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ahem - in this essay, I will be explaining why I think pope cody is the perfect person to cockwarm with.

18+ below the ✂️ 'cause we're gettin' spicy with it.

it's late into the evening when you finally get home, the whole of your condo is cloaked in inky darkness. pope's here somewhere - his truck in the driveway made that clear, and though hunger gnaws at your stomach, an entirely other sensation overrides it. a desire for him runs deep in your veins and causes goosebumps to bloom in waves on your skin.

"pope?"

the only sounds that greet you back are the waves on the breeze from your open windows.

you strain in the white noise until you hear the sound of the shower stop, and you decide to wait a couple of minutes before going to find him.

when you falter in the doorway to your room, he's sitting in the plush chair beside the window, clad only in a pair of black boxer briefs.

"you made it home in one piece," you try to keep the statement casual, but relief still finds its way in.

a gruff sound rumbles in the hollow of his throat before he meets your gaze.

"didn't think I would?"

you shrug, and push yourself from the doorway to where he's seated.

"it's always hard to tell with you cody boys."

you cross your arms and cock your head to the side, admiring the way the light from the candles he'd lit catches the stray water droplets that decorate the smooth planes of his chest. "you miss me, pope?"

he levels his gaze with yours, and a muscle flexes in his jaw before he nods his head. "only every damn day."

you eye the erection swelling in the crotch of his briefs, and a lump blooms in the hollow of your throat at the notion that he wants you as much as you want him.

"i need you, pope."

he nods and lifts his hips to shimmy off the useless material.

"wanna try something new," you murmur.

your ministrations are frenzied when you strip for him, which is also new territory because he usually prefers it when you take your time. he likes to watch every article of your clothing fall from your body and pool around your feet. he likes watching the rise and fall of your chest and how your breath changes depending upon how turned on you are... really, he just likes watching you.

"are you ready? do you trust me?"

and all he can do is nod dumbly because jesus - if he can't trust you, who the hell can he trust?

you trace a fingertip along the sharp line of his jaw. "need to hear you say it, pope."

he swallows hard before eliciting a choked, "I trust you..."

you place two hands against the curve of his shoulders and slowly sink down onto him.

his sheer size never ceases to steal your breath away. there's just something about being split apart by him that cause tears of pleasure to prick behind your eyes, and the urge to grind yourself against him is all-consuming.

"christ, you feel so fucking good," he groans against the shell of your ear before asking, "what's so new about this, hm?"

when you're able to speak again, you tell him: "we're going to stay like this, pope," you press a kiss the swell in his throat. "you've been gone almost a week, you've come back to me covered in cuts and bruises, and I just need this."

and that's really all he needs to know because he is nothing, if not a mere supplicant for you; a beggar at the hem of your silken robes.

ignoring the overwhelming desire to move against him, you trace a fingertip over the delicate creases next to his hazel eyes and smile.

"you're a beautiful boy, pope."

you watch the apple bob in his throat - a blush floods his cheeks at your words, and he takes cover from your attention at the base of your neck.

his warm, sure hands as they rub circles into the soft skin of your back help to lull you into a shallow sleep, but when you stir a little while later, he's gently coaxing you off of him.

"I don't want it to be over yet."

it's pathetic, but it's the truth. you've simply missed him too much.

"i know," he murmurs, before leading you to the bed. he doesn't say anything more as he guides you onto your side, and pushes back into you, burying himself to the hilt.

a soft hiss pushes past your lips at the ache of being filled to the brim by him again. you could quite happily live in the satisfying fullness of it all for the rest of your days.

his lips find the nape of your neck, where they leave behind trails of scorching kisses in their wake.

"we'll stay like this as long as you want, hm?" and he means it; he's entirely relentless in his dedication to something. his toned arm curls around you instinctively; protectively. "just take whatever you need."

i'm happy to give it all to you.

[readerinsertrepository]

18+ only please and thank you

Roommate Ghost who’s basically a rehomed cat.

You barely saw him at first. He’d come out of his room to do laundry, and you’d occasionally spot the back of him as he’s leaving for work, but otherwise it was like living with a ghost. A large, moody ghost who seemed to think eye contact was an unforgivable breach of privacy.

So you did the obvious thing, and coaxed him out with food. You’re lonely, he seems nice enough, and he’s also just conveniently there. It’s no big deal to make something that smells really wonderful when he’s home, and hope he’ll take the bait.

It takes three whole entire dinners. Two delicious meals without so much as a stir from his room, and you’re just about to give up on the whole scheme, when you’re finally rewarded with a tousled head poking out of his room on the third attempt.

“Want some?” you immediately pipe up, giving him an encouraging smile while you scoop noodles into your bowl. Realizing your mistake, you quickly relocate your gaze back to the food, so as not to scare him off.

Cmon, take the bait. Come on out, kitty. You know you want it.

Silent as ever, your massive roommate indeed emerges to fill his belly.

A soft, “Thanks,” is all you get for your efforts, but it thrills you. You sit there practically vibrating with glee, trying to play as cool as possible while you both eat and purposefully don’t speak to each other. There’s just chewing and silence, and the quiet clatter of spoons and forks, and you love it.

The next day, the contents of your personal grocery list have magically appeared in your refrigerator. The meat you needed, vegetables, your special milk for your cereal. Bemused, you step over to your pantry and verify that, yes, he got the dry stuff too. You weren’t planning to cook anything fancy two days in a row, but hell, if he’s around again tonight, you might as well.

But he’s not around. You don’t see him again for several weeks, never even got a text that he was leaving. You were just starting to make progress, and now it’ll all be erased when he returns. You lost your one window of opportunity for building trust, and it’ll be back to silence, back to emptiness, back to being strangers.

But to your surprise, when he does finally come home, he meows at you.

Not officially. Not in, like, actual cat language, but he drops his bag by the door and responds to your quiet greeting with a heavy sigh, and, "It’s good to be back.”

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face, so you quickly hide it by staring at the TV.

He joins you for dinner the next time you cook. And the next. Groceries pop up like spring flowers, anything you write down, even if it’s snacks he never touches.

He starts hanging out with you while you cook. On the other side of the counter at first, looming like a dark shadow, just listening to your music and offering answers to your small talk.

You keep it light. Keep it friendly and easy, and entice him over occasionally to taste what you’re making. He starts lingering closer, letting the kitchen light touch him, leaning against your side of the counter. The scary side.

And then one day he tells you a joke. Just completely out of the blue, “What do you call an angry carrot?”

“Uhh…” you pause peeling carrots for a second, trying to wrap your head around some scenario where this is a legitimate question, because surely he's not about to tell you an actual joke. “I dunno?”

“A steamed vegetable.”

You return to your carrots with a delighted laugh. He's being friendly, he's making jokes! Best not comment on the progress he's made, because you don’t want to scare him off.

Good luck with that.

He starts following you around like an actual stray cat. You can’t bear to close the door on him, so he’s just always there, hanging out in the doorway, telling you little bits about his day while you brush your teeth for bed. He doesn’t talk a whole lot, prefers to listen to you yap, but he’s shut in his room less and less.

Except for the bad times. Simon goes through phases where he recluses himself again. Sometimes it’s only a few hours, other times it’s days, but he occasionally needs time to himself, and you don’t mind. You still get a thrill every time he appears again, metaphorically meowing at you and rubbing up against your leg.

God, you wish he would. You could use some good leg rubbing, actually.

Is he the rubbing type? He’s never made a pass at you, never touched you at all, and even the times when you’ve hung out together in your room, he always stood politely in the doorway. Always turned his head to the side when you’ve had to open your underwear drawer or spilled sauce on your shirt and had to strip it off. He’s just like that, always aware of your personal space and his, uncomfortable about the two bubbles touching without warning.

When it finally happens, it's you who's surprised.

You've just halted mid-step in the middle of the kitchen, staring down at the corner of the cabinets because you swear you just saw something move.

When all of a sudden, and actual mouse scampers across the floor, doing erratic zig zags like it's too scared to decide where to go, and all you can do is scream because it's coming right for you--

A thick arm clamps around your stomach, and your feet abruptly lose contact with the floor. You've completely lost track of the mouse, you're just frozen in shock from the fact that your whole back is glued to Simon's side, and he doesn't even bother to hold you up with both arms as he swivels around searching for where the mouse went.

"Thanks," you squeak, patting his forearm as a signal to put you down. "You're really strong, holy shit."

He grunts like he doesn't agree. "Doesn't take much to lift somebody."

Your feet touch back down to the linoleum, and you just hope your hot face isn't too evident. "Right, uh huh. Cause I could definitely lift you."

"Probably could."

You eye him skeptically, all the way from his socks, to the always-mussed hair at the top of the mountain. "I don't feel like throwing out my back, but thanks for the offer."

"I wasn't offering."

It's just small talk. Regular jokes, with his usual deadpan delivery, but you swear there was something he meant to say in those words. You try to discern them, gazing up into those brown eyes that don't mind meeting yours anymore.

It's hanging in the air, the thing he meant to say. You don't want to try and guess. It's too risky, and you might hurt yourself if you get it wrong.

"What is it, Simon? What's wrong?"

His eyes stutter for just a second, like he's ripping himself out of a train of thought. "I think you should hide in your room while I find that mouse."

Stupid, cockblocking mouse.

You don't sleep well that night. You keep thinking about your quiet roommate, end up having to jerk off at two in the morning just to get a little bit of relief, and your sleep is fretful even after that.

You ask about the mouse the next day, and he swears he not only caught it, but released it in the woods a mile away. There's absolutely no telling if he's pulling your leg or not, so you just drop it, too absorbed in the questions that were haunting you all night.

"I'm not good at... fucking."

Your head snaps up, staring wide eyed at Simon's troubled expression across the table. "What?"

"I've never been with a woman before. At least, not... like this. Wager I'll make a fool of myself, so I might as well get it out in the open."

"Oh. Um." Your heart is pounding, your mind whirling to comprehend how you got here so suddenly. He looks so scared, holding himself rigidly into place without so much as blinking, and you're taking far too long to answer at this point.

"I'm good at it," you finally tell him, hoping it sounds more comforting and less like a brag. "We can figure it out together, if it's something you want to do."

"Okay."

It takes a little while to get there. Some time to find a natural moment to take his hand in yours, for him to return the gesture by wrapping his arm around your waist and bringing your body over to his. But then his hand finds the back of your neck, and he's definitely not a beginner at kissing.

You've wanted it for so long, imagined it so often, that the press of his body against yours almost feels familiar. The seeking movements of his lips, the soft breaths coasting over your cheek. It's quiet and slow, in the corner of your shared kitchen.

He tucks your body into his, lets you saturate yourself in each second of this moment while you both learn the way the other likes to kiss. You end up in your bed soon after, just for the sake of comfort and lining up your mouths a little more conveniently.

It's easy to lose yourself in the safety of him. Your body feels at home in the muscled softness of his, in the thoughtful, patient movements of his hands exploring under your clothes. It feels like he's belonged to you far sooner than today.

His first time isn't perfect, but he makes up for his inexperience by taking his time. Laughs at your breathless, "a hole is a hole" statement, and insists on exploring with his mouth and fingers first.

Simon makes the prettiest noises when he finds your wetness waiting for him. He seems to enjoy the feeling of it on his fingers, sliding them in and out so carefully, studying the textures inside you. He tastes his own fingers, less like a scientist and more like a little kid who's discovering new flavors in the sandbox.

He makes a sound then, a warm, rumbly one, and then pulls his fingers out of his mouth to lean down and find your clit with his lips.

A hole is a hole, but there's something special about whispering little cues at him in the dark, and the way he efficiently adjusts himself, ever the dedicated soldier. A hole is a hole, but you cum like that, with your roommate's strong hand gripping your hip, and his mouth accomplishing exactly the motion you need to draw a slow, brain-melting orgasm out of you.

"Yeah, just like that," you pant a few moments later, shoving his face away from your oversensitive pussy.

Just like that.

[readerinsertrepository]

18+ only please and thank you

Roommate Gaz who has a lights off policy with you.

You never intended it to be that way. It started when the power went out one night in the middle of your TV marathon. Pitch black, sitting there in your respective spots on the couch, you both waited for a few seconds, just in case it was a quick flicker.

And then you got up for a candle, stumbled against his stupid knee, and ended up in his lap.

And then... other things happened.

The power didn’t come back on for an hour, but it was plenty of time to learn a lot of new things about your longtime roommate. The way his lips feel against yours, the texture of his chest hair, the way it felt to have his tongue in your mouth while you straddled him, cumming in quiet little gasps of relief.

By the time the lights all sprang to life again, your clothes were back on, his clothes were back on, and it was strangely like it had never happened. He wouldn't say anything, would barely look at you, so you did the obvious thing and hid in your room for the rest of the night.

And in the morning, it was business as usual. He said hi, you both ate your breakfast, and that was it. Off to work, back home for takeaway, mumbled good nights and separate beds.

It was a one time thing, and that’s okay. That’s simple. You can accept it.

Except, it’s not a one time thing. It starts happening, over and over. He starts it, the bastard. A few weeks after the first time, he waits for you to turn off all the living area lights for bed, and then traps you against the doorframe for soft little smooches that turn into something else in the dark, in his bed.

Always in the dark.

Sometimes it’s you who seeks him out, because he always leaves his door unlocked, and it’s no big deal to walk ten steps over to his room and crawl into bed with him when you’re horny.

Sometimes it’s several times a week, other times nearly a month goes by without hooking up. He seems to be good with it absolutely whenever, but you have your own system to let him know when you want it. If your little Lilo and Stitch night light is on, you want to be left alone. If it’s off, your body is fair game for someone sneaking into your covers for toothpaste tasting kisses and exploring hands.

Always in the dark, though, even after months of it. Never a speck of light allowed.

You try not to think about that, but the doubt tugs at you anyway. What if he hates your body? What if he thinks you're ugly?

But he doesn’t act like you’re ugly. He acts like he can’t get enough of you, happily kissing across your face, palming and feeling you in every which way until you’re convinced he’s memorized the shape of your body in his hands.

Sometimes he nuts so fast, he has to spend the next little bit avoiding his own cum leaking out while he coaxes your orgasm out of you with practiced sucks and licks.

Sometimes he fucks you for what seems like hours, shuddering and panting with the effort it takes not to finish. Holds you tight like that, nuzzles into your neck and makes the most delicious, low sounds of pleasure. Like he's never been happier, like he's exactly where he wants to be.

In the dark. Making out with you. Helping you cum. Your bed, his bed, they both start smelling like both of you, and he doesn't seem to be seeing anyone else. You're surely not.

It's just him. In the dark.

Until one night, he makes a mistake.

He finds you in your bed that night. Strips your panties off, kisses across your thighs just as you're giving him a sleepy hello. Tells you to relax, because you're more tired than he is, and he's in the mood to eat.

Kyle gets you all the way to the edge, teasing and withholding until your legs are quivering and you're wide awake, focused entirely on the need to cum. But he wants you to cum while you're fucking, so he crawls up your body and sinks into you. Anchors himself with a hand on the bed--

On your hair.

"OW!" you squeal, instinctively shoving at this arm to try to stop the pain.

"Shit, sor--"

He must overcompensate in his hurry to fix it, must be so upset about hurting you that he gets sloppy. He somehow knocks your lamp off the bedside table, and suddenly you're blinking in shock at the light flooding your room.

Kyle's right there above you, also stunned. Right there, naked. Inside you. Staring down at your wide eyes so close to his face, not moving because neither of you seem to know what to do when you can see each other.

"Alright?" he whispers.

"Yeah, I... I don't mind seeing you."

"No, I meant your hair."

"Oh!" you reach up and feel the sore spot, verifying that there's no missing clump or something. "Yeah, it's fine."

Kyle's eyes trace over your features, sliding down to your breasts and blinking slowly at them.

"It's okay if you want to turn the light off," you offer, self conscious.

"Can't be bothered at the moment," he returns, settling down on his elbows, nudging his hips a little deeper into you.

You curse, screwing your eyes shut because you don't know what to do, everything is so confusing and you're still so turned on.

And then lips find yours. Lips that took their time with your clit just a few moments ago, lips you've memorized against yours. Your eyes spring open again, just to see his already closed, fluffy lashes nearly touching his cheek as he kisses you with the lights on.

He's beautiful, and you don't mind. You let him fuck you like that, let him watch you cum, watch his own hands molding your body, fingers pushing inside you and bringing you another orgasm, naked and exposed to the light. Exposed to him.

You lay there for a while after he's finished, uncaring about the lamp still lying on the floor, probably cracked in half or something. It's still on. You both keep glancing at each other, eyes coasting over familiar lines of faces and arms.

It's a one time thing, surely. An unfortunate accident that forced you into normal sex. He'll be off to his bed soon, and you'll be trying to stop thinking about this, trying to stop your brain from circling--

"You wanna be my girlfriend?"

[readerinsertrepository]

OMG I WAS THE ANON WHO SENT SMTH ABT ASKING JACK ABBOT TO BE UR BOYFRIEND A BAR AND SITTING IN HIS LAP TO ESCAPE A CREEP (unless tumblr ate my ask bc it hates me), BUT IVE BEEN WATCHING ANIMAL KINGDOM AND IM FROTHING AY THE MOUTH NOW THINKING ABT POPE AND THAT SITUATION GRHAGEHEH

im only on s2 of animal kingdom but i just ADORE how you write pope and i needed to share this with you because whenever i think of pope's characterization i think of you frfr

i actually went so physically insane over this prompt. i was counting down the minutes until school ended so i could write this and it's so small but i hope you like it. it would be perfect for jack but ohmygod for pope. imagine this is how he meets wifey or something. jesus lord

he sits on a stool at deran's bar, right against the counter, because he doesn't have anywhere else to be. anywhere else to go right now. there's bruises littered across his back and a visible scratch on his neck and one on his forehead that's still healing. a wrapped up hand picks up his beer and takes a long sip before setting it down a little harder than he intended.

the place is packed—it always is. some part of andrew, deep inside, is happy for deran. the people here are drunk and chattery and he knows that there's regulars and locals who prefer this place. his brother created something that others love, that people go to willingly.

and andrew hasn't felt anything close to that feeling in forever. he takes another drink of his beer, this time until it's empty, and raises it towards the bartender. he doesn't know where deran is tonight, probably out mixed in the crowd, mingling and talking. craig is probably with him. and like always, andrew is alone.

the bartender brings over another and takes the empty bottle away. it's his third or fourth—though it takes so much to get him drunk, he hasn't even begun to feel the stupid effects of it yet. and all around him, people keep partying, talking, drinking. loud over the music that plays in the background. it's all too loud.

this one will have to be his last. he needs to go home. but the idea of going inside the house, to his bedroom, to the bedroom that was lena's, makes him think the beer might come back up. he'll take the truck to the beach, sit there for a few hours. roll the window down so there's nothing but quiet and ocean waves. nothing can fix how he's been feeling recently, but maybe that can patch it up for a few hours, a temporary band-aid. (what he really needs is something closer to surgery, but he can't think about that right now. band-aid it is.)

he takes a breath, shoulders rising in the black shirt he'd worn today. another sip of his beer. and just when he decides it's time to go be alone—always, he's always alone—he feels a tap on his shoulder. there's a healing bruise, yellow and green, there so he winces briefly before turning to face who it is—craig or deran. he's not sure who else it could be.

and then he sees you. blinking up at him, eyes fluttering quickly. breathing heavy and turning your neck as if someone's following you. you look jittery and nervous, though for once, it's not directed at him. it makes something dark and protective wash over him briefly. you take little shallow breaths, he can tell from how your chest heaves, when he turns and faces you all the way. he doesn't think he's ever seen you before.

"yes?"

"w-what's your name?" you turn again, like you're waiting for someone to show up behind you.

"my name?" he repeats quietly. he can barely hear you over the continual drone of the bar and the shitty music. you nod quickly, taking a step closer to him. you slide between his seat and the seat next to him, standing there, so close that a couple more inches and you'd be touching him, skin to skin.

you don't look drunk. you're not slurring your words or stumbling. your hands are empty, your eyes still scanning the crowd. you're wearing a pretty dress and he stares at the strap of it on your bare shoulder momentarily before meeting your eyes again.

"your name. please, i-"

"it's andrew."

"andrew. andrew, i-" he almost doesn't catch the rest of your sentence. the way you say his name catches him off guard. slow and sweet and you said it twice like you're really making sure it's him. you say it as if you're happy it's him. he doesn't think he's ever heard it said like that before. "-i know this is going to sound crazy, but i really need help, um-"

and some instinct in him rises up quickly, washing over his body like a flood wave. that you need help. that you picked him to ask for it. that you seem jittery and nervous but maybe a flicker calmer than you were a moment ago. and he did that. and the satisfaction from that makes him incredibly glad he didn't leave after his last beer.

"what's wrong?" he interrupts you, but you notice it. how he sits up straighter, how his bruised hand twitches. it doesn't hover over you, yet, but he keeps it ready as though he might have to at any moment. his eyes are hyper-focused on yours. he listens to every word. and somehow, though you just walked up to the first guy you thought wasn't completely drunk, you think you're safe with him.

"this guy-" but you don't get to finish. since andrew locked eyes with you, you hadn't looked around to see if the guy that's been bothering you all night was getting closer. you couldn't find your friends and he'd used that opportunity to get right next to you and not take no for an answer. so you'd split the second he turned around, getting through the crowd as quickly as you could, wondering if maybe the bartender could help. but realizing a lesson your friends had told you a long time ago—the only no a guy like that will listen to is if it comes from another guy—you walked right up to a stranger in a black shirt instead.

"there you are-" the voice booms. you freeze mid-sentence, something andrew does not like at all. your expression changes, worry drapes over your face again, and despite andrew never being good at these things, he knows you're very uncomfortable. "was looking all over for you. where were we?"

you don't turn right away. your eyes stay locked on andrew's, taking one step closer to him.

but andrew doesn't half-ass anything. certainly not this, when you're trembling like a leaf and he can tell his drunk asshole won't stop bothering you. wordlessly, just from your pretty, worried eyes. he moves his hands to your waist—gently, but firmly. he doesn't wander them, just keeps them in place, still sitting down, moving his gaze from your eyes to the guy's.

but you worry, momentarily, that it's not enough. the asshole looks from you to andrew, to andrew's hands. before you can stop to think about it too much, you perch yourself against him, sitting on his lap. you swing your arm around his neck and keep a hand on his bicep to steady yourself. and andrew plays along perfectly, finding it too easy to bring one hand to your knee and keeping the other on your waist and look up at the guy in question.

he doesn't have to say anything. he knows that he recognizes him.

"oh," the guy starts, backing up a step right away. "i thought you were kidding about the boyfriend. you didn't say it was-"

"she wasn't," andrew says, though unbeknownst to you, he means it. "do we have a problem?"

"no, no, pope, no man. sorry about that, i'll-"

"tell her sorry." you turn your gaze from the encounter between the two men to andrew, not sure why he said that.

"i-i'm sorry-" he stumbles out, before walking away quickly. you must have picked the right guy to ask for help—he seems incredibly scared of andrew. briefly you wonder if you should be scared too.

"thank you," you say, looking back at andrew. he's looking at you too, and you don't realize how close your faces are until you can feel his breath against your cheek. he blinks up at you, not looking away. "oh, i'm sorry, i'll move-"

but his hands are firm on you, keeping you in place.

"stay." the way he says it, it doesn't feel like you have much of a choice. but you'd be an idiot to run from a man who just helped save you when you couldn't find your friends or anyone else to do so. his huge arm feels tense and taut under your hand and it's easy to melt into his grip, getting comfortable against him. you almost feel like you can trust him, like you didn't just meet him ten minutes ago.

"can i buy you another beer? to thank you?"

"yeah. sure."

[readerinsertrepository]

imagine bein’ loved by me

JACK ABBOT x F!READER

Summary: Jack Abbot is a tease and a bully and an overall menace to society, and you are utterly infatuated with him.

wc: 9.2k (what the fuck)

Warnings: f!reader, resident!reader, implied age gap, power imbalance, jack is a fucking tease, he is also a dummy, tension in the workplace, an almost bar fight, pining, explicit sexual content, brief oral (f!receiving), praise, p in v, finishing inside, oh no, they’re in love

A/N: not only did this get way longer than intended, it also got way softer than I had planned oops. Anyway, y’all are gonna roll your eyes at a certain scene when my clear bias toward Robby is put on full fucking display lmfao enjoy~

He notices it the first time you work a night shift with him. 

Jack has seen you in action before. Hell, Robby has even sung your praises (a rarity). You have sure hands, follow spot-on gut instincts, and you’re great with the patients. You’ve proved that you’re competent and confident here in the EC. 

However, as soon as Jack steps into any room you’re already in, that sugar-laced smile fades. You stutter, you hesitate, your hands start to tremble. 

Initially, he thought it was because he intimidated you. It wouldn’t be the first time, but usually, if a resident is scared of Jack, they’re downright terrified of Robby who’s known to be hypercritical and harsher in his corrections (a side effect of all the stress he’s under, Jack thinks). 

That doesn’t seem to be the case with you. He’s seen how you act around Robby, professional but relaxed. You grin, high five, and Jack is pretty sure he witnessed a warm, work-appropriate side hug shared after a particularly harrowing shift. 

He comes to the conclusion that this is an issue you have exclusively with Jack, and that doesn’t sit well with him. 

He isn’t angry, just curious. 

Also, he can’t have you freezing up whenever he’s even remotely close by; that’s just not good in this line of work. 

So, in the early morning hours of what Jack knows to be your last shift before you’re off for a few days, he catches your attention and jerks his chin to beckon you over to the nurse’s station. The manner in which you look around and over your shoulders, pointing to yourself in disbelief, makes his lips quirk up on one side. 

Jack mouths the word ‘you’ while nodding and watches as you shuffle toward him with wide eyes. 

“Um, what can I—” you clear your throat, “what can I do for you, Dr. Abbot?”

“You have a second to talk?” he asks, and you swallow, head moving up and down in slow, silent affirmation. “Don’t worry. You’re not in any trouble.”

“Okay, do you… do you wanna talk here, or is it—I mean, is it a closed door conversation, or…?”

Jack just does not understand why you get so timid around him. Why is it you can laugh and joke and work with Robby and Shen, but you can’t with him? What has he done to make you so mousy? 

“Wherever you’re comfortable. We can step outside if you want, or we can stay right here,” he offers. You’re in control here. You have the choice. No wrong answers. 

“Outside?” you half suggest, half ask, and Jack motions for you to lead the way. 

It’s about three AM on a Tuesday morning. Not a whole lot of action right now, but you both know that can change on a dime. 

As soon as the doors slide shut behind him, you look at Jack in concern. “Is everything okay?” 

He crosses his arms over his chest, remembers it could come off as defensive or surly, so he drops them to his sides, except that feels awkward and wrong too. No fucking wonder Robby is always rubbing his face and holding the back of his neck. 

Eventually, Jack settles on sliding his hands into his pockets, relaxes his posture, tries not to look like a soldier standing at attention. 

“I wanted to ask you the same question.” 

You frown, not quite pouty, more like you’re having trouble solving a riddle, so Jack continues before you can catastrophize any further. 

“I get the feeling that I make you nervous sometimes,” all the time, “and I want you to know that you shouldn’t be. Nervous, I mean.”

No longer pinched together, your eyebrows shoot up in surprise, your gaze repeatedly flicking to and away from his face. 

“See, that,” he chuckles, “you look like you just got caught stealing drugs.” Then, in an attempt to ease your discomfort, he lowers his voice to a conspiratorial volume and adds, “have you… been stealing drugs?”

It does not make you laugh. It just makes you shake your head urgently, “no, I’d never—Dr. Abbot, s—”

“Hey, hey, calm down. I was just teasin’, kid,” he tries to reassure you while smiling how he usually does, subtle but amused. 

If he’s being honest, though, the deer in the headlights look is kind of endearing. Unnecessary, but endearing. 

Then, Jack sees that wide eyed stare move down to the slight curve of his mouth and remain there for a few whole seconds, more than enough time for you to see that previously subtle curve lift a little higher on one side until it’s more smirk than smile. 

So, that’s what it is. 

Jack tries to clear it from his face, but it’s kind of impossible, especially when you’re able to detect the mirth dancing in his eyes. 

“I should, uh—ya’ know, actually….” You start backing up toward the sliding doors, “you really don’t make me nervous, Dr. Abbot. I think you just… I mean, no offense, but I think maybe you got the wrong idea.”

A self-conscious laugh, then a little huff when you miss the doors and instead back up into the bricks beside them. 

“Right.” 

Jack moves closer, finding too much enjoyment in your tiny gasp when he reaches out and gives you a nudge to the side before placing his hands lightly on your shoulders. 

He turns you to face the pitt, guides you through the entrance as his footsteps echo directly behind yours. 

“Of course you’re not nervous—why would you be?”

You’re absolutely rigid in front of him, even curl forward a tiny bit when Jack gives your shoulders a gentle squeeze before letting go. 

You pivot to hide your face so fast, he’s surprised you don’t tear a goddamn ligament. 

It all makes sense now, he thinks. 

You’re not nervous; you’re smitten. 

How sweet. 

•

You consider begging Dr. Robby to let you come back to days early. It would be out of line and a little pathetic, but you’d much rather deal with that fallout over the very real threat of dropping dead in a trauma room any time Dr. Abbot so much as looks at you. 

A single glance is enough to make your heart skip a beat, and he is doing a bit more than that now, so you have a feeling that your time is about to be up. 

<< Hey, how many more weeks am I on nights? 

You type up some elaborate story about splattering spaghetti all over your dry erase calendar and having to clean it, wiping away your schedule, but the more details you give, the more suspicious Dr. Robby will get. 

>> Is it not on Teams?

Damn. 

<< Missed the window to change my password, so I’m locked out on my phone. 

That seems believable. 

It takes him a while to get back to you, but you almost wish he hadn’t when you read his response. 

>> You’ve still got another 3 weeks

There’s no way you’ll make it that long. You’ll be a nervous wreck by the time you return to the daylight hours of the EC. 

>> Miss day shift? 

<< Maybe. 

<< Yes. 

You also miss working under an attending who doesn’t make you shake like a chihuahua. 

>> I promise I won’t make you stay any longer than you have to, but Abbot and Shen need the help for now

Just reading his name is enough to make something jump in your stomach. 

Three more weeks of surviving Dr. Jack Abbot as he tries his damndest to kill you. 

And, you don’t even know why he’s doing it. You can understand why he’d want to suss out the reason you get so flustered around him, but now he has it. You know he knows because apparently you are incapable of concealing your feelings or even facial expressions when you see that barely-there smile of his. 

The exact moment—you witnessed the exact fucking moment that he figured it out. God, just thinking about it has you mortified all over again. And, then he held your shoulders and he teased you and you still had to work another four hours without passing out from embarrassment. 

From the very first day, or more accurately, the very first shift change, Dr. Abbot had too much of your attention. Something about his eyes and mouth and the salt and pepper stubble and silver curls and dexterous hands and really everything about him. 

He knows that now—maybe not all the details and areas of focus, but he definitely has the big picture. 

And, it amuses him. Entertains him. It’s almost like it brings him joy to make you squirm a little. 

He isn’t preying on you, you don’t think. It doesn’t feel malicious or coercive. Just inconvenient and confusing and really fucking distracting. 

In the shifts that followed shortly after his little discovery, Dr. Abbot just looked at you longer than he did before. Sometimes you’d see the corners of his eyes crinkle with a smile. Unnerving, but something you could cope with. Mostly. 

Now, he’s getting a little bolder, a little closer. Physically. Will come stand right next to you at the nurse’s station or sit at the computer nearest the one you’re using to chart. He doesn’t stare at you when he inflicts this torture. No, the gazes are always from a distance, probably with the purpose of making the back of your neck burn. Here, when he’s right beside you, he just smirks. You think he might try to hide it, but he’s not very good at it, even laughed once when you’d stood up as soon as he sat down. 

It’s just—it’s just rude. So rude. 

The worst part of it all, though, is that it’s helped steady you. You’ve stopped shaking in exam rooms, rarely stutter when giving reports. It’s like some kind of awful exposure therapy, and while it’s made you a more efficient doctor (still not as good as you are during the day), it leaves you in a constant state of mild discomfort, hot all over for twelve straight hours. 

It can’t get any worse, though. There’s no way that Dr. Abbot, revered and respected and selfless, would push things further. 

He wouldn’t. 

He wouldn’t. 

(He does.) 

•

The praise is genuine. Jack doesn’t say it to get a rise out of you; he wouldn’t do that. 

He’s watching over your shoulder as you prepare to put in a chest tube. Your hands are unwavering, nimble fingers counting ribs and controlled around the scalpel. 

In just a couple weeks your confidence in treatment has risen exponentially. He wishes he didn’t have to torture it out of you, but whatever works, works. 

Plus, it’s not like he’s not having some fun with it. You may be well balanced while performing procedures, but around Jack, you’re still wide eyed and restless. 

It’s cute, your little crush. 

Surprising, a little baffling, but mostly cute. 

Jack has been told that he has an… effect… on some women. More than he would’ve thought, and he still isn’t used to it. Fuck, he’s only just now started to notice it. 

Samira, bless her, was able to break it down for him, said he was a ‘silver fox’. Gray hair, fit, “think Anderson Cooper!”

Then, she’d let him in on another secret. 

“Your eyes are your best weapon, though.”

“My eyes?”

“Mhmm. It’s the way you stare. It makes it feel like nothing else exists. Very intense.”

She’s moved on to bigger and better things, as she should. Jack is glad she did, even if he misses having someone to explain the trends and lingo of the modern world. The pitt was never going to be big enough for Dr. Samira Mohan. 

It’s perfect for him, though. Exactly where he wants to be, especially right now as you secure the chest tube just fucking right. 

“Nicely done,” Jack tells you, still eyeing your work from behind you, catching the way your shoulders raise up close to your ears. 

He chuckles, you let out a frustrated, squeaky grunt, and then Jack gives you a little pat on the back and leaves. 

You avoid him as best you can for the rest of the night. 

Apparently, Jack has more going for him than his silver hair and ‘intense’ stares. 

Whether it’s proximity, his voice, or the words themselves, he isn’t sure. He’s more than willing to experiment to find out, though. 

The next chance he gets, Jack stands unnecessarily close to you again. It isn’t enough to raise eyebrows, really just looks like he’s keeping an eye on a fledgling doctor’s technique (which he is!). You’re a little stiff but not nearly as done with him as you were earlier. 

So, you’ve gotten used to him hovering. That’s good. 

“John got everyone lunch,” Jack says, coming to lean against the central hub beside you, voice dipped low and a tad rough. 

If you ask, he’ll just say he’s tired. It won’t be a lie. 

You don’t ask, however, just glance over at him, eyes landing on his mouth for a nanosecond before flicking back up. 

“What, did he lose a bet?” you eventually respond. 

Jack laughs quietly, “yeah, actually.”

“Typical,” you snort, “is gambling a hallmark of every EC or is it just ours?”  

He shrugs then straightens up, “no clue. Gotta find ways to entertain ourselves, right?” 

So far, you’ve seemed relatively unfazed, which is why Jack tosses you a quick wink as he backs away from the station. 

That gets a reaction, like a lightning strike that makes your spine go straight, makes you hide your face and whine, “oh my god, I hate you.”

You can’t see him, what with your head buried in your hands, so you don’t catch Jack’s smug grin as he turns around. 

“Me? What’d I ever do to you?”

He’s pretty sure he can feel your glare burning holes in the back of his skull. 

•

Robby’s birthday finds several faces of the pitt in the bar closest to the hospital. The man behind the counter knows many of you by name and therefore has a line of drinks prepared for you all without even having to be asked. 

You sip on your vodka Sprite—easy, decent taste, shouldn’t get you fucked up unless you really want to get irresponsible. 

And, irresponsible is the last thing you want to be when you can feel a heavy, hazel gaze on you wherever you go. You talk to Trinity, to Victoria, to Donny, and no matter where you move, those eyes follow you. 

It seems a little different tonight, though. Abbot usually watches you with the purpose of teasing. Now, it just feels like he’s watching to watch. 

With two drinks and little food in your system, a nice buzz settles in your head, stomach warm with alcohol and courage—not enough to talk to Abbot, but enough to make your way to the table he’s sharing with Robby so that you can wish the latter a happy birthday. 

“Unbelievable I made it through another year,” Robby says with a tired smile. He didn’t even work today, and the man looks exhausted. 

You grin sideways and tell him too honestly, “I’m glad you did,” then laugh around your straw when he blushes. 

Your eyes flit to Abbot who’s looking over at the other man, but as if sensing your attention, he redirects his to your face. 

“You can’t say stuff like that to Robby,” Abbot jokes, “one day he’s gonna get so red, his head will explode.”

“Shut the fuck up,” comes a groan from behind Robby’s hands, “aren’t you supposed to be nice to people on their birthday?”

“Sorry, were you expecting birthday kisses?” Abbot puckers his lips and acts like he’s really gonna plant them on Robby’s cheek, but he leans back when he’s swatted away, typical half-smile lifting his mouth when he winks at you as if the two of you are in cahoots. 

Robby isn’t the only one blushing now, your face hot as it always seems to be when you’re around Abbot. 

Thankfully, Cassie chooses that exact moment to slide up next to you to do exactly what you had come over here for, grabs the attention of both attendings, allowing you to slip away. 

An hour and two more drinks later finds you at the same booth. You ate the fries off Mel’s plate with the hopes of sopping up some of the alcohol, and while it probably helped, you’re still nice and fucking tipsy where you sit next to Robby, across from Abbot. With little room, you’re actually on Trinity’s lap, her cheek resting against your back as she chats with Robby, who has had enough beer to divulge a few fun stories about one Yolanda Garcia. Naturally, Trinity is eating it up. 

You listen and laugh, happy to be here, happy to see Robby actually relax, and, if you’re being honest, happy to be stared at. 

Eyes a little cloudy, you meet Abbot’s, and your stomach flips in a way that’s less to do with nerves and more to do with attraction. 

He tries and fails to hide a smirk, and you twist your own mouth to the side to keep your smile at bay, look down and laugh as you shake your head. 

You should probably put some distance between the two of you before you say or do something stupid. No way are you gonna let yourself flirt with Jack Abbot in public, especially not with Trinity and Robby so close by.

You slide from your friend's lap with the excuse of getting some water, which isn’t actually a lie. You could definitely use some, and that’s emphasized by how fucking good it tastes and feels when you gulp it down at the bartop. 

“Now, that’s impressive,” you hear from beside you, look to your right to see a man a few years younger than you who is blatantly checking you out. 

With a little frown, you tell him, “it’s not vodka or anything—just water,” immediately getting a bad vibe from this guy who’s probably named Chad or Brad or whatever frat boys go by these days.

“Shame,” he hums, “sober girls are so much harder to pick up, especially the cute ones like you.”

It’s possibly the grossest thing you’ve ever heard, shamelessly fucking predatory, but when you narrow your eyes at Chad, he just chuckles. 

“What’s your name?” he asks, either not recognizing your expression of distaste or ignoring it altogether. 

Hackles rising, you respond, “none of your business,” and turn to walk away. 

When Brad’s fingers wrap around your wrist, you round on him again, your free hand hot with the impulse to clock him right in the jaw. 

“You’re not even gonna talk to me?” he grins, “you should at least give me a chance.”

About to reply with a lecture full of expletives, Brandon lifts an eyebrow, suddenly focused on something or someone behind you. 

The way your neck prickles tells you exactly who’s just walked up, but that sixth sense does not prepare you for the strong arm that curls around your waist. 

“You need to let go before I fucking make you,” Abbot says, tone casual, his body anything but. You can feel the tension radiating from him, a loaded gun with his own finger on the trigger. 

Chadwick drops your wrist, and you flex your hand as if it’ll get rid of the residual sensation of his grip. 

“We were just talkin’, man.”

“Yeah?” Abbot’s fingers curl into the material of your shirt, and your heart starts beating faster for reasons unrelated to the cocky fucker in front of you. “You grab every woman you talk to like some kind of fuckin’ caveman?”

“Bro, chill, I didn’t mean anyth—”

Abbot cuts him off with a glare, “I’m not your fucking bro.” 

His volume doesn’t grow, voice still even, but there’s a certain strain to it, the same strain you see in the muscles of his neck, feel in the flex of his bicep. 

This shouldn’t be nearly as hot as it is, and you are no fucking damsel, but having Abbot stand up for you—get mad for you… 

“Old man lookin’ for a fight?” Brayden challenges, pushing his chest out in an over the top, alpha male way that would make you roll your eyes if it weren’t for the way Abbot’s hand twitches against your hip. 

You glance up at him, that sly smile nowhere to be found as he works his jaw, tongue sliding behind closed lips like he’s counting his teeth in some grounding exercise. 

You’re about to murmur to him that it’s okay. You’re okay. He can take a breath and calm down, but then you’re joined by yet another patron, this one much more level headed than the men staring each other down. 

“Walk away, man,” Robby says, “this guy may be old, but I guaran-fuckin’-tee you, he’ll drop you. You really want that?” Brown eyes are narrowed from the way he scrunches his face up, almost cringing on the other man’s behalf. “You really wanna get your shit kicked in, in front of her?”

Chandler’s eyes flit between Abbot and Robby before he raises his hands in surrender, grumbles something about, “no bitch is worth this bullshit.”

You hear something between a grunt and a growl resonate from Abbot’s throat, his arm around you growing tighter, and at the same time, Robby takes a single step forward, hands still in his pockets, his shoulders pulling back as he bows up on the guy. 

Abbot may be able to control his volume, but Robby sure can’t, basically barks at Broderick, “what the fuck did you just say?” and you look between all three men in complete disbelief. 

What is happening? You’ve got one of your attendings doing everything he can to keep you plastered to his side while another looks like he’s about to knock this guy’s teeth into the back of his throat. 

The sense of security is, admittedly, very nice and oddly endearing, but neither of these men can afford to, a) spend a night in jail, and b) fuck up their hands. 

“Okay, boys,” you call out, slipping out of Abbot’s grip only to grasp him by the forearm (his thick, thick forearm), your other hand reaching out and curling into the back of Robby’s hoodie, “that’s enough, time to go.”

Looking at Chad/Brad/whatever the fuck his name is, you advise, “if I were you, I’d make myself really fucking scarce right about now.”

He looks between all three of you, eyebrows pinching together as he shakes his head. Thankfully, he walks away, likely swearing the whole time. 

You drag both of your bosses out of the bar, claiming, “you two need some fresh air,” then nudging both of them to lean against the wall of the building. 

“While I appreciate the whole white knight thing, you guys did not have to do that. Like at all,” said wide eyed and serious. “I know I’m probably just some baby resident to both of you, but I promise I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

Robby laughs through his teeth, turning his head to look over at Abbot then back at you.

“I wasn’t saving you, sweetheart. I was saving him from stepping into some deep shit.”

“That fucker deserved to get his shit handed to him, and you know it,” Abbot spits back. It’s the first time you’ve heard him like this, genuinely upset, and with that anger comes a different vocal inflection—his words are rough and colored with what you think might be a California drawl. 

Strange. You’ll have to ask him about that some time. 

“Not arguing that,” Robby sucks his teeth, “be really fucking inconvenient if you got hauled into the police station, though.”

Abbot releases a humorless laugh, “ever the pragmatist.”

“Someone’s gotta be.”

You watch their back and forth, caught off guard by how weird it is. You’ve only seen them interact during shift changes, and whenever they do you’re certainly not around—what, with your whole avoiding Abbot mission. 

That seems sort of impossible now. In fact, after that whole display, you don’t think you even want to avoid him anymore, and that poses an entirely new problem. 

•

Jack’s little game has backfired horribly. 

He really should’ve had the foresight to anticipate it happening, but he didn’t. Caught up in his own amusement as well as your flourishing in the EC. 

It’s all been harmless, and if you ever told him to back the fuck off, he would have. He still will. 

It’s just… it’s a lot harder to leave you alone now. 

And, he doesn’t have some savior complex, no unjustified possessiveness. The problem lies with the fact that Jack can’t fucking get your body out of his head, or really, the way it felt against his. What it felt like to hold you. What it felt like to have you let him. 

Sure, he’s had fun riling you up here and there. Watching you get all cute and flustered has brought him a little too much satisfaction, but the dynamic has changed. The rug has been pulled out from beneath him. 

The events that transpired at Robby’s birthday get-together (Jack almost strangling another human) caused a shift in you. You’re more comfortable around him, willing to engage and even banter with him, which is great except Jack experienced a shift within himself as well. 

The game has changed. The goalpost has been moved. He doesn’t care about working you up as much as he cares about making you laugh, seeing your smile, made even better if he’s the cause of it. 

He still stares, and you still catch him, but when you do his characteristic smirk is missing, replaced with a clenched jaw and the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows thickly. 

He still stands too close to you, and you still roll your eyes, but you also bite your lip. You don’t move away. Not even when Jack’s fingers brush your arm in a way that could be accidental if he didn’t do it so often. 

He does not come up behind you in the exam rooms, though. Despite having never been bothered by it before, the forced proximity that comes with most traumas lights his every nerve ending on fire—painful zaps that travel from his fingertips and spread through the rest of his body. 

He’d made the mistake only once, and it was during the shift that immediately followed that night at the bar. Jack moved close enough to look over your shoulder, ready to give feedback and praise for really any reason he could find, but an ultrasound machine getting rolled into the room and into his space had him leaning forward even more until his chest was flush with your back. 

Up until this point, you would’ve gone still, maybe curse him under your breath. Not anymore, though. No, this time, with Jack more or less on top of you, all you’d done was glance back at him, lip caught between your canines, then focus your attention back on the patient. 

He had to stay in that position for a solid five minutes, if not longer, and by the time he was able to move away from you, he’d gone through almost all of the breathing techniques his therapist had taught him. 

So, it goes without saying that this newfound desire is pretty inconvenient. 

Also, he’s fucking delusional to call it that—newfound. It’s not new at all, it just wasn’t so obvious, even to him. 

Jack has been kinda sorta really fixated on you for a while now. He’d been bothered enough to confront you about what he had thought was an issue of intimidation, then interested enough to play with you, for lack of a better term. 

Plus, he’s always found you attractive, cute when stuttering around him, beautiful when you intubate, crouched and squinting as you visualize vocal cords. Downright mouth watering when you scoff at Jack after he says or does something ridiculous (to get your attention), arms crossed with a hip cocked out. 

Enamored doe eyes can narrow into a glare in the flash of a second. Shaking hands can cut through flesh with both strength and precision. A frown can brighten into something that glows so brightly, Jack could swear he feels it in his chest. 

Long story short, he’s fucked, even more so when you ask him about it. 

“You’ve been weird the last couple weeks,” as you sidle up next to him at the central hub. 

Jack looks from the forms in his hands. “How so?”

“You haven’t been nearly as annoying lately,” you tell him with a snort. 

Feeling his mouth twitch into a smile, Jack looks back down at the papers. 

“Don’t tell me you miss it,” he teases, and there’s something oddly comforting about the way you shift on your feet beside him, a habit of yours from back when he could still give you butterflies (or so he assumes). 

“I am definitely not saying that,” you click your tongue, and Jack chuckles. 

“What are you saying then?” 

He signs the last of the paperwork, lines every sheet up then taps them on the counter, straightening them out to near perfection before turning to face you fully. 

“Does someone miss having my undivided attention?”

Your jaw falls open in offense, but a short laugh still bubbles out of you, so Jack isn’t too worried. 

“You, sir,” you jab a finger into his chest, and he burns at the tiny point of contact, “are just a little too bold, you know that?”

His mouth twists from one side to the other, and Jack can literally feel his eyes light up with mischief. 

He tries to keep it inside. Tries to stamp it down, but oh, he needs to see the look on your face when he tells you—

“You really think callin’ me sir is the best idea?”

And, it’s so fucking worth it when that stare grows into something wide, and your shoulders drop to open up your posture and your little hands fidget where they hang by your sides. 

You take a deep breath, then, without even meaning to, flip the script on him when you mumble his name—his first name— “Jack…” so, so quiet he almost misses it. 

But, he’s watching your mouth so he sees the way your lips form that single familiar syllable, and something is trying to escape his throat, a groan or a shout, he doesn’t know what. 

He can barely believe his fucking ears when you deliver the next line, just as quiet, timid as you used to be, “you have to stop teasing me if you’re not gonna follow through.”

You may sound like your former, mousy self, but you still manage to hold his gaze, meaning you see the way his mouth opens in surprise for just a moment before he quickly clamps it shut again. 

“At this point you’re just being kinda mean,” you continue. 

Jack has to exercise every ounce of his self control to keep from surging forward and catching your pouty lips with his. His hand flexes at his thigh, all five fingers stretched out then curled into a tight fist. 

“I didn’t know you were ready for me to start being nice,” he breathes. 

You’re speaking in innuendo, right? He isn’t reading this wrong? 

You make a self-deprecating sound and shake your head. “I’ve been ready for so long it’s humiliating.”

Jack doesn’t know what to do. He knows what he wants to do, but it is not an option right now, and because of that, because he can’t move to touch you, all the potential energy stored in his hands gets released through his mouth instead. 

“Sleep with me after work,” he blurts, and what the fuck—what is wrong with him? “I mean, shit,” Jack laughs at himself ‘cause if he doesn’t, he’s gonna take the stairs two at a time to get up to the roof. “Come to my house and sleep in my bed,” he tries again.

It’s still not graceful, and definitely worthy of a good, long cringe, but it’s out there, and damn, when’s the last time he felt genuinely nervous? He’s survived fucking war zones, but right now, those pale in comparison to the threat of you laughing in his face. 

“I…”

“You can tell me to fuck off,” he quickly adds. “I probably deserve it after being such a pain in your ass.”

Your eyebrows are still high, but a smile smug enough to rival his own spreads across your face, “oh my god, wait… That’s what it is.”

“What?” He’s breathing too hard. 

“All that, everything you’ve been—” you fucking giggle, and the sound of it makes Jack dumb. “Was that just you, like, pullin’ on my pigtails?”

Jesus, that… yeah, that’s exactly what it was. A schoolboy with a crush, craving the attention of the prettiest girl in the class. 

He has to shut his eyes, clenches his teeth so hard, his molars might splinter under the pressure. 

“That’s one way to put it,” words coming out clipped, as if his jaw is wired shut. 

“And, how would you put it, Jack?”

“Me being a stupid son-of-bitch, something along those lines.”

You hum, hand by your face with your index finger curled against your bottom lip. “Yeah, I’m inclined to agree.”

A few beats of silence pass, and Jack spends every one of them trying not to shake. 

Then, his whole body relaxes when you add, “I guess I could go for a nap after work.”

Oh, Jesus Christ, thank God, praise him or her or whatever might be up there. This is truly a blessing.

“Yeah?” he asks, just to make sure. 

Your smile remains mirthful, but there’s also a softness to it as you nod, “yeah.”

•

Jack’s house is a small, one story not too far from the hospital. It’s about what you’d imagine for a single man in his forties. His military background can be seen in the tightly ordered bookshelves, the sponge and scrub brush by the sink being perfectly aligned, the containers of flour, sugar, and whatever else pressed against the wall from tallest to shortest. 

You thought you would be terrified if ever given the chance to see this very personal part of him. Hell, you’d been terrified of him in general not long ago. 

Now, though… Now you scan your surroundings with a tilt of your head, taking it all in and learning new things about the man you’ve been pining over for too long. 

“You’re making me nervous just staring like that,” he says with a quiet snort. 

When you look back to him, you raise an eyebrow, “nervous, you say? Welcome to my life for the last couple months.”

Jack curls his lip over the bottom row of his teeth, looks sheepish, which is not something you’re used to. On one hand, you feel oddly validated that he’s getting a taste of his own medicine, but you’re not entirely sure you like seeing him… ‘insecure’ isn’t the right word. At a loss, maybe. 

You sigh and step toward him, extend a timid hand to take his, and he lets you, watching as you play with his fingers. 

You’re ready to explode and ready to melt. Want to scream and want to cry in relief. Confused at how you got here but so relieved that you did.

All mixed up over him, like you’ve always been. 

“I’m just trying to get to know you better,” you admit, eyes flicking to his face before returning to calloused, freckled hands. “All I’ve seen is the Jack at the hospital. Dr. Abbot.”

He hums. “That guy’s alright, I guess.”

You grin, and he can probably hear it in your voice when you reply, “yeah, but he’s kind of a badass in the trauma room, which is super fucking annoying.”

“What a dick.”

Giggling in a way you’ve never actually allowed him to see, you find him looking a little dazed. Hazel clouding over, the side of his mouth keeps twitching, smile not quite forming almost like Jack can’t feel the muscles activating, like he’s no longer tethered to himself.

“Can I shower before we lay down?” 

He doesn’t answer at first but eventually blinks a few times. “Huh? Oh, right. Shower. Yes.”

His fingers curl around yours and as he leads you further into his home, you’re wrapped in a certain comfort. This is good. You are safe. He is right.  

Those are inside thoughts, though. No reason to let him know how far gone you are. He has enough of an idea as it is. 

“Let me grab you something to wear. Is—are you alright with one of my T-shirts? And, I have… basketball shorts that should—”

“If you just have a pair of boxers, those’ll work. I don’t like that athletic material.”

Jack stares at you with an intensity you haven’t seen in a couple weeks now. You watch his throat work over a gulp, and he takes a deep breath before croaking, “yeah. Boxers. Got it.”

It’s hard not to shoot him a mocking grin, able to recognize the struggle he’s going through, but you are much more merciful than he is, choose to simply squeeze the hand you’re still holding. 

You enjoy the shower alone, inhaling the familiar scent of Jack’s body wash, his shampoo, the conditioner that keeps those curls looking so soft, and you’re hit with the idea, the excitement, that you might actually be able to feel them, run your hands through his hair, feel his stubble against your palm. 

You didn’t necessarily come here to have sex. If that’s what ends up happening, then you definitely won’t be disappointed, but you mostly followed him home to spend time with him. To learn more. And, maybe you’d get to cuddle with him. Maybe. 

Friends, lovers—whatever this may turn into will be fine with you. Jack has always been attractive to you, even with his incessant teasing, but more than that, he’s always been admirable. 

The most capable person you’ve ever met, cool in a crisis, sturdy and sure. He is a pillar, a titan, a leader, but he’s also witty and goofy and mischievous. 

There’s a reason you fell for him and a reason you keep falling for him. 

The white t-shirt he left smells like him, soft and baggy, and the boxers fit okay once you roll the waistband a couple times. Your hair is wet, and your eyes are dark from fatigue. You don’t feel particularly pretty, but the open domesticity of this whole encounter encourages you to step out into the hallway. 

You’re not here to be pretty. You’re here to sleep. And stare a lot. 

Jack’s room is right across from the bathroom, and you walk into it you find him sitting on his bed wearing only a t-shirt and boxers. He’s in the process of doffing his prosthesis, and you watch what seems like a ritual. His fingers move and massage scar tissue, and there is a voice at the back of your head, a want—to one day be the one to do this for him. To get the blood flowing again, to soothe any aches or chafed skin. 

Probably not quite there yet. You aren’t even sure he wants you to witness this, don’t know if he’s self-conscious about his leg or not. 

With this in mind, you step a little louder to announce your presence, and Jack looks up quickly, doesn’t say anything for a moment as his hands falter in their movements. 

“Uh… probably should have told you…”

You frown at him. “Did you—did you think I didn’t know?”

Mouth pulled downward in consideration, Jack shrugs, “it’s never come up in conversation, and it’s not like I’m using my crutches at the hospital.” He briefly changes the subject, nodding to the clothes in your hands, “you can toss those in the basket if you want.”

You do just that before approaching him, careful not to knock into what is likely very expensive hardware. 

“It didn’t have to come up in conversation. And, you didn’t have to use crutches for me to notice.” He regards you curiously, so you continue slowly, trying to choose all the right words. “You don’t have a limp. You don’t move awkwardly. But, there’s a certain… rhythm… to the way you walk. A kick, I guess, that one leg has that the other doesn’t. It’s really, um… it’s really subtle.”

Jack blushes, but he also smirks. You roll your eyes before he can open his mouth to poke fun. “Yes, I’ve stared a lot. Yes, I’ve watched you like a freak. Fucking sue me.”

“Do I need to file an HR complaint?” 

With narrowed eyes and extreme caution, you slowly slide into his lap, draping your arms over his shoulders, making sure not to put all your weight on him. 

He’s obviously taken aback, stifles a little cough, but his hands still settle on your waist without hesitation. 

“Do you want to file an HR complaint?” 

He’s comically quick to answer, “fuck no,” the words rough as they fall from lips you’re zeroed in on. When his tongue darts out to wet the corner of them, you shiver. 

Jack moves first, but you’re right behind him, meeting him halfway in a kiss that starts with a deep inhale. Your fingers rake through the hair at the back of his head, travel to finally, finally feel those curls, and when they’re just as soft as you imagined, you hum happily—a sound that turns desperate when Jack cups the back of your neck and somehow pulls you even closer than you already are. 

His stubble, though scratchy against your skin, is just long enough to keep from hurting, pleasurably stimulating rather than rubbing like sandpaper. 

You tilt your head, open your mouth, and Jack swiftly slides his tongue against yours, a deep grunt sounding from his chest and reverberating in yours. You don’t know what to do with your hands. Want to touch him everywhere, want to feel everything. He, however, knows exactly what he wants, keeps holding your nape while his other hand curls around your hip and guides you to fully sit in his lap, traps you there as he grinds against your core, and fuck, oh fuck—he’s hard. He’s hard and he’s big and he wants you. 

Jack swallows your little mewl, groans when you roll your hips, but breaks away from you before either of you can get carried away. 

“This isn’t,” he’s already so out of breath, and the fact that you’re the cause of it makes your body flush hot, makes your pussy ache. “It’s not why I asked you to come home with me… contrary to popular belief.”

You refuse to stop playing with his hair even as you speak, “well, I wasn’t—I mean, I wasn’t not expecting it, but it wasn’t my plan either.”

His thumb is stroking over your hip bone, very distracting as you try to keep yourself from shoving him back on his own bed. The hand that was previously on your neck is caressing your cheek, smoothing over the bone, moving to your jaw, the space right below the curve of your lip. 

“You are,” Jack swallows, huffs through his nose, “you’re incredible, you know that?” 

It takes you by surprise. Praise like that from someone like Jack Abbot is something people crave, whether they’re attracted to him or not. He’s never been one to hold back from encouraging younger doctors, one of the reasons everyone enjoys working under him, but… incredible?

“And, beautiful, obviously. Brilliant. Patient—”

“You don’t have to butter me up, you already have me in your bed,” you play, rolling your eyes as if you’re not eating this up. 

“I’m not buttering you up—I’m telling you everything I should’ve when I was too busy pullin’ on those pigtails.”

And, then, for whatever reason, he beams at you, a grin so wide and crooked that it spreads to every one of his features, changes the very shape of him. You see dazzling white teeth all the way back to his molars, and you sort of want to cry into his shoulder. 

He’s—he’s so fucking handsome, it hurts, and you can’t look at him any longer, holding his face in both hands as you kiss him again. 

And, again. 

And, again. 

And, Jack refuses to drop that damn smile, still wearing it even as he twists and turns to maneuver you onto your back. 

It’s finally happening, oh god, you’re finally getting—you finally have your hands on him, sliding under his shirt, lifting and pushing it off entirely. 

His arms, what the fuck, his arms, and his chest, his stomach, his freckles… freckles everywhere, dusting his body like one huge constellation. 

You’re so ready to worship him, only you can’t because Jack is too busy with you, mouthing down your neck to nip at your clavicle, fingers dancing at the hem of his shirt. 

Looking at you through unfairly pretty eyelashes, he questions, “may I?”

“Y-yeah,” you nod, “knock yourself out.”Jack laughs, helping you sit up so that he can tug the t-shirt from your body, and once it’s off he bites his lip hard enough for the flesh to redden. “Talk about a knockout.”

Part of you wants to ‘boo’ the cheesy line, but it’s hard to criticize when he’s staring at you the way he is, even harder when he leans down to pepper kisses over your chest, sucking on one of your nipples until it hardens on his tongue, then caring for the other in the same way. 

Your tits rise and fall with every breath you take, shiny with his spit by the time he begins his descent again. 

Jack leaves marks on your rib cage, a bruise sucked into the soft skin right below your belly-button, one on each hip as he hooks fingers into your waistband and pulls the material down little by little. 

The hickeys don’t stop, numerous dark spots littering your inner thighs, each one making your cunt pulse with arousal, and once the boxers are discarded and Jack is between your legs, he examines his handiwork—bruises first, then your dripping pussy. 

Warm breath cascades over you, a few short puffs followed by a languid lick from your entrance to your clit. 

“Haah—ah—Jack, oh…”

His resounding groan vibrates through you, and you immediately find purchase in those silver curls again. 

His facial hair scrapes your thighs so deliciously, stubble on his chin and around his lips making you gasp and writhe, and you would love to hold him still and ride his face, but you want something else even more. 

“Feels, fuck, feels so good, but—” your back arches when he nibbles on your clit, soothing it with his tongue afterward, “—I want, God, please, want you in-inside.”

And, with those words, Jack fucking whines for you, eyebrows pinched together as he works his jaw, stuck between a rock and a hard place (with a rock hard cock pressing into the mattress). 

He wants to fuck you, good God, he wants to bury himself in you, but your cunt is so sweet and so wet, drenching his face and fluttering just for him. He could do this for fucking ever, quit his job and eat your pussy for the rest of his life. 

But, your hands are urging him back up your body, and Jack really has no business or desire to deny you anything you want from him. 

As soon as he gets to a certain position, one that gives you enough force and leverage, you shove him onto his back and straddle his hips, crushing your lips against his and no doubt tasting yourself on his tongue. 

“Do we need… do we need a condom?” you question, follow with, “I’m clean, I had a—a physical a couple weeks ago—”

You’re asking if he can fuck you raw. Shit, Jack is not well enough equipped to deal with this, to deal with the increase in his heartrate and blood pressure as you start working his boxers off of him. 

You slide down him quickly, but stop at his legs, and when he feels you press what can only be described as a loving kiss to the scar tissue of his residual limb, Jack sucks in a breath so sharp it might lance him right open. 

It’s fleeting, not something you draw too much attention to, but the sensation and the care will stick with him until the day he dies. 

“Healthy as a horse,” his voice cracks when he finally responds to you, and he clears his throat in the vain hope that it’ll heal his grated tone. 

Both of you stripped of every garment and inhibition you slink back up his frame, another question glimmering in your eyes. Jack raises a hand to push hair out of your face and nods. Yes. Please. I’m entirely yours. 

Your hand wraps around his cock, pumping him and making Jack press his head back into his pillows when you run your thumb over his tip to smear the precum drooling from it. 

“Gonna kill me,” he whispers, gazing up at you in awe, his jaw dropping even further when you line him up with your entrance and begin sinking down. 

Your pussy is hot and tight around him, taking Jack deeper and deeper, and the feeling of you squeezing his cock paired with the way you’re moaning for him has his eyes rolling in his head. 

“Fuck, you’re too goddamn good for me,” he groans, and he means it. “Too fuckin’ good.”

But, you disagree with a laugh and a shake of your head right as you settle onto his pelvis. 

He is fully inside of you. Sheathed. Surrounded. Buried just like he wanted to be. 

The thought nearly does him in, and Jack bucks up into you, the action making you bounce, keen, then start your own rhythm. 

Lifting up over and over, you ride him like you were fucking born to, raising yourself and dropping on his cock, then falling to your forearms to work him at a different angle. Your ass bobs up and down, and if he cranes his neck just the right way Jack can see the jiggle of round cheeks. His fingers dig into your plush skin, groping and pulling and using his grip to move you up and down on his cock. 

He’s lost to you, lost in you, and he’s fucking ecstatic about it. Uncontrolled grunts and growls leave him without his knowledge, creating a cacophony of lewdness when mixed with your melodic moans and squelching pussy. 

You brace yourself on his chest and piston your hips, the pace growing into something frantic as his cock rubs against your g-spot. 

Head thrown back, tits pushed out, nails digging into his skin, you’re the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen. 

“That’s it, take what you need, baby, I’ve got you,” he tells you, though it’s really Jack who needs the reassurance. Needs to know you won’t disappear from his grasp, here one second then gone the next. He has you, he’s holding you, and just the idea of letting you go drives him insane.

No. No. 

He coats his thumb in spit before pressing it to your clit, holds it there to apply a steady pressure for you to control more than him. 

Mouth wide open, eyes squeezed shut, you cry while shifting on top of him, an endless dance that eventually has your muscles locking up, your pussy starting to spasm, and Jack can’t tear his eyes away as your orgasm builds, build, builds, his own right alongside it. 

You teeter on that edge for so fucking long, face stuck in the same expression of utter desperation as your body moves almost robotically, your lower half snapping to keep his cockhead against your g-spot, his thumb against your clit, and then, with a beautifully broken moan, your orgasm plows into you, taking Jack along with it. 

In hindsight, he should’ve asked if it was okay to finish inside of you, but he has no control as you milk it out of him, squeezing thick ropes of cum from his cock, his seed flooding your pussy until it starts leaking out around him, leaving a mess between your bodies. 

You take several deep breaths, fuck-drunk eyes heavy and locked on one another until you fall forward onto Jack’s chest. 

He wraps both of his arms around your back, fingers of one hand clasped around his opposite wrist. Your head hangs over his shoulder, face turned into his neck, and Jack angles to kiss your forehead before resting his cheek against it. 

“Mmm, that was… yes,” you say, still mindless. 

Jack chuckles, “yeah, it was.”

“Can we… is that something we can… hm,” you struggle to finish the thought, drowsiness sinking its claws into you. A 14 hour shift and earth-shattering orgasm will do that. 

Lucky for you, Jack knows what you’re trying to ask and answers, “we can do that however and whenever you want.”

He feels you smile into his neck. “Not a one-time-thing, then?”

“Do I seem like a one-time type of man?” 

You make that wordless ‘I don’t know’ sound, “how’m I supposed to know? You could just be teasing me again.”

His arms tighten enough to push some of the air from your lungs. 

“I may be a tease, but I am also” his lips brush the corner of your eye, “a selfish prick—one of my many charming personality traits.”

Instead of being put off by his half-joking, mostly serious confession, you nuzzle into him and gently suckle at a place on the side of his neck long enough to leave a bruise and make Jack’s very tired dick try to twitch back to life. 

“I really enjoy… hm, what am I trying to say? I like that—I like that you want me, I guess. And, I want you to be selfish. And, I wanna be selfish too.”

His chest rises with a short laugh. You could have anyone you set your sights on. Stunning, smart, funny, talented, Jack could go on and on. The fact that you have feelings for him, have had these feelings for longer than two seconds, is nothing short of a fucking miracle. 

“I’m yours for the taking, babe—your loyal dog. I’ll even sit at your feet if you ask me.”

He unlocks his hands from your back to rub his aching eyes, the toll of last night and this morning weighing heavy on his limbs. 

“Will you wear a collar too?” you tease, finger tracing over his Adam’s apple. 

“I’ll do whatever you want. Just let me shower and sleep for a couple hours.”

You do, joining Jack under the spray where he leans against you, your arm looped around his torso to keep him stable, and if he weren’t so damn exhausted, he’d probably insist on independence, but he feels like maybe it’s safe to let his guard down. Maybe he doesn’t have to surround himself with trauma or distract himself with little games. Maybe he can just be. 

With you. 

As the morning sun shines through his curtains, Jack falls asleep with your head on his chest and a content smile on his face. 

[readerinsertrepository]

Robby is a physician. He’s a brilliant physician. He was ranked number one by every single emergency program he applied to for residency and fellowship.

So he shouldn’t be so frustrated that he can’t come in you.

It’s all so new to him. After you and Jack and Dana and just about every other loved one in his life suggested he go to therapy, he visited a psychologist and didn’t hate it. The psychologist prescribed him an SSRI for his anxiety and depression, and it’s been a miracle drug to him.

His days are brighter, his jaw is unclenched, and the back of his neck finally has a break from being rubbed raw as a nervous tic. There’s only one problem.

After a couple of months adjusting to the medicine, he’s fucking you, pounding his hips into yours over and over and over and over. But he doesn’t come. It’s like his finger is on the trigger, pushing down as hard as he can, but the gun will not fire.

At first, you both brush it off as a particularly stressful day. The next time it happens, you both blame the wine from dinner. But the third time? Robby is fucking pissed.

His only reason for living most days (aside from loving you) is to fill you up with his cum, watching it drip out of your weeping pussy, dreaming of the day your IUD expires and his seed finally takes.

You blame yourself for a while, worried that he isn’t as attracted to you, or you’re unable to stimulate him to release. Robby nearly strokes out at the presumption that you don’t make him feel good. You’re what brought life back into him. Every squeeze of your pussy and rock of your hips drives him absolutely insane. He spends the better half of that night assuring you that you make him feel good.

Luckily, Robby is a man of science. When the experimental protocol fails, troubleshoot. There are several failed attempts: roleplay, extended foreplay, asphyxiation, bondage. None of which brought him over the edge.

Until you have your IUD removal appointment without telling him. When you ride him that night, a smirk crawls onto your face. “I got my IUD removed today.”

The admission alone is enough to make Robby’s hips stutter. “You- what?” He croaks.

You roll your hips harshly against his, taking every generous inch of his cock into yourself. “My IUD is out. Means you can fuck a baby in me now.”

It was like you were dangling a raw, juicy steak in front of a wolf. He was literally salivating at the thought of getting you pregnant. “You wanna have my baby?” He asked, brow furrowed, eyes glimmering with hope.

You bounce faster, your hands pressed against his soft abdomen for balance. “I wanna have your baby, Michael.”

That’s enough. A whole month of pent up cum blasts into you. It catches you both off guard, the way his entire body convulses. His screams are vile and drug from the depths of his core, trembling underneath you. His cum leaks out of you before he’s even finished unloading, pulsing for a good while after you’ve finished rocking your hips. It’s so much fluid, negating any friction that existed before. Your eyes roll back at the absolute fullness.

“Jesus, Robby.” You moan, falling forward into his arms.

Robby just pants, keeping you close against his chest slick with sweat. “I’m sorry, kid.” He grumbles, letting out a struggled cry as his cock pulses again.

You peppered his neck with butterfly kisses, matching the flutters of his length inside you. “Don’t apologize.” You whispered. “I think you came enough for it to work the first time.”

[readerinsertrepository]

TITLE: rainy day

PAIRING: michael "robby" robinavitch x female reader

RATING: explicit | WORD COUNT:

SUMMARY:

when a thunderstorm cuts your plans short, you and robby make the most of his day off together at home.

TAGS/WARNINGS:

no use of y/n, established relationship, domestic fluff

explicit sexual content (18+ - minors do not interact): oral (f receiving), fingering, hair pulling, dirty talk, unprotected p in v, multiple positions, creampie.

let me know if any are missing!

LINKS:

main blog | masterlists | AO3

The bed is empty when you wake up. It usually is, given Robby’s schedule, but you know he has the day off. You sit up, stretch your arms above your head, and leave the comfort of your mattress in search of the man.

You find him in the kitchen, standing at your stove with a spatula in his hand. He looks up when he hears you, smiling in the way that creases the corners of his eyes.

“She lives,” he jokes, sliding the spatula beneath a pancake and flipping it expertly. “I thought you’d sleep longer.”

“Probably would have if you were still in bed,” you respond pointedly. He raises an eyebrow at you and gestures to the pan.

“I made breakfast.” He points to the fridge. “Even got some of that juice you like.”

“You went to the store? How long have you been up?”

“Since five.”

“Jesus,” you laugh. “You’re insane.”

He doesn’t argue, just laughs and shakes his head.

“What did you want to do today?” He asks.

“Coffee, used bookstore, farmer’s market,” you reply. “In that order.”

“Yes m’am.” He flips the finished pancake onto a stack of similar ones. “But first, eat some of these.”

You gladly accept the plate and get the fancy maple syrup from the fridge, along with the juice he picked up for you and the last of your strawberries. You slide everything across the island towards the barstools on the other side and grab some plates and forks before taking a seat.

Robby sets the dirty dishes in the sink and joins you in the seat next to yours, using his foot to drag your stool closer and kissing your cheek when you’re within reach. A warmth settles in your belly.

Mornings like this one are rare with Robby’s schedule. He works a lot — more than he should, really, but that’s an argument for another day — so when you get the chance to see him for more than a brief kiss goodbye as he heads out the door, you both try to savor it.

Because rest looks good on him. The circles under his eyes fade, if only slightly, and the tension in his shoulders eases. He smiles at you when he catches you staring.

“See something you like?” He asks.

“Always,” you respond easily, relishing the way his cheeks grow pink and the flush spreads down his neck, disappearing beneath his t-shirt. “Thanks for breakfast.”

He hums, leaning in to kiss you. It’s slow, soft — syrupy, like your pancakes. Your fork clatters against the plate as you drop it in favor of wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him close.

His big hand settles on your waist, squeezing, feeling the shape of you, before sneaking beneath the hem of your shirt in search of skin. A little moan escapes you at the warmth and he swallows it, licking into your mouth as he does.

Robby pulls away first to say, “You better go get dressed if you want to leave the house today.”

“Leaving is overrated,” you reply, stealing another kiss that’s more of a shared smile against each other’s mouths.

“I’m happy to keep you in bed all day,” he murmurs, “but I know how you get when you don’t get your fancy coffee on the weekends.”

“Fine,” you acquiesce, giving his lips one last peck. “Rain check?”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

Coffee in hand, you wander the aisles of your favorite used bookstore. You’ve already got two in the reusable bag slung over your shoulder.

When you cross paths with Robby, he pulls you in for a kiss that turns into a heated make out session against a shelf in a little corner of the shop, tucked away from other shoppers. He pulls back when he hears footsteps approaching and reaches above your head for a book, opening it and pretending to read as another customer passes by the aisle. They don’t spare you a glance, thankfully — otherwise they would see the way your lips are still spit slick and swollen, your chest heaving as you catch your breath, or the way Robby looks down at you, gaze dark and expression smug as he reaches down to adjust himself in his jeans.

The weather starts to shift while you’re at the farmer’s market. Dark clouds rolling in, wind picking up speed, the scent of the earth growing thick in the air. Vendors start packing up, finishing transactions with furtive glances at the sky.

“Let’s head back,” Robby suggests. You agree, taking his hand and following him through the crowd.

You’re nearly home when the sky opens up and the rain pours down, soaking you to the bone. Water drips from your clothes and onto the floor of the elevator, little puddles forming at your feet.

Back in your apartment, the two of you kick off your shoes by the door. Robby sets your bag in the kitchen and follows you to your bedroom, shutting the door. You turn on one of the lamps on your nightstand, bathing the room in warm, gentle light.

Outside, rain batters the windows in a tempo that matches your pulse as Robby’s hands find the bottom of your shirt, lifting the soaked fabric up over your head and dropping it to the floor. He reaches behind your back, unhooking your bra with one skilled flick of his fingers and a smug tilt to his lips.

“How about that rain check?” He asks, his voice a deep rumble like the thunder that grows louder as the storm rages on.

His hand is on your lower back, pulling you against his body. You tilt your face toward his and he takes the invitation, kissing you, hot and hungry.

He reaches for your jeans, popping the button and dragging the zipper down. The warmth of his mouth and his hands against your damp skin as he drags the denim down your thighs makes you shiver. Before standing up, he pulls your underwear off as well, adding them to the growing pile of clothing and leaving you bare.

“On the bed,” he rumbles. You follow his command, lying back against the pillows and watching him remove his clothes.

He joins you on the mattress, caging you beneath him with his broad frame, his lower body cradled between your thighs. His cock is hard and heavy against your mound, trapped between your bodies.

Robby drops his head to kiss your neck, leaving a searing trail that begins beneath your ear, moving down until he’s taking a nipple into his mouth. Your eyelids flutter at the sensation, the harsh pull of his mouth and gentle flick of his tongue over the hard bud.

“Fuck,” you breathe, arching into him. Your fingers tangle in his hair. “Feels so good, Robby.”

You can feel his smile against your skin. He releases you with a slick pop, giving the opposite breast the same attention until you’re whining beneath him. He shifts lower, peppering kisses down your stomach, stopping just shy of where you crave his mouth most.

He gets comfortable, urging your legs over his shoulders, wrapping his arms around your thighs before leaning in and dragging his tongue through your slit and circling it over your clit in slow, lazy circles. Your hips buck at the sensation but he presses a hand to your lower belly, fingers splayed against your skin and broad palm holding you down against the mattress.

Robby doesn’t care about finesse when he’s got those pretty noises you make filling his head. He’s messy with it, sloppy, spit and slick coating his chin and his nose bumping your clit when he drives his tongue inside of you, desperate for more. Your fingers are in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him moan against your pussy, the vibration only serving to send you spiraling even fast towards your release.

Two thick fingers slip inside of you with little resistance, making you gasp. He drives them into you in time with swirls of his tongue, rough in a way that has your eyes rolling and your head dropping back against the pillow.

“Robby, fuck—I—“

You come undone before you can even finish getting the words out, squeezing your thighs together against the wave of sensation that crashes over you. He eases you through it, gentle laps of his tongue instead of maddening circles, slowing the push and drag of his fingers until you’re fluttering around him.

He sits up, beard shiny and lips swollen. He lies in his spot on the bed, turned to his side to face you, reaching for you and dragging you closer, until you’re chest to chest and he can reach down to hike your leg over his hip.

You reach between your bodies and wrap your fingers around his cock. His breath stutters, a quiet fuck, yes spilling from his lips. He’s slick with pre-cum, your fist moving over him easily.

When he flexes his hips, the flushed tip of him drags against your cunt and you both gasp. You angle his cock so that the next thrust drives him into your body, one steady slide into your tight heat that has you seeing stars.

Robby’s hand is on your ass, grip tight enough to ache as he rocks your body against his. The position is intimate, all shared breath and sweaty limbs and your nails dragging across his shoulders, leaving little red lines like a brand.

But it’s not enough. He wants to be buried so deep you feel him for days, so he pulls out even though you whine about it and turns you on your stomach, dragging your hips into the air to meet his and sinking back into you with a groan.

“Fuck,” he growls through clenched teeth. He spreads your cheeks, watches his cock disappear inside of you, watches the way you clench desperately around him when he pulls out.

It drives him a little insane, the way your back arches on instinct and your ass bounces against him with each thrust. He won’t last long like this but he won’t have to, not with the way you’re moaning his name and fisting the sheets.

He brings his fingers to your clit, drawing tight circles over the sensitive bud and waits for that telltale little pulse of your cunt around his cock that means you’re close to finishing and then pinches your clit, a little rough, making you completely shatter, your moan muffled in the pillow and your body shaking with the force of it.

He follows soon after with three sloppy thrusts before burying deep, holding your hips in a tight grip as he fills you with his spend. You collapse against the mattress, exhausted and sore in the best kind of way.

Robby disappears into the bathroom and emerges with a wet washcloth that he uses to clean up between your legs while you lie there in the aftermath of your orgasm, spent and sated. When he’s done, he adds the cloth to the pile of wet clothes and crawls back into bed with you, tugging the duvet up over your naked bodies.

“I guess that’s one way to spend a rainy day,” you comment, playing with the chain around his neck.

“Day’s not over,” Robby says, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. “Rain hasn’t let up either.”

You laugh, warm and bright, and he can feel it through his chest. Closing his eyes, he commits the sound to memory, tucking it away for when he needs a little sunshine on his rainy days.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this fic, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment 💕

[readerinsertrepository]

pairing: Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!reader warnings: not beta read, barely proof read oops word count: 3k idk what happened i started with the bar scene and then felt like it needed some lead up and here we are notes: be kind to me, i am not a writer but these doctors have awoken a monster in me.

Robby got roped into a frontline workers’ talk at a local elementary school.

Shen’s mom’s friend is the principal if some public school and somehow that’s how Robby ends up walking into a fluorescent-lit elementary school foyer the same morning Shen’s leaving for his bachelor party weekend.

“You owe me big time, buddy.” he texts Shen.

“We’re naming our firstborn Robby,” Shen fires back.

“You know I’ll hold you to that,” he replys

He walks in with AirPods in, sunglasses still on, looking a bit lost. You glance up from your clipboard and do a double take.

He pops one AirPod out just as you mutter, “Oh… you’re not Dr. John Shen.”

“Nope, I’m not. He’s on a boat somewhere. Bahamas, I think. You’ve got me instead. Dr. Michael Robinavitch. Older. Not as good-looking.” taking his sunglasses off.

“I never said that,” you say, blush creeping up your neck. “I think he must’ve told our principal and it didn’t get passed along. No worries—I’ll just update my intro slide.”

“Sorry for the switch-up,” he says, finally meeting your eyes properly, and holding the look a moment too long.

“Really, it’s fine. Come on, I’ll show you to the gym. Kids will be filing in soon. Just a quick overview of what you do, your schooling, then a few questions. You’ve got backup—a fire chief, a nurse, an EMT. You’re not on the hook for the whole thing.”

As you walk, he points to a motivational poster taped to the wall: a kitten dangling from a tree branch.

“‘Hang in there.’ Very ER-core.”

You nod, straight-faced. “It’s more for the teachers than the students.”

He chuckles.

He introduces himself to a room of squirming third to fifth graders with “So I work in a place where people try to die and I spend most of my time convincing them not to. It’s great.”

They’re hooked.

He talks about trauma bays, night shifts, a time he held someone’s heart in his hands. The kids go wild.

One kid asks if he’s famous.

Another asks if he’s seen poop.

A third says: “You look like Iron Man.”

Robby: “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

After the assembly wraps up, your work bestie sidles up to you.

“So we’re just gonna ignore that Dr. McHottie was eye fucking you the whole time?”

You don’t look up from the stack of worksheets you’re grading. “Literally no idea what you’re talking about.”

She tilts her head. “You should’ve gotten his number. Or I should have. What do you think they’d say if we just called the hospital?”

“I think it violates HIPAA.”

She shrugs. “I don’t think that you know what HIPAA is.”

You roll your eyes.

But the universe isn’t done.

Later, still riding the post-event adrenaline, you stop at the grocery store on your route home. This day earned you cake and a bottle of wine. You’re crouched down in the wine aisle, scanning for the cheapest red on the shelf, when someone clears their throat behind you.

“I think you’re better off with a white. With, uh, berry chantilly cake,” he says, peeking into your basket.

You look up. It’s him.

“An ER doctor and a sommelier? A modern renaissance man.”

“SAT words. The future’s in good hands,” he teases.

“So what’s your wine recommendation then?” you say standing up.

“Oh, I don’t know shit about wine.”

You laugh, and the silence lingers a beat too long.

“I—” “Not—” You speak at the same time.

“Ladies first,” he smiles.

“I was just going to thank you again for coming this morning. Not to show bias, but you were definitely the kids’ favorite.”

“Yeah, the heart story always kills. No pun intended.”

“Well, they had plenty of questions after you left. I told them they missed their chance.”

“I could give you my number. Y’know, in case more vital questions pop up. Or… you could use it to talk to me. Maybe even plan a time for me to take you out?”

You chuckle. “That line work on every elementary school teacher you try to pick up?”

“So far I’m one for one.”

“Not sure that’s statistically significant,” you reply, handing him your phone.

You text him your name—just your name and a smiley.

His phone starts ringing. He glances at it, then winces.

“I’m so sorry—I have to take this. Yeah… I’m just around the block. Okay. Be there in seven.” He turns to you, regret softening his expression. “Really sorry. I’ll text you later?”

“Of course, Dr. Robinavitch. Go save lives.”

”Everyone calls me Robby, or you can call me Michael” he says heading out. Just before the door closes, he glances back once more.

Later, you’re finally home. Glass of red in hand, cozy on the couch. You scroll, half-buzzed from the wine and the day, when a new text pops up:

Michael: My research says champagne’s actually the move next time—for the cake, I mean.

You grin.

You: Not a ton of room in the budget for a Thursday night champagne toast on a public school salary. Think I’ll stick to my $9 red.

You snap a selfie: you, the wine, a smirk.

Michael: Could be my treat? Next Thursday?

Followed by a link to a cozy bar you’ve been wanting to try.

Your fingers hover for only a second before typing:

You: It’s a date ❤️

You get there first.

The bar is small, dim, and full of mismatched chairs and candlelight. The kind of place where couples whisper over charcuterie. You’re nursing a glass of something bubbly, trying to look casual and not like you checked your makeup in your phone camera twelve times already.

Then the door creaks open, and there he is.

Button-down rolled at the sleeves, hair mussed just enough to look effortless—though he’d never admit it took longer than it should’ve. He spots you instantly and smiles like he doesn’t do that often. Like it caught him off guard too.

“You clean up nice,” you say as he slides into the chair across from you.

“You clean up… irresponsibly good,” he says, raising his eyebrows and making you laugh.

You clink glasses and dive straight into easy conversation. It flows, faster than either of you expected. He tells you about the time a raccoon got into the ambulance bay. You tell him about a class trip gone wrong and how a goat chased the entire third grade around a petting zoo.

There’s food—fancy grilled cheese, olives, tiny things with aioli—and more wine. You talk about work, but not too much. You learn he’s been at The Pitt longer than he planned. That he’s not from Pittsburgh, but ended up staying because… well, because.

You don’t push.

He watches you talk with his chin resting on one hand, doing that thing again—looking at you like you’re a puzzle he doesn’t mind not solving.

Midway through dessert, a berry cream tarte— the closest thing they had to the cake you bonded over a week ago— he leans in a little.

“Be honest,” he says. “What’d you actually think when I walked into the school?”

You smirk. “I thought you were a dad who got lost on his way to drop off a forgotten lunchbox.”

Robby laughs. “Brutal.”

“Okay, and also… I thought, oh no, he’s hot.”

He raises his glass. “That’s better.”

He offers you a hand to help you out of the booth and follows beside you, hand barely there at your lower back.

You’re standing outside, the city quiet in that just-past-bedtime way. There’s a light breeze and the smell of something warm from a nearby bakery.

“I had fun,” you say.

“Me too,” he replies. “Thanks for not fleeing halfway through.”

“Thanks for not turning out to be a wine snob.”

“I told you, I know nothing about wine. I was just trying to impress you. I was frantically Googling wine recommendations so i could have a reason to chat with you.”

You both laugh, and then there's a pause. A beat of quiet.

He tilts his head. “So, uh… what’s the move here?”

You step forward. “Well, you did save a lot of lives this week.”

“And you wrangled children into making a thank-you card with the word ‘trauma’ spelled wrong.”

“Tramua is the French spelling,” you deadpan.

That makes him laugh again—but softer this time.

Then he kisses you. Slow and warm, like he’s been thinking about it since the grocery store.

When you pull back, he looks at you like he wants to say something—but doesn’t.

Instead, he laces his fingers with yours.

“Did you park around here?”

“I walked. I’m only a few blocks away.”

“Can I walk you home? Make sure you get there safely.”

You smile. “Of course. It’s that way,” you say, pointing left.

He releases your hand just long enough to move to the curb side, then grabs it again without a word.

You walk in comfortable silence. That kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling.

“This is me,” you say as you reach your stoop. “I’d invite you up for a nightcap, but… it is a school night.”

Robby chuckles. “Can I kiss you again?”

You don’t answer—you just lean in. And suddenly you’re a teenager again, making out on your front porch under a flickering streetlamp.

This time, he’s the one to pull back first, forehead resting against yours. “Alright,” he murmurs. “Guess I have to be the responsible one.”

You steal a few more kisses anyway, laughing softly, before finally saying goodnight and slipping inside.

You’re curled up in bed, grading a stack of vocabulary quizzes, red pen in hand, when your phone buzzes:

Michael: Made it home. Thanks for a great night.

You: I had an amazing time. Up until I got home and got a paper cut on a stack of quizzes I need to finish before tomorrow.

Michael: Sounds serious. I can’t diagnose over text. Could I see it in person? Maybe Saturday?

You: I’d love that, but I won’t be in town—I can’t believe this didn’t come up. I leave tomorrow for an elementary STEM conference. Riveting, I know. I’ll be back Wednesday.

Michael: My schedule’s rough next week. Could you do Friday?

You: One date in and we’re already juggling calendars. I think that’s a good omen 😊

But yes—I’ll pencil you in for Friday.

Michael: Pencil? Ouch. That kind of hurts.

You: Okay, okay. Permanent marker. Color coded. Red for Robby.

Michael: That’s more like it ;)

The days go fast—seminars, lectures, hands-on demos. You barely stop moving.

But every spare second you get, you’re texting him.

Sometimes flirty. Sometimes funny. Sometimes just: Here’s what I’m eating. What about you?

It’s been a while since you’ve been in something like this. But it’s never felt this easy. And you’re really hoping he feels the same way.

Little do you know.

It’s almost time for handoff , and shockingly the ER is in a lull which gives the team time to strike an inquisition on Robby. Dana kicks it off, perched on a nurses station desk.

“Alright Robinovitch, spill”

He looks at her over his glasses, “I just finished handing off to Shen, theres nothing else to spill.”

“You’re smiling.”

“No I’m not.” he says with a frown.

“All week your face is trying so hard not to smile, it’s giving your wrinkles wrinkles.”

Shen turns from the drawer hes been rummaging in for snacks. “Wait, are we talking about how Robby’s been… weirdly chill?”

“I’m not chill.”

“You told a med student that it was alright, we all make mistakes sometimes.”

“I did not.”

“You did. I was there,” Dana grins. “Who are you?”

Robby leans back in his hair, sips his coffee. “Maybe I’m growing. Emotionally.”

Dana gasps. “Oh my God. He’s in love.”

Robby chokes slightly on his drink. “I’m sorry?”

“You’ve had your nose in your phone every free moment you’ve had.” Dana adds. “You’ve taken real breaks where you go talk on the phone in the ambulance bay.”

Robby sets his cup down, but he’s not denying it. Just smirking like someone caught red-handed.

“Alright who’s the lucky lady?”

“You don’t know her and you’ll never know her.”

Shen looks like he’s doing calculus in his head and leans in. “Wait this started when I was on my trip, oh my god, did you meet a hot mom at the elementary school?”

Robby pauses. Just long enough.

“Holy shit, I don’t owe you any more – you got your repayment a hot MILF.”

“Oh my God,” Dana says.

“Jesus Christ, she’s not a mom, she’s a teacher”.

There’s a beat of silence before Dana grins. “You know what? I love this for you.”

Robby rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue.

“Wait,” Shen says. “Does she know you’re, like, emotionally stunted?”

“She’s a 3rd grade teacher. I think she’s prepared.”

Dana hops down. “I’m gonna need details.”

“You’re not getting details.”

Friday rolls around and you’re more excited than you’ve ever been for a second date. It’s cozy and dimly lit—more plants than light fixtures, menus scribbled on chalkboards, and the faint buzz of a bar that feels like a well-kept secret.

You spot him at the bar, already seated towards the back. He’s dressed down again, but there’s something intentional about it—like someone who spent an extra minute wondering what shirt to wear.

He catches your eyes and smiles like he forgot how to do that for a while until recently.

“You’re punctual,” he says, clearly pleased.

“You’re early,” you reply, shrugging off your coat. “I was promised a perpetually late, cynical doctor.”

“Tragic. He’s been replaced by a man who googled ‘cozy date spots that don’t feel like you’re trying too hard.’”

You laugh. “And did it recommend this place?”

“Nope. Shen’s girlfriend did. Which I now realize makes this deeply traceable.”

Your eyes widen. “Wait—do they know?”

Robby sighs. “Dana cornered me in central. I didn’t confirm or deny. Shen said I was glowing. It was… a dark time.”

You smirk.

The food is good—small plates, easy to share. The conversation is even better.

He opens up, just a little—enough to mention the long hours, how emergency medicine pulls you in like a rip current, how sometimes it feels like it’s the only thing he’s really good at.

You tell him about your student who tried to fake a cough for three weeks to get out of a math test, and the tiny triumphs that feel like wins no one else sees.

He watches you talk, head tilted slightly, the corner of his mouth pulled into a lazy smile. His fingers rest near yours on the table. Not touching. Not quite.

Finally, he says, “I’ve gotta be honest—I haven’t really… done this in a while.”

“Tapas?”

He chuckles. “No, like—dating. Letting someone in. It’s easier to stay busy. Stay… guarded, I guess.”

You nod. “Well, I haven’t really dated someone who sees more blood before lunch than most people do in a year, so.”

“So we’re both out of practice.”

“Guess we’ll have to wing it.”

He leans in and kisses you. Slow. Deliberate. This one without surprise. This one because he wanted to all night.

You’ve fallen into a comfortable cadence. You see him a few times a week, more often than you thought you would, but you don't complain. You love his company.

Your schedules do still clash at times.

You planned to go home after parent-teacher conferences. Michael had already mentioned he had plans—finally joining his coworkers for a long-overdue drink after weeks of skipping out.

It doesn’t take much to convince you to meet your own colleagues for a post-conference drink. It’s been a day, and you deserve it.

But as you walk into the bar, you spot a familiar profile near the corner.

You don’t even hesitate. With a little liquid courage in hand, you stroll over and place a hand on his shoulder.

“So… they really just let anyone in here nowadays?”

Michael turns, eyes lighting up in that way that makes your stomach dip. “How’d you find me?”

“Coincidence. We needed to lick our wounds after the parent-teacher conference firing squad.”

One of the guys at the table leans toward the person next to him. “Ahhh. This is the teacher.”

Michael grins and slides his arm around your waist, his hand resting easily at your hip. “Right, where are my manners?” he says introducing you to the team.

You smile, trying not to let the arm-around-your-waist thing short-circuit your brain. “It’s so nice to meet you all. I’ll get back to my workplace complain-fest and let you return to yours.”

You squeeze his shoulder lightly, but before you step away, his hand shifts on your waist, catching your attention. He leans in and lowers his voice just for you.

“If you head out before we do… come say bye?”

You meet his eyes and nod. “Of course.”

The moment you slide into your seat, your coworkers pounce.

“What the hell was that about?”

“You don’t have friends outside of school.”

“Thanks for introducing us to your hot doctor friends???”

“Wait—HOLY SHIT, was that Dr. McHottie with his arm around your waist? Did I miss a chapter?!”

You laugh and give them the short version. You field a rapid-fire round of teasing, eye-rolls, and maybe a few not-so-subtle attempts to angle to get set up with his coworkers, but eventually the conversation drifts to who cried in the hallway today, who mispronounced “photosynthesis,” and whose turn it is to deal with the PTA bake sale disaster.

Your group starts calling it a night. Long day, longer week. You say your goodbyes and make your way back toward Michael’s table, which has thinned out significantly as well.

He stands when he sees you. “My friends couldn’t hang. I’m calling it a night too—just wanted to say bye.”

“You’re more than welcome to stay if you want another drink, honey,” Dana offers, eyes twinkling.

“Oh, I couldn’t impose—”

“You could never,” Michael says, standing and lightly touching your elbow. “What are you drinking?”

You smile. “Whatever you’re having.”

You settle in at the table. The conversation is easy, flowing from hospital horror stories to favorite dive bars to why Dana is banned from karaoke at two different establishments.

Michael returns with drinks, sliding yours to you and casually resting his hand on your thigh under the table, thumb tracing slow circles that make it a little hard to concentrate on anything Dana is saying.

You laugh, you listen, you really like his friends.

The convos come to a close and you all start heading out. You shrug on your coat, and Michael helps, fingers brushing lightly down your arm.

“Want to walk me home?”

He smile. “I’d love that.”

The conversation is light—teasing, wandering, nothing too deep. You talk about favorite childhood snacks and your worst Halloween costumes. He tells you how Jack once sliced his palm on a pineapple slicer and tried to pretend it wasn’t bleeding.

As you reach your apartment steps, you stop and turn to him.

“That was really fun,” you say, quietly. “I like your friends. I hope I didn’t make anything awkward.”

“Not at all,” he replies. “They loved you.”

“Good. Glad I passed the first big test.”

He chuckles. “Teachers and their testing.”

There’s a pause. Then: “So… want to come up?” you ask, voice soft but steady.

He hesitates, not pulling away. “I’d really like to. But I just came off a twelve-hour shift, and I’ve probably had two more drinks than I should’ve. If I sit down, I’m going to be half-asleep in seconds.”

You take his hand and start walking him toward your door.

“Then that’s settled,” you say. “Can’t have you falling asleep in the Uber.”

You open the door, letting the warm light spill into the hallway, and look back at him with a little smile.

He follows you in without another word.

You flick on the light and immediately cringe.

“Wow. Sorry. My place looks like my classroom exploded in here.”

Michael steps in behind you, taking in the scattered worksheets, the pile of books on your couch, and the half-folded laundry draped over a chair.

“You should see the trauma bay on a Tuesday,” he says, tossing his jacket over the back of a stool. “This is a spa by comparison.”

You kick aside a rogue glue stick. “I did mean to clean today, but then 30 small humans and their guardians demanded to know if their kid is ‘thriving academically’ while also asking what ‘phonics’ actually is.”

He snorts.

You pad to the kitchen and grab two glasses of water, handing one to him. “Doctor’s orders.”

He grins. “Responsible and charming.”

You sit on the couch, tucking your legs underneath you. He follows, moving slowly—like someone who’s used to being on his feet for twelve hours and finally has permission to stop.

He slouches into the other end of the couch, long legs stretched out, one arm thrown over the backrest. He takes a sip of water and closes his eyes for a second, just breathing.

“I’m gonna fall asleep right here,” he murmurs.

You smile. “Go for it. My couch has a strict no-judgment zone.”

There’s a long, easy silence after that. Not awkward—just soft.

Eventually, you get up and offer him a hand “you’re not sleeping on the couch, come on”

He reaches for your hand —warm fingers curling around yours for just a second longer than necessary.

He follows you to your room, hands still intertwined. It’s not the first time you’ve shared a bed, but it is the first time you’ve shared one without hooking up before. It all feels very intimate.

There’s a surgical precision to how he fits into your evening routine that leaves you a little breathless as you settle into bed.

“Night,” he murmurs wrapping an arm around you and nuzzling in.

You squeeze his hand once, gently. “Goodnight, Michael.”

[readerinsertrepository]

something something pope doesn't know how to ask for what he wants.

like, obviously he knows he has basic needs. food, water, shelter, (sleep is questionable). but his WANTS? he doesn't even know how to begin to process them.

you ask him if he has anything special he wants for breakfast the next morning and he looks at you like you've asked him what color grass is. just shrugs and waves a hand vaugely. he really wants that overly sweet white cranberry and strawberry juice stuff you bought that one time a few weeks ago, but, he isn't going to ASK for it.

it's WORSE with affection somehow.

he's had an AWFUL fucking day. craig and deran threw a party the night before, smurf is up his ass about whatever, and he hasn't slept at all in the last thirty-six hours. he sees you and has this weird ache in his arms like he wants to wrap around you and never let go, but obviously he doesn't. he doesn't usually initiate physical contact until You do, so he sits there with a grimace(he's pouting, he's 100% pouting) and pretends like his chest isn't burning with the need to scoop you up and hide in your bed for an hour or two. (you notice fairly quickly, of course, and it's easy to crawl into his lap and cradle his head to your chest.)

it takes forever to get him to voice it, and even then he doesn't nessecarily say outloud that he wants a hug. He WILL intiate, after a while though(a while being Literally a Year at minimum). He'll crowd up against your back while you're standing by the stove, or folding laundry, and his big hands will grip your hips just a bit too tight (because sometimes he forgets that you aren't made of fucking muscle like he is.) and he'll breathe down the back of your neck like a freak until you turn around and wrap your arms around him in return.

idk..idk something about teaching him that it's okay to need/want to be held, that he CAN ask for it and that nine and half times out of ten it will be given readily and without complaint.

[readerinsertrepository]

https://www.tumblr.com/therealmilfdennys/781579452459204608/ive-been-infected-with-pope-brain-worms-i?source=share

This but he realizes you dont see him the same as everyone else when your complaining about a coworker and he causally is like "so you want me to beat him"

"What"

"Rough him up send message however you wanna say it"

"All he did was steal my pen?"

"👁👁"

"No I dont"

oh my GOD you're so right he absolutely would do some shit like that. anybody who decides to be shitty to you is his Enemy just on principle.

CW: Uhhh blood, canon typical violence, stalking mention, Pope is a warning in and of himself, mention of harassment(sort of?), Denny trying to wax poetic again.

You aren’t even complaining to Pope at the start, really. He’s sitting, quiet and stiff, staring blankly at the TV’s black screen in Smurf’s living room while you stitch up Craig’s shoulder nearby. You’re telling Craig and Baz about this nurse at the clinic—a real piece of work, from the sound of it. 

“He acts like I don’t literally have a medical degree,” You’re saying, lighthearted, but Andrew can tell it’s forced from the way your mouth is twisted into a tight smile. “He’s always leaning over my shoulder, making sure my stitches are done right and man-splaining how to splint an arm properly. Like I don’t already know how.” You chatter on, mild complaints really. You know Craig and Baz don’t really care, but the chatter keeps Craig mostly calm when he’s in pain. Pope is hanging off every word, though, feeling his pulse spike with every complaint from your pretty mouth. You shouldn’t have to deal with that, he thinks. You’re competent, and intelligent, and this coworker guy of yours needs to back the fuck off. “He also asked me out like, four times last week,” You’re saying then, and Pope turns his head, eyes like a shark, cold and dark, boring holes into the side of your face. You glance sidelong at him, but continue your work. “Can’t take no for an answer, apparently.” “Sounds like a prick.” Craig quips, voice strained and rough, wincing as you pull the needle through his skin once more. The conversation segues after you shrug it off like it’s nothing, but Pope can’t stop thinking about it. He’s never met your coworker, doesn’t even know the guy's name, but he can imagine the satisfying crunch of his nose beneath his fist. Can calculate exactly how many times he’d need to hit him to get an apology from him. Can practically feel the blood smear on his knuckles. 

He walks over to help you clean up when you’re done patching Craig’s arm. He’s tense all over, which isn’t unusual, but he’s never this quiet when the two of you are alone. 

“Everything okay?” You ask airily, never pushing for an answer, which he usually doesn’t have. His head turns, and he regards you with an intense look for a moment, before sniffing once, turning back to the mess of bandages on the table. 

“That guy at work givin’ you trouble?” He asks casually. Or at least as casual as Pope can be. You pause what you’re doing, leaning a hand against the table, your other resting on your hip. 

“Nothin’ I’m not used to.” You state evenly, biting at the inside of your cheek. “Why?” 

He shrugs, tips his head side to side some, stacking bloody gauze neatly in front of him. “Just was thinkin’ I could… pay ‘im a visit.” He mutters cryptically, impassive in a way that feels forced. “Make sure he doesn’t bother you anymore.” 

You stare blankly at him for a moment, shocked by the offer but not quite surprised. Pope has been known to fix things with his fists when someone he cares for is under threat. You just weren’t aware you were someone he cared for that deeply. “Andrew,” You smile, bemused and tender in a way that makes his hands clam up some. “No, thank you. I appreciate the offer, but it really isn’t a big deal.” You assured, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder gently. He has to fight the urge to lean into it, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, and he’s quiet for a long moment. 

“Shouldn’t let ‘im treat you like that.” He mumbles, gruffly, like it annoys him that you don’t take him up on the offer. “I know,” You reply evenly. “Which is why I’ve already emailed HR and made a formal complaint to my boss at the Clinic.” You assuage, hand lifting to rest on his bicep, squeezing gently. “It’s alright. It’s sweet of you to be worried, but I wouldn’t ask you to do that.” He looks over at you like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, head tilted to the side a bit, eyebrows furrowed, lips twisted like there’s something he wants to say but can’t find the words. You understand why he’s taken aback by your refusal of his offer, of course. All his life, violence has been expected of him, and you’ve seen how it affects him, even if he tries to hide it. You refuse to be another person who makes him feel like a machine. “Fine.” He mutters, nodding once, glancing briefly down at your hand on his arm, before returning to his task of cleaning up the gauze. You nod in return, smiling faintly, and the two of you fall into a comfortable silence as you clean up the mess left over from fixing up Craig’s injuries. 

When it’s time for you to leave for the night, you can tell he’s wary to have you go. He’s refusing to look at you, eyes on the ground as you say your goodbyes, and Pope never refuses to meet your eyes. So, you ask him to walk you to your car, and he gives a stiff nod of agreement. “Thank you,” You murmur, ducking your chin down some in an attempt to catch his gaze. “For earlier.” You clarify at his confused little frown. He simply hums, shrugging a shoulder, noncommittal. It makes you smile, for some reason. He really doesn’t know how to take a compliment, and it’s oddly endearing. A beat of silence passes, and another, and you sigh softly. Leaning forward is easy, brushing a chaste kiss to his cheek is even easier. There’s a faint hitch in his breath, the slightest widening of his eyes when they snap up to meet your own. His fingers flex where his hands hang limp at his sides, as if he doesn’t know what to do with them all of a sudden.

“Goodnight, Andrew.” You hum softly, giving him a gentle smile, squeezing his shoulder in a friendly manner, willing your heart to calm in your chest. 

“G’night, sunshine.” He replies, voice rough and quiet. 

He watches as you get in your car, and he doesn’t move until you’re out of his sight. Fingers lift to touch his cheek, and in that moment, he allows himself a rare smile. He knows then that he’d do just about anything for you, something warm and unfamiliar curling in his chest. He has half the mind to follow you home. Not for nefarious purposes, no. Simply to make sure you get home safe, and maybe linger outside your apartment building, watch you go through your nightly routine. He can’t say he hasn’t done it before, but tonight? Tonight he’s sated. Cheek tingling from the brief touch of your lips against his skin, and that’s enough for now. 

[readerinsertrepository]

Having brainworms abt abt reader and pope I think it would be abit cute if the reader was some kind of bartender and pope developed guard dog instinct shadowing her ard…making sure the catcalls are dealt with….slowly obsessing over her without him knowing it heixicocododkdb

ohhh...ohhh you get me...

ive been thinking about something like this since i watched the ep's where he works in derans bar for a bit tbh ?

like...bartender!reader who is Inexplicably Enthralled with Deran's older brother. she flirts with him unashamedly, hits him with the "Hi there, handsome. 😏" Every time he walks into the bar.

I think at first he thinks she's fucking with him, like..flirting because thats sort of Part of her Job but then Deran is like. "Dude she does NOT talk to other guys like that. She's a bitch /pos."

And Pope is Interested then, because like...why is she flirting with HIM of all people???? People don't actively hit on Pope (as far as I've seen, i just started season five so 🤷) so he's like..confused, but also unfortunately intrigued.

but imagine one day he comes in and there's no "Hi there handsome, lookin' good today." and instead she's like, sitting in Deran's office looking uncharacteristically Scared. Turns out some creep followed her out to her car the night before, and she punched him (he has to take a deep breath when he sees the bruises on her knuckles) when he tried to get fresh with her. And Pope just kinda stares at her hands, and then at the tears that are clumping up her lashes, and Nods.

He dissapears until later that night when she and deran are closing up and she pretends not to see the bit of blood thats speckled with shirt collar :)

after that she ends up with a guard dog essentially (my favorite flavor of man). he walks her to her car every night, and threatens Deran into doing it when he can't. he's her personal bouncer most nights he's free. a guy gets too friendly at the bar and Pope grabs him by the collar and waits for her to nod or shake her head. slams a guys face into the counter because the guy tried to cop a feel.

this is fucking YUMMY oh my god

[readerinsertrepository]

Perverts (Pope Cody x reader)

Summary: Set around beginning of Season 2– Instead of Nicky at the house with J, you were taken and hurt by Javi. A few days later, Pope checks up on you and accidentally sees you shirtless. That image never leaves his mind, especially not when he comes across a pair of your dirty underwear.

Warnings: sexual themes, voyeurism, Pope jerks off, underwear stealing & sniffing. breaking and entering (sort of). reader has boobs but otherwise written neutral.

WC: 6.5k.

Pope Cody didn’t think of himself as a pervert. He could be obsessive, he could be rough, but he didn’t think it was all that abnormal. People like far worse things than he does. Maybe that was a result of growing up in the Cody house, his view of love and sex skewed since birth.

When he pulled up outside of your apartment building that evening, parked across the street, he didn’t mean to catch a glimpse of your naked body through your bedroom window. On the third floor, it wasn’t very clear and your back was to the window, but that outline of your body made him stop in his tracks. Stood beside his car, head tilted up to that window, he didn’t think of himself as a pervert for watching you slide on your shirt. It wasn’t his fault that you decided to change your shirt in front of your window, with the lamp in your bedroom on. The darkening sky outside only made it easier to see inside your window. He thought about mentioning your lack of curtains to you once he gets inside, but he isn’t sure how you’ll take it. That line hasn��t been crossed yet. He’s still stuck stealing glances at you from across rooms, looking when no one else is.

You leave your spot in front of your window, and as you turn, he sees the way your shirt falls on your body and the lack of support for your breasts. It’s different than how you usually look. For a moment, he thinks about getting back in his car and going home to jerk off to the memory of this. He decides against it, instead praying you won’t notice the bulge in his pants.

Pope didn’t show up at your apartment unannounced often. He had checked on you the day after the incident, but he had texted you about it before. Otherwise, you would’ve worn something different. Opening the door to him made your heart flutter, realizing your shirt shows a lot more than you usually do. Pope’s eyes flicker down to your chest for a second, just a second, as he tries to contain himself. He’s not here for that. It doesn’t matter what he just saw, he can’t.

“Is everything okay?” You ask Pope, still unsure why he’s at your doorstep.

“Yeah,” he answers. “I just wanted to see if you’re okay.”

That surprises you. “Did Smurf send you?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m okay.”

It’s partially true. The ache in your legs has slowly dulled in the last few days, the swelling and the worry that someone is waiting for you in your apartment fading, but that night scared you. Pope had always kept you safe— it was a solid truth in your life you could rely on. He doesn’t show it (other than now, standing in front of you, asking if you’re okay), but he hates himself for not being there. There’s no way he could’ve known Javi would’ve shown up to the house. Still, the guilt weighs on him night after night.

His expression hardly changes, a key feature of Pope’s, his hard gaze that was more like a glare to the untrained eye. He knows you’re not okay, that you’re telling a white lie just so he’ll stop feeling like your pain is his fault. You can see it in his eyes and the way his hands are always curled up into fists, like he can’t stop thinking about revenge.

“You sure?” Pope prompts. He’s always known you better than anyone else. He knows he has to push for the truth.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” you respond, your voice weakened by the memory of your hands tied behind your back and the ringing in your ears that accompanied the exploding heat in your leg.

He doesn’t entirely believe you. That night was the worst you’ve been hurt since you’ve known him, and there’s no way it wasn’t slowly ruining your life. Pope doesn’t ask, he just steps inside and shuts the door. “I should’ve been there.”

You sigh. “You really think you could’ve handled them all yourself? There were four of them. With you, there would’ve been three of us. Two, if they still got J.”

“I wouldn’t have let them take you,” he tells you. When his eyes meet yours, you know he believes it enough to make it true. It’s startling, especially in this business. No one ever cares about someone else enough to save them. You’ve seen it with Pope’s family, the constant fighting and betrayal that is so close to tearing them apart. But, maybe to a fault, they’re loyal to each other. To family. And Pope’s unwavering loyalty to you never fails to send a shock to your heart.

“You don’t know that,” you say quietly. “Besides, it’s in the past now. It already happened.”

“It won’t happen again.”

He says it enough that you believe him, too. For a moment, you feel lighter. Relieved that maybe for once you can rely on someone, trust someone to be there for you when you need it. Maybe with Pope around, you won’t get hurt again. Wishful thinking, but it makes everything seem less scary. And everything is terrifying with the Cody’s.

Pope’s eyes leave yours and he glances around your apartment. He’s only been here a handful of times and never for long. He sees the dirty dishes in the sink and the pile of laundry overflowing its bin in the hallway. All of the lights are dimmed, warm bulbs in every lamp, and the curtains in the living room are drawn closed. He wonders why you keep your bedroom curtains open.

“Can I use your bathroom?” He asks, breaking the silence.

“Yeah, sure, it’s at the end of the hallway,” you tell him. He turns and walks down the hallway, and you go back to your task before he knocked on the door— starting the dishes you know he saw.

Pope hears the sink turn on and his stride slows as he passes your bedroom. He thinks about the sight of your unclothed body moments before he walked in here. He thinks about how your skin would feel under his hands. If you’re as soft as he’s always imagined. His eyes land on the laundry bin beside your door, and the clothes at the top of the pile. Socks, and a pair of underwear.

He doesn’t think before reaching out to grab the underwear. Shoved in his pockets, he carries this dirty secret to the bathroom. He closes the door and stares at his reflection in the mirror. What the hell is he doing? The used underwear feels like they’re burning a hole in his jacket pocket so he takes them out, holding them bunched up in his hand.

A piece of you, just for him. His mind wanders again. They were at the top of the pile, so they were worn recently, right? Today, maybe? Did you just take them off? How long did you wear them? All day, maybe last night, too?

Pope raises his hand to his face and inhales through his nose. His eyes flutter shut as your scent goes straight to his dick, throbbing again, the sight of your body and now your scent driving him crazy.

He can’t do anything about his aching cock here. He’s not that quick— and he wants to enjoy it, not hold his breath as he fucks his fist in your bathroom. He shoves them back in his pocket, deep inside, and takes one last glance at himself in the mirror before unlocking the door.

When you hear Pope’s footsteps down the hallway you turn off the sink and face him. While he was gone, you couldn’t stop thinking about how that night would’ve gone if he was there. Pope would have made you hide, despite your insistence that he should toss you one of the hidden guns around the house. He taught you how to hold a gun, aim, and reload, but he stressed it was for emergencies only. Maybe you could have convinced him that this was the emergency he prepared you for.

He pauses in the doorway, not quite stepping out of the hallway. Pope hovers. He has a tendency for that, especially with you. Lingering close, but not too close.

“You should be resting.”

He sounds disapproving. You know he told you not to do any strenuous activity while you healed and you didn’t think doing dishes was too much.

“I have things to do,” you tell him. “I can’t just sit on the couch for two weeks.”

Pope sighs. He walks closer to the kitchen sink, closer to you. “Just… don’t overdo it.”

“I won’t.” You mean it. The only thing worse than a bullet hole in your leg would be facing Pope’s disappointment.

Pope sits in silence for a minute when he gets back into his car. He puts his hand in his pocket to confirm his token is still there, that it didn’t fall out on his way down the stairs or across the street. The soft fabric meets his fingertips.

He pulls down his pants just enough to free his cock from his boxers. Achingly hard for the last hour, drooling a sticky mess, he wishes it wasn’t your underwear he was holding but your actual body. His hand curls around his cock and his eyes flutter shut. All he can think about is the sight in your window. Your nude upper body, on display for half of California to see.

Pope grabs the used underwear. He sniffs them again as he fucks up into his fist, the bed squeaking from the movement of his hips. It’s an unfamiliar sound for his place— the few times he’s had sex has always been somewhere else. He can’t remember the last time he brought someone back to his place, not Smurf’s house or a motel room.

Even though he wanted to take this slow and make it last as long as possible, he finds himself closer to his release than he wanted. It builds quickly, a result of his pent up anticipation that started when he opened the door of his car outside of your apartment. He thinks about the rest of your body, the parts he hasn’t seen yet. He thinks about what is hidden above the parts of your thighs he’s seen when he pushed up your pants to reveal the injuries caused by Javi’s men. That was torture. He was so close to you, to the skin he’s fantasized about, and he couldn’t do anything about it. But he took what he could get, which was more than he had before. Hot anger filled his chest at the blood dripping down your skin but something else warm built up inside him. When his hands touched you to dig out the lodged bullet and place a few sutures, it was hard to control himself. To not slide his hands up your legs and feel you over your underwear.

Being that close to you, kneeled in front of you, replays in his mind as he spills cum onto your underwear. The pained whimpers you tried to bite back echo in his ears. His hands shook as he stitched your leg up, the way his hands shake now, panting like a dog. God, you ruin him.

Pope regrets the mess he made. He can’t put this pair of underwear back without washing them first and he can’t use them to get off again because now they smell like him, not you.

He checks on you again the next day. He gets there early, despite wanting to know if you change in front of your window every night (he can always drive by later, he reasons with himself). You haven’t been around the Cody house as much this week due to your injury. It made it hard to walk or drive and you hate relying on other people to drive you around, so you stayed at home. It wasn’t so bad. It was nice to catch up on some TV and sleep in for a few days.

Pope calls your name through the front door as he knocks. You hobble from the couch to the door, ignoring the dull ache that radiates up your leg with every step.

“Back so soon?” You ask, opening the door for Pope to come in.

“Just making sure your leg is healing,” he answers, trying to remain detached.

“It’s fine,” you tell him. “Hurts but it doesn’t look infected.”

“Let me see.”

Pope takes a step closer to you, his eyes not leaving yours. “I- I should change-“

“Just pull down your pants,” he says, voice soft, heart pounding at the thought of taking off your pants for him. “It’ll be quick.”

Against your better judgement, you nod. Maybe the idea of letting Pope slide your sweatpants down your legs sounded as close to heaven as you could get.

“Sit down,” he tells you, and grabs your wrist to lead you to your couch. Before you can sit, he sticks his fingers in the waistband of your pants and gently pulls them down, careful not to snag any of the fabric against your wound.

Then, you sit down, painfully aware of how exposed you are to him. But Pope’s gaze doesn’t feel judgemental or critical, not even when his eyes trail down to the sutures he placed days ago. He notices you’re right. The redness around the sutures remains but it hasn’t increased, and there’s no sign of drainage or additional swelling. “Good,” Pope murmurs. His hands gently rest on your leg, his hands warm and rough.

“Told you.”

He looks up at you. “You don’t know shit about wound care.”

“I know enough to know this isn’t infected,” a smile creeps on your face. “You just wanted to take off my pants, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t say anything. Silence isn’t rare with Pope, but you thought he’d say something. You decide to press harder.

“You wanted to see my underwear, right?” You ask, lowering your voice. You’re not sure if you’re serious or teasing him about something that isn’t plausible. “I’m pretty sure a pair of mine went missing last night. Know anything about it?”

Pope stands up, still not answering. Guilt is written on his blank expression, in the way his fingers curl up against his palms.

“I probably misplaced them,” you tell him. “They must’ve fallen somewhere.”

He looks back at you. Your words are riling him up. He knows they didn’t fall. He knows where they are— in his apartment, his dried cum staining the material. He knows your words aren’t true.

“Must’ve,” he says in a grunt. Despite your teasing, he doesn’t want to admit it. His perversion. Telling you he took them means he’ll end up telling you why he took them. Not as a spur of the moment idea but something that has clawed at him far longer than seeing your shirtless body through your window or touching your bare leg as he threaded the needle through your skin.

“Would be a shame if another pair went missing,” you say, putting on your best innocent voice. “Can you do something for me, Andrew?”

The use of his name, not his nickname, draws his attention. “Do what?”

“Can you grab my water bottle from my bedroom?” You ask. “I forgot it, and it hurts so much to walk…”

Pope nods.

Your bedroom still has the curtains pulled open, letting in the early morning sun. He spots your water bottle on your nightstand and it takes all of his strength to not lean down to smell your pillowcase. When he turns around with the bottle in his hands, he notices a pair of underwear thrown on the floor. It stares right at him, taunting him. An identical pair to the one still at his place but these ones don’t have his mess on it. He seizes the opportunity and grabs them, hands shaking in his pocket as he shoves it inside.

In the living room, you’ve flicked on the TV and settled into the couch. Your legs are propped up and covered with a blanket. The creaking of the floor alerts you to Pope’s presence, and your water bottle in his hand.

“Thank you,” you smile up at him. His hand brushes yours when he hands it to you. He nods in response. The words die in his throat from the excitement of his new token.

Later, the feel of your fingers against his plays in his mind as he wraps your underwear around his cock. He had to wait all day for this, stressing over plans for the latest job with his brothers, with you on the back of his mind. He counted down the hours until he could be alone in the dark of his small apartment, with his pants pulled down and your dirty underwear against his skin.

Pope decides to be careful this time and not ruin the new pair. Instead, he uses the pair he already ruined to cum on, again, because the way the fabric hugged his length made him lose his mind thinking about your body around him instead. He was close. Not just to his orgasm, but to your body. He shudders when he remembers that your underwear aren’t just yours, but a real piece of you, your scent and sweat embedded in the cloth from being pressed against your cunt all day. He imagines it’s you rubbing against him, and it almost is. He wonders if you’d ever leave a real dirty pair of underwear lying around, one stained with your wetness or cum. That would be heaven. As close as he could get, anyway.

He grunts as he spills onto your underwear. The thought of you makes him feel so good, he can’t imagine the pleasure he’ll have when he finally gets your body under his.

He doesn’t sleep that night. It’s not unusual for him and everyone knows it. More often than not, he’ll greet the day already awake. He likes it. The quiet of the night, when everyone else is asleep and the world feels like it’s just him. But it wasn’t any of the usual things that kept him up— it was you. He couldn’t keep checking in on you under the guise of checking on your wound. It’s healing fine, and next week, he’ll have to take out the stitches. He can’t wait another week to see you again.

Instead of knocking on your door, he waits until your bedroom light turns off, and another few hours after that to make sure you’re not still up. He parks down the street this time.

Pope knows you keep a spare key under your mat, something he’s advised you against numerous times. But tonight, he’s glad you never listened. He grabs it from under the mat and slowly twists the key in the lock.

The door clicks open, and he pauses to listen for your movement. Nothing. Inside, his body burns with the possibilities. He considers digging through your laundry for a used pair of underwear to jerk off on your couch with, but like the other day in the bathroom, he knows he can’t keep himself quiet. He’d inevitably wake you up and have to explain himself.

He pauses outside of your bedroom door. You sleep with it closed and he doesn’t want to risk waking you up by opening it. That dampers his mood— he was looking forward to a peek of your sleeping figure. Maybe your shirt would have ridden up, exposing your stomach, or maybe you’d be sleeping in underwear instead of shorts.

The laundry bin outside of your door isn’t full anymore. A few towels sit at the bottom, and like a gift just for him, another pair of underwear.

This pair strikes worry in him. The way you brought up your missing underwear the other day tells him you know he took it, and you probably know about the other pair, too. Did you leave this just for him? A gift, like he hopes?

This pair is a different colour. He reaches down for it and brings it up to his face, knees weak from the familiar scent. His cock strains against his pants again and he knows he has to wait until he gets home to take care of it. Still, he palms himself over his clothes and holds back a groan.

With his gift in hand, Pope steps back into the living room. As much as he would like to stay and poke around, he’d rather go home and jerk off again. It’s become a sort of nightly routine; go home, close the blinds, pull down his pants and think about you.

He does just that. Tonight, third night in a row, he decides to put all three pairs of your underwear to good use. One stays wrapped around his cock, spreading his precum up and down; the newest pair pressed against his nose; and the oldest pair off to the side, ready to catch his release again. That pair is beyond saving, but he figures one of the next times he’s in your apartment he can put these back in your laundry bin. Hopefully you won’t catch any of his cologne on them.

As a treat, Pope lets himself whisper your name into the silence of his apartment when he turns onto his knees. He leans forward, on his elbows and knees, fucking into his underwear-covered fist. He thinks about how the edge of your underwear would drag along his cock when he pulls it aside to fuck you quick. Or rubbing his cock on the newly formed wet spot after he kisses you. He wonders if there’s any way you would change your underwear in front of your window, or if that would be too far for your accidental exhibitionism.

Even though he can barely hear his own whispers, he’s worried someone else will hear. Another result of growing up in the Cody house; the lack of privacy forming (now) irrational fears of being caught. He can hear when his neighbors fight, their voices escalating far louder than his barely there whispers, but that worry doesn’t leave him. He fears his brothers on the other side of his door, waiting to barge in the moment he finishes.

That doesn’t happen. His breath stutters, coming out faster than he can keep up with, the thought of any part of you touching him sending him over the edge. Again. His body slumps forward, unable to hold the full weight of himself up, but he doesn’t want to stop. Not yet. It feels too good thinking about you. With the stained pair of underwear, Pope spreads his cum back onto his cock. He doesn’t usually go for a second round right away and he wonders why he never does. He’s so sensitive from his recent orgasm that it almost hurts but the pleasure outweighs the pain.

It doesn’t take long for him to cum again, not even bothering to lift himself up to his previous position. His arm reaches under his body, almost numb from his weight. He makes a mess on his bed but he doesn’t care, he rarely sleeps there anyway. His vision blurs and he swears he blacks out for a minute— only you on his mind as he rolls over, almost collapsing onto the bed.

Pope sleeps for an hour that night. When he wakes up, he can’t tell if he dreamt of you or if he was awake, imagining you.

Baz whisks him away in the morning. They’re planning another job, a bigger, riskier heist and Baz doesn’t want there to be any holes in the plan. All day, Pope has to listen to his brothers drone on about New Canticle. He tries his best to push the last week out of his mind, but it’s hard. Pope is usually entirely focused on the work. Today, his eyes glaze over when Baz and Craig argue about the job again. He doesn’t need to hear that. He doesn’t want to. There are far better things he could be doing than pacifying another fight.

It’s been two days since Pope last saw you. He figures that’s long enough to check up on you. When he’s finally free later that evening, he drives to your apartment.

You’re not home. He even checks, using the spare key again. All of the lights are off and your regular shoes are gone so he assumes you’re out. He doesn’t let his mind wander to the other, darker option.

Tonight, he has time to stay. And since you’re not home, he decides to poke around a bit. The laundry bin is empty, which is a disappointment. He was hoping for another dirty pair to present itself to him. He pushes open your bedroom door and stops, taking it all in. The room is cleaner than the last time he was there.

Pope doesn’t know how long you’ve been gone and when you’ll be back, and he doesn’t want to be caught going through your dresser drawers. He moves quickly, opening each drawer and scanning the contents, only pausing for something worthy. When he gets to your underwear drawer, he can’t decide if it’s worth stopping for. They’re clean pairs, unused, smelling of laundry detergent instead of you. He closes the drawer. He’ll just have to get another pair next time.

He sits on your couch and waits for you in the dark. It’s another hour until you come home, and when you open the door, you shriek at the shadow.

Your eyes adjust and you recognize the silhouette— it’s just Pope, no reason for alarm. Real alarm, anyway.

“How did you get in here?” You ask him, stepping inside and locking the door behind you. Grocery bags drop to to the floor.

“Your spare key,” he answers. “I told you not to keep it there.”

“So you broke in to prove a point?”

Pope watches you favor your uninjured leg as you bring the grocery bags to the kitchen counter. He stands up.

“Is it breaking in if I had the key?”

You glare back at him. Not seriously. You always knew he had a point about the key but you never thought he’d use it.

“Why’d you stop by? Checking on me again?” You ask.

“You’re limping,” he points out, walking closer to you. He notices dark bags under your eyes and starts to worry. “Let me see it.”

“It’s not infected,” you tell him. Your hands reach into the bags to put away the items, but Pope’s hands stop you.

“Let me,” he says quietly. “Go sit down.”

You’re stubborn but you know better than to argue with him, especially when it’s about your health. He unpacks the groceries for you while you sit down. It doesn’t feel natural. You should be doing your own chores, not letting him do it for you. Your leg wasn’t that bad, it just wasn’t easy carrying all of that home.

“Why did you go out?” Pope asks from the fridge. As if it wasn’t clear why.

“Needed groceries,” you answer.

“I could’ve done that for you.”

“I don’t need you to baby me,” you tell him. Pope closes the fridge doors, leaving the rest of the food on the counter.

“I’m not babying you. You’re hurt. If you keep overexerting yourself, you could make it worse.”

Pope’s tone is careful, unwavering, but you can tell he hides a semblance of care under his unmoving expression.

“I’m fine,” you stress, and your insistence just makes his frustration worse.

“Take off your pants,” he commands, standing over you. “Let me see it.”

You don’t make him tell you a third time. Your pants slide down, revealing the aching wound. Pope kneels down for a better look and last night’s fantasies pop back into his head. If you weren’t just limping, he would’ve pulled down your underwear, too, for a taste.

“It’s not infected,” he confirms. “But it’s irritated. No more grocery runs, or leaving this apartment at all until it heals more.”

That earns a groan from you. “So you’re putting me under house arrest? That’s no fun.”

“Do you want it to get infected?” He asks. “You could lose your leg, you know. If it gets bad enough.”

“It won’t,” you roll your eyes at his catastrophizing. “I can handle getting groceries, Pope.”

He looks up at you with determination. “No,” he tells you firmly. “I will.”

The last two days being void of Pope’s presence led to deeper thinking about the situation. His stubbornness about your leg, making sure it’s healing properly and now his insistence that you have minimal movement, makes you wonder if that’s his guilt manifesting. Guilt that he hadn’t been there to prevent it. It showed the night it happened, too. Pope sat outside the house with a shotgun in his lap all night as you tried to sleep inside. It was nice then, and the first few days, but now you can’t help thinking he’s overcompensating. You’d never tell him that, though. Not in those words.

“I appreciate you taking care of me but I really don’t need you to do anything for me.”

“Just until I take the stitches out,” he tries to reason.

“And when will that be?”

“Next week,” Pope answers. “The skin around your knee moves too much. It needs longer to heal.”

“So you’re keeping me locked up for another week?”

“Yes,” he answers. He likes the sound of that. And he doesn’t mind visiting you more than once a day. He could never spend enough time with you, and maybe he’d find another pair of underwear for his collection.

You notice the vacant look in his eye after he answers you. He’s thinking about something, likely the arrangement he just proposed. Constant presence in your apartment, where in the last week, multiple pairs of your underwear have gone missing. The first really made you wonder, and your jab at Pope was mostly teasing, but the next time a pair went missing, it was after he left. Twice was still enough to be just a coincidence, so you went for a third time.

Three times isn’t a coincidence.

All day you wondered what he did with the pairs he stole from you. Did he just touch them? Keep them close because they’re yours? Did he smell them, or stuff a pair in his mouth? Did he fuck them?

Still kneeled in front of you, Pope picks up on your own silence and that knowing look in your eye. Like you see right through him and his excuse to come over every day. He knew you put that third pair out for him to find. It was too convenient, sitting right on top of the towels in the bin. He took your bait, like he still does.

“When did you take them?” You ask, and his heart stops. You knowingly leaving a pair for him is one thing. Asking him about it is breaching the little bubble he’s been living in.

“Take what?” Pope responds. He doesn’t want to admit to it so easily.

“My underwear. From the laundry. They were there two days ago, and then they weren’t. But you weren’t over.”

Pope slightly overlooked that part. You hadn’t been aware of his presence in the dark of your apartment that night. You wouldn’t have known where they disappeared to if you didn’t already have a hunch it was him.

“I always warned you about that key.”

While you suspected it, only momentarily, unsure if Pope was crazy enough to sneak into your apartment at night to steal a pair of dirty underwear, his confirmation is startling. Not in the grand scheme of Pope Cody as a person. You always knew exactly what he was capable of, but you never thought his obsessive protection would bleed into his relationship with you. This is more obsession than protection, though.

“What did you do with them?” Your voice is quiet, weakened by the heat pooling between your thighs.

Pope sits on the couch next to you, his eyes never leaving yours. “I think you already know.”

He puts his hand on your uninjured leg, touching the skin of your exposed thigh.

“Tell me anyway.”

He leans closer, his hands trailing up your thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps. “I jerked off with them. Fucked them. Came on them,” he tells you.

You’ve never seen this side of him before. You’ve seen him during jobs, careful and calculated; you’ve seen him with women, only a handful of times; you’ve seen his loyalty to his family turn into violent threats. But you’ve never seen him so earnest about a secret.

His face is dangerously close to yours, and his fingers brush over your clothed hip. He’s wanted this for months. Even more since you were shot and he was rewarded with the opportunity to touch your bare legs.

“Do it again,” you breathe out. “Grab a pair of my underwear and touch yourself.”

Pope never thought he’d hear something so dirty come out of your mouth. His eyes flicker down to the pair you’re wearing but you catch on. “From the laundry bin,” you tell him.

He doesn’t want to leave you but he obeys, wanting to finally experience this with you. While he’s grabbing the pair you wore all day from the top of the laundry pile, you pull your pants the rest of the way off. It’s an uncomfortable amount of exposure but Pope has seen you like this before. It eases your worries.

He wants to touch you. That want strains against the zipper of his pants but he knows he shouldn’t, not when he just told you to stop unnecessary movement. He’d argue that it was necessary, but he knows he shouldn’t risk making your leg worse than it already is. Having you in front of him while he jerks off is more than enough for today.

Pope leans his face closer to yours, the underwear balled up in his fist. His other hand tentatively reaches for your face. He’s never touched you so tenderly before.

Your eyes catch every freckle across his face. You’ve always seen them from a distance, but never so close. He’s beautiful. And you don’t think he’d ever let you tell him.

So, you show him. You bridge the distance and capture his lips with yours. They’re rough against you and his kisses are no softer, but it’s better than you imagined. And you imagined it often. He tastes like spearmint gum and tequila. He tastes smooth. He tastes like he wants you.

Pope’s other hand, the one gripping your underwear, moves to the button of his pants. He fumbles while undoing it, too focused on making sure his teeth don’t sink into your lip too hard. He doesn’t want to draw more blood. He pulls his zipper down and his lips disconnect from yours as he tugs his pants down to his knees. Your breathing is heavy, matching his, and he almost cums from the way you look at him.

“You drive me crazy,” he mumbles, and kisses you again. His words bring a smile to your lips and he feels it against his, proud of your reaction. He rubs himself over his boxers but it’s not enough.

“Take them off,” you tell him without moving your face away from his. His free hand quickly shoves his boxers down enough to expose his cock. You feel his arms move and you break the kiss to look down at him.

“Jesus, Pope,” you mutter. It’s painful to not touch him or beg him to ruin you. But you both know it has to wait, at least until he takes out your stitches. Watching his hand curl around his length is enough for tonight.

“You need to buy more underwear,” he says as the fabric in his hand makes contact with the head of his cock. He wraps the underwear around himself again, like he’s done the last few nights. It’s a relief to finally show you how good you make him feel. You deserve to know.

“Yeah?” You smile. “Going to steal all of mine?”

Pope nods, his hand moving faster. “Keep leaving the key outside and they’ll keep disappearing.”

You squeeze your thighs together, unable to pretend he’s not making you insanely turned on right now. Maybe he can be gentle, you think. He can rub you over your underwear with his other hand. Pope can tell you’re getting antsy by the way you squirm in front of him. It’s cute seeing you so worked up for him.

“You’re such a pervert, you know that?” You whisper.

He smiles. You have no idea.

“Once your leg heals, I won’t need your underwear anymore,” he tells you. “Because I’ll have the real thing.”

Pope can’t keep his voice straight anymore. He’s too close now. He wants to grab your hand and put it over his but he’d rather show you what you do to him. Just the thought of you makes his cock hard. The sight of you makes him leak into his boxers. The feel of your underwear, the ghost of your pussy hugging him, makes him lose consciousness as he cums.

It happens again. His orgasm hits him so hard he can’t see anything, and his heart beats so fast he thinks it’s going to give out. But it keeps on pumping in his chest and his fist keeps pumping over his cock until the last drop of cum drips onto your legs.

Your face is the first thing he sees, flushed from the sight of him unraveling in front of you. Finally, you have an accurate image of what Pope Cody looks like when he’s at his most vulnerable. His forehead is damp with sweat and his whole chest heaves with every breath. He’s so beautiful.

“Maybe you should just take the spare key,” you whisper. It’s not like anyone else has ever used it, not even yourself.

He nods. “You saying I can come over whenever I want?”

“You do anyway.”

Pope cleans up the mess he made on your thighs with the underwear in his hand. He kisses you again before he puts his dick back in his boxers.

“Seriously, no more getting groceries,” he reminds you. “Let me take care of you.”

Despite how soft Pope’s words feel, you know it extends to things far more vicious than bringing you home groceries and taking your stitches out. You know he would’ve killed anyone who hurt you without a second thought. You know he would do anything for you, something that scared you when you first understood it. It doesn’t scare you anymore, even when he breaks into your apartment in the middle of the night and when you’re not home, just to help get himself off.

masterlist ko-fi

A/N: didn’t mean for this to be so long but i wrote it quicker than everything else i’m working on. probably slightly ooc and i apologize but i couldn’t resist pope doing some freak stuff i’m into. might write a part 2 about pope removing the stitches…

[readerinsertrepository]

can you feel the tension

pairing : andrew “pope” cody x reader

warnings : DARK & HEAVY SMUT ❗️❗️consensual non-consent, gunplay, kidnapped/hostage roleplaying scene, fingering, gloves, biting, sucking on a gun, being fucked with a gun, bondage/tied to a chair, 1 (empty) death threat, dumbification, condescending degradation, praise, jealousy, possessiveness, spit, dirty talk, stopping of roleplay, subspace, aftercare. pet names used: kid, kiddo, baby, pretty baby, sweet girl. names used for pope: andrew, daddy. DO NOT READ IF UNDER 18 ❗️❗️

summary : part 4 to baptise in your thighs, till it hurts. you like watching pope with his gun, so you convince him to use it on you. read part 1 & part 2.

w/c : 4k

a/n : please read the tags carefully !! if this is something that makes you uncomfortable, please feel free to not read :) gif credits: @sammy-bryant. divider credits: @cafekitsune. likes, comments and reblogs are always apprieciated !

“No.”

The tone in Pope’s words leaves no room for arguing. And yet you still try.

“Can I at least explain why I like s-”

“No. I mean it, kid. Play fighting’s one thing. Using my gun on you? That's a completely different territory.” Pope’s voice is even as he crosses his arms, eyes following you walk in your swimsuit.

“I know it’s a different ballgame, but I-” He grabs your face, stopping your movements.

“You don’t get it kid. It’s not a game. It’s a weapon. One I’ve used to kill. M’not using it on you for fun. I’d shoot myself before letting anything happen to you because of me.”

His hold is gentle, but his words are rough. You know Pope means it.

So you nod. That’s not enough to satisfy him. His eyes are still boring into yours.

“Okay, Andrew. I understand.” You wrap your hands around his wrists.

A weight seems to be lifted off of his shoulders. Pope lets his hands fall from your face, but doesn’t stop you from holding him.

“Come relax with me?” You ask softly, nudging your head towards the pool.

His eyes are softer now as he follows you in.

It’s not the warmth from the water or the sun that makes him at ease. It’s watching you. Looking at you bask in the summer heat. Floating with your eyes closed, a content smile on your face.

Pope can’t fathom hurting you. He doesn’t get it. Why would you want him to use his gun on you while playing? He doesn’t get you. Doesn’t understand why you let him play rough with you in the first place. Doesn’t know why you want him to be the father of your children, even after that one night. Why him?

His self-depracating thoughts are halted when he spots you inching your way towards him. A sweet smile that spells out nothing but trouble, makes him squint his eyes at you.

A splash greets his face. The pool water gets into his curls, flattening them. Pope runs his hand down his face, flicking away the water. Opening his eyes back up to you with a shit-eating grin.

A beat passes. Then Pope is on you as your excited squeals echo out.

He’s sitting in between your legs on the floor. Your hands are in Pope’s hair, helping him put on some sort of product (Need to maintain those pretty curls, you had told him once). The low humming from you combined with the calming motions of your fingers carding through his hair, has Pope’s eyes drooping. Not sleepy, he can never truly shut his mind off. But you’re the closest thing he has that makes him feel a semblance of peace.

“I know you wouldn't hurt me.”

Your barely there whisper makes his eyes alert again.

“I didn't mean to upset you, I know that guns aren’t toys. But I also know that you'd never hurt me either.”

Pope inhales deeply, hearing you talk. His hand goes to your ankle, fidgeting with the custom made anklet that sits there.

“I trust you. You know how to handle it. I always watch you clean and assemble your guns, before you guys leave for missions. You're so sure and in the zone when it comes to these things.”

He traces his fingers over the beads. Over the dangling charms that has his initials.

“But it's not just that. I trust you with my life. You could point the barrel to my head, and I’d just lean forward because I know you wouldn't hurt me. Not by choice, not by accident.”

Something in Pope melts at that honesty. That trust. He turns around, on his knees looking up at you. Smooths his hands over your thighs.

“You really mean that, kid?”

His voice is soft, like he can’t fathom why your heart trusts a soul so damned as his.

You smile. Sliding down the edge of the bed to land on his lap instead. You wrap your arms behind his neck before speaking.

“Of course. I trust you enough to want to welcome new lives into our world, you think I wouldn't trust you with mine?”

New lives. Our world.

Pope thinks he doesn't deserve you.

He brings his forehead to yours. Breathes you in, the smell of your vanilla body lotion and coconut oil from your hair filling his senses.

“Okay. Okay.”

Pope pulls back, wrapping his arms around your waist before hoisting you up easily. He sets you down gently on the chair, hand grazing the hem of your shorts. Turning and moving to the bedside drawer to take out his gun. The one he keeps nearby for emergencies. He notices your eyes are glued to it as he makes his way back to you. Pope settles behind you, looming over your back.

His arms reach around you as he empties out the magazine, placing it away from you on the table. He reloads the magazine back into the gun. Finger still off the trigger, safety still on.

“See how my finger is still on the side of the barrel, off the trigger? Want you to do the same. Hold it with your right hand, then wrap your left hand around it, got it kid?” Pope instructs you slowly.

You nod, hands coming up to his to follow. It’s heavy. Even without bullets. The metal is cool to the touch. You repeat his movements.

“That’s good. You're doing great kiddo. Keep that grip tight okay?” You can hear the pride in his voice.

Pope’s hand covers the gun, shaking it to take it out of your grip. The gun stays in your tight hold, much to his satisfaction. He squeezes your shoulder with his free hand.

“Thaaat’s it. You feel that, kid? The weight? This is how its gonna feel pressed up against you. You still sure about this?”

“Definitely. I want this. Want you to do this, with me.”

Pope sighs in acceptance, never one to deny you. You would always win. He takes the gun away from you, sitting down and facing you.

“You promise to stop me if I get too much? If you get scared?”

He plays with the hem of your shorts again, thoughts creeping into his mind again.

You dispel them quickly, as if reading his mind.

“You could never scare me, Pope. Well, maybe if you straightened out those curls with heat,” a soft chuckle before you get serious again, “It’ll never happen, but I promise to tell you to stop if it gets too much.”

His eyes are focused on you, trying to dig for any uncertainties, any lies. All that Pope gets in return is you placing your heart in his bloody hands.

“Okay?” You ask with a gaze too fond for what you're allowing him to do.

Pope softens his stare. He finds that he’s been doing that a lot with you. Or maybe he’s always done that, even when you two were children.

"Okay." Pope gives in to you, as he always does.

You’re bound to a chair. Hands tied behind you. Legs spread open. Only wearing his shirt and your panties.

Pope is sitting in front of you. Arms crossed. Knees wide. Face scary. Or at least, as scary as he can get to you. You can't help but still think about how it's still the same man that you want to start a family with.

“I find that hard to believe, baby.” Pope comments with a slight tilt of his head.

“You telling me you won’t spill anything to the cops, and I’m supposed to just believe you?” He scoffs in disbelief.

You nod frantically.

“Yes! Yes, I promise. I won’t tell a soul about what I saw. Not gonna say anything about what you guys looked like, please I swear!” You plead nervously.

Pope stares. Just stares until he shakes his head.

“M’sorry baby, I just can’t help but feel that you're gonna squeal the moment I cut you out of those ties. You know what you can do? To reassure me that you won't tell anyone?” He questions as he leans forward.

“I- I don’t know, but I’ll do anything, I promise!” Your lips tremble.

Pope gets in even closer. His gloved right hand coming to rest atop your left thigh, as he mutters into your ear,

“You can cum your brains out for me.” He emphasises his point by biting on your earlobe, before retreating.

You eyes are wide as you shake your head.

“No, no no. Please. Please don’t. We can’t”

The gloved hand inches higher and higher.

“Of course we can, baby. You can’t tell anybody anything if you’re too fucked out on my fingers and drunk on my cock, right?”

Pope presses down slightly as he moves his fingers up and down your clothed pussy.

You barely hold back a moan.

“Gonna make you feel so good. Make you see stars. Don’t you want that, pretty baby?” He coos as he pushes your panties to the side, and slips a gloved finger in.

You bite down on your bottom lip, a muffled “Mmph!” still escaping.

“S’okay, you can let out those moans. Wanna hear you lose control for me, yeah?” Pope kisses down your neck as he slips another finger in easily.

“Stop, p-please! We can’t do this.”

“Stop? But your pretty pussy’s just gushing all over my gloves. She’s just aching for more, isn’t she?” He smiles against your neck.

“No! My boyfriend’s waiting for me at home and-” Your breath hitches as you feel cold metal pressed against your temple.

Pope is back in front of your face, eyes filled with anger.

“I don’t wanna hear another fucking word about your little boyfriend. I’m the one making you feel good right now, so you moan my name, y’got that baby? It’s Andrew to you.” He growls out.

You nod in fear.

“Good. Now stick out that pretty tongue, wanna see you suck on my gun like it’s my cock.”

Gulping down nervously, you hesitate opening up your mouth.

Pope’s eyes are crazed when he tells you,

“Open that mouth up and start sucking on my gun, or I’ll blow your fucking brains out.” He digs the barrel of the gun harder into your temple.

You know it’s not true, that the gun he’s using is new. Clean, magazine empty, safety clicked on. Pope still excercising discipline with his finger off the trigger. You know because he cleaned and assembled the gun before you guys started playing. Showed you the whole process so you knew you would be safe. Pope didn't have to do that, because you were sure you were always safe with him.

Still, keeping up the terrified hostage act, you stuck out your tongue for him.

Pope shoves his gun in your mouth, picking up the pace of his fingers as he thumbs at your clit.

The sounds of you sucking around the gun and the wet gushing of your pussy around his fingers are going straight to Pope’s cock.

“That’s it, pretty baby. Now that wasn't so hard, was it? Fuck, your pussy’s just sucking me in. You like having my gun in your mouth huh? You like drooling all over it, pretending its my big cock?”

Spit is dripping all over your chin. Your whimpers are muffled as you swirl your tongue around the barrel of the gun. The material of Pope’s gloves provides extra friction, his fingers pumping in and out of you – hitting that special spot that has you bucking your hips. His thumb rubs harsh circles on your clit.

“Wanna hear you say it. Gonna take out the gun just for a second, and you're gonna say I like sucking Andrew’s gun and pretending it’s his big cock. Okay, baby?”

Pope takes his gun out and you whine at the loss, the sound making him even harder. Fuck, you really like this huh?

“I like s-sucking your gun Andrew! I like preten-mmph! Pretending it’s Andrew’s big cock. Please, please I want it back in my mouth!”

And then you stick out your tongue as you roll your hips, getting his fingers deeper into you.

Fucking hell, how can Pope deny you like this?

He puts it back into your mouth, this time thrusting it in and out of you like it’s actually his cock. He enters a third finger into you, aiming so that his fingers always hit that spot that makes you lose control. Putting harder pressure against your clit, he leans in close again to suck a hickey onto your neck – before biting down hard.

The onslaught of pleasure brings you close to the edge – and Pope knows it.

“You getting close baby? Yeah? Can feel your pussy tightening around me. C’mon, give it to me. Wanna see you make a mess of yourself just for me. Just let go and cum for me. Cum for Andrew.” Pope murmurs as he laps at the bite mark.

Your hips stutter one last time as the force of you coming undone sends shockwaves from your head to the tip of your toes. Body tensing up as you cum all over Pope’s gloved hand. Your cries are loud even against the gun in your mouth.

Pope is entranced by the cum leaking out of your pussy. He didn't think you'd cum this hard just from his gun in your mouth. He manages to tear his eyes away from your dripping pussy, back up to your face to take the gun out. Your tongue lolls out, exhaustion creeping in from your orgasm.

He takes out his fingers, now covered in your cum – and gently places them into your mouth to suck.

You moan around them, the feeling of the gloves with the taste of your own cum makes you dizzy.

Pope keeps his eyes on you as he drags the gun down your body. Between the valley of your breasts. Sliding it down your stomach. Stopping it at your pussy still leaking with your cum. He notices your breathing speed up. Eyes widening. Soft whimpers around his fingers.

“Look at you being a whore for my gun. I’m starting to think you pulled that stunt just for this baby. Yeah? Did you stick your nose into our business just so you could be fucked stupid with my gun?”

Pope teases you as he just barely ghosts his gun up and down the entrance of your pussy – your cum spreading all over the barrel.

But something’s wrong. Your chest is heaving now, breathing erratic. Tears threaten to spill out of the corners of your eyes right before you shut them closed, thrashing your head backwards.

Pope immediately takes away his gun and fingers, biting on his gloves to quickly tear them off – so he can cradle the back of your head with the clean hands.

“Hey, hey kid. Shh. It’s okay, kiddo. It’s just me. It’s Pope. I didn’t mean those words, I’m sorry.” He whispers as he strokes your hair, trying to bring you back.

You shake your head, eyes still closed.

“No no, you're not a whore okay? You're my kid. You’re mine. M’not gonna hurt you either. We can take a break with the gun, kiddo. We can stop too, won’t be mad. I promise.”

Pope feels air filling up in his lungs again as you bring your head down again, exposing your tear filled eyes to him. He’s about to get angry at himself, for making you cry, making you feel scared of him, for hurting you – when your sweet, angelic voice cuts through the negative thoughts.

“N-no! Don’t wanna stop, Andrew. Wan-Want it inside of me! Wan’ you to fuck me with your gun, more p-please Andrew.” You beg with pouty lips and tears falling down your face.

What?

He blinks. Once, twice.

You're still here in front of him. Crying and begging. Not because you're scared of him. Not because he hurt you. But because you want him to fuck you stupid with his gun. Pope thinks he could cum in his pants from this. From your desperation. From you.

Pope strokes your hair again. Tugging at it slightly – a habit of his, as he gazes into your glossy eyes.

“Yeah? That’s all you needed huh kid? Gave me a scare back there, y’know that?” His scolding doesn't even register as one, not when he’s so gentle and soft with you.

“M’sorry Andrew. Jus’ wanted it bad. Want you so bad. M’not a whore for your gun, I’m a whore for you. Just for you.” You babble mindlessly, still lost in that headspace.

God, he just wants to cup your face and plant kisses all over. How can you be so fucking adorable while calling yourself a whore for him? But Pope needs to focus. He needs to take care of you properly – take care of his kid.

“No, sweet girl. You’re my kiddo, okay? So here’s what Daddy’s gonna do. I'm gonna take you out of these silk ribbons and bring you to bed. Shh, shh it’s okay kid. I’m still gonna give you everything you want. Daddy just has to take care of you, alright?”

You seem to accept his compromise, nodding your head slightly.

Pope smiles at you. Gentle. Guiding.

“Good. Good girl.” He rewards you, tugging at your hair one last time before moving to untie you.

It’s a quick process. Pope made sure to practice so he could get you out easily in case something happened. He glances to your face every so often to make sure you're still with him. That gentle aura still emitting from him.

When you’re fully free, he gently scoops you up in his arms – bridal style.

He notices your eyes. Aware and following him, but still hazy.

Pope slowly sets you down on the bed, kissing the side of your head as before joining you. He sits on the edge of the bed – massaging your wrists.

It feels weird. Not in a bad way. Just, something that he’s not used to. He’s always had to take care of his brothers, which came as second nature to him. But this, being gentle, having someone place their trust in him to bring them back up to the surface – was something else entirely. Pope’s movements and words are still awkward but he doesn't mind it. He’ll learn for you. He’ll get better, for you. Something tells him that he doesn't just mean taking care of you.

Pope kisses the inside of your wrists, before moving down the bed to massage your ankles. The image of your anklet makes him feel things. Just like with your thigh highs that display his name, it's not about ownership. It’s about wanting and choosing to wear his name on you. One day, Pope wants to wear your last name. He doesn't want the Codys’ curse to snake its way around your neck, puppeteer you like it did him. You barely managed to survive growing up in the same household. He doesn't want it to take away your life source, your light. So, he’ll take your last name instead. Let your warmth wrap around him, envelope him in nothing but purity and goodness.

Bending down to kiss your anklet with his initials, Pope slowly crawls over you – kissing his way up your body. Your knee, your thigh. Your stomach, Pope places extra kisses here. Your chest, your neck and finally, your face.

His elbows are on either side of your head. Knuckles brushing at your hairline.

The smile he gives you is the final push you need to clear the clouds in your head. Pope immediately realises that you're back with him.

“Hi.” You mutter shyly.

“Hey kiddo. You doing okay?” Pope’s eyes are the anchor you need, his stare unwavering but not overpowering.

“Mhm. Never better.” He raises an eyebrow at that, skeptical.

“M’ always better with you.” You finish your sentence.

Pope shakes his head. You got it backwards.

“You sure you still wanna play?”

“Mm. Positive.”

He leans down to give your wet lips one last peck before getting off the bed to take his gun again.

“You want my gloves kiddo?” Pope questions from his spot.

“Hmm, no. Wanna feel you close.”

He’s back at your side in no time.

“How do you want me?”

You push yourself up on your elbows, eyes landing on his gun – head tilted as you think.

“Wanna ride it, please?” Your sweet tone doesn't match your filthy words.

You're gonna be the death of him one day, Pope thinks to himself.

The two of you switch, with you straddling atop his hips and him leaning back against the headboard – gun just making the briefest contact.

You lift your hips, Pope’s warm hands soothing up and down your body as you slowly sink down on his gun.

“O-oh my God.” You breathe out, the barrel filling you up while you look down.

You can’t help but chase the feeling, lifting your body up before slamming it down the gun. Rolling your hips so it hits all the right places. The ecstasy makes you bite your lip, nails digging deeper into Pope’s broad shoulders. Whines leave your mouth, as you drag your eyes from the gun, to Pope’s flexed arm holding it, to finally his face.

What greets you makes your pace falter.

Pope’s eyes are completely dilated. His gaze transfixed on your hypnotizing body. Chest heaving, like he’s just barely holding back. The sight of your cunt squeezing around his gun has him feral. So when you stop, he pulls his stare from your pussy and looks you straight in the eyes.

Before wrapping his arm that was soothing you, around you to shift your body up effortlessly – then slams you down on his gun again.

You scream in pleasure, not being able to stop your eyes rolling back.

“Thought you said you wanted to ride my gun, kid. Y’need a little help?”

You can’t even answer Pope, gone in the clouds of bliss. Mindlessly humping and meeting his thrusts halfway. Your moans are getting more and more high pitched, cunt gushing around his gun as that special feeling builds up. Pope knows, he always does.

‘You gonna cum soon? Yeah? Wanna make a mess all over my gun? C’mon kiddo, don’t keep Daddy waiting. Let go and make a pretty little mess of yourself. Cum on my gun. Now, kid.”

You can’t think straight, but that's no matter. Your body follows Pope’s command.

Black dots line your vision and pleasure shoots up your entire body. Like a band being pulled tight before finally releasing, your cunt squirts all over his gun. Your nails rake down from his shoulder to his chest, leaving marks before your body collapses. Your head lands in the crook of his neck, your panting form finding his body for comfort.

Pope slowly takes his gun out from you, muttering apologies as you wince slightly from the sensitivity. He puts it on the far side of the bed, not wanting to leave you so soon. Wrapping a strong arm around your sweaty body, Pope strokes your hair and places soft kisses to your head.

“You did so fucking good for me, kid. Took my gun so well, took everything I gave you. Made such a pretty mess for me too.” Pope whispers into your hair.

A small huff of giddy laughter makes him relax. His fingers drawing circles on your hips as you both melt into each other.

“Don’t fall asleep on me yet sweet girl. Need to give you water and clean you up still.” He pats your head.

You lift your head from his neck, meeting his soft gaze with a loopy one.

“M’not falling asleep. Just thankful.”

Pope’s eyebrows scrunch together slightly.

“Thankful for you, dummy. For doing all that, for trusting me.”

You’ve got it backwards again. Pope is about to fight with you on this when you come closer to touch your forehead with his, as if you can sense his inner turmoil.

“And I trust you, now and always. To take care of me, of us. Of our family soon enough. Okay?”

Pope doesn't trust himself. But he does trust you. So as always, Pope gives in to you.

“Okay.”

He breathes out, lips touching yours slightly as he accepts your unwavering love once more.

a/n : thank you for waiting and reading ! ngl i don't rly like the ending, felt a bit abrupt but i hope the rest is still enjoyable. please come share your feral thoughts in reblogs and comments <3.

no pressure tags for beloved moots/fellow pope enjoyers : @callsign-fangirl @erwinsvow @superhoeva @flofaiiry @mangonom @pxpecxdy @abbotjack @punkgeekcryptid @flamingdisputes @loveslide @twentytoo22 @likeficsinthewnd @nyheartbreak @paintlavillered @roses-and-grasses @ultr4vjolence @readerimagines666 @mayhem24-7forever @mazingmarissa23 @lostfleurs @catmomstyles3

[readerinsertrepository]

yeah you wish that i was yours (so do i)

pairing : andrew “pope” cody x reader

warnings : fighting, manhandling, choking, blood, licking of said blood, injury, jealousy, pope makes j watch him and reader, pope calls reader “kid”, “baby” n "my girl".

summary : what happens when you keep pushing pope to play fight with you. (except they are both also yearning idiots in love). read part 2 & part 3.

w/c : 2.6k words (yes i may have gotten carried away)

a/n : im super² sick but i could. not. get my ask and this thought from @erwinsvow out of my head so i decided to try and churn my inspiration from lovely shea into this fic. i just finished s1 and this is my first time writing pope so i hope i got his character okay :”)). apologies if this isn't the best work, i'm literally curled up and still burning up as i'm writing this booo. dividers are credited to @saradika-graphics. hope you enjoy !! do like, comment or reblog (or send hot soup) if you did <33

The first strike is the day when Pope gets out of prison. 

You’re standing dumbstruck with your bought meal still in hand when you spot him sitting in the middle of the couch. He’s so … real this time. You must look like an idiot to the rest of the family, still in shock. (Maybe Pope would let you in on this secret later on in your relationship, but when he saw you again, he felt that you were as beautiful as the day he lost you). 

Pope’s eyes travel down your frame, soaking in every detail of you, memorising you as if he didn't have every pixel of every picture you mailed him ingrained in the hardwires of his brain. When his eyes flit back up to meet yours, you feel something start to unlock behind those walls. 

Your eye twitches when you notice how close Smurf is next to him. You hate how she’s already sunken her venomous claws back into Pope, probably starting to scheme how she can puppeteer him again. You want to save Pope, get him away from the void that sinks its teeth in you and never leaves, not entirely, even when you think you’re free. So you do the thing all Cody’s are good at, starting a fight.

“Move, you’re in my spot.” You try to keep your voice even as possible, as if seeing Pope in person after all these years didn’t sweep the rug out from under your feet.

“Hey lay off, Pope’s only been back a couple hours. And since when is that spot y-” You cut off Baz by squeezing in the free space that separates Pope from the end of the couch.

You make yourself comfortable, well as comfortable as you can being so close to Pope again, and place your feet in his lap (despite having more than enough space). Pope glances down at how you've made yourself at home in his lap, then at you. You raise an eyebrow, trying to seem unbothered and rest your side against the back of the couch. 

The family starts talking about their business again, making you begin to lose interest. Just as your eyelids start to drop though, you catch Smurf smoothing her hand over Pope’s curls. Something stirs in you. The part of your brain that makes you do stupid things.

You kick your foot in Pope’s lap, wanting to annoy him. (Wanting him to pay attention to you instead). It works slightly, with him gripping your ankle. But he’s still looking forward. Staring out into space, shielded, guarded, as if the two of you didn't share secrets as kids. As if he wasn't your guard dog the moment he laid eyes on your trembling frame, when Smurf introduced you to the family shortly after she found Catherine. It’s not enough. So you put on a show. Making crude jokes, poking and prodding at him, laying on the snarky attitude.

Pope thinks this is unlike you, unlike his childhood sweetheart friend. He puts together that you must want something, not him obviously but maybe just some attention. Pope doesn't mean to be that aggressive, a sentiment he reserves only for you. But this new kid is unnerving him. It unsettles him, how J quietly laughs at your bad attempts of mean jokes, how his eyes occasionally roam over you. It's why he's been staring straight instead of at you. If Pope gets lost in the sight of you, he wouldn't be able to stand guard. Except J’s gaze dips down, making Pope follow his eyeline. Realising the kid has the nerve to travel his eyes down to the small bit of exposed skin, when your kicking of him makes your shirt ride up.

Pope’s jaw clenches and you think you've finally gotten to him. But he pounces on you so fast that you almost get whiplash.

What the fuck?

Pope is hovering over you, your wrists pinned by one hand, his knees spreading your legs apart to accommodate his frame. You feel his free hand sliding down the front of your shirt, but your confusion is quickly brushed off when Baz cuts in,

“Fuckin’ cut it out you two! I don’t need another headache right now.” 

That signature heavy stare remains on you for a couple more seconds, almost like Pope is trying to decipher you. Then, he grunts and lets go of your hands, moving off the couch completely. 

The second strike is when you both get into a screaming match. Well, more like you’re shouting and Pope is Pope still. The job had gone wrong and he had refused to accept your care until you had finished stitching up Deran’s bullet wound. Even though Pope was very visibly concussed and in pain. The whole time you attended to Deran, you kept stealing glances at Pope, just to make sure he was still alive and kicking (it's what you tell yourself), only to find him already staring straight at you. Keeping your tongue tied, you busied yourself with patching up the boys. Until they all went off, leaving you and Pope alone. Giving you the empty space to berate Pope for his lack of self-importance when it comes to his family. 

“Drop it, kid.” Pope grumbles out, passing by you to take a drink from the fridge.

“No, no. You’re not doing to me (to yourself).” You respond, putting all your might into pushing his back that's facing you.

Pope feels the force from your shove, his strong arm slamming against the cool fridge door to brace himself. His shoulders are hunched. His head hung low. You can feel the tension brewing inside of him. That barely contained anger simmering beneath the surface. He straightens up when he swivels around, dark eyes meeting yours. 

“I don't think you really want to play this game with me kid.” Pope stalks towards you, his footsteps not making a sound.

You scoff, meeting him halfway and getting in his face.

“Why? Afraid you’ll lose? Think y-” You don't get to finish your sentence because Pope’s hand wraps around your throat.

It’s light, not enough to constrict your airflow too much. He’s holding back again. You hate it. You hate him. That’s a lie you repeat to yourself when Pope slams your back to the wall. You despise him because even now in his anger, he still places his free hand behind your skull. Cushioning your pretty little head leaving your back to feel most of the ache. But you want more. More pain that only Pope can give to you. (Or maybe you want Pope to give his pain to you).

Pope tilts his head down to make sure you’re looking right at him. Closing the gap between you two, he whispers against your lips,

“If you play that game with me kid, the only way it ends is with you face down on my bed. I won't stop giving it to you, even if you're begging so sweetly. You want that huh? You want me?” Pope tightens his hold on your throat, but you can sense the vulnerability spilling out at the last sentence.  

“Say, I’m sorry Andrew, c’mon kid.” Pope breaks eye contact to give you this command, whispering in your ear.

“I’m s-sorry … Andrew.” You manage to gasp out.

Satisfied, Pope softens his hold on you, rubbing the sensitive skin on your neck. He plants a soft kiss at the top of your head, so gentle you almost think you imagined it.

“Good. There’s my baby again.”

The last strike is when most of the family is lounging by the pool.

You can feel Pope staring at you.

Sometimes you think he stares harder when he thinks you aren't looking. Smurf’s out somewhere on a task so all the brothers are playing their usual game in the pool, wrestling and fighting over the ball. You’re basking in the sun, leaning sideways on your elbow by the side of the pool. Frowning when you keep noticing Pope playing rough with J. He doesn't deserve that. What better way to lessen that burden on him by putting it on yourself right? (Of course that's the only reason why, not to stop Pope from feeling outshined by a new arrival, totally not). You splash water at Pope, complaining how you're so bored, stating confidently that you could score against him.

“Alright’ kid, c’mon show me what you got then yeah?” Pope relents as he enters the pool again.

You feel giddy with excitement even though you know he's just doing this to get you to shut up. 

…

Pope is barely tightening his hold on you from behind, giving you a fair chance to back out and win easily. But you don't want that. You want Pope to get aggressive with you, put his face all up in yours, make you submit to him. Why can't he just give you what you want? Why is he always so gentle with you? You know why deep down, but that doesn’t stop your emotions from getting the better of you.

You swing your arm back, decking Pope with your elbow. The blow makes him release you completely, and you swim up, up, up and finally breathe when your face exits the water. Easily scoring and celebrating when you climb out the pool, meeting J’s small grin and bumping shoulders with him. You nearly make his shot topple over.

“How about that huh?” You boast despite knowing you played dirty, but your cocky smile falls when J’s expression changes before he downs the shot.

You frown, turning back. Oh, shit. Pope’s emerged from the pool too, but his nose is dripping an obscene amount of blood. It trickles down his chin, his chest and stomach.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry Pope. You okay? Here come on, I’ll get you cleaned up”. Running over to Pope, reaching for his arms to lead him back into the house.

But his hand catches you first. 

One hand bounding both of your wrists.

“You can clean me up here just fine, kid.” Pope says so calmly, not even a little bothered about the blood gushing out and down.

‘Yeah okay, let me just get the first aid kit alright?” 

“Kid.” Pope pulls you closer by your hands and walks you backwards.

“I said you can do it here. You’ve had such a mouth on you lately baby, let’s put it to good use yeah?”

Oh, fuck he can’t just say things like that.

The back of your legs hits a lounge chair. The one beside where J’s sitting on, eyes darting between the two of you.

“I’ll get out of your wa-”

“No. You're staying there.” Pope’s tone leaves no room for arguing, guarded eyes locking onto J.

Though when Pope looks back at you, his gaze softens the tiniest bit. Unnoticeable to anyone else, but not to you.

“Pope I- I’m really sorry oka-”

“Shhh, it’s okay kid. M’not mad.” Pope brushes your back with his free hand as he maneuvers the two of you on the empty seat, you atop his lap.

“Just want you to take care of me.” Pope whispers into your ear, private from J.

You furrow your brows at his words.

Oh.

Now you understand. 

Of course Pope would see through you, he’s always seen you. The only one who had.

Pope reels back, just enough to meet your eyes with his intense gaze. An unspoken connection. One asking if you want to stop, keep your bond a sacred secret. The other responding to let them see, see who I belong to, that I belong to you. 

The red string that ties the both of you coils protectively around your shared hearts. A beat passes, and you feel the red string relaxing.

Pope lets your hands go as he leans back into the seat, letting you crawl slightly back. You brace your arms, and lean down. The taste of copper fills your senses as you slowly drag your tongue up Pope’s abs. He shudders beneath your contact, not used to a caring touch. You make your way up to his chest, noticing his erratic breathing. Finally, you make it to Pope’s face, where most of the blood is smeared all over from his initial attempt of cleaning it off. 

You meet Pope’s eyes. He’s already watching you. He’s  always watching you. 

Cradling his jaw with your hand, you scoop up the remaining scattered blood on your thumb. You bring your finger past your lips, not breaking eye contact with Pope.

He doesn't blink. 

He hasn't taken his eyes off of you, not since he caught the glimpse of you being all close to J.

In a blink, Pope smashes your lips together, hand pushing at the back of your neck, strong arm wrapping possessively around your waist. He shoves his tongue past your lips, swallowing up your sweet moans and tasting his own blood. 

It's intoxicating. He’s intoxicating. 

All you can sense is his bruising grip on you, the metallic taste of his blood, his heavy breathing.

The big splashes of water as the other brothers fight in the pool, the overlapping shouts and quarreling, the clinking of shot glasses. None of that even registers in your mind.

All you can think and feel is Pope. Him, him, only him.

When you both slowly part for air, Pope rests his forehead against yours. Still breathing heavily, his hungry eyes dart down to the red string of saliva connecting from your lips to his. 

“Hey! If you two are done being fuckin’ freaks, we could really use Pope and J back in the game!” Baz’s voice cuts through the intimate moment.

“Dude c’mon they were just getting to the good part.” Craig butts in and you have to resist rolling your eyes as you scoot away from Pope.

“Shows over. You boys have fun, but I’m gonna take my girl inside.” Pope announces much to their disappointment, you can already hear them arguing over how to settle the remaining rounds.

“That goes for you too, you can go now.” He deadpans to J, who if you didn't know any better, was tomato red all over from the hot sun.

“Oh y-yeah, of course.” J stutters out as he gets up and away from the two of you.

You barely contain your amusement as you turn back to Pope.

“You didn't have to do that, you know.” You mutter as you stand up from the edge of the seat, reaching out your hand to him.

“He kept looking and smiling at you, as if you didn't already belong to me.” Pope raises himself, slowly holding your soft hand in his. 

You grin, knowing he knows that he's dodging your actual question. No words are needed, not when the shared eye contact speaks for the two of you.

You didn't have to let me take care of you in front of an audience.

I know, but I wanted you to. Wanted them to see, see who I belonged to.

Pope hesitantly interlocks his hand with yours, making you crack a smile. Him being oh so shy as if he didn't just have his tongue down your throat a moment ago.

“Thank you.” You whisper as you lead him back into the house.

Pope doesn't respond, just keeps burning his eyes into your frame. You don’t elaborate either, choosing to walk in silence. But it's not an uncomfortable silence, no. Not when your intrinsic bond is weaved beyond words. A whole chapter said with just his eyes meeting yours. 

Thank you for letting me take care of you.

Thank you for letting me love you, in our own messed way.

The understanding flows through the red string connecting your hearts.

a/n : rly scared that i got his characterisation off so im sorry if it is :((. LISTENN ok i'm sorry, when i sent that ask I was in a much more feral mood, but since i got sick (again) I wanted some comfort and softness sprinkled in. hey don't look at me like that. tagging @callsign-fangirl bcs we go feral over shawn hatosy in chat. anyways hope you enjoy !! pretty please like, comment and reblog with your rambles if you did muaks <3 !

[readerinsertrepository]

“Keep your eyes on me” feels very Jack coded to me

YEAAASSSSS IT ABSOLUTELY IS THIS IS ANOTHER COMBO I WAS HOPING SOMEONE WOULD SEND SO THANK U!!!

—-

jack’s got you on your back, legs wrapped around his waist while he lazily thrusts into you. his head’s buried in the crook of your neck, kissing and sucking gently at the skin there. your head’s rolled back into the pillow, eyes clamped shut as he ruts his cock into you. his movements are slow, mindless even, but it still feels so good. he picks his head up when he feels you tug at the hair on his neck, smirk dancing across his lips when he speaks. “keep your eyes on me, baby. wanna see ‘em,” he coaxes, his voice smooth and low. you crack your eyes open to see him hovering above you, looking down and taking all of you in like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. he smiles when your eyes meet his, “there she is. my pretty girl lookin’ all fucked out f’me?” you nod, fighting to keep your eyes open amidst the pleasure he’s bringing you. “feels so good jack,” you whimper, tightening your legs around him to pull him closer, and by consequence push him deeper into you. “wonder if they’ll look even prettier when you cum, hm?” he asks, devilish glint in his eyes. “what d’you think, should we find out?”

—-

see the prompts here & send me a # with a character 😋😋😋

[readerinsertrepository]

serial kiler simon riley x reader

Serial killer Simon Riley who goes on a date with his victims and kills them after, who actually chokes u mid sex with an intention to kill but you moan instead thinking he has a choking kink.

And he stops bcs what?

You gasp out, voice hoarse—“S-Sorry… I’ve never really done this before, but… I’m willing to try?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

He stared at you like you were a glitch. You should’ve been dead by now.

Instead, you were flushed and squirming, looking at with all wide eyes.

“Yeah?”

And you breathed. “Is it… is it something you like?”

His head tilted slowly. His gaze slid down your body, back up to your face. He studied you like you were a rare creature.

Then he smirked. A dark, quiet curl of the lips. "Maybe."

“Okay,” you said, barely whispering.

Safe to say you don't die that night.

sorry wtf is this

[readerinsertrepository]

stalker!kyle going through reader's things and finding her sketchbook, only to realize they are full of drawings of him.

-🛸

Oh em gee.... <333

He didn’t mean to find them.

Well—he didn’t mean to find them tonight. He’s been through your apartment before, always careful, always surgical. He’d comb through your drawers, your laundry, your laptop, your books—devouring every thread of your life like it was scripture. But the sketchbooks? They were stacked in a milk crate, barely hidden under your bed. Not exactly locked away.

He opens the first one with idle curiosity and stills.

The first few pages are abstract—warm-ups, maybe. But then there’s a profile sketch. Sharp brow. Cropped hair. A beard he doesn’t have anymore but used to.

His breath catches.

Another page: him, again. Closer this time. The ink captures a furrow in his brow he’s only ever seen in his reflection. The precision—the obsession—is uncanny.

He flips faster now, frantic, as more of him fills the pages. Some drawings are from behind. From across the street. From places you shouldn’t have had unless you were watching him before you even knew his name.

Some are dated—months before he ever spoke to you. Before he accidentally bumped into you at the café. Before he saved you from that creep in the alley. Before you ever let him into your life.

Kyle sits back on his heels, the sketchbook trembling in his grip.

You’ve been watching him.

You saw him first.

And fuck—it does something to him. Makes his pulse spike. Makes his stomach flip in this sick, intimate way.

All this time, he thought he was the predator.

But now? Now he’s not so sure.