin, a thousand times over if it means he can spend another moment in your bright presence. 

“Aye.” He returns your smile, squeezing your hand lightly as you hold his gaze. “Guess ye’r right.” 

For the first time in his pathetic life, Simon doesn’t feel that cold and crippling kind of loneliness, and unbeknownst to him, you feel very much the same. 

After two weeks, when the Caribbean sun burns too hot at noon, Simon steals you away from the Gems Cover, has he listened to you hiss and moan about your townspeople and the desire to leave the island one too many times in this short amount of time. 

“Bring water,” he keeps calling out to you like a mother hen, bracing his arms on the jetty as he watches you fussing about in your makeshift camp at the beach. “Can’t have ya faintin’ on me,” he adds with a teasing lilt, and you roll your eyes, stuffing your flask into your old leather rucksack. 

When you sit down at the edge of the jetty, bare legs swinging while the hem of your yellowed tunic flutters around your thighs, Simon feels a different kind of warmth stirring in his chest that spreads down to the tip of his tail, pooling and pulsating low in his gut. 

His hands twitch below the surface, clenching into fists to keep himself from reaching out to feel your supple flesh give under his brawny hands, nose twitching as he gets a whiff of your scent—luscious sweat and salt coating your skin, a trace of coconut water on your hair, a whiff of your heavenly womanhood when you squirm on the rotten planks and your knees spread apart.  

His mouth fills with saliva and the urge to shove his face between your thighs becomes unbearable as something wild claws and thrashes behind his ribs, razor sharp teeth tearing him apart from the inside while he tries to tame his instincts. 

Simon exhales slowly through his nose, dark eyes flickering up to observe your gorgeous face from behind his skull mask as you secure your rucksack on your back, so unaware of this predator—lusting, wanting, adoring you so openly.  

Sometimes he wonders if you know that you’re his salvation, and he hates himself for not bracing that surface sooner, for not taking that leap and show himself to you. 

“Now c’mon, little legs.” He clears his throat and water splashes as he lifts his arms up, waiting for you to make the final jump. “I’m takin’ ya for a swim.” 

Your pearly teeth flash with a grin and then you slip off the edge, right into his embrace before he cradles you close to his buff chest while a pleased rumble bubbles up in his throat at the weight of you finally in his arms, legs wrapping around his midriff where man meets shark. 

“Fuckin’ hell, ye’r squishy,” Simon mutters under his breath, earning a glare as he snorts in amusement and slight embarrassment, pale cheeks flushing under the bone of his mask. “I–I mean... soft. In a–a good way.” He adjusts his grip on you, cupping the back of your thighs, squeezing involuntarily. 

You squirm against his body, lashes fluttering against the spray and breeze whipping around your body, while your heart beats rapidly against your ribcage, overwhelmed by the closeness to him, not having expected nor ever experienced this effect from a anyone.  

“Hold on tight now, aye?” 

Adjusting your grip around his neck, you nod, and Simon eases himself into the water, floating on his back while he has you lay on his broad body, keeping you secured to his chest while he starts moving his tail underwater, gliding through the waves as he manoeuvres you both out of the familiar cove, past the colourful reef where the sheltered bay opens up into the vast ocean. 

“Haven’t been out in open water in so long,” you start shakily, eyes darting around, but the sun’s reflection on the surface blinds you too badly. “What if someone sees us out here?” 

Simon shrugs. “Don’t ya worry ‘bout that. I know these waters better than anyone,” he assures you, sounding proud while his chest puffs out. 

“Sounds like you expect a pat on your head for that,” you quip as you play with the hair at his nape underwater, and there is a brief pause before his tail breaches to splash a cold wave of water on you.  

You squeal and Simon smirks triumphantly at the sound you make, and he can’t stop his hands from roaming over the curve of your back, the thin fabric of your drenched tunic now clinging to your body like a second skin. His fingers twitch to rip it clean off and shed the barrier between you both, but again he pushes the urge far away into the darkest depths of his mind. 

The secret he’s so determined to show you turns out to be a cave halfway around the island; unreachable from land, its entrance hidden behind large lumps of boulders covered in moss, seaweed and barnacles. An old smugglers hideout he had discovered in his years of calling this island his territory, though no one has returned here since the Royal Navy has been patrolling close to the island occasionally. 

As Simon takes you farther inside, the pool of turquoise water ends in a U-shaped landmass of dark glimmering stone, surrounded by a solid rocky wall with large cracks at the ceiling where daylight spills inside and illuminates the cave. It smells sweet and clean, like a source of fresh water is nearby. 

When he sets you down on a dryer spot of stone, you push yourself up slowly, your gaze wandering around the cave in awe, head tilted back, while Simon watches, eyes crinkling deep in the corners with a pleased smile at your reaction. 

“You like it?” You nod eagerly, a breathless laugh erupting from your lungs. “Yes! This place is beautiful, Si!” 

The water ripples around Simon’s midriff while his tail swishes below the surface, like a mongrel wagging its tail. 

A few hours later, Simon is lounging on his back on a larger, flat rock in the middle of the pool while listens to the gentle padding of your bare feet echoing around the cave, enjoying the shade and warm, damp air, while you continue to explore each nook and corner curiously, letting him know whenever you find something worth mentioning. The sound so soothing to him, he nearly dozes off with one arm propped up behind his head. 

You’ve found the pile of driftwood that he’d brought to the cave a few days ago, when he’d shoved them into place where the sun shines the brightest through the cracks in the ceiling to let them dry, and you’ve been trying to build and start a fire for a while before you call out his name suddenly.  

Simon cracks one eye open, waiting. “Is this your home? Uhm, I mean... Is this where you stay when you’re not at the cove with me?” He lifts his head up and catches you standing at the edge of the pool, dipping your toes into the water tentatively.  

“No,” he answers eventually, his tone curt. “I don’t have a home.” You are his home, but he can’t possibly tell you that now.  

“So,” you start again, and Simon props himself up on his elbows as he notices how you suddenly avoid his eyes. “Why did you never,” you shrug, pulling your toes from the water, “y’know... try to find a–” You make a vague hand gesture in the air, and his stomach twists into a thousand tight knots. 

Simon utters your name, though it comes out as a growl. “A what?” 

Your pretty eyes snap up to meet his and you look so innocent, he can barely endure the sight. His chest heaves and his tail slashes briefly before he speaks: “A pod? A family? Come on, say it.” 

You lick your dry lips as your cheek warm up. “A mate, Simon.” 

His tail swishes, stirring the water. A muscle in his jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth tightly. This question alone nearly offends him, especially coming from you, and he doesn’t quite know what to say while the truth is already trying to claw itself through his gills and up his throat, burning in the back of his tongue as if he ate something rancid and rotten. 

Then he huffs. “Why don’t you have one?” He doesn’t even want to know the answer, and fear clogs up his veins when he briefly imagines that you already have one, that you’re simply spending time with a lonely bastard like him out of pity and kindness.  

You kick a tiny seashell into the water as you shrug, looking like a child that doesn’t know how to explain itself.  

“Never liked anyone in my town. The men are all just–” You sigh, shrugging again, unaware that Simon is already seething at the mere mention that you’ve looked at males in the past.  

But the truth is mundane—you feared you’d end up like your mother, with a man who loved his freedom and a life of piracy more than her, only to die scared, giving birth to her child during a storm on a pirate ship. 

“Not bloody good enough for you.” He finishes your sentence with a frown on his face. They’re not the words you would’ve used, but deep down, you agree with him.  

A dreary smile tugs at your lips as you finally look at him, regarding him lolling about in the rock, muscles stretching and flexing in a way that twists and turns your insides warm and your smile more bashful.  

“Perhaps, aye,” you agree, and Simon perks up at that, heart fluttering with hope. “Perhaps that’s it.” 

Yes, I planned this as a oneshot, but things got out of hand and I'm having way too much fun in this universe. 🙃 I hope you've enjoyed the first part! If so, I'd always appreaciate your feedback, likes & reblogs. Thank you so much! 🧜🏼‍♂️🩵

[dudewithastick]

She Wants To Move

summary : You weren’t supposed to be at the bar. He wasn’t supposed to notice. But then the bass hit, your dress stuck, and Jack Abbot—forty-something, dog-tagged, black zip-up and ruin in his eyes—started watching you like you were the emergency. One look turns into a dance, a kiss, a cab ride, and a night tangled in heat and restraint. You make him work for it. He’s used to control. But tonight, you’ve got the upper hand—and Jack? Jack’s not sure if he wants to fight it or beg for more.

word count : 5,413

content/warnings : explicit language, intense sexual tension, one extremely hot dance floor encounter, graphic descriptions of oral sex and penetrative sex (couch setting), dominance/submission power play (light), delayed gratification, consent emphasized, Jack Abbot being deeply feral, mutual teasing, grinding, age gap (reader late 20s/Jack late 40s), dirty dancing, emotionally charged eye contact, and one (1) couch that will never recover.

a/n : You need to listen to “She Wants to Move” by N.E.R.D first. I’m serious. It’s hot, throbbing, unapologetic tension—the kind that takes its time before it lets you break. And, it will let the fic come to life.

It starts with bass. Thick, hot, slithering through the air like smoke.

The kind of bass that doesn’t ask permission. It grabs you by the hips and pulls you under. The kind of beat that doesn’t just live in your ears—it makes a home in your bloodstream.

The bar’s packed wall-to-wall with bodies. Dim lighting spills gold and crimson across bare collarbones, button-downs, and sweat-slicked hair. There’s condensation sliding down every glass, heat rising off every inch of the dancefloor, and the scent in the air is some dangerous cocktail of perfume, cologne, and late-night decisions waiting to happen.

You’re not supposed to be here.

Not because you’re too good for it—though that’s what you said earlier, in the Uber, arms crossed, jaw set, swearing you were gonna stay thirty minutes max. But because this isn’t your usual Friday. You’ve had the week from hell—coworkers breathing down your neck, your manager “circling back” on every email like a threat, and your ex having the audacity to like your story with the outfit he once said made you look “too much.” Your friends said you needed to blow off some steam.

But you didn’t come here to be watched.

You came to move.

You’re in a backless dress that makes no promises and keeps none. Black, tight, cinched just right. The hem kisses the tops of your thighs when you walk, and clings higher when you dance. Lashes curled to hell, nails done in a color you picked just because it made you feel expensive. You’re not trying to impress anyone—but God, you look like sin.

You’re three drinks in. Gin and lime, no tonic. Lips slick, eyes glossed with a buzz that feels better than clarity. Your best friend is already halfway to hooking up with a guy she said looked like a 'knock-off Timothée Chalamet,’ and you’ve been fending off some finance bro with gelled hair and a chin sharper than his personality.

You keep brushing him off. But he won’t take the hint. He’s standing behind you now, one hand hovering just close enough to make your skin crawl. Not touching. But too close. Like he thinks he owns the space you’re in.

And that’s when he sees you.

Across the bar, tucked near the exit like he’s been trying to leave for twenty minutes but hasn’t moved an inch, there’s a man watching you.

Not watching you like the others are.

Watching like he knows something.

He’s older—late forties, maybe, early fifties if the light hits his jaw right—but it doesn’t age him. It makes him dangerous. A little wrecked, a little unshaven, in a way that says he’s not here for games. Broad shoulders beneath a black zip-up, dog tags under his collar that flash when he turns. His hair’s short, face a little sharp, there’s a tiredness around his eyes that doesn’t make him look weak—it makes him look lived in. Like he’s been through it and came out the other side still standing.

There’s a drink in his hand he hasn’t touched in ten minutes.

And he’s looking at you like you’ve been looking for a way out.

Not out of the bar.

Out of him—the guy still trying to press his chest to your back. The one talking too close. The one whose hand you moved for the third time.

And Jack?

Jack sees everything.

He sees the flash in your eyes that says you’re about to lose your patience. The way your spine straightens. The quick flick of your wrist when you knock the straw against the side of your glass. He sees the way you dance for yourself—not anyone else—and he sees how your mouth curls when the beat drops, like it’s the only thing tonight that actually touched you right.

He doesn’t smile.

He doesn’t wave.

But he straightens. Watches the way your gaze lifts—like you can feel his attention even from across the bar. And when your eyes finally meet his?

You feel it in your chest like a drop. Like gravity shifting.

You tilt your head. Curious.

He raises one brow. Just barely. An invitation.

And that’s when it hits you:

You want to be seen.

The man behind you leans in again, murmuring something in your ear, too loud and too close. You don’t even listen. You’re already turning, sliding past him with a practiced smile that means nothing.

You walk toward the bar. Your heels bite into the floor with every step, but you don’t flinch. You don’t swerve. Don’t smile too soon. Don’t hurry. You walk like you know what you’re doing. Like you’ve already decided how this ends.

Jack watches you the whole way, one hand still curled around his empty glass, the other flat on the bar like he needs to anchor himself to keep from leaning into you too fast. Because there’s something about the way you move—undeniably hot, yes, but it’s more than that. It’s unbothered. It’s deliberate. It’s yours.

There’s a gap at the bar between him and the next guy down, and you step into it like it’s been there waiting for you.

You don’t look at him right away. You flag the bartender first, ask for another gin and lime with your voice a little hoarse from the music, and only when she nods and turns away do you glance sideways.

He’s still watching.

You raise a brow. “You gonna keep staring or say something?”

Jack’s mouth twitches like he wasn’t expecting you to throw the first punch.

“I was trying to decide if you wanted to be interrupted.”

“You decided yes?”

“I decided the guy behind you wasn’t getting the job done.”

You huff a laugh—sharp and surprised. “What gave it away?”

“The way your shoulder tensed when he leaned in. That, and you haven’t smiled much in his direction all night.”

“You’ve been watching me all night?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but there’s heat behind his eyes. “Not all night. Just since you started dancing like the beat owed you something.”

Your drink arrives. You wrap your fingers around the glass, wet with condensation, and raise it to your lips.

“You always this smooth?” you ask, chin tipped toward him now, that spark in your eyes daring him to keep going.

Jack leans in—just slightly, just enough to let the scent of him hit: clean soap, bourbon, faint antiseptic. Something warm and late-night and not meant to be shared.

“Only when it matters,” he says.

You arch a brow, smile tugging at your mouth like a secret. “And this matters?”

His eyes drop to your mouth. “Yeah. Think it does.”

You look at him closer now. The stubble at his jaw. The faint scar above his eyebrow. His body language says he’s not on the clock. Not unless it’s for you.

“Rough day at work?” you ask, voice lower now.

Jack nods. “Twelve hours. Four codes. One too young to call it.”

You blink. Not because you’re startled—but because it tells you something.

“You work in a hospital?”

“Emergency department.”

“You a nurse?”

He quirks a brow. “Would that be a problem?”

You shake your head, smiling. “Not even a little.”

He leans in just enough to make your pulse skip. “I’m an attending.”

You raise your glass, lips twitching. “Of course you are.”

He lets the silence stretch. You both sip. The bass is still throbbing, the beat is dirty, sweaty. You let your body move to it, just slightly, hips shifting, lips parted, half-aware of the way his gaze lingers.

“Do you dance?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

You don’t answer with words. You slide one hand lightly across the bar—your knuckles brushing his—and lean in close enough that he can hear you over.

“I’m asking.”

He studies you like a problem he’s already half-solved. Then finishes what’s left in his glass, sets it down with a clink, and says—

“You gonna let me touch you, or are we just flirting for sport?”

Your smile sharpens.

“Try me.”

You don’t ask if he’s coming.

You don’t look back.

You just start walking like you’ve got the devil on a leash and a drink to finish.

You’re halfway to the floor when it happens.

The music dies. A weird second of static. People looking up, confused. And then—

Shake it up Shake it up, girl Shake it—

The opening hits like a slap.

And you smile.

God, this song. You haven’t heard it in years, but it drops into your bloodstream like it belongs there. It’s not a cute track. It’s filthy. Brazen. Throbbing in all the right places. The kind of beat that doesn’t ask you to dance—it drags you into the center and makes you beg for more. Everything thumps. The floor vibrates like a live wire. The crowd shifts to make space for you—not because they’re being polite, but because they feel it. That something’s happening.

You’re not the drunkest girl here.

You’re not the loudest, or the flashiest.

But you’re moving like you know the beat personally. Like it owes you money. Like it’s trying to make you forget someone and failing spectacularly.

She makes me think of lightning in skies (Her name) she’s sexy! How else is God supposed to write

The beat licks your skin like oil on asphalt.

You don’t dance for anyone. Not usually.

But tonight?

Tonight you dance like the floor owes you rent. Hips slow and sharp. Legs steady, knowing full well the hem of your dress is flirting with godlessness. Your arms move lazy, loose, intentional—one above your head, the other trailing a line across your own stomach, like you want to touch you too.

You know he’s behind you before he touches you.

He stands behind you. Close. Just shy of touching. And then, slowly—carefully—his hand finds your hip. It’s not sleazy. It’s not rushed. It’s intentional. He holds you like he’s getting a read on your pulse. Like he wants to know where to put the pressure.

You tip your head back, letting it rest against his shoulder.

“Jack,” he says, voice low and wrecked in your ear. “Before you ask.”

You smile. A sharp curve of lip and teeth. “You always this polite when you’re groping strangers?”

He huffs a laugh against your cheek. “If I was groping you, you’d know.”

“Oh? And what’s this, then?” You grind against him once, slow, letting your dress ride up a little.

“Me,” he says, dry as hell, “restraining myself.”

You laugh—actually laugh—and his grip tightens slightly, like the sound caught him off guard. You feel the front of him line up with the back of you. Not gross. Not aggressive. Just deliberate.

“You always dance like this?” he asks.

“Only when I like the song.”

Move, she wants to move But you’re hogging her, you’re guarding her She wants to move

His hands twitch. Your ass brushes the front of his jeans, and it’s not subtle. He leans in behind you, mouth near your cheek, voice a low rasp against your skin. “You gonna tell me your name, or am I supposed to keep calling you trouble?”

You don’t answer right away. Just keep moving, slow and taunting, grinding back against him until you feel his breath catch.

Then—calm, smooth—you turn your head over your shoulder, lips brushing his jaw as you say it:

“Astrid.”

Jack stills.

Then, voice low and certain: “No, it’s not.”

You glance back at him, one brow raised. “Excuse me?”

He looks amused. “No offense, but that’s a girl who studied abroad, wears linen, says ‘divine’ unironically.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what am I?”

Jack smirks, eyes flicking down your body like he already knows the punchline. “You’re the girl who walked onto the dance floor like she was dragging hell behind her. I don’t know your name yet, but it’s not Astrid.”

You laugh—low, dangerous, curling in your throat.

Then, slow and deliberate, you turn to face him. Your body brushes against his as you do—chest to chest now, sweat-slick skin catching under the low lights. Your fingers trail up the front of his shirt, just enough to remind him who’s been leading.

And you tell him.

Your real name.

No smirk. No shield. Just heat and honesty, dropped between you like a match.

Jack says nothing. Not at first. He just stares at you like you’ve cracked something open in him—and now he can’t look away.

Then:

“There she is.”

You swallow. Your mouth is suddenly dry. “Was she hiding?”

“No,” he says. “Just waiting for the music to be right.”

Mister! Look at your girl, she loves it I can see it in her eyes She hopes this lasts forever

You feel something break. Something good. Something electric.

“Atta girl,” Jack says under his breath.

And you burn. The way he looks at you? Like you’re a fucking sermon in stilettos? It’s worse.

It’s better.

The kiss lands like a blackout.

It doesn’t ask. Doesn’t flirt. It takes.

You feel it in the backs of your knees. In your fingertips. In the hard thump of your heart against his chest. Jack kisses like a man who doesn’t beg for shit—but knows how to ask with his mouth. And when you break—flushed, panting, lip-gloss ruined—you don’t step back.

You grip his zip-up.

Because you want to see what he does next.

He’s breathing heavy. Not winded, just—changed. Like something in him just got rewritten and he’s trying to pretend it didn’t shake him.

Your lips are still hovering near his. You don’t pull away. Neither does he.

He stares.

Eyes sharp. Searching.

Then—voice low, steady—he says:

“Now I’m really fucked.”

You laugh.

Jack grins like he hates that he said it—but not enough to take it back.

(Move, she wants to move) But you’re hogging her, you’re guarding her

“I should go,” you murmur, voice unsteady.

“Yeah?” he says, like he doesn’t believe you for a second.

You don’t move. “I don’t do this,” you add, quieter.

Jack hums. “What’s this?”

“This—floor. Bar. Random men.”

“Good,” he says. “I’m not random.”

You blink. “Aren’t you?”

He tilts his head. “Are you?”

You look at him for a long beat. The song’s still pounding around you, hips still brushing, heat still everywhere. But there’s something sharp in his eyes now. Something that wasn’t there before.

“I don’t make sense, do I?” you ask, not sure why you’re even saying it.

Jack studies you like he’s unwrapping something he shouldn’t touch but can’t stop himself from pulling apart. “No,” he says. “But I’m not here for sense.”

You let that sit. Then, tilting your chin up, you say:

“So what are you here for?”

Jack doesn’t blink. He steps in closer. So close his mouth grazes your cheek when he says it:

“You.”

Somebody get us some water in here ’Cause it’s hot!

Your breath stutters.

He presses his hand flat against your lower back. Doesn’t pull you in. Just holds you there. Anchors you.

His jaw flexes. He looks like he’s trying very, very hard to behave.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he murmurs.

You tilt your head. “Doing what?”

Jack leans in—nose to yours, mouth ghosting your cheek.

“Letting you get in my head.”

You laugh again. But this time it’s softer. More dangerous. He mutters something that sounds like a curse and presses his forehead to yours. You close your eyes.

For a second, it feels like the music vanishes. Like the floor disappears. Like you’re somewhere else—somewhere quieter, somewhere worse.

You open your eyes and he’s already looking at you. Like he never stopped. You don’t speak. Neither does he. You just stand there. Breathing the same air. Holding the same pulse.

And then—you move first. You grab his hand.

You don’t look back.

And Jack?

He follows.

Again.

You don’t say a word the entire ride to his apartment.

You sit in the back of the cab like you own it, legs crossed, one arm draped over the seat like you’re posing for a noir film. Your hair’s a mess. Your lipstick’s ruined. And you look like you planned it that way.

Jack doesn’t ask questions. He just stares out the opposite window like he’s trying to breathe through a four-alarm fire.

But his knee’s bouncing.

His jaw’s tight.

And when your heel nudges the inside of his ankle, just light enough to be casual, just sharp enough to be intentional—his entire thigh jerks like he’s been shocked.

You don’t look at him when you say it:

“You gonna survive the ride?”

He exhales through his nose. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You smile. “Too late.”

The cab stops. You slide out first without waiting, and he throws a couple bills at the driver before catching up, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s trying to hide just how badly they’re shaking.

You wait by the front door of the building like you live there.

“Top floor,” he mutters, unlocking it.

“Of course it is.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrug. “You seem like the type who’d want to be above it all. Elevators. Silence. No neighbors to hear you beg.”

His mouth twitches. “You think I beg?”

You lean in, brushing past him just enough to graze his chest as you step into the elevator. “I think you’ve never had to.”

He follows like gravity. Like hunger.

The elevator ride is silent, but not still.

You feel it in the tension of his shoulders, the way his hands flex at his sides like he doesn’t know whether to grab you or kneel. You feel it in the breath he lets out when the doors open, and the way his palm flattens against your lower back as he guides you down the hallway—not possessive, not protective—anchored.

He unlocks the door and steps aside, letting you enter first.

You walk in slow.

Deliberate.

Like you’re casing the joint.

“You bring a lot of women back here?” you ask, voice light, almost careless—like the question doesn’t already carry weight.

Jack drops his keys into the bowl by the door with a clatter, the sound sharp against the hush of the apartment. “No.”

You tilt your head, one brow arching. “Why not?”

He meets your eyes then—direct, unreadable, like he’s deciding how much of the truth to give you. “Most don’t make it past the bar.”

You laugh, low and smoky, lips curled around it like the edge of a cigarette. “So I’m special.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just watches you. "You’re dangerous."

“I get that a lot,” you murmur, half to yourself, like it’s a warning and a dare all in one.

You drift deeper into the living room, slow and unhurried, fingers trailing along the scarred edge of the coffee table like you’re reading it in braille. There’s no hesitation in your steps—just the kind of quiet certainty that comes from already having imagined this place in some half-formed dream. And now you’re here, seeing if the real thing matches the version you built in your head.

It does, mostly.

The couch is worn but clean, cushions slouched like they’ve weathered more than one exhausted shift. There’s a stack of JAMA journals on the end table, dog-eared and coffee-stained, buried halfway under a trauma manual and what looks like a folded VA benefits packet. An old Army rucksack slouches near the door. One of the kitchen chairs holds a crumpled black scrub top, sleeves still rolled. On the mantle: a coin from a combat medic unit, polished with habit. No pictures, no sentimental clutter—just usefulness, memory, and muscle memory dressed as routine.

It smells like soap and black coffee. Like someone who’s trying. Like someone who didn’t expect company but hasn’t minded the silence until now.

Jack doesn’t follow. Doesn’t interrupt. Just watches you like he’s trying to memorize the way you move—like every motion might be a trick wire.

You lower yourself onto the arm of the couch, smooth and casual, one leg crossing over the other with practiced grace. Your heel dangles in the air, catching light as you tilt your head, waiting.

Testing.

“Take your shirt off.”

He blinks, like the words short-circuited something in him. “Excuse me?”

You lean back, spine arching just slightly, mouth curved like sin. “What, shy all of a sudden?”

Jack breathes through his nose—controlled, clipped. “No.”

But he stays exactly where he is. Doesn’t lift a finger.

So you stand. Slow. Deliberate. The sound of your heels against the floor barely audible over the tension winding between you.

You cross the space with the grace of a fuse burning down. Stop just in front of him. Your fingers reach for the hem of his shirt—brush against the warm skin beneath.

Then pause.

You glance up, smile ghosting your lips.

“You want me to say please?”

His voice is low. Rough. All gravel and gasoline.

“Wouldn’t kill you."

You smile. “No. But it might ruin the fun.”

You trail your fingers just under the fabric, brushing the bare skin of his stomach. His abs tighten.

Then you back away.

And he follows.

God, he follows.

You circle the couch, slow and predatory, every step measured. Jack shadows you without hesitation, his gait looser, rougher—controlled chaos barely held in check. You feel it behind you, the tension, the heat, the way the air stretches thin and electric between your bodies. Like a wire dipped in oil, ready to catch flame.

Then—his hand closes around your wrist.

Not rough. Not gentle. Just decisive. A touch that says enough without raising its voice.

“Stop teasing.”

“I’m not teasing,” you murmur, voice slick with heat and intent. “I’m building tension.”

Jack pulls you flush against him, the heat of his body undeniable. His breath ghosts your jaw before his lips do, and when he speaks, it’s a growl under his breath.

“You planning to snap it?”

You smirk, tilting your head just enough to brush your cheek against his. “Eventually.”

He kisses you—hard, sudden, like he’s trying to reclaim ground he never owned. It’s messy. Hungry. All teeth and tongue and something older than want. His hands slide up your sides, slow at first, then firmer, more sure—fingertips skimming under the edge of your bra just enough to make you gasp into his mouth.

But then you push him off.

Just a few inches. Just enough to break the kiss.

To remind him—you’re still calling the shots.

“Not yet.”

He blinks. Dazed. Breathless.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

You reach up, slow and certain, fingers threading through the sweat-damp strands at his hairline. You brush it back from his forehead like it’s nothing—like it’s everything—and watch the way his breath hitches, how his eyes stay locked on yours even when they flicker like a flame in wind.

“You’re used to being the one who calls the shots, huh?”

Jack doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at you—like he’s not sure whether to pull you under or fall at your feet. Like he wants to ruin you and worship you in the same breath.

“I’m used to getting what I want,” he says finally, voice low and raw.

You don’t blink.

You lean in. “And what do you want right now?”

He swallows hard. “You.”

You hum. “Say please.”

Jack closes his eyes. Jaw clenched.

You wait.

And wait.

Then—

“Please.”

You grin.

“There he is.”

You push him onto the couch and straddle him, grinding down slow. He groans, head tipping back, hands clutching the fabric of the cushion like he’s going to tear it in half.

“Can I touch you?” he pants.

“Not yet.”

He curses under his breath.

You lean down and whisper, “But soon.”

You kiss him again—messy now, deep and open-mouthed, your teeth catching on his lower lip. He groans into it, hands flexing at his sides like it’s taking everything he has not to touch you.

You slide down his body slow, lips dragging over his neck, collarbone, chest. You unbutton his shirt halfway just to make room, push the fabric aside. He’s warm under your mouth. Tense.

When you sink to your knees, his breath catches.

“Fuck,” he mutters, already wrecked.

You glance up, smirk tugging at your lips. “Breathe, Jack.”

But he can’t—not really. Not when you’re undoing his belt, not when your fingers slip inside the waistband of his jeans. He lifts his hips without being asked, eyes locked on you like you’re something holy and untrustworthy all at once.

And when you free him—thick, flushed, already leaking—his jaw drops open, like the sound he makes gets lost somewhere in his chest.

You drag your tongue up the underside of him once. Light. Teasing.

He shudders.

You hum like you’re tasting something expensive. “Is this something that you want?”

He nods, but it’s not enough.

You look up. “Use your words.”

His voice is hoarse. “Yes. Please.”

So you give it to him.

You take him in slow, the kind of slow that ruins men. Hollow cheeks, wet lips, just enough pressure to make him twitch.

You don’t break eye contact when you take him in your mouth.

Not once.

Jack’s head tips back with a groan, low and guttural, like he’s trying to stop himself from unraveling. One hand curls into the couch cushion behind him, the other hovers mid-air, clenching and unclenching like he doesn’t know where to put it.

He’s trying so hard not to touch you.

Trying to be good.

And you love that.

“Jesus,” he rasps, the word punched out of him. “Fuck, you—”

You pull off suddenly, lips wet, breath steady, and just smile.

“Still think I’m dangerous?” you ask sweetly.

“Worse,” he mutters. “You’re fucking lethal.”

You run your thumb along his slick length. His whole body tenses like you’ve rewired his nervous system. Your lips are swollen, chin slick, breath steady only because you’ve trained it to be. Jack’s a fucking mess—his head tipped back, chest rising like he’s trying not to lose control of every muscle group at once. His shirt’s halfway open, clinging to sweat-damp skin.

Good.

You lick your lips and sit back on your heels, slow. Measured. In control. Until your voice cuts through the air like a match to gasoline:

“All right, Doc.”

He looks down at you—lips parted, chest heaving, pupils blown wide. Dazed. Wrecked. Like he can barely focus through the aftershocks.

You tilt your head. Smile like a loaded gun.

“You earned it.”

He doesn’t move. Just stares. Breath shallow. Jaw clenched. And then it hits him—what you mean. Something flickers behind his eyes. That clean, military stillness, the ER control—it burns off like vapor. What’s left is heat. Dark. Focused. Dangerous.

He moves like a lit fuse—controlled, lethal, immediate.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, rasped, already rising like the question doesn’t matter.

You nod once, slow. Deliberate.

“Don’t go easy.”

He doesn’t.

Jack grabs you with both hands—one under your thighs, the other cradling the back of your neck—and lifts you off the ground like it’s nothing. He drops you onto the couch with a roughness that makes your breath catch, not cruel, but deliberate. Like he’s finally been unshackled.

“You tease me like that,” he says, peeling your dress down with sharp, practiced motions, “and think I’m gonna be gentle?”

You’re already gasping when he drags your underwear down and parts your legs. His thumb presses against your inner thigh like a hold order. His eyes—fuck—they’re so locked in it’s like he’s triaging you.

“Jesus,” he mutters when he gets a full look at you. “Dripping.”

You tilt your hips forward, inviting. “Guess you made an impression.”

Jack growls.

Actually growls.

He drops to his knees between your thighs, grabbing your ass and pulling you forward like he’s anchoring you. You barely manage to exhale before his mouth is on you—hot, devastating, tongue working you open like he’s angry about it.

You gasp, loud, your hand shooting out to grip the armrest. “Jack—fuck—Jack—”

He doesn’t stop.

He devours. Moans into it like you taste better than anything he’s had in years, and every flick of his tongue feels designed. Precision-trained. Weaponized. You grind against his face, and he lets you, lets you lose the last of your power because he wants it.

When he pulls away, your thighs are shaking. His mouth is wet. And his voice is wrecked:

“Still feel like running the show?”

You stare down at him, breathless—lips parted, chest rising fast. “No.”

Jack moves without a word, the shift in him absolute. He pulls the condom from his back pocket, movements sharp, assured. The foil tears with a sound that feels like a warning.

You’re still catching your breath when he grabs your waist and flips you, quick and certain—like instinct. The cushions press against your chest as your knees sink into the couch, legs spread, back arched. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide—just the give of the cushions beneath you and the way he holds you there, open. Offered. Ready.

His hands grip your hips, anchoring.

He leans in, breath hot against your shoulder.

“This okay?”

“Yes,” you gasp, already shaking.

He squeezes, hard enough to ground you. “Say it like you mean it.”

“Yes, Jack, please—”

He slides in with a brutal, delicious thrust that knocks the breath clean out of you.

“Holy—fuck—”

Jack doesn’t ease in. He’s slow for maybe one, maybe two strokes, just long enough to feel you clench around him—and then he lets go.

He grabs your hips and he slams into you again and again, groaning low in his throat like he’s been holding this in for years.

“You feel what you did to me?” he pants, one hand sliding up your back, gripping your shoulder as he fucks you like he’s chasing something.

You moan into the cushions. “Yes—yes—fuck, Jack—”

“Losing it in my own damn apartment, couldn’t even breathe—and you just smiled. You think I wasn’t gonna make you pay for that?”

He hits deeper. Harder.

Your back arches, your nails digging into the upholstery, every nerve ending lit up like a switchboard.

He leans over you, one hand sliding under to toy with your clit, the other braced at your jaw, tilting your face toward him.

“Come for me,” he growls into your ear. “Let me have it.”

You fall apart with a gasp so loud it rips straight through you. You convulse around him, hips bucking, whole body shaking as the orgasm slams into you with no warning, no mercy.

Jack fucks you through it—grunting, holding you tight—and then he’s gone too, groaning into your shoulder, hips stuttering as he spills into the condom, voice low and ragged like gravel dragged across pavement.

When he finally stills, he stays there—pressed against you, catching his breath, one hand still fisted in your hair, the other braced on the back of the couch.

Neither of you moves for a long moment.

And then, low, lazy:

“You always give control up that easy?” he mutters, voice rough—still wrecked from it.

You laugh, breath catching on the inhale.

“That wasn’t easy.”

Jack kisses your shoulder, mouth warm, open. “No?”

You shift back against him, ass brushing his thigh, grin tugging at the corners of your lips.

“That was me returning the favor.”

He laughs—low, broken, completely unrepentant.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice all gravel and smoke.

“I’m screwed now, huh?” you breathe.

Jack drags you into his lap like gravity’s got a grudge. Like the space between you was never meant to exist. The couch creaks under the shift, one cushion dipping low beneath his weight, the other barely holding you up—like even the furniture knows how close this is to collapse.

His hand slides around your waist, anchoring you there, and he leans in—breath warm at your temple, mouth brushing skin like it’s a promise.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, low and wrecked. “You have no idea.”

[dudewithastick]

me logging onto tumblr after consuming a new piece of media

[dudewithastick]

the thing is that childhood doesn't just end when you turn 18 or when you turn 21. it's going to end dozens of times over. your childhood pet will die. actors you loved in movies you watched as a kid will die. your grandparents will die, and then your parents will die. it's going to end dozens and dozens of times and all you can do is let it. all you can do is stand in the middle of the grocery store and stare at freezers full of microwave pizza because you've suddenly been seized by the memory of what it felt like to have a pizza party on the last day of school before summer break. which is another ending in and of itself

[dudewithastick]

No Myrna!

Pairing: Michael „Robby“ Robinavitch x chief resident!f! reader

Warnings: fluff, age gap, mentions of death and injury, mentions of amputation, the Pitt crew being a dysfunctional family, Myrna being Myrna, reader can be read as autistic though it is not explicitly stated, Myrna ships it, unaccurate depiction of how hospitals work, medical inaccuracies

Summary: Some days begin bad and only get worse as the day goes on, but sometimes at the end of it it is all worth it.

Words: 6.2 k

A/N: Hey, so I still wrote this. The next part for ‚First meetings‘ is currently in progress and so is the second part of ‚Sweet boy‘, though I cannot promise to update as frequently as I have in the past few days due to Uni starting again and I don‘t know how much writing I will be able to get done between assignments. I still hope you enjoy :)

It was one of those days, one of those days that promised to be horrendous from the moment they started. It started with a malfunctioning alarm, making her wake up way too late. A hastily prepared, then dropped breakfast, spilled coffee, a quick scrub change that ended in her almost hitting her head on the dresser. Almost getting run over by a total of four cars and she had not even reached the hospital at that point.

Inside the hospital it only got worse, barely not slipping on something wet, something that looked suspiciously like pee, though she was not sure if it was human or animal pee, but honestly she did not care. Nearly being elbowed by a patient in the face as she made her way through the waiting room to get to the ED she finally slipped into the controlled chaos of The Pitt.

Just ducking out of the way in time an empty bedpan came flying at her head. Quickly she made her way towards the breakroom. If this day could get any worse she really hoped that she would not have to be part of it. Setting her backpack down she opened it only to realise her lunch was not in there, nor was her beloved thermos filled with Chai. They must still be sitting safely on the kitchen counter in her apartment. A long sigh escaped her as she leaned against the chair, eyes closed, her shift had not even started yet and she was about to have a breakdown already.

„Morning, Sunshine,“ the gravelly voice of the night shift attending, a hint of humour in his tone as she glared up at him.

„Morning,“ she grumbled at the man who let out a low whistle, „What do you want?“ she sighed, rubbing her face, hoping that the man was just there to check in on her and not deliver some kind of news. As she looked up she saw his expression, mild worry, but also amusement mixed with something that looked like guilt.

„Don‘t tell me, let me guess,“ she sighed, she knew that look well, it was the same look Robby would give her when he told her that they were understaffed, „We are severely understaffed today.“

„Bingo,“ Abbot sighed, crossing his arms in front of his chest, „Collins, McKay and Mohan all called in sick, you also want all the nurses that are not there?“ His tone was not amused, as she buried her face in her hands, just shaking her head.

„And the med students?“ she asked, hopeful that at least one of them might have called in sick. It was not that she hoped that they were sick, it was simply that with this rotation of med students and the new intern she only really liked one of them.

„All in today,“ Abbot spoke softly as she let out another low groan. This was really not the news she wanted to have to deal with right now. That would mean that shit would really hit the fan today.

„So who is coming in for backup?“ she asked, „It can‘t just be Robby, Dr. King, the med students and I, right?“ she asked. The expression on Abbot‘s face said more than enough as she asked the question.

„Seriously?“ she asked, „No backup?“ she was starting to boil, this was not something she could deal with right now.

„I‘m staying, working a double so you guys aren‘t that understaffed, but…“ Abbot trailed off, gesturing with his hand in the air.

„No one can come in?“ she gaped at him, feeling like he was trying to pull a joke on her, a really bad one at that.

„Almost everyone‘s sick,“ Abbot explained. She hated flu season more than anything, because even if you wore a mask full time in the ED, you would still get sick at some point and apparently the entire Pitt crew was knocked out.

„May God help us all,“ she muttered as she got up from her seat, walking over to Abbot. „Thanks for sticking around,“ she smiled at him, he simply nodded, gently patting her back. They started walking towards central, as they reached the most open part of the ED she could see Gloria walking around, talking to Robby.

She looked around for the transfer notes Ellis had written for her and Collins, though she knew that these were now mostly her patients, glancing at the board she knew that today would get even worse than it had already been until now. Dr. King seemed to have been put in charge of triage, something she was incredibly thankful for, this was not something she needed on her plate now as well.

„So which Med Student do you want to drag around all day?“ Abbot asked as he also glared at the board like it had personally offended him.

„Just keep Santos off my back and I am happy,“ she muttered, glancing over to the side she could see the intern and two med students chatting amongst themselves, „I think Javadi should help with triage, she has some experience there,“ she muttered.

„So you are giving me the honour of working with Dr. Santos?“ Abbot asked, a half teasing tone in his voice, she gave him a mildly annoyed glance. She thought Santos was full of potential, could make a great doctor, but she thought she would fit better in surgery. Her bedside manner lacked to an extent that was almost painful.

„Yeah,“ she nodded, „Please, I know you are a lot better at handling people like that,“ she sighed, giving Abbot a pleading look.

„I know someone that has a lot more patience and a firm but gentle hand that could use some practice working with people like that,“ his voice was still teasing and she shook her head. He was right, she needed to work with people like Santos more often. Robby told her as much, that had been one of the reasons she had ended up in his ED and not in surgery, the simple fact that she could not stand people like Santo.

„Shut up,“ she gave him a glare as she took a deep breath. Suddenly even over the chaos of the Pitt she heard soft tapping of feet, accompanied by the squeaking of wheelchair wheels.

No, please, not today.

„Hey there, sweet cheeks,“ the voice of Myrna came from behind her. Turning her head slightly she gave the older woman a long, hard glare.

„Good morning, Myrna,“ she said in a tight voice. Usually she found some amusement in the older woman, but today she was really not in the mood for her shenanigans.

“Your boyfriend is looking for you, sweet cheeks,“ Myrna nodded in the direction of Dr. Robby. A low groan escaped her at that, most days when Myrna would call Dr. Robby her boyfriend she would get at least a bit flustered, but right now her nerves were already frayed and she was not sure how much of this she could deal with today.

„Myrna,“ she drew out the older woman‘s name in a warning, „Dr. Robby is not my boyfriend, but thank you for letting me know he is looking for me,“ she muttered under her breath as she turned to head towards Robby. Abbot gave her a pat on the back, a reassuring smile on his lips as she started walking away from Myrna she heard her voice again.

„Whatever you say, sweet cheeks,“ then she heard her tone shifting again, probably starting to flirt with Abbot. As she reached Robby Gloria was still following him around, talking to him about patient satisfaction, again. Telling him how his department needed to get better numbers or otherwise the risk of them getting shut down was going to rise. Her brow twitched at that, this was seriously going to be her final straw for the day. As Robby saw her his frown disappeared for a brief moment, but reappeared as Gloria continued to yap in his ear.

„Fucking hell!“ she snapped at Gloria, surprising both Robby and Gloria, but mostly herself „You don‘t work down here and all you do is complain and complain and complain!“ she felt the building anger and frustration of the barely started day begin to manifest, her mind was reeling, she needed to get herself to calm down again. „You don‘t know what it is like to have to work with a barely existent team! You sit in your office all day and complain and complain about our performance!“ Before she was able to say another word, Robby put a hand on her shoulder, stepping towards her.

„Alright, Gloria I think you have heard that speech already,“ Robby gave the CMO an angry glare.

„That discussion is not over yet, Robinavitch!“ With an angry huff she walked past them, not before shooting her a disapproving glare.

„You okay there?“ Robby asked after Gloria was out of earshot. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment then nodded slightly.

„Just a really rough start to the day,“ she whispered, like it was some deep secret. Robby gave her a worried glance, raising his brow in question.

„Robby,“ she took a deep breath, knowing that the following statement would probably explain to him how bad her mood was, „I can feel the part of my scrubs where I cut off the label rubbing against my neck and I feel like my whole body is on fire, I can hear every single sound in my vicinity and it feels like my brain is about to go into an overload induced shut down, so yeah, a really rough start to the day,“ she gave Robby a pointed look at her, slowly lifting his hand from her shoulder. A soft sigh escaped her, usually if it were anyone else that had touched her this long she would have snapped at them in the mood she was currently in, but Robby‘s hand on her shoulder had been a reassurance of some sort, comforting, grounding.

„Okay, I get that, but I need you here with me right now, okay?“ His voice was gentle as he spoke to her. She nodded slightly as she took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down.

„You take Whitaker with you, I will make sure he stays on track so you don‘t have to worry about that as well. Stay on top of the higher risk patients Ellis handed you over, Abbot will make sure the lower risk patients are cared for. For incoming traumas today it will be you and Whitaker, alright, I will join you if I can, but right now we will have to make sure that we stay on top of everything, okay.“ It was just a rundown of the plan. A rundown of the way they would be operating today and for some reason it was probably a greater comfort than anything else he could have told her. The instructions were clear, care for the high risk patients, handle incoming traumas. Everyone else would have to find a way to deal with their plates during this shift.

“Thanks, Robby,” she gave him a small smile. Robby never failed to help her in situations like this, always knowing what to say or what to do, he had this way about him when he talked to her like this. Taking deep breaths, she tried to focus on what was important right now, deep breaths, be nice to the kid, take care of the patients.

“Of course,” slowly he reached out, giving her time to say something if she didn't want him to touch her. Nodding softly she gave Robby a quick smile, he gently padded her shoulder.

“And remember to eat and drink something,” he gently spoke. Nodding slowly she squared her shoulders, readying herself for the worst thing that could happen during this shift.

——————

Whitaker had joined her quickly, she had put him on two cases they needed to take care of, just getting the history of the patients and a basic workup before their exam and treatment. He had handled that rather well and had even given minor treatment orders to the people he had seen, already lifting some work from her. She still checked up on them, calling radiology or surgery to get these people in line for whatever they needed.

A bicycle accident had come in as a trauma, she and Whitaker had been able to handle it quickly, sending the man to the CT and then to the OR within twenty minutes. The guy had been complaining the entire time, threatening to sue her and the hospital if he wouldn’t be able to ride a bicycle angin.

She had yelled at the Attending of Cardiology when he had bitched about not having enough beds for the cardiology cases she needed to send upstairs. Both had major heart issues, even if it was not a heart attack they would still receive much better and safer care in cardiology. He had folded after she had told him that she would be sending them up anyway, even if he told her that there was no room, which she knew was bullshit because Esme had told her that three beds in cardiology had opened up. While all this was happening there was one major annoyance always not too far away from her: Myrna.

“No Myrna!” she had shouted as she saw the older woman trying to roll out of the ambulance bay door, rolling her back she had put the brakes back into place, leaving the woman at the nurses’ station. Whitaker, the poor guy, had gotten an obscene amount of bodily fluids over him during the entire shift and she was just glad that this was not her.

Another trauma had come in, this time a kid that had fallen off the balcony on the second floor. His mother had screamed in her ear the entire time, elbowed her in the stomach twice and once accidentally hit her in the throat with an open hand. They had gotten him stabilised as well, sending him up for a CT and then neurology, she had yelled at the chief resident there, telling him that they currently had not the capacity to deal with a potentially paralyzed seven year old. He had simply muttered something about his Attending killing him, but had taken the kid upstairs.

“No Myrna!” she had shouted as Myrna seemed to be heading straight for the men’s restroom. Pulling the wheelchair backwards towards the disabled bathroom.

“Or I can get you a bedpan,” she had told Myrna with a deadly glare. The older woman had simply lifted her hands, grinning like a cheshire cat and agreed to use the bedpan. It was like she was trying to get on her nerves today.

“Just tell your boyfriend that I am missing him today!” Myrna sighed as she handed her the clean bedpan. A groan left her lips as she heard Dana shouting at her that they had a motorcycle accident victim coming in hot via air transport.

They had headed to the roof, just her, Whitaker and Robby. The EMT’s had helped bring the man into trauma 2, getting him on the gurney and making him comfortable. He had practically been sliced in half, there was nothing they could really do, it was a miracle the man had even survived that long. They pumped him full of morphine and tried to stop the bleeding as best they could, luckily thanks to the EMT’s they knew that he had a DNR so when his heart stopped they simply turned off the monitor and had to move on.

The wife and kids of the motorcycle accident victim had arrived only about ten minutes after he had passed away. His wife had yelled at her for not doing more to save her husband even after she had explained the DNR and the issue with his injuries to her. She had tried to punch her, then was escorted out of the ED while she was still screaming and thrashing around, swearing to sue the hospital.

She had called Dr. Shamsi, this time she had not yelled at the person she was talking to over the phone. Nicely asking if she had the capacity to take one of her patients into an OR ASAP, luckily Shamsi still owed her for something so that was quickly done and another bed was freed up.

An amputation of the left leg at the knee had been brought in, they had stopped the bleeding, pumped the man full of morphine, called radiology, booked him an x-ray and a CT, bumped a few other people waiting, but got him off their hands rather quickly, especially since they still had the limb and surgery would take him quickly to make sure that they could still try and reattach the leg.

“Uhm…sorry?” Whitaker asked as she stared at the board trying to make a mental checklist of people she could move around or discharge, though most of the patients she was seeing were not ready to be discharged yet.

“What, Whitaker?” she asked, glancing over to him, he stood beside her, staring at the empty space where Myrna’s wheelchair had been only five minutes ago.

“Oh shit no!” she cried out, looking around she saw Abbot talking to one of the nurses, Santos running around like a headless chicken.

“Abbot!” she shouted as loudly as she could, his head snapped towards her, “Do you know where Myrna is?” He just shrugged and shook his head.

“Well, shit!” she cursed, looking around she saw one of the nursing students looking a little lost, like he had no task. “Terry, come here,” she gestured him over to her, “I have a very important task for you,”

Terry had luckily found Myrna, it had taken him almost half an hour, but he had found the woman, something she was incredibly grateful for, especially since in this half hour she had been able to finish up a few cases for Abbot who seemed to be a bit overloaded with them. A fight bite, a kid who had broken his arm, an elderly woman that had broken her hip, a young guy that had gotten his hand stuck in a bottle.

“You know you and your boyfriend make a really cute couple,” Myrna almost purred, “But I have to say that I am kind of jealous of you, I would like to get a taste of that ass,”

“Jesus Christ, no Myrna, for the last time he is not my boyfriend!” she groaned as she headed towards a room in which Dr. King had just deposited an agitated twenty five year old that was vomiting blood.

That case was solved quickly after asking a few questions and finding out that he had a nosebleed and had put his head up instead of down and had swallowed a whole lot of blood. Still she had done an ultrasound and ordered a CT to rule out anything serious. Whitaker was also running around now, helping an asthmatic patient, doing sutures on another one, taping wounds shut or helping out where an extra pair of hands was needed.

Another trauma rolled in, a teen that had been electrocuted by the neighbours new electric fence. Garcia from surgery came down for that, she had tried really hard not to yell at the woman that frayed her nerves on the best of days, but today was not a good day so she had yelled at her as well. Telling her to suck it up and just take the kid that clearly needed surgery for his arm upstairs.

“You know, I never thought I would say that, but…” Robby trailed off as he watched Garcia take the teenager upstairs for surgery, “You in a bad mood really makes all the difference on a bad day, maybe we need you in a bad mood on more days, you have been clearing beds and moving patients like there is no tomorrow,” Robby gave her a small grin as she rubbed her face, feeling like her head was about to explode. She looked at Robby, not being able to suppress her annoyance.

“You can be lucky I didn’t kill anyone yet,” she muttered looking around, “Though you might be getting a complaint about me from cardiology and neurology,” she muttered under her breath, trying to keep herself from shutting down. The only thing that kept her brain from going into a complete shutdown and probably meltdown was the adrenaline pumping through her system. Taking a shuddering breath she was about to bolt towards central again when Robby grabbed her arm.

“Did you eat something?” he asked, giving her a concerned look. His big brown eyes looked like a puppy as he stared at her.

“Robby it is not even noon yet, I don’t need lunch right now,” she grumbled and was about to rip her arm from his grasp when he pulled out a protein bar from the front pocket of the jacket he was wearing.

“Eat that now, I don’t care if you eat it in two bites, just eat it,” Robby’s expression was stern as he handed her the protein bar, giving her hand a slight squeeze as he handed it over to her. Quickly unwrapping it she thanked him quietly and left the room, wolfing it down in three quick bites.

Hysterical screaming came from somewhere, deciding that it was best to head in that direction. She saw a woman holding her own hand, and for a moment it did not register in her mind what was wrong with that image, but then she saw it. She was the woman literally holding her own hand and for a moment she wondered what it was with all these amputations today. Bringing the woman to a room she quickly took care of everything, also putting her in line for an x-ray, calling surgery to give them a heads up about another amputation.

“You know, my husbands never made sure that I ate, and you insist that he is not even your boyfriend,” Myrna tutted from behind her as she leaned against a work station, feeling her back pop in a few places as she stretched it.

“Myrna…” she sighed, rubbing her forehead. For a moment she wanted to yell ‘No, Myrna!’ again, but her thought process was interrupted by Whitaker yelling.

“I need a little help here! Code blue!” he shouted. He sounded a little panicky as she saw him, grabbing a pair of gloves she started running towards the room. A group of nurses already brought the crash cart with them. As she entered the room Whittaker was already doing chest compression. It wasn't even five minutes and the patient was back again, taking a deep breath as she did an exam, trying to find out what was wrong. Waiting for lab results would probably bring some clarity to that situation.

The day went on and after what felt like an entire gruelling shift it was only noon. Standing at a workstation she quickly typed in the information for the chart.

“Here you go,” Robby appeared right beside her, a mug of something that smelled like chai and a sandwich in hand. A laugh escaped her as she pulled out a sandwich from her scrub pocket. It was egg salad, something she knew Robby loved.

“Thanks,” she took the mug of chai, the sandwich, handed Robby his sandwich and gave him a small smile.

“Of course, can’t have my best resident collapse by the end of this shift,” he smiled at her as he unwrapped his sandwich as well, they ate in silence while both of them filled out a few charts.

A groan echoed from somewhere near them. Myrna was watching them, shaking her head like she could not believe what she was seeing.

“No Myrna!” both of them groaned at the same time, “Don’t even say it,” Robby shook his head as he got up from his chair, giving her a gentle pat on the back.

“You got this,” he smiled at her as he disappeared into the depths of the ED, looking over her shoulder she could see Abbot leaning against the nurses’ station, looking like a ghost on two legs, at least to the people that knew him. Getting up from her seat she grabbed a sandwich off the tray and threw it towards him. A quick smile on her lips as he caught it, toasting it towards her with a small smile.

Hurrying off, she continued to treat patients. Broken bones, deep cuts, other issues. She tried her best to keep up with everything.

Patient yelled at her, threatened her, one even spit her in the face. The only reason she had not punched him being that Whitaker had somehow in his awkward and yet adorable fashion deescalated the situation.

“No Myrna!” she hollered across the ED as she saw the older woman trying to escape once again. She didn’t even have to start moving, Robby already there, turning Myrna around and pushing her back towards where they usually parked her. A relieved sigh escaped her lips as she was able to head off again.

Time dragged on and the day felt like it was never going to be over. More angry patients about the long wait times, more agitated people, more people that were yelling and luckily at some point amidst all the chaos of the day shift change arrived. It went relatively smoothly and she was able to leave the ED by eight sharp.

“Hey!” Princess shouted, “Do you want to join us in the park?” She tilted her head towards the park where she knew the rest of the Pitt crew sometimes spent their evenings. For a moment she hesitated, she had the feeling that this day would only get worse if she decided to stay outside for much longer, but as she saw Abbot and Robby standing with Princess she simply nodded quietly.

“Yeah, why not,” she whispered softly as she trudged along with them, at the front of the hoard were Santos, Whitaker and Javadi, chattering about something. In all honesty she was not sure how the three got along, but apparently things like a mass casualty event bring people together. Abbot and Robby were talking in hushed voices, like they were sharing some kind of secret with each other. Finally they reached the park benches, a long groan escaped her as she was finally able to take a seat. Her legs hurt like hell and she saw Abbot taking off his prosthetic, a sigh of relief coming from him.

Beside her Robby was moving his hand around his backpack. Suddenly he let out a sound that was oddly close to pride as he pulled out a small bag. Quickly opening it he smiled softly.

“Come on, hand out,” he gently nudged her side as she stared at him for a moment, confusion settling in her mind, though she was too tired to argue, simply holding her hand out. Carefully he tilted the paper bag and from it dropped a few roasted almonds into the palm of her hand.

Her eyes went wide as she saw them hitting her hand. A bright smile grew on her lips as she looked at Robby.

“Thanks,” she grinned at him, picking up one of them and popping it in her mouth. As she chewed on the sweet almond a soft sigh escaped her. Around her the chatter continued, she continued to snack on the almonds, feeling a single hot tear of gratitude run down her cheek, quickly she wiped it away.

“You okay?” Robby gave her a gentle smile as he looked over at her, a beer in his hand. His big brown eyes that were always so full of worry fixed on her.

“Just,” she looked at the roasted almonds in her hand, she choked slightly, “This just made my day,” she whispered, smiling tiredly at him. “How did you know?” she asked in a quiet tone so that the others around them wouldn’t hear them.

“You mentioned once that these were your favorite snacks after a rough shift, so I decided to get some in case you need a ‘little pick me up’ from time to time,” he smiled at her. She could feel her face getting hot as she nodded softly.

“Can I?” she gently nodded in the direction of his shoulder, she knew that Robby didn’t always want to be touched, just like her, so she just wanted to make sure she didn’t overstep. Especially after this rough of a shift.

“Of course,” he gave her a soft smile. Scotting a bit closer she felt their arms brush, leaning her head against his shoulder was a relief, his warmth a great comfort, the feeling of his breaths calming in a way that little else was to her nowadays. Closing her eyes she simply listened to the conversation around her. Almost about to fall asleep when Whitaker’s voice pulled her out of the lull.

“Who is Myrna talking about when referring to her,” she opened her eyes slightly, seeing Whitaker gesture in her direction. “Boyfriend?”

The question hung in the air for a moment before she heard laughing coming from somewhere beside her, it was definitely Abbot laughing.

“Ah, come on man,” Robby grumbled, she could feel the vibrations of his voice against the crown of her head.

“Whitaker,” Abbot laughed again, he was probably shaking his head. There was a long silence, then a deep breath. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Yeah, sorry, Dr. Robby, but I thought you were her partner and Myrna was just always referring to someone else being her partner,” Whitaker sounded mildly embarrassed.

“Honestly, same,” she heard Santos, then a few gulps, probably drowning the rest of her beer can.

“Why does everyone think we are a couple?” Robby sounded mildly confused, amusement lacing his voice. A few beats of silence.

“You are literally letting her sleep on your shoulder,” Abbot sounded so amused that she had to refrain from opening her eyes. “And you hate almonds,” there was a pause, “You carry around almonds for her, you wouldn’t eat them even if it was your only option,” Abbot repeated his statement.

“And you bring her food,” Princess now chimed in. There was a low agreement of murmurs, then another voice spoke up.

“And you bring her tea,” Donnie, he sounded like he was about to start laughing.

“Oh, and I still remember that look on your face when that patient was flirting with her last week, you looked like you wanted to rip that guy’s head off,” Jesse spoke in his usual soft and measured tone, though there was a certain amusement to it as well.

For a moment these statements hung in the air, weighing down the atmosphere, then a soft laugh came from Robby. She was shaken slightly and let out a quiet huff of dissatisfaction, the shaking stopped slowly.

“I guess we do act like a couple,” he sighed, running his hand over face, at least that's what it felt like.

“And it’s a damn shame you aren’t actually one,” Abbot sounded like he had told Robby that countless times already. Slowly she started to blink, opening her eyes she let out a soft yawn, the chilly air in the park made her shiver slightly as she sat up straight again.

“You got a jacket?” Robby asked her as he looked at the goosebumps on her arms. Giving him a sheepish smile she shook her head, before she was able to say anything Robby had already unzipped his hoodie, slipping out of it.

“No, Robby,” she shook her head, stopping him in his motions, gently placing her hand on his. “It’s alright,” she smiled at him, simply wrapping her arms around herself. Glancing to the side she could see the looks being exchanged between the others.

The evening wore on, from time to time she could see Robby twitching when she rubbed her arms. Slowly but surely everyone started heading home until it was just her and Robby sitting on the park bench. Glancing over at him she smiled softly, his features were only illuminated by the dim light from the lantern near them. He looked magnificent with his hair slightly mussed and eyes half closed because he was so tired.

“I think I should head home,” his voice cracked slightly as he was about to get up. She was not sure what possessed her to do it, but she grabbed his hand. The warmth sent a slight shiver down her spine as she squeezed it.

“Thank you, Robby,” she whispered, giving him a watery smile.

“For what?” he looked slightly confused, now standing, looking down at her with those big brown eyes.

“For caring about me,” it sounded so strange to say out loud. Yet she squeezed his hand softly, trying to keep herself from saying more, the tiredness in her bones and yearning in her heart almost too much.

“Of course,” he spoke softly, he sighed, “Do you want company?” he sounded so unsure, like he was proposing something scandalous.

“Yes,” she nodded, it was hard for her to admit these things. She had been alone for such a long time that even asking for something as simple as that felt like a burden.

“Alright, come on,” he did not let go of her hand as he pulled her up from where she was sitting on the bench, picking up her bag and slung it over her shoulder. During the walk to Robby’s place they never let go of each other’s hands, like it was the only way to not lose each other in a crowded room, though the streets were empty.

At his place he had turned on the lights, offered her something to eat, something proper. Together they ate the leftovers in silence, no words needed to be exchanged between them, at least no right now. As the plates were empty the silence stretched on, sitting at the kitchen table in the dim light of his apartment for the first time it felt like whatever had been building between them had come to a peak. The years of shared pain, the years of shared fear, anger and resentment against the world, the loneliness that could threaten to consume someone even when surrounded by people.

After a moment Robby got up, putting the plates into the dishwasher, he leaned against the kitchen counter for a long moment, staring at the washing machine.

“Do you want to stay?” his voice was soft, glancing over his shoulder she could see the pain in his eyes.

“If it’s alright with you,” she answered in a hushed tone, afraid that if she spoke any louder the moment might shatter. That she would wake up in the ED because she had been knocked out by a patient and all of this was just a dream, just a fantasy her mind had conjured up.

“It is,” he nodded, then left the kitchen, for a moment she was concerned, not sure where he had gone. Then he returned two neatly folded items of clothing in his hands. “I guess you don’t want to sleep in your scrubs,” his tone sounded light and for a moment she thought that she could get used to this.

“Yes, thank you,” getting up from where she was sitting and taking the clothes from Robby.

It was a pair of his joggers and an old worn out t-shirt that smelled like him. Changing in the bathroom she put her scrubs into the washing machine, Robby put it on for a quick load, they settled on the couch while they waited for the washing machine to finish, she was snuggled up beside him, her head resting against his chest. Neither of them really acknowledged the fact that they both knew that there was no going back from this, that they had crossed a line on which they had been teetering for way too long.

The beeping sounded, she put everything into the dryer, putting that on. Robby started turning off the lights as they reached the bedroom he picked up a pillow. Shaking her head she had gently wrangled it out of his hands again, putting it on the bed.

Together they settled under the soft covers and for the first time in what felt like forever her mind stopped going in circles as she laid down, the comforting weight of Robby behind her. The first time in forever that when she laid down to sleep she was not plagued by anxiety or the feeling of shame, at that moment it was simple, it was easy, it was peaceful. Though the last thought that crossed her mind before she slipped off to sleep was the way she had hollered ‘No Myrna!’ across the ED and the expression on Robby’s face when he had looked at her while wheeling Myrna back to the nurses’ station. That warmth, that fondness wrapping around her mind like a warm blanket.

[dudewithastick]

simmering | dr. jack abbot

pairing: jack abbot x f!resident!reader warnings: language, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late 20s/early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s), references to sex but nothing explicit, you and jack shower together after a horrible shift, pre-relationship domestic bliss, sweet sweet fluff <3 word count: 2.1k summary: you and jack are spent. you stumble into uncharted intimate territory in the confines of his luxurious shower. notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with my work or this fic. i wrote this kind of spur the moment today, but i'm very happy with how this turned out <3 this is a part of the ring of fire interconnected series, but it’s not necessary to read the prior parts to understand this fic. if you would like to, though, you can find the masterlist here <3 not proofread so apologies for any errors!

it’s a weird thing– the way that you feel entirely at ease in a place that should feel foreign.

jack’s apartment is homey. it’s in the swanky part of town that you always felt you’d never be able to afford. you assume it’s not the home that he shared with his wife; there are echoes of her, everywhere, but you don’t call them out. it doesn’t feel like your place to, anyway. because while she’s there, it’s jack that you feel all around you. you learn that he likes a specific scent of air freshener– woodsy and warm. you learn that he’s in dire need of some new pans, but you also learn that he’s not the greatest cook, so he’s been putting it off. you learn that he loves movies, and records.

you learn that he wears his dog tags, every day. at work, he keeps them tucked beneath scrubs, always out of view. at home, they rest heavy against his chest, and you’ve had to stop yourself from reaching out, trailing your finger along the chain.

it’s an effort to not touch him, most mornings. you’ve gone to his place after almost every single shift for the past two weeks. the two months prior to that, you were typically sitting at the park together until it was nearly ten in the morning and your stomachs were growling so loud it made you both laugh at yourselves.

the years before that, jack was your mentor, but you wouldn’t call him your friend. three months into your year as a senior resident and you feel like you’ve learned more about your attending than you had in the three years that you knew him prior. that’s not quite fair, you know. you knew him in the place he felt most comfortable, work. where he was always challenging you, he was always making you better, while helping you to trust your instincts, too, and letting them flourish. he knew when to push. you think he likes that you challenge him back, too. he always said that you were a fantastic learner. when you would pull through with an excellent save, the low rumble of his voice would often praise you. “good job, kid.”

but now you’re his senior resident and your relationship has changed. you’re not just his student in the sense of medicine. he’s teaching you how to be a leader, how to teach others. you’re his right hand. you’re an extension of one another in most ways, always working in tandem.

and you are fond of him in a way that is not professional. not even close.

when the two of you enter his apartment after a shift from hell– down a resident, new med student, a list of ridiculously rude patients– you each suck in a deep breath. your bags get dropped at the door, shoes kicked off, glasses of water each being filled and sucked down. you barely talked the whole car ride to his place. he had opened the door of his truck for you, closed it, and put on the punk rock station that he liked to listen to, sometimes.

“you should shower first,” jack breaks the quiet. “trust me. it’ll make you feel better.”

it was not the first time you’d showered at jack’s, and you figured it wouldn’t be the last, either. you level him with a look. “you told mckay on your way out the only thing you were looking forward to was a shower.”

“i’m a gentleman, kid. besides, you stink.”

you drop your jaw at him while he snickers. you don’t even mean to say it– you chalk it up to exhaustion bringing all your filters down. “we could always share. it is definitely big enough for two.”

the humor drops clean off of his face. when your brain catches up, and you realize what you’ve said, you shake your head. “i don’t know why i said that.” yes you do. you want to feel jack’s big hands on your shoulders, your neck. you’ve thought, not just once, about how good it would feel for them to run through your hair. the thought of that, the hot water from the shower…

fuck.

whatever is happening on your face, jack is not naive to. “are you sure about that?”

your mouth hangs open and he looks at you with that stare that is clinical, direct. “i–” your voice dies out in your throat. “that was inappropriate on my part. i’m sorry.”

“is that what you want?”

the question is straight forward, simple. all it requires is a yes or a no answer. but it feels so loaded, like a trick question before jack laughs and sends you off to gloria for inappropriate behavior. he seems to recognize this fear in you, because he shakes his head and takes a tentative step forward. “if i tell you, that i would want that…” he tilts his head to the side, seeking out that eye contact that he loves so much. “what would you say?”

you relent and meet his gaze. there’s something… real that simmers.

“that i do want it.”

“you mean that?”

you nod your head. jack shakes his. “no,” he empties that glass of water. “i want to hear you say it. all of it.”

your cheeks flame. “i’m exhausted. you’re exhausted. neither one of us should wait. we're grown adults that see and handle naked bodies all day for a living.” you meet his eyes. "we can handle sharing a shower."

this seems to satisfy him. he nods his head towards his bedroom, and the truly beautiful adjoining bathroom. he approaches his fancy shower, starts the water, and turns it as hot as it will go. “i know you,” he says, almost to himself, as he pulls out two towels, two washcloths. “bet you like to give yourself a third degree burn every time you shower.”

casting your eyes down, you laugh, because of course he can guess such a small detail about you. you watch as he takes a small shower chair out of the shower and sets it to the side. he rummages through a cabinet before he pulls out a cover for his leg, sliding it on and fastening it properly around his prosthetic. it strikes you that this is not something he would let just anyone see. it strikes you, because you feel honored, and you feel humbled that he would share this part of himself with you.

the sound of the water running, the feeling of steam curling around you– it sets every part of you on fire. you and jack look at each other head on. “i’ll get in first, and give you your privacy.”

you nod your head. you turn around away from him as he undresses, the sound of fabric rustling and falling to the ground. you hear that way the pattern of the water hitting the tile change when he carefully steps in. “your turn.”

you peer over your shoulder, and meet jack’s gaze. he smirks and turns around, facing the wall, true to his promise.

hurrying up and following suit, you get in the shower after him. he turns around to face you, water beginning to cascade over the both of you. ”will you let me take care of you?” he grabs the bottle of shampoo and shakes it. “you worked hard today, kid. let me.”

his hands are sure of themselves when they touch you, take your shoulders and turn you around. they’re confident as he makes sure your hair is properly wetted. they’re steady as he pools shampoo into the palm of his hand and begins to lather your scalp. you can’t help it, you groan– your head falls forward. you feel his thumbs begin to rub at the base of your neck, the place where it feels like all of your worries from the day come to congregate. “jesus christ,” he hisses. “you’re tense.”

“nothing an ibuprofen can’t fix,” you try to joke.

he shakes his head. “you’re killin’ me.”

“i don’t have time to go to the chiropractor, or get a massage.”

“make time.” his hands, sudsy from the vanilla shampoo that you’d brought over a week ago, knead into your upper spine. “trust me. you can’t heal others if you don’t heal yourself.”

“did you read that in a book?”

“no. had a good mentor tell me that, years ago. army days.” his hands still before they move back up to your hair. “you won’t last if you don’t do the things you need to do, for you.”

“like have my attending wash my hair for me?” you ask, smiling at the wall of his shower.

“exactly like that.” he tilts your head back and forth, rinsing the shampoo out, before he lathers your conditioner in his hands and smooth out the ends with it.

for as intimate as this all is… it doesn’t feel scary. you’re so tired, that it just feels good to have his hands all over you. it sets you on fire, yes, but not the blazing kind, the kind that would make you push him up against the wall and ask him to have his way with you. it’s a slow, simmering fire. the kind that stays controlled. the kind that can burn ten times as hot. a true slow burn.

you turn around, and finally meet him, eye to eye. your eyes trail downward to his dog tags. without letting yourself think about it too hard, you take it, your fingernails just barely scraping his chest. you watch his chest rise sharply as you run your thumb along the engraving. his hands flex at his sides.

“your turn,” you say, taking his shampoo. he turns around, allowing you to reach forward and work it into his hair. he groans, a hand splaying on the tile. you admire the freckles that dance across his back, and before you can think too much about it, you touch one with your finger, trailing to across his skin from freckle to freckle. “who knew you were hiding all of these?”

“i’m irish,” he bites back, goosebumps rising on his skin. he looks at you from over his shoulder. he looks good enough to eat.

you take the shower head and use it to carefully rinse out his hair. he takes it back from you and spins you once more, making sure the conditioner doesn’t continue to linger in your hair. and, back to back, you pass body wash back and forth, listening to the sound of the other wash their body.

“you can’t wash your leg with that thing on, can you?”

“nah. i’ll get back in and use the seat and wash it after i crash. it can wait.”

you don’t push. ( one day, though you don’t know it yet, you’ll sink to your knees in that same shower and reach a level of intimacy you didn’t know was possible, washing his leg, tending to him. but today isn’t that day. )

as the two of you rinse off, you’re left with this feeling, this feeling that something has changed, shifted, morphed. jack’s hands touched you like you were precious. you offered him that same care. jack turns the water off. you reach for the two towels and pass one to him and you dry off, side by side. you climb out first, the fluffy towel wrapped around your body, and without thinking twice about it, you offer jack your hand to transfer out from the shower. the towel hangs low on his hips, and you have to force yourself not to ogle him. “just take my hand,” you urge, words soft.

jack does. your thumb slides across his knuckles and you hesitate to drop it, even as he has both feet steady on the ground. there’s only a foot of space between the two of you. when you look at him, he’s already staring at you. “i needed that,” he admits in the quiet space that exists between you. the vulnerable space. the one that you’ve created here, in your little post-work oasis. “thank you.”

“you don’t need to thank me. i needed it too.” you feel yourself start to grow warm. “i think i also need to smoke.”

he sucks in a breath, the tension finally snapping, both of you smiling, content. this is easy, this is routine: smoke, sit on the couch, relax. “yeah. i got a little pack of joints on the coffee table.”

“can i crash here for a few hours? then i’ll get out of your hair?”

“stay as long as you want.” jack says it without missing a beat. he scratches at his chest, leaving angry red marks in his path. you have to tell yourself that it is not appropriate to want to trace them with your tongue.

it’s also not appropriate to shower with your attending, your mind counters. that wasn’t appropriate, but you did it.

standing there, you accept that you would do it again.

[dudewithastick]

Thief in the Night

(Dr. Jack Abbot x F!Reader)

CW:  Heavy angst. Talk of death, dark thoughts, and booster shots.

Word Count:  2255

AN:  This was requested by a lovely anonymous person for the April Showers event!

AN2: Late and un-beta'ed - the Tropes Way (tm)

It’s a terrible night at the Pitt.

It started out fine.  It was quiet, though Dr. Jack Abbot never dares to think the word, let alone speak it aloud.  Tuesday night in the middle of spring doesn’t usually translate to a terrible night in the emergency department; it’s not like the lunacy of full moon nights or the expected violence and trauma that spikes around the holidays, for example.

Then the storm breaks over Pittsburgh.  It had been expected—rain in the forecast—but the intensity is surprising.

Over the course of the night, they treat all manner of injuries.  Many are small, manageable.  Slips and falls in the rain.  Sprained ankles, broken wrists, abrasions from falling on asphalt.  Mild concussions.  It’s steady but controllable.  They go through ice packs, splints, ibuprofen at a constant rate, and Abbot gets halfway through the night and thinks this isn’t so bad.

It's like he breaks a spell the moment he thinks it.

Dispatch gives the heads up:

Truck jackknifed outside of the Squirrel Hill tunnel.  Multiple vehicle pile-up.  Emergency services on scene.  Expect multiple casualties in all stages of severity.

They handle it because that is what they do.  They triage the casualties as they come in:  from the concussed and bruised to the DOA.  Abbot directs it all like the world’s most brutal orchestra, but he rocks that shit.  It’s what he was trained to do, and ostensibly what he was born to do. 

He falls into the zone.  People, individuals fall away and become simple facts, their entire existence narrowed down to what Abbot needs to fix. 

It’s not a middle-aged man with a family and likes and dislikes on the gurney—it’s an ulna broken in three places that Abbot immobilizes until surgery can get to him.

It’s not a seven-year-old crying in front of him, clutching a stuffed animal, snot bubbling from her nose—it’s a gash in the forehead that Abbot passes off to an intern to clean and stitch up.

It’s not the driver of the truck who police will determine, in the days to come, was both driving too fast and distracted by his phone.  It’s a crushed pelvis and internal bleeding that cannot be staunched, and it’s confirming the death upon arrival.

The next arrival comes through via ECIC, and Abbot scans the details (female, early thirties, head trauma, trauma to extremities, BP low and dropping) to prepare for the next wave.  He notes the source (Medic 10), knows that this nameless female in her early thirties is in the best possible hands before she gets to the Pitt—namely, your hands.

Moments later, you and your partner burst onto the scene for the patient handoff.  Abbot sees you—the dark navy cargo pants, the bright yellow reflective jacket slick with rain—but then his focus is on his patient on the gurney between you.

It’s not a young woman who recently got engaged and had her whole life in front of her—it’s a skull fracture, a pelvis fracture, a million other injuries sustained from being crushed in her car by a jackknifed truck, and Abbot fights for her life for hours. 

He fails.  The best he can do is keep her alive for the short term.  Scans confirm that she is brain dead, that she’ll never draw a breath on her own again.  The ventilator keeps her alive long enough for her family and her fiancé to come to say their goodbyes.

-----

It’s a terrible night at the Pitt.

It started out fine, but it ends with Dr. Jack Abbot on the roof.  His hiding spot and his singing siren both; the place that promises a break from the chaos of the ED, and the place that promises a darkness so pure that he could finally sleep without nightmares, if he only took those few steps to embrace it. 

Right now, he stays on the safe side of the railing.  The storm has passed, but the roof is slick, and he’s not as steady on his legs after such a brutal night.  It’s still dark out anyway.  Dawn hasn’t broken quite yet, but the sky is starting to lighten in the east.

“Knew I’d find you up here.”

He doesn’t need to turn around to know your voice.  Medic 10 patrols closest to the Pitt.  Other ambulances might go to the hospitals closest to their base—Shadyside or Presby, maybe—but you and your partner nearly always turn up at the Pitt. 

And since you nearly always take the night shift, Abbot has known you now for a while.

“Tough night,” you continue.  He doesn’t turn when you join him at the railing, but he shifts his arm just a bit when yours brushes his.  You’re still in your ridiculous high-vis jacket, and it’s still wet from the storm. 

“Lost the one you brought me,” he finally says.  His voice is rough, cracked.  He feels every death keenly, but this one leaves him desiccated.  He’s wrung out.

He sees you shake your head out of the corner of his eye. 

“Not lost yet.  Dana brought me up to speed.”

“Not a save,” he snorts bitterly.  “She’s as good as dead.  Her body will follow as soon as her people pull the plug.”

“Her people will have time to say goodbye.”

He snorts again, a humorless sort of laugh and says nothing.  What sort of good does that do, he wants to say.  To have the last memory be of her like that, crushed and full of tubes and wires?

You seem to read his mind.  You always seem to do that.  You always seem to understand his dark thoughts, his cynicism, the hopeless futility he feels on days like this. 

“It means something,” you tell him, and your voice is soft beside him.  “I’ve lost people slow and I’ve lost people fast, and I tell you—getting to say goodbye is always better.  Even if it’s ugly.  Even if it’s hard.  It might not feel like it to them downstairs right now saying their goodbyes…but it will mean something, someday.  That they were able to hold her hand and tell her they love her.  That they can hope that some part of her felt and heard it before she went.”

He says nothing to that either.  He’s afraid that if he does, he might break.  He can hear the way your words wobble a little, so he keeps his eyes fixed on the lightening sky.  For a long moment, you both just stand there, hands on the safety railing but not touching.  Each of you in your own thoughts, meditating on the rough night you each survived.

Abbot clears his throat and finally asks, “you really think that?”  He turns his head and looks at your profile, sees your earnest nod in answer to his question.

“You know what we are?”  You turn your head to face him too, and he’s struck—as he always is—at the sight of you.  At your eyes gazing into his, open and searching.  “You and me?”

“Medical professionals?” he guesses.

“No.”  A beat.  “Well, yes, but beyond that.”

“Penguin fans?”

That draws a ghost of a smile, but you shake your head.  “Beyond that.”

“Masochistic assholes with suicidal tendencies who enjoy being hurt and depressed?”

You wrinkle your nose at that.  “I’m not suicidal, and if you really are—”

“What are we then?” he cuts in gently. 

You turn to face the sky again.  Dawn is just beginning to break, the sun breaking the line of the horizon and painting the lingering ribbons of storm clouds in a glorious wash of pink and orange.

“We’re thieves,” you tell him.  “We aren’t saving lives.  Not really.  Death always wins in the end.  All we’re doing is stealing time like thieves in the night.”

Abbot turns to look at the sky too.  “Cheerful.  Glad I’m not really suicidal.”

That earns him a light elbow to his side that makes him smile. 

“I mean it,” you continue.  “The universe looked at that woman downstairs and said, ‘you’re out of time.’  But I got to her as the rescue team cut her from her car, and I stole time.  Just a little.  Just enough to get her to you.  And you stole a little more time for her.  Not very much, but enough to give her people the gift of goodbye.  Sometimes we steal a lot of time, and sometimes it’s just a little, but it all means something.”

“Does it?”  He doesn’t say it meanly, but if it comes out harsh, you don’t react.  You know him well enough by now to know the difference between his delivery and his intent.

“I have to believe it does.”  Then you take a deep breath, enough to pull his gaze back to you.  He watches as you close your eyes against the sunrise, watches as you breathe deep, like you’re trying to draw the riot of colors into you to overlay the darkness you just lived through during the night.  He watches your exhausted, beautiful face as the rising sun casts its rosy glow over you, and he feels the black hole in him—the endless void that seems to grow after nights like this—shrink just a little.

“Why are you still here?” he asks, but he keeps his voice low, not wanting to spoil the quiet magic of the moment.  “You should have gone home hours ago.”

You reach your right hand into your pocket and pull out a specimen cup.  You hold it up and show him the diamond ring inside before you slip it back in your pocket.

“It’s hers.”  Your voice is just as low, just above a whisper.  “I think it fell off in the ambulance.  I cleaned it up and brought it back.  For her family.”

Any other medic, any other case, he might joke about it.  Make a bad joke about medics’ low pay and what a pilfered diamond might bring at a pawn shop.  But he’d never voice it with you even if he had that sort of dark humor:  most of the medics in the city care, but you care more than most.  You care enough to clean up a ring and bring it back the same day rather than sending it through slower channels. 

You care enough to guess how he was feeling, and you care enough to seek him out on the roof.

You care so much, sometimes he wonders how you can even breathe with how much space your heart must take up in your chest. 

He shifts his eyes from your face—your eyes still closed against the sun—and the smear of red on the bright yellow of your jacket’s left arm pulls his gaze.  He looks closer, sees the gash in the fabric….

“You’re hurt,” he says, and he switches from maudlin to action in a split second.  He takes your wrist in his and pushes up your sleeve, takes in the rigged bandage that you probably did on yourself in the middle of your shift.

“Cut it on the frame of her car.”  You try to pull away from him, but he holds you fast.  He picks at the edge of tape—you hiss as it pulls at the hair on your arm—and pulls away the swatch of gauze to reveal the jagged cut still seeping blood.

“It’s fine.”  You tug against him, but he doesn’t let you go.  “C’mon, it’s not a big deal—”

“Bullshit.”  He moves his grip from your wrist to your bicep and turns you towards the roof access door.  “Downstairs, now.”

“Jack—”

“It needs cleaned, stitched.  When was your last tetanus booster?”

“I can clean it myself, and it doesn’t need stitches.  A Band-Aid—”

“Last tetanus shot was when?”  He hustles you through the door and down the stairs.

“Before Y2K, probably.”  You try one last time to extricate yourself from his grip, and when you fail, you sigh.  “It’s day shift.  You really gonna leave my fate in the hands of one of Robby’s little goslings?”

“Never.”  He gets you downstairs, steers you into an open bay, and makes you plop down in a chair while he pulls up a kit.  “I need a win to finish out the shift.”

“A baby cut and a booster shot is hardly a win,” you point out.

“Maybe.”  He helps you shrug out of your jacket, and he sits down in a stool that he rolls up to you.  “But I think helping you avoid tetanus is stealing, what?  Years of time on your behalf?  Feels like a helluva win to me.”

Then he bends his head to the task at hand, and you say little as he works.  He cleans out the cut on your left arm, stitches it shut with neat precision.  Covers it with a fresh bit of gauze that he tapes down.  He even administers the shot (“might as well give it in the left arm too,” you tell him).

He does it all while pointedly ignoring your own engagement ring on your left hand, as he ignores it any time he’s alone with you.  Another man put it there, claimed you as his, but Jack needs these moments of pretend more than he wants to admit. 

He relies on these stolen moments—the paltry seconds and minutes he gets with you—to survive the tough times. 

Maybe he’s a thief of time after all.

[dudewithastick]

being a pepper plant has to be so weird.

Imagine evolving capsaicin specifically to stop mammals from eating your fruits, and then a mammal comes along that not only will eat your fruits, but likes them specifically because of the capsaicin, so much that it starts using its weird paws to distribute and care for your seeds, which turns into a strong selective force that literally starts evolving you into producing MORE capsaicin and makes you a WAY more successful and wider ranged species than you ever were before

simply because this mammal LOVES Pain Chemical. that evolved specifically to produce pain in mammals. It's not that the capsaicin isn't WORKING. It's just that these freaks like it.

[dudewithastick]

Want and need (18+)

parings. andrew "pope" cody x reader

summary. you're tired of pope's staring, so this time you give him something to do about it.

warnings. this is an 18+ fic so mdni, unprotected sex, rough sex, p in v, possessive!pope, age gap (pope is late 30s, reader is 25), typical animal kingdom stuff, mentions of drug addiction and drinking (but nothing in depth), pope and reader have wanted each other for a long time and all hell breaks loose, I am not responsible for what you read online, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. I really don't even know what to say, this was really self indulgent but also a shit ton of people asked for this. this is my first time writing smut, so please go easy on me 😭 I love y'all tho and I hope this makes those who asked for this very happy and I'd be more than willing to try for other characters too. as always any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 4100+

You were young when you were taken into the Cody household. Barely ten or eleven, chasing the coattails of Baz, Pope, and Julia. They were older, reckless, and way more fun than Deran and Craig in your young mind. You were just a kid back then, all scraped knees and wide eyes, desperate to be seen, to be wanted. And they gave you that—chaotic, dangerous, and messy as it was.

Now, you were older. Maybe not in their eyes, not entirely. To them, you’d always be the kid who used to sneak beers from the cooler and fall asleep on the couch mid-party. But you’d grown. Twenty-five looked good on you. It felt even better.

With the kind of money Smurf funneled your way—whether out of guilt, habit, or because she saw something useful in you—you were living comfortably. Shopping trips in LA with Julia’s old taste still lingering in the back of your mind, a crisp white sports car that purred when you touched the gas, and a room in Smurf’s homethat came with a 12-foot deep pool and too much sunshine. It wasn’t just surviving anymore. You were lounging, tanning, sipping something cold, and living the dream—Cody style.

But even with all of it—the car, the clothes, the pool—you still found yourself looking for him.

Andrew.

He was the one who never really changed. Still guarded. Still intense. Still carrying every unspoken burden like it was strapped to his chest. And even after all these years, you hadn’t outgrown the way he made you feel—safe, seen, even when you didn’t want him to see everything.

Sometimes he’d come by, dropping something off for Smurf, checking on Craig or Deran through you, but his eyes always lingered a little longer when you were around. Not in a creepy way. Just… aware. Like he was always assessing, always measuring how close was too close.

But you weren’t a kid anymore.

And you were starting to wonder if he knew that too.

He was always too worried about Julia or Cath to notice the young girl that gravitated toward him more than his brothers—and that was okay, it had been okay. You weren’t supposed to be seen back then, just allowed to linger. And Pope, for all his walls and rough edges, let you. He never pushed you away, never told you to stop following him like a shadow. But he never really looked at you, either.

Then life changed—fast and hard.

Julia left, tearing a hole right through the Cody family like a storm no one saw coming. She vanished into the haze of addiction, baby in tow, and that was that. Cath and Baz fell into each other in the aftermath, and that burned too—more for Pope than he ever admitted out loud. And when Pope finally cracked under the pressure, when he went to jail after a job went bad, everything fractured. The center couldn’t hold.

Life moved on, and you along with it.

You learned not to wait for anyone. You learned how to handle yourself, how to use what the Codys gave you—protection, money, a name that opened doors and slammed others shut. You carved a place for yourself in the world they ruled. No one questioned why you were there anymore. You weren’t the kid tagging along.

You were a woman now.

And when Pope got out, when he came back into that sun-soaked chaos of a world you both knew too well, he noticed.

Really noticed.

Maybe it was the way you carried yourself now—confident, sharper, always watching like you used to—but from a different angle. Maybe it was the way you didn’t look at him like a lost, broken thing the way everyone else did. Or maybe it was just time. Maybe he finally realized you weren’t following anymore.

You were standing still. And he was the one stopping in his tracks.

"You gonna keep watching me like a creep or are you gonna come sit and talk with me?" you called out, not even turning your head, just lazily lifting your sunglasses as you lounged beside the pool.

Your bikini left little to the imagination—tiny, tied at the hips, glistening slightly from the coconut tanning oil that coated your sun-warmed skin. The scent mixed with the citrusy bite of the cocktail you’d been nursing for the past hour, the condensation from the glass dripping down your fingers as you swirled the straw.

You could feel his eyes on you before you even spoke. He always tried to be subtle, lurking in the doorway or leaning against the fence like he had any real reason to be there. But Pope was never good at hiding his intensity, not from you.

"No one else is here anyway," you added, voice lower this time, laced with something soft—an invitation, not a challenge.

You finally turned to look at him. He hadn’t moved yet, still standing a few feet away like he was weighing his options. Same old Pope. Arms crossed, eyes narrowed, like walking ten feet to a lounge chair might cost him something heavy. But there was something in his expression that wasn’t so guarded now. Something careful. Curious.

“You worried Smurf’s gonna pop out of the bushes or something?” you teased, tilting your head with a little smirk. “She doesn’t care what I do. You know that.”

He shifted his weight but didn’t answer right away, jaw flexing like he was grinding down words before they made it to his mouth. Then finally, he started walking—slow, measured, like he was still deciding if this was a mistake.

But he came anyway and sat right at your feet. 

"What's on your mind?" you asked, nudging him with your pedicured foot—painted a glossy shade of white that caught the sunlight just right. It was playful, meant to break through the stiff walls he always had up. You weren’t trying to push too hard. Just enough to remind him he didn’t have to sit there like a stone.

He didn’t flinch at the touch, just looked down at your foot resting lightly against his jean covered thigh, then back up at you with that unreadable expression he always wore. But there was something different in his eyes. Softer. Or maybe tired.

"Nothing," he muttered, eyes drifting to the water. "Just making sure you’re alright."

You rolled your eyes, “Of course I’m fine, you’re watching over me aren’t ya?”

He didn’t answer, but the faintest flicker of something passed through his eyes—something just shy of a smirk. You caught it, even if he tried to bury it again just as fast.

You leaned back against the lounge, arching your back just a little as you stretched out your legs, your toes still resting against his thigh. “You always do that, you know,” you said, your voice low and smooth, laced with something warm. “Watch me like you’re trying to memorize every move, but never saying a damn thing.”

Pope’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. Didn’t deny it either.

“I used to wonder if it was guilt,” you went on, your eyes locked on him now, studying his face. “Me being around… all the time. If maybe, you thought I was just another thing you had to take care of.”

His gaze finally slid from the pool back to you—slower this time. Steady. That unreadable expression giving way to something heavier.

“It wasn’t guilt,” he said. Voice rough, low enough you almost didn’t hear it over the soft splash of water from the filter nearby.

Your lips curved slightly. “No?”

He shook his head once.

Your foot pressed a little firmer against his thigh, not teasing anymore—more like claiming space, letting him feel the weight of your presence. “Then what was it, Andrew?” you asked, letting his name linger in the air between you like the taste of the rum still on your lips. 

“Why do you still look at me like that?”

Silence stretched for a moment too long. He looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words, and Pope never needed many. He was more action than speech. Always had been.

So you sat up slowly, cocktail forgotten now, your body turned toward him as you leaned forward just enough to let your fingers brush his wrist. His skin was warm. Tense. Alive under your touch.

“I’m not a kid anymore,” you said, softly now, like it was a secret between the two of you. “You can tell me things...”

His breath hitched—so slight, but you felt it. Saw it in the way his hand twitched under yours, like he was holding himself back with every ounce of control he had.

You leaned in a little closer, close enough that he could smell the sweet coconut clinging to your skin, the soft salt of pool water in your hair. “You can touch me now, Andrew,” you whispered, barely louder than the wind rustling through the palm trees overhead. “If you want to.”

His hand moved then, slow and unsure at first, like he was afraid you might vanish if he did. But you didn’t. You stayed right there, watching him, heart pounding in your chest as his calloused fingers brushed your thigh—just a whisper of contact, but it lit a fire low in your stomach.

And he looked at you like he didn’t know how to breathe anymore.

“You sure?” he asked, voice hoarse, thick with restraint.

You nodded, smile turning sultry, sure. “Go ahead.”

And for the first time since you were a kid chasing his shadow, Pope Cody didn’t run.

The tension between you snapped like a live wire—sharp, charged, inevitable.

You shifted, slow and deliberate, rising just enough to swing one bronzed leg over his lap. His eyes followed the movement, hands clenched at his sides like he was trying to stop himself from grabbing you right then and there. But when you settled on top of him, thighs hugging his hips and your hands bracing against his chest, he didn’t move away. Didn’t even blink.

He just stared up at you, jaw tight, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling like he was caught between every wrong instinct he’d ever had—and the one that felt right.

You leaned in slowly, your lips just a breath away from his, fingers sliding up the sides of his neck, thumbs tracing his jaw. “Tell me to stop,” you whispered, though your tone dared him to.

He didn’t.

So you kissed him.

It started slow—soft, testing. But the second your mouth met his, the switch flipped. His hands gripped your hips like he’d been dying to touch you for years and finally stopped pretending he didn’t want to. You moved against him instinctively, gasping softly when he deepened the kiss, his mouth hungry and rough, like he was trying to swallow every second of the years he’d lost, every second he hadn’t let himself want this.

Your fingers twisted into his curls as you rocked against him, feeling him grow harder beneath you. His groan rumbled in his chest, low and feral, vibrating against your lips. He kissed like he fought—intensely, without hesitation, like nothing else mattered but this moment. But even now, even like this, his touch wasn’t careless.

One hand slid up your back, fingers splayed over your spine, grounding you. The other stayed planted at your waist, as if anchoring himself to you, needing you close but terrified of losing control. You could feel it in the way he held you—like he didn’t want to break you. Like part of him still saw that girl who followed him around, and the rest of him was warring with the woman now straddling him in the late afternoon sun.

You pulled back just slightly, lips swollen, eyes locked on his. “I’m not scared of you,” you breathed.

His eyes darkened. “Maybe you should be.”

You smiled. Slow. Wicked. “But I’m not.”

And then you kissed him again, deeper this time, letting your body press flush against his, the heat between you scorching, undeniable, and no longer something either of you could ignore.

A hand slipped under your bikini top, rough palm closing over one of your tits, you gasped into his mouth. His thumb brushed against your nipple, and the sharp jolt it sent through you had you rocking harder against him, your hands fisting in his shirt.

“Fuck—just take it off me,” you muttered against his lips, breathless, needy.

Pope didn’t hesitate. He tugged at the knot behind your neck, and the top came undone with a quick flick of his fingers. You didn’t even care where it landed—just felt the warm afternoon air on your bare skin and the heat of his gaze as he pulled back to look.

His eyes swept over you like a storm cloud rolling in—dark, intense, and full of want. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he rasped, voice strained as he leaned in, lips brushing the swell of your chest.

Your fingers threaded into his dark curls, nails gently scraping his scalp as he sucked a mark into your skin, his stubble rough against your soft flesh. You moaned low in your throat, head falling back as he worshiped you with his mouth, biting, licking, claiming.

“You’ve always been mine,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. 

You looked down at him, your body flushed and burning, heart pounding so loud you swore he could hear it. “Say it again,” you whispered, grinding down against the bulge in his jeans.

And in the next second, he surged up, one arm wrapping around your waist as he stood, lifting you with him like you weighed nothing. You wrapped your legs around him instinctively, breath catching as his mouth returned to yours—urgent and possessive. He didn’t say another word as he carried you inside, but his kiss said everything. Every step was heavy with purpose. Like he’d finally given in to what he’d been fighting for years.

He pushed the sliding door open with his foot, barely breaking stride as he carried you inside, your bare chest pressed to him, his lips never straying far from yours. The house was quiet, golden sunlight spilling across the hardwood floors as you clung to him, your fingers tugging at his shirt, desperate to feel skin against skin.

By the time he made it to your bedroom, the tension had hit a fever pitch. He laid you down on the edge of the bed, standing between your thighs, eyes sweeping over your half-naked body like he couldn’t decide whether to worship you or ruin you.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, heart thudding, watching the way his hands shook slightly as he pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it to the floor. The way his chest rose and fell, same as your own, like he was holding back something dangerous.

"You look like you're about to bust," you said with a teasing smirk, voice low and breathy.

“I am,” he said simply, stepping closer, his hands sliding up your thighs, thumbs brushing the edges of your bikini bottoms. “You’re driving me insane.”

“Then lose the rest,” you whispered, voice nearly a dare.

He hooked his fingers under the ties, and with one smooth tug, the last piece of fabric between you was gone. You leaned back slowly, watching his eyes drag over every inch of you, hunger and restraint warring in his expression.

Then he was back on you, like wet on water.

Mouth on yours again, harder this time, kissing you like he was drowning and you were air. His hands roamed everywhere—your waist, your hips, the inside of your thighs—like he couldn’t touch enough fast enough. And you didn’t want him to stop. You wrapped your legs around his slim waist, pulling him closer, grinding against his buldge pressed between you. He was rock hard. 

Every kiss, every touch felt like years in the making—pent-up tension finally snapping in the heat of that bedroom. You moaned into his mouth, nails digging into his back as he pushed you further onto the bed, hovering over you like he wanted to devour you whole.

“Fuck—tell me you want this,” he growled against your neck, voice ragged.

“I’ve always wanted this,” you breathed, eyes locked on his. “I’ve always wanted you.”

He crashed his mouth against yours again, and this time, there was no hesitation—just raw need, years of it unraveling all at once. His weight pressed you into the mattress, solid and grounding, as if he was trying to make sure this was real. 

That you were real. 

That after all the years of watching, waiting, denying, he could finally touch you the way he’d needed to.

Your hands were everywhere—his back, his chest, tugging at the waistband of his jeans with trembling fingers until he groaned against your skin. “Jesus, kid,” he muttered, breaking the kiss just long enough to yank them off with a rough urgency, kicking them away as he settled between your legs again.

You arched up into him, your body already aching, your thighs spreading to welcome him as he hovered over you. There was a flicker of hesitation—his eyes searching yours, his thumb brushing your cheek in a moment of quiet, reverent pause.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low and gruff, but laced with something almost tender.

You reached up, fingers curling around the back of his neck as you pulled him back down to you. “Fuck me,”

That was all he needed.

He tugged on his cock a few times before sliding into you slowly, carefully, and your head fell back with a soft cry—his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. He filled you completely, a delicious stretch that had your nails digging into his shoulders, your legs tightening around his waist.

He didn’t move right away—just held himself there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard, like he was memorizing every second. “You feel like… fuck,” he whispered. “You were made for me.”

And then he started to move.

Slow, deep thrusts that left you gasping, your hands clutching at him like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your chest, his hands gripping your hips with a bruising intensity, pulling you closer every time he drove into you.

“You’ve always been mine,” he murmured against your skin, lips brushing your ear. 

Your heart twisted, heat building, rising between you in waves. You met every thrust, your bodies moving in sync like they were meant to be tangled like this. And as his pace quickened, rougher now, needier, you clung to him—your body trembling, your voice breaking as the edge drew closer.

“Pope—” you gasped, barely able to get his name out before it hit you. A rush of heat, pleasure, everything blurring as your back arched as you came, orgasm tearing through you, raw and electric.

He wasn’t far behind—groaning into your neck, his rhythm faltering, then stilling as he found his own release, his entire body shuddering above you.

The room was quiet except for the sound of your breath and the faint rustle of sheets. Pope didn’t move for a while—just rested there, head buried against your shoulder, arms still wrapped around you like letting go might shatter the moment. When he finally looked at you again, something had shifted. There was no going back.

His grip on your waist tightened as he thrust deeper again, rougher now—no more holding back. His mouth was at your throat, breathing you in like he needed your scent to stay sane, his teeth grazing your skin as he growled, “You don’t know how long I’ve fucking waited for this.”

You moaned, your fingers tangled in his hair as you clung to him, legs locked tight around his hips once again. “Fuck-ddon’t stop,” you whispered. “Show me.”

That snapped something loose in him.

“You want me to show you?” he rasped, voice thick with hunger. “You think I can be gentle with you now? After all these years, watching you walk around in those little shorts, laughing like you didn’t know what you were doing to me?”

His hand slid up your body, wrapping lightly around your throat, thumb resting on your jaw as he looked down at you, eyes blazing. “This body’s mine now. Say it.”

Your lips parted, breath hitched, your voice shaky, “It’s yours- fuck! All yours,”

“Damn right it is,” he grunted, thrusting into you hard enough to knock the air from your lungs, his other hand gripping your thigh and hitching it higher around his waist. “You’ve always been mine, I knew I’d take you like this.”

You cried out, body burning under his every touch, the filth of his words twisting deliciously in your stomach.

“You like that?” he growled against your ear, biting your lobe before sucking it. “You like me talkin’ to you like this? Fuckin’ you like you were made for it?”

“Y-Yes—God, yes—Pope,” you gasped, head swimming as he hit deeper, angling his hips just right to make your toes curl.

“I don’t want anyone else lookin’ at you like this,” he snarled. “No more showing off at that pool like you’re just some pretty slut.”

“Wh-why? You jealous?” you teased, barely able to keep your voice steady as your back arched into him.

He bit down on your shoulder—not enough to break skin, just to mark you. “I own you.”

With that, he flipped you onto your stomach in one rough motion, dragging your hips back until you were up on your knees, face pressed into the sheets. You gasped, the new angle hitting something brutal, perfect, as he thrust back in with a groan.

“This is mine,” he growled, one hand fisting in your hair, the other gripping your hip so hard you knew it’d bruise. “You’re mine.”

The way he said it—like a promise, like a warning—you believed every word.

“Fuck- I get it—Oh my god!” you gasped as he tugged on your hair, hips barely able to meet his harsh pace. 

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groans out, bucking even harder as he fucks you with intent. You pant, eyes fluttering as he continues his brutal rhythm that’s hard enough to shake the bed frame. 

You’re not even in your own body anymore, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. The once lavender scent of your room, now replaced with sex and what lingured of Pope’s cologne. 

He slides a hand down between the two of you, thick fingers catching on your clit as he rubs in tight circles bringing you closer to your next orgasm. 

“I- fuck Andrew… I’m- I can’t!” you moan into the bed, fists wrapped in the sheets like your grip will somehow alleviate the growing feeling in your stomach. 

“Cum for me baby, I want to feel you.” he head dips to your shoulder blades, kissing down your back as he eases you to the brink once again. 

It’s a white hot feeling as it rips through you, but Pope doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, pulling back just enough only to slam back into you one last time. 

He tenses, body stiff as he gives you a few more sloppy thrusts as he cums inside you—thick, hot, and everything you want as he pulls and lays beside you taking a few deep breaths. 

You can feel him dripping out of you, but you don’t care. Too spent, you take your time before turning to look at him. Pope’s curls are a mess, though you’re sure your own hair isn’t much better. 

It’s silent for a while.

 you’re cuddled up to him, tracing little shapes on his chest with his arm thrown around you. It keeps you close to him, like maybe you’ll disappear if he’s not touching you in some way. 

“Why’d you let me do that?” His voice is soft and gravely, but genuine all the same. 

“Believe it or not, I’ve wanted you to do that forever…” you give him a small smile, still tracing your little shapes into his freckled skin. 

He sighs, something deep and heavy laced in it. “I’m not good for you,” he mutters. 

“I think I can decide that for myself,” you shift your head to look up at him, deep hazel eyes meeting your own. 

His lips capture yours in a kiss, something softer than earlier but the meaning is still the same. 

You're his, and honestly you don’t really mind it. 

mercvry-glow 2025

[dudewithastick]

The Professional: Andrew 'Pope' Cody x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @akotafi @yousigned-upforthis @fadeinsol @cowardlycandy

Prequel piece to:

Crazy (NSFW) - Pope's always been crazy but now he's also a man in love.

Tomorrow - Pope's family always fuck up the good in his life.

Do Over Day (NSFW) - Pope tries to make up for the day before.

Your relationship with Pope begins because of a safe.

A Garibaldi 1965 to be exact.

It’s a beautiful antique of a thing. It’s also a complete pain in the ass to get into, which is why they call in an expert.

The Professional is what you’re known as in their world. Every job you’ve ever pulled is seamless, a complete work of art Pope can’t help but admire. You’re consulting fee shows it too, you know your value and you won’t settle for less. As much as Smurf begrudges it, they need you otherwise the work and the money they’ve already put into this job, it’ll be completely wasted.

When you step through the door every single one of them is taken back because what they didn’t expect was a woman, a damn fine one.

Craig hones on that almost immediately but you shut him down by holding up your hand as if he were a dog, stopping him in his tracks. “Oh honey, you are so far from my type it isn’t even funny.”

His mother’s jaw tenses as she watches you because already you’re commanding the room and she doesn’t like the competition.

“She’s gotta be a dyke.” Craig says later when you and Smurf step outside to discuss bringing you onto the crew for the job because they’ve just realised how momentously fucked they are. “It’s the only explanation.”

“Or she just doesn’t like cokeheads.” Deran supplies, sipping from his beer. “If Smurf can convince her to get on board that’s probably gonna mean you’re gonna have to quit powdering your nose for a couple of hours while we get shit done.”

“Fuck that.” Craig says as the sliding door opens and you and Smurf step back into the kitchen.

“Alright.” You address the group as you stand there with your hands on your hips. “You wanna get into that safe it’s gonna take two of us. My partner in crime needs to be someone meticulous with attention to detail and steady hands. Who isn’t going to flake out going over the same thing over and over and over again so they can get the muscle memory boxed off.”

The last comment is directed at Craig, they can tell from the forceful look you give him.

“I guess that’s me.” Pope says raising to his feet. “Since I’m the only one with an attention span longer that the time it takes to do a line.”

He feels your gaze on him, calm and analytical, taking in his shirt buttoned all the way up to the throat, his stillness as he stands before you.

“You’ll do.” You say before jerking your head towards the front gate. “Come on, we’re going for a ride to my workshop.”

And that’s how it starts. Hours and days spent in close proximity as you teach him the delicate art of safecracking. He’s used to a more brute force approach. Tearing the shit out of concrete, blowtorching the mother fucker but the way you work, it’s like magic. Thorough, mediative. He comes out of your workshop at the end of each session feeling calmer, like some sort of balance has been restored inside him.

“I don’t like how much time you’re spending with that girl.” Smurf tells him, one morning on the way out the door.

“It’s for the job, you know it is.” He tells her before leaving.

But it’s not, not really because the two of you have started getting close. A couple of beers on your back porch overlooking the beach, dinner from a food truck before you kick off your shoes and take a walk along the shoreline, the water cascading over your ankles.

“I want to learn more.” He tells you once the job is over. It’s true, he does but he also doesn’t want this to end. You’re the first woman he’s felt an interest in in a long time, the first one that might actually see him.

You step outside onto the porch instead of letting him in the way you usually do. He knows it’s because of Smurf, that she warned you off him, told you his secrets. You know the truth now about how fucked up he is.

This is what she does when he starts trying to build something outside of the family, she cuts off his life lines, leaves him twisting in the wind until he realises the only place he can go is back to the house he grew up in, the family that steal away little pieces of his sanity until the darkness eats him up.

“Look…” He begins but you’re already wrapping your arms around his neck, gathering him up into a hug. He stiffens at first because he can’t remember the last time someone held him. His muscles relax and he draws you closer, his cheek coming to rest against yours as he breathes in the scent of the ocean clinging to your skin.

“You’re not the only one that’s fucked up.” You whisper, your breath ghosting in his ear. “I killed my father when I was fifteen because he was creeping into my bed at night.”

His grip on you tightens as he buries his face into the curve of your throat. 

“Don’t let her use that shit to control you. You’re not the person she’s trying to turn you into, you’re more than that.”

“How do you know?” He murmurs, his forehead coming to rest upon yours so he can look into your eyes. “How do you know I’m not the monster she wants me to be?”

“Because I see your sadness.” You tell him, your fingertips trailing over the copper stubble that mars his cheek. “You do it for the love and all you get back is this feeling in your chest, this emptiness that feels like it eats up your entire soul.”

“I don’t wanna be like this anymore.” He tells you, his voice breaking. “I don’t want to keep losing myself.”

“You don’t have to.” You tell him, your palm coming to rest upon his heart. He can feel it thudding underneath the pads of your fingers as he clasps it there, his connection, his way back to humanity. “The two of us, we’ll figure it out, I promise.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[dudewithastick]

how could you like the colour yellow

see a therapist immediately

I actually used to hate it! Like, actually despise it! Yellow was too bright, too loud, discordant, unruly, and clashed with everything. Nothing like what I wanted in my life, nothing I wanted to be.

When I first moved away from home, everything I owned was black. Jet back. As black as I could get. Smooth, cool, sleek, discrete, calm, unassuming. Flexible, cohesive, agreeable black. Fashionable black.

I had a really, really bad time. Unrelated to the decor. It was my first year out of a toxic place I'd grown used to my whole life, my first year acknowledging a mental illness I'd believed to be normal, my first year fending for myself with very little money or sleep or companionship.

I'd grown up on instant white rice and unseasoned ground beef. One day I realized that everything I'd been raised on tasted like cardboard. While out on an assignment, I passed a tent with a woman selling spices, and bought myself some turmeric. I went home and tried making curry with it. It was so yellow.

Another time, my professor took us out to a modern art gallery. I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but when we got there, the whole building had been painted bright sunshine yellow.

The artist's theme was "happiness".

What it is. How we make it. How to share it.

All bright, lovely yellow.

The house I grew up in was beige. The walls were white. The appliances were post 9/11 stainless steel. My job was to be quiet, compliant, presentable and agreeable.

Black goes with everything. Black is neutral. Black is quiet, reserved, elegant and mysterious.

Yellow is warm. Yellow does what it wants. Yellow tastes sweet and spicy and hot and cool, like a summer breeze, like sunflower petals, powdery like dust on a long dirt road and soothing like well-worn linen.

I still like the look of black. I like the look of most colors. But I like the way that Yellow makes me feel.

Do you understand?

[dudewithastick]

[dudewithastick]

Jack Abbot x resident!reader

Warnings: Cursing, drinking, medical inaccuracies, not beta read, me coming back from the dead, attempts at humor, age gap (reader is in late 20s/ early 30s)

Word count: 2500+ (oh well)

COWBOY TAKE ME AWAY OR when your best friend ends up in the ER after her Cowboy themed bachelorette party with a broken leg and a mouth that just keeps talking you might be in over your head.

You were going to kill her, after they stick her leg in a cast and once she sobered up you were going to kill her. Taking the weekend off in order to go to your best friends bachelorette was planned weeks in advance, the cowgirl theme was coordinated from outfits to drinks, you spent months on the whole thing, being the maid of honour and all- you hand glued BRIDE in gemstones to her white cowboy hat, hell you had hand-sewn the veil to the hat. You planned the whole fucking thing while being a year 3 resident (you survived a few months on good will and fumes for it) and frankly you were looking forward to a night away from your work and the giant obvious crush you had on one of the attendings you were planning on getting over by finding a bison for the night.

And yet there you were getting Becca and her fucked leg into the PTMC, two purses on your scantly clad shoulder and one of her white boots under your armpit- you had remembered to text Ellis on the way to let her know you were coming, no sense in letting the drunk babbling bride wait- you just wished she’d stop asking if she was finally going to see your sexy doctor.

You also regretted ever having spilled about Abbot. The night was perfect for stories of old flames, sex lives and your miserable thing for the hot night shift attending and now you might have to plan a move to Mexico the way she was going. You stopped after two cocktails, knowing the bride was injury prone, Becca told you she planned on getting smashed for her bachelorette the moment Jules proposed and who were you to stop her. You were regretting it now as you took her into the ER waiting room. 

“Bet you he’ll love the outfit.”

“Beck, please shut up about that, please? I need to be able to show my face at work again.”

“Oh you’re showing a lot more than your face today babe.”

“Yes I know my tits are out I didn’t exactly plan on showing up at my place of work tonight.”

She just giggled and tapped the pink hat on your head. Great. 

She had jokes for someone in her place, you were happy to know that alcohol and adrenaline still had a grip on her. You got her seated in the waiting room and went up to fill out her paperwork when a whistle cut you off- Shen, of course he’d be the first person to find you. He gave you an amused once over, leaning his weight on a wheelchair he had with him.

“Well, well good evening or do you prefer ye-haw?” 

“Howdy actually.”

You tipped your hat for added effect, might as well commit to the bit.

“-and since you’ve got jokes you might want to keep them for the cowboy in chief herself.”

He followed your line of sight where Becca was holding her immobilised leg.

“I’m assuming that’s my fracture? Was the rodeo that rowdy?”

“Still is.”

“You coming with?”

“I’ll come after you after I write her insurance info- don’t listen to a word she says and don’t light any matches near her.”

“How come you’re still standing?”

“I’ve known her since college and if there’s someone you keep an eye on it’s Beck.”

He gave a smile before pushing on with the wheelchair in his arms to Becca, who opened with the brilliant opening that may as well have been your gravestone-

“You’re not the hot doctor.”

The laughter he let out startled an older woman who looked like she was about to fall asleep on the plastic chair.

“I’m Doctor Shen, I’m also slightly offended but you can tell me more about this hot doctor of yours while I have a look at that leg.”

For fucks sake.

“It’s not my hot doctor, it’s hers, but it’s a secret!”

A big secret given her pointing towards you.

“Oh is it?”

If Shen knew the whole hospital would know by tomorrow. Maybe you can practice medicine somewhere nice and far-like North Korea.

“Good job on keeping it Beck, the yelling helps.”

“Don’t hold back on the details Cowboy Bride, please keep talking for as long as you’d like- it helps with the pain.”

The maniacal laugh she let out told you you were as fucked as you thought you might be. You thanked the nurse at the check in desk and went back to grab the purses and hopefully pass unseen to your locker to leave Becca's boots and salvage a bit of dignity before your peers and their insufferably handsome attending. 

You were perfectly normal about him the first time you met, you would swear on it and even if you weren't you didn’t know a single person who didn’t stare at his arms the first time they saw him.

It was all fine and almost fun and then one hand held scalpel assistance with whispered praise lead to what you hoped was flirting and then those shoulders showed up uninvited to a wet dream and you found yourself truly and deeply fucked. The worst part was it wasn’t even just a sex thing, he made you laugh, he made you feel safe. You shared whispers and quiet drinks after long shifts, you’ve been handed as many coffees before a long night as you have beers after a long day. You’ve tag teamed shit cases, you’ve joined in on bets, you had inside jokes, hell he gave you butterflies you didn’t know you could still get. It’s one sided- you remind your self, it would be inappropriate that didn’t stop Collins and Robby your brain cheats but she probably didn’t barge in with a drunk friend objectifying him in tiny shorts and a bright pink push up bra poking from underneath her white shirt. 

 You were so focused on immobilising her and getting her in shape to get to the hospital comfortable that you didn’t think to grab your jacket from the table to cover up a bit of your pride and you vividly remembered packing up most of the spares from your locker to give them a wash over the weekend. The familiar chill of the ER enveloped you and you were all too aware of the tiny denim cut offs and the bra baring button up tied at your waist. When you planned the outfit you were hoping for a ‘forget about him’ hookup and a night of good riding jokes and before the leg disaster it gave you a good confidence boost- you looked good, hell you looked fantastic and you felt like an idiot. Your hand shot up to take the hat off before making a run to the lockers but Ellis caught a glimpse of you as you did and her face split in a shit eating grin.

“Now, that’s a look-”

“We’ve seen less clothed people come in-”

“Not doctors.”

“I’m off the clock”

“Or off the cock?”

“This Cowgirl didn’t get to do any riding seeing as the rodeo was closed due to injury.”

“How did that happen?”

“She’s really into Sabrina Carpenter and a clumsy drunk.”

The face you got out of her told you all you needed to know, while your shifts now rarely overlapped you became good friends during your residency but Ellis had the face of a shark on her as she opened her mouth to speak:

“Our good attending Doctor Abbot is actually with your Bride, they’re in Trauma 2 if you want to go hold your friends hand and help with her medical history before she goes for an x-ray. Oh she is quite the talker”

“Wasn’t Shen with her?”

“Oh he was but he called in Abbot so he could go check up on his other patients-”

There was that shark smile again.

“I’ll kill him.”

You felt a blush creeping from your chest as you turned to walk but before you knew it she was right by your side 

“-let me walk you actually, wouldn’t want to miss his face-”

“I think I can find my way to it just fine, just get me a shovel to dig my grave once I’m back.”

“You’re telling me I have to miss seeing you give Rabbit a heart attack?”

“You have to miss my last moments in the pitt before one of the attendings finds out from my very drunk friend a lot of crap that no one is supposed to know about.”

She turned back to her chart, still smiling before saying one last thing

“- don’t tell that to the all the money we all have in the betting pool”

“Oh fuck me.”

“He might!”

You left with a middle finger in the air and your cowboy hat by her chart. Running a hand over the ponytails you attempted before the party you made your way to the room Becca was in- the motion gave you a sense of comfort. You had never felt more awkward in the ER in your life, you had gotten puked and pissed on here, you had said stupid stuff, you had blushed from head to toe the first time Abbot whispered good job to you, you had gossiped and placed bets here and you were dragging your pink boot clad feet because who the fuck knew what Becca had already told him. Sighing you pressed the button to enter the room.

“Any allergies?”

He asked, not turning around from her.

“Oh I thought you left! You didn’t tell me he was this nice!”

If you weren’t in it you’d think it was funny, your cool, calm, collected, attending turned towards you and his eyebrows met that gorgeous hairline at the same time his lips turned into a smirk.

"Well Howdy there."

"Hello Doctor Abbot."

You forced out as confidently as you could trying not to curl into yourself.

“Where’s the rest of your shirt?”

“Lost it at the rodeo?”

“Ah.”

Eloquent Doctor Abbot

“She hasn’t got any allergies, she’s full of tequila and you can’t trust a word she says- when’s she in line for an x-ray?”

“As soon as I can decipher who the hot doctor she keeps asking about is.”

Becka gave you an innocent smile and you made a list of places no one would find her body.

“You uh-do that and I’ll call Jules, her fiancée.”

“Oh I think we’re close to roping the answer Cowgirl.”

You nodded awkwardly and tried not to notice the way his eyes that usually looked straight into yours lingered on the exposed torso and the delicate skin of your collarbones. 

______________________________________________________________

“Last rodeo or last ride?”

Asked one of your friends while you were at the bar waiting for more drinks.

“Last rodeo, I think, I hope she’ll still get to ride.”

You shared a laugh, leaning on the bar.

“The blond in the corner has been checking you out.”

“Not my type.”

“What is your type?”

She asked as you made your way back through the bodies surrounding you.

“You’ll judge-”

“Are you still into old guys?”

“I thought you had a good relationship with your father?”

Cut in a third friend getting Becca’s attention.

“Is this about the hot guy that works with you?”

“Are you having  a sexy Grey’s style affair in the hospital?”

“No, it’s not like that-”

“But he is a father figure by what I’ve heard-”

“Gross Beck.”

“Oh do tell?”

You took a drink of your pornstar martini in an attempt to hide your blush as Becca recounted your descriptions of Jack, well Doctor Abbot, you rarely called him Jack. Only in those strange quiet moments when you felt like there might be something there, sharing a drink after a long shift, sitting leg to leg.

“Salt and pepper curls, giant bulging biceps, ex- military and ticks her competence kink- from what I’ve gathered. ”

“You having a competence kink makes so much sense babe.”

You let the martini do the talking:

“Look, I saw him donate blood and work on a patient at the same time and he has hands that look like they know what they’re doing and I am not saying that he looks like he could fuck me into a wall nor that I want it but it is hard to focus some times.”

“So how much older is he?”

“Old enough to be my young father. like 15, 20 years?”

“So how big of a hand are we talking about here?”

“Big enough that you should do something about it.”

“Like risk my job by having a relationship with my boss?”

“He’s not technically your boss! Not that I wouldn’t fuck your boss if he’s ever lonely.”

You choked on your drink as the group continued laughing.

______________________________________________________________

You made your way to the too familiar vending machines to grab a tea and a snack- a headache was building behind your eyes, a combination of the tiredness and slight hangover. You let Jules know Becca was alive and on her way to an x-ray and she let you know she’ll swing by the bar to grab your stuff before coming in to take care of Becca and relieving you of your duties. God the whole hospital will know by tomorrow, maybe Gloria would fire you and then you can jump off the roof and never think about the way his eyes darkened as you opened the door again. You were so far down that rabbit hole that you didn’t hear him come up.

“She’s up for an x-ray as we speak.”

You startled a bit but nodded your head once you registered what he said before turning to face him. He looked good, he always looked good when he had on that bemused smile and held your stare.

“I wanted to apologise for whatever she said if you’re uncomfortable-”

You started babbling, words falling from your mouth in a river of apologies and excuses as he took the jacket you didn’t even notice he had over his arm and placed it around your shoulders and you shut up at the motion, his hands still on your shoulders.

“You look like you’re cold, cowboy. It’s a good look on you, but I think you always look good. I also think you are my favourite face I have seen all day- maybe ever. Hell, I might have to send your friend a fucking great wedding present.”

“What?”

He takes half a step closer and your breath hitches in your throat.

“I’m going to kiss you because that’s what I have wanted to do from the first day I saw you, not just now, not because you walked in looking like a western fantasy, not because I’m sorry for you or whatever you might cook up in that brilliant head-”

You cut him off this time, sneaking hands around his neck, pulling him to your height and kissing him. Your lips move together and it’s soft and steady and strong and everything you imagined it would be and it feels so right.

“Was there a hat with the outfit?”

“Fuck off Jack.”

“Say it again.”

“What, fuck off?”

“No, my name.”

And you’re both smiling so hard you think your face might split.

“Yeah- it was pink.”

And he laughs before kissing your cheek and you think that’s something you could get used to.