꒰ঌ soph ❤︎⁠⸝⸝

he was talking to one of kirsten’s clients, the fifth that night, who was fervently asking ryan a million questions and informations about chino’s buildings and districts. the blonde answered without too much enthusiasm — as usual.

“so, tell me. how do you feel about the balance between residential, commercial, and green spaces in the city?” the man asked, observing ryan carefully.

ryan scratched the back of his neck, sick of that conversation already, and he muttered a short response, “i- uh… i think it’s ok?” he offered. he looked up to the man and crossed his eyes with mine, sending you an help request.

you chuckled from across the place, shaking your head while walking over him. your red velvet dress swings over your hips, hugging your figure and curves in a way that had ryan drool.

“i’m sorry mr. thompson, can i steal ryan from you for a sec?” you asked politely, smiling at the man as you rubbed your hand on ryan’s shoulder seductively. ryan placed his large hand on your waist, caressing it just as much sensually, giving you hidden signals.

the man gave you a quick nod and disappeared the next moment among the crowd of people, leaving you and ryan alone. you turned to him, wrapping your hands around his neck to pull him close to you, although you weren’t doing more than that knowing that he wasn’t a fan of pda.

“thank you,” he spoke, brushing his lips on your ear to assure you could hear him, “i hate parties,” he announced.

you rolled your eyes playfully, used to his antisocial attitude whenever it came to people… to people, period. chuckling, you respond, “i know. i think you say that at least five times a day.”

his grip on your hips tightened, smirking sarcastically. “not my fault if there are at least five things i’d prefer do instead of being here,” he replied back.

“uh, yeah? like what?” you teased, tilting your head slightly as a playful smirk tugged at your lips. your voice carried a hint of challenge, eyes glinting with curiosity as you watched him.

his eyes darkened, thinking about what to say even if he had a clear imagine in his mind of what he wanted to do. “let me show you,” he said in a low tone, but it was unmistakable. his words were soft yet deliberate, the intensity behind them making your heart skip just a little.

after nodding eagerly, you took the hand he was offering you and let him lead you to his pool house, which was right in the middle of the cohen’s backyard, where the party was taking place.

he made you sit down on the edge of his large bed, while he made sure that the curtains were closed and his door locked. he then turned, making his way to you. he hovered over you, his hands hooking his shirt to take it off before slipping them under yours to do the same.

you laid down on the fresh sheets, while he lowered himself on you to place wet kisses all over your jaw and neck, knowing damn well your weak spots that made you shiver.

ryan was gentle, soft with his movements as he was afraid that you could slip away from him if he made the wrong move, but that didn’t stop him to be on top. you felt his weight on your body, the heat of his body wrapped you, making you feel safe under him.

you grabbed his neck with your hand, pulling his head up to kiss him passionately, your lips hugging each other. you felt him smile into the kiss, his hands traveling to your back to unclasp your lacy-white bra that had him going feral.

you both knew it was risky, having sex in the middle of a party, around something like eighty people, some of whom were your close friends and family, wasn’t the best. but these thoughts left your mind as soon as you felt ryan’s tongue brushing over your bare chest, making your back arch.

his hot breath contributes to your arousal, making you wetter by seconds. every move his fingers'd make, you would feel it in your core, making it throb. he knew what he was doing.

"ryan- people're just outside… they could hear us…" you managed to mumble, not stopping him though. it felt too good.

your right, trembling in anticipation, hand rested on the back of his head, stroking gently his hair, while your other hand was gripping on the blanket, knuckles turning white from the harsh grab.

"you need to be quiet, then, yeah?"

you felt him going lower on your body, leaving kisses and love bites all over your figure, worshipping you. he grazed your belly button with his nose when his fingers made their way in your panties, teasing you before pulling them down. he looked at you all the time during his act, his eyes never leaving yours, which affected you even more then his touches.

when he finally slided two fingers into your aching cunt, you couldn't help but shut your eyes close, wet sounds filling you ears as he pumped his fingers inside you, stretching you out for his dick, which you felt growing against your thigh.

"god, ryan. i'm going to-" you tried to say, but just before you were about to cum, moaning softly into his ears, he removed them, running the wet fingers around and through your slippery folds, now completely exposed to his view, to gather your wetness. you sighed, annoyed and extremely sexually frustrated, when you heard his zip being pulled down along with his jeans and boxers. his long and thick member sprung out, hitting his stomach. he was leaking, and his tip was red from arousal. you could tell he had struggled to withstand the temptations of fucking you the moment you entered the room.

he turned to the nightstand, opening a drawer to pull out a condom. he ripped the envelope with his teeth while pumping his length with the free hand a few times, rubbing it through your folds once again. he wore the condom, and without warning he entered in you, cutting down your breath. "fuck -- ryan," you stuttered out with difficulty.

he stilled for a moment, giving you the time to adjust to his size -- which, truth to be told, wasn't little. when you nodded, biting your lower lip to keep back a loud moan, he started moving, thrusting in and out of you with ease due the wetness. you let out a sequence of low-toned moans and whimpers, together with ryan, who was enjoying it just as much as you.

"so good, babe -- shit -- you're so thight," he praised you.

his hands were firm on your hips, keeping you still as he fucked you with force, drops of sweat on his forehead and his parted lips showed you how much he desired this.

it wasn't long before you started feeling that knot building up in your stomach, indicating that you were close to reach your climax. "i'm about to -- ryan i'm --" you were cut off by you cumming all over his dick, that wasn't planning on stop drilling into you. "yeah, cum for me" he whispered, feeling his climax coming as well.

the stimulation of your tight walls and your pulsating heat was more than enough for him to cum. spurts of white cum filled the condom, him collapsing down onto your weak body.

Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Even though you had ripped off your gown, there was still blood on you. Not just smeared, soaked, darker where it had dried, tacky where it hadn’t. The metallic scent filled the small closet quickly. The blood had gotten past the cuffs of the gown, crept up the fabric and bloomed across your sleeves. You could still feel the phantom warmth of it now, spreading over your skin in pulses that weren’t there anymore.

You pressed your palms flat against your thighs, like you could steady yourself by sheer force alone.

It didn’t work but it brought you back into your body, at least, for a moment.

The sound came back first.

The chaos waiting for you behind that door. The solid wood the only thing standing between you and more death. That awful ringing, the constant flat tone of the heart rate monitor rung in your ears. And the quiet when everyone knows.

You swallowed hard. Tried to breathe through the despair that was crawling up your throat.

It didn’t work and a ragged sob left your chest, muffled only by the hand you had managed to press against your mouth just in time.

Then, the door opened.

Light cut into the narrow space, harsh and immediate. You flinched, turning your face away.

“Hey.”

Robby.

Of course it was. You wiped your eyes and tried your best to hold your chin up, meeting his eyes.

Robby face was flushed and his hair was mussed as though he had been running his hand over it.

He took one look at you and stopped. Just for a second. Long enough to see everything. Your puffy eyes, your bloody clothes…the way your eyes weren’t quite meeting his.

Then his jaw set. You knew the look well. Frustration.

“We’re slammed out there,” he said, not unkind, but not soft either. More impatient than anything else. “I need you with me.”

Your mouth open as you tried to answer but nothing came out.

Robby exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand over the back of his neck. “Come on. Shake it off.”

You nodded. Automatically. Again, like your body had decided before your mind caught up with it. You took a step forward.

And then, black started to blur in at the edges of your vision.

The shelves seemed to tilt, the floor shifting under your feet. Your hand hit the edge of the shelves next to you, missed, and then found it again, managing to steady yourself.

But it didn’t matter. He had seen.

Robby swore under his breath.

“Okay. No. No, don’t” He stepped closer, not touching you, but close enough to steady if you looked like you were going to eat floor. “Look at me.”

You didn’t. You wanted to but everything felt heavy. Your eye lids, your bones…. your soul.

He watched for another beat, weighing something. You could feel it, the calculation, the split-second triage as his gaze swept over you.

“You’re not helping anyone like this.” his tone was clipped and he ran his hand over the back of his neck again, glancing behind him into the chaos of the ER.

“Go home.”

You blinked and your mouth opened and closed and opened. “I—”

“Go home,” he repeated, sharp. “Get cleaned up. Get your head straight because frankly, I don’t have time to coddle you back into the game right now.”

Guilt flared, sharp and immediate. “You said you needed,”

“I need you functional,” he cut in. “And you’re not. Not right now.”

That stung. Because it was true.

This wasn’t your first bad shift since coming to PTMC. Not by far. It may not have even been the worst but… her face swam behind your eyes. You could practically see the chart you’d have to write.

Carly Atkins. Early 20’s. Presented with a deep laceration to the back of the thigh after falling onto broken glass. Initial bleeding appeared controlled with pressure and vitals stable. During reassessment, the wound reopened. Arterial involvement. Bleeding became difficult to contain. The patient deteriorated into hypovolemic shock despite intervention and was pronounced dead shortly after.

Emotionless and detached. No mention of her husband bursting into the trauma room, 2 minutes too late to say goodbye. 2 minutes.

Fuck.

Robby scrubbed a hand over his face again, frustration pouring out of him in waves and he shook his head.. like he almost couldn’t believe how badly you had lost it. “Look, losing people is never easy. We all deal with it but. You can’t just,” He stopped, jaw tightening, like he’d caught the rest before it came out wrong.

Then, quieter.

“Just go. Go home.”

You hesitated. Just for a second.

He held your gaze now. Steady. Immovable. His decision had been made and that was that.

“Go,” he said again.

So you did.

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You couldn’t remember the journey once you made it home.

Not really. Just fragments. Whitaker shooting you a concerned look as you walked out, Trin shouting your name questioningly. Cold air on your face, the hum of traffic, the way people gave you a wider berth than you were used to. All the blood you guessed. You hadn’t bothered to change before leaving.

Needing to get out of the stifling air.

The flat felt too quiet when you stepped inside.

You closed the door behind you, leaning back against it for a moment. The click of the latch sounded too loud in the stillness.

Shoes were still on. You walked straight through, down the short hall, into the bathroom. Turned the tap on.

Water rushed into the sink.

And you just stood there, staring at it.

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In the kitchen, Jack Abbott glanced at his watch.

He’d been halfway through eating, already running through the shift ahead in his head. Staffing, likely cases, the usual mental inventory, when the front door had opened and shut.

Too early.

He frowned, glancing toward the hallway.

Footsteps. Slow. Uneven.

“Baby? That you?” he called.

No answer.

The unease settled in his bones immediately.

He set his plate down and moved out of the kitchen.

He saw you before you saw him.

Blood.

It registered all at once. The pattern of it, the spread, the way it had soaked through. Not injury. Not yours, anyway.

And he saw you. Stood over the sink, hands braced on either side, staring down at nothing.

Too still. Too quiet.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft.

You didn’t respond. Didn’t even really look at him.

That unease sharpened.

“Hey.” more firmly.

And still nothing.

He stepped closer, reaching out to grasp your arms, hands rubbing comfortingly up and down.

You couldn’t help it. You flinched.

Not away. And not because of him. You just hadn’t expected it. You felt like you were outside of your body and his touch had dragged you right back in.

That was enough for Jack though. His brow furrowed with resolve.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

He reached past you, turning the tap off. The sudden silence rang.

“Look at me baby girl. Was it that bad?”

Slowly, like it took effort, you did.

Your eyes were distant when they met his. Not tracking right.

He watched as your mouth moved but no sound. Like you had so much you wanted to tell him but didn’t have the strength.

Yeah.

That bad.

That was enough questions.

“Alright,” he said.

He shifted, guiding you gently back a step. “Sit.”

You didn’t argue. You knew better then to try and stop Jack from taking care of you. Instead letting yourself be moved, accepting the decision had been taken out of your hands.

He sat you on the edge of the tub, steadying you when you wavered.

“I’ve got you,” he said, quiet, certain.

No response. But you weren’t pulling away either.

Good enough.

Jack turned the bath on, adjusting the temperature without looking, muscle memory taking over. Warm, not too hot. Bubble bath, lavender scented.

Beside him, you were still. Shoulders slightly hunched, like you were trying to make yourself smaller. But your eyes followed him, heart twisting as he handled you with such care.

“Shoes off,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

He crouched, untying them carefully, gently easing them off your feet. Your socks were damp. The rain, he thought. Had Robby really allowed you to walk home alone like this? He filed that thought away. It was a question for Robby. Not for you, not like this.

You found yourself watching the flex of his thick forearms, veins raised under his skin as his hands worked. Steady and precise.

Grounding.

“Cold?” he asked.

A small shake of your head.

“Alright.”

He stood, hands gentle but efficient as he worked at the hem of your scrub top. “Arms up.”

There was a delay. Then you complied.

The fabric peeled away, sticking slightly where the blood had dried. He was careful with it, not rushing, not making it worse.

Underneath, your shirt was marked too. Fainter, but still there on the edges where your scrubs didn’t reach.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Yeah,” he said under his breath. “It’s okay, baby. Come on.”

He didn’t comment on it. Didn’t ask.

Just kept going.

“You don’t need to do anything,” he told you quietly. “I’ve got it.”

Piece by piece, he stripped away the mess of the shift. Shoes. Socks. Scrubs. Shirt. Leaving only what was clean enough to leave for now.

Then, he turned his attention to your skin. Wetting a cloth in the warm water of the bath and gently wiping away the small spatters of blood that had managed to find their way to your neck. He dropped the cloth into the sink.

The bath filled steadily behind you, fragrant steam beginning to curl into the air.

He checked the water, adding a little more cold in before turning off the taps.

“Alright,” he said. Softer. “In we go.”

He helped you to your feet, steadying your frame as you stepped into the tub. His hand braced at your back, firm and unyielding, like he could hold you together if you came apart. You leaned into it without thinking.

You were moving like your limbs didn’t quite belong to you, but it didn’t matter. Jack was solid enough for the both of you.

He guided you down, muscles visibly flexing in his arms as he kept you steady.

“Easy.”

You sank into the water with a small, almost imperceptible exhale.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then he reached for a clean cloth.

“Too hot?” he asked, brushing your hair behind your shoulders.

You shook your head.

“Tell me if it is.”

“…okay.”

It was the first word you’d said.

He nodded once. A small relieved smile playing on his lips. “Good.”

He dipped the cloth into the water, wrung it out, and brought it to your collarbone.

Slow. Careful.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t scrub. Just wiped, gentle passes, letting the water do most of the work. Only when he was satisfied did he move on wiping down your arms.

You watched his hands like you didn’t quite understand what they were doing.

“You’re okay,” he said quietly.

No response. He didn’t need one. The only think he needed was for you to know it was going to be okay. He would make it okay.

He kept going.

Up your other arm. Over your shoulders. The back of your neck and down your spine.

“You’re okay,” he repeated.

Your breathing hitched.

Just slightly.

He didn’t react to it. Just stayed steady.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”

Another pass of the cloth.

“I know baby.”

Your hands clenched in the water.

“I froze,” you said suddenly.

The words came out rough. Scraped raw.

He didn’t stop.

“It happens,” he said. Calm. Certain.

“No. Not like this Jack I,” You swallowed hard. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“Your a resident. You won’t always know everything. You’re there to learn.”

Your head shook, quick, sharp. “No, I just fucking stood there. I couldn’t do anything. I’m not cut out for any of this”

“You are,” he pressed, firmer now. Not louder. Just grounded. “You’re cut out for this. I’ve never met anyone more cut out for this”

Your breath hitched again. “I wasn’t good enough.”

He paused then. Just for a second.

Then he reached up, brushing his thumb across your jaw, tilting your head making you look directly at him. His thumb was rough against your skin, calloused in a way that reminded you he did this every day. Held people together, even when it cost him.

“You don’t get to decide that,” Jack said quietly.

His expression didn’t change. Steady. Certain.

“You did everything you could,” he added.

Your lips trembled. “It didn’t change anything”

“I know. Sometimes it doesn’t.”

That broke something in you.

Not all at once. Not dramatic. Just a slow, quiet collapse inward, like whatever you had been holding finally gave way.

Your shoulders shook.

He didn’t move to stop it.

Just stayed where he was, one hand steady at your arm, the other running through your hair down your back.

“I know, baby” he said again, softer now. “I know.”

You cried then. Quietly. No sobbing, no sound. Just tears slipping free, mixing with the bathwater.

He kept his voice low. Even.

“You can let it out,” he murmured. “You don’t have to hold it together with me.”

Your hands came up, pressing briefly to your face before dropping again, defeated.

“I should’ve”

He cut you off, “You did enough.”

“I didn’t”

And again, “You did enough.”

The repetition wasn’t forceful. Just consistent. Something solid to hold onto. It left no room to disagree or argue against it.

Jack Abbott had this way of being a port in the storm. For you yeah, but you had seen it long before you were together. With other residents, with Robby and Dana. You weren’t quite sure how you had gotten so lucky.

Gradually, the tension eased.

It wasn’t completely gone but it was less sharp. No longer piercing your heart.

Your breathing evened out, the tremor in your shoulders fading and the tears dried away, at least for now.

He leaned over the edge of the tub and cupped your head with his rough hand, pressing a kiss into your hair.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Let’s get you out.”

You didn’t argue.

He helped you up, wrapping a warm towel around your shoulders the moment you stepped out. He pressed another kiss, to your forehead this time. And then one on each of your cheeks.

“Cold?”

A small nod this time.

“Yeah. Okay. Let’s get you dry baby”

He dried you carefully, not missing anything, movements efficient but gentle. Then guided you toward the bedroom, one hand light at your back.

“Bed,” he said softly.

You sank onto it without resistance, feeling the sleepy pull towards it. You longed to close your eyes and sleep and sleep and sleep.

He pulled a clean shirt over your head, helping you into it, . You looked down, it was your favourite of Jack’s band t-shirts. Soft from years of use. He had surrendered it to you the first time you had spent the night at his place. He eased you back against the pillows.

“Stay,” he murmured.

You did.

He watched you for a moment, making sure you were settled, then stepped out of the room.

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The food order took less than a minute, he knew your comfort order by heart.

Tomato soup from Benny’s with a tuna melt on the side. The first time Jack had watched you dip the tuna melt into the tomato soup he was utterly unconvinced. You had only managed to get him to try it for the first time two weeks ago and he had to admit how wrong he had been.

Order placed, he pulled out his phone and hit Robby’s speed dial.

It rang twice before Robby picked up.

“Yeah?”

“What happened?”

A pause. Then a sigh. “We’re getting killed tonight. That’s what happened.”

“Fuck that. I mean with her.”

Another pause.

“…bad bleed,” Robby sighed finally. “Didn’t make it.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “And?”

“And she completely checked out,” Robby said, frustration creeping in. “I get it, alright? It sucks. But some of us don’t have the luxury of falling apart mid-shift. And I don’t have the time to baby her”

Jack was quiet for a second, he took a deep breath in through his nose trying to contain his anger. He knew what it was like, fighting your way through a bad shift. This wasn’t Robby.

“You wanna tell me what you mean by that?”

He heard Robby take a breath before answering, ““I just mean you treat her differently, Jack. Anyone else checks out like that you would’ve sent them home too”

“Not before making sure they’re good man. She was borderline catatonic when she got home. You really think it was best to send her on her way like that?”

“What was I supposed to do?” Robby shot back. “She wasn’t functional.”

“That’s not on her.”

A beat of silence.

“She needs to learn to keep it together,” Robby said, less sharp now, more tired.

“Yeah,” he said. “Looks like we all do, brother.”

Another pause.

“You don’t leave someone like that on their own.”

Robby didn’t answer immediately.

“…I made the call,” he said eventually.

“Yeah,” Jack replied. “You did.”

The words weren’t raised. But they landed.

Silence stretched between them.

Then, quieter, Robby said. “Maybe I pushed too hard.”

Jack didn’t respond right away.

Finally: “Yeah.”

Another beat.

“I’ll talk to her next shift,” Robby added.

“Good.” Jack responded in a way which unequivocally said ‘There better be an apology waiting for her.’

“We good?”

Jack nodded and said “Yeah man” before hanging up.

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When the food arrived, he took it straight through to the bedroom.

You hadn’t moved much. Curled slightly on your side now, blanket pulled up.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Your eyes opened.

“Got you something.”

He set the bag down, pulling out the containers, setting them within reach. Grabbed the remote, flicked the TV on, navigating to The Real Housewives of Beverley Hills. Garbage television he thought but knew how much you liked it. And you always said it was the perfect garbage television to watch when you wanted to switch off.

“You should eat,” he said.

Pushing yourself up slowly, you leant back against the headboard.

“Thanks Jack.”

Your voice was much steadier now. Still quiet but definitely more present.

He nodded once.

A pause.

“Want me to stay?”

You hesitated.

Then shook your head. “No. I’m okay. You’ve got your shift.”

He watched you for a second, weighing your tone of voice, deliberating whether or not you were just saying that because you didn’t want to be a burden.

“You sure? Robby owes me a double.” Hell, he owes me two after the condition he sent you home in.

A small nod. “I’m okay.”

Not entirely true but getting there.

He accepted it.

“Alright. I’m a phone call away baby. Say the word and I’m back here, with you, watching these women duke it out”

He stood, adjusting the blanket around you automatically and his neck craned to grab your gaze, looking for direct eye contact.

“Text me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

He lingered for half a second longer.

“Eat. Get some rest. Promise me.”

You gave a faint, tired smile. “Promise.”

“I love you baby” he whispered, pressing a last kiss into the side of your head before heading out for his shift.

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The apartment was quiet again after the door closed.

But it felt different now.

Softer.

You picked at the food slowly, not really hungry but knowing you should. You had promised.

The TV murmured in the background, familiar voices filling the space just enough to keep the thoughts away.

Then, your phone buzzed on the bedside table.

You reached for it.

A message.

From Jack.

If you’re not asleep in the next hour I’ll know.

You stared at it for a second.

Then, despite everything, smiled.

Small. But real.

You typed back:

bossy

The reply came almost immediately.

Correct.

You huffed a quiet laugh, sinking a little deeper into the pillows.

The noise in your head had dulled. Not gone. But quieter.

Manageable.

For now, that was enough.

Setting the phone aside, you pulled the blanket closer, and let your eyes fall shut.

jack abbot who swears it was an accident. all he had done was google hobbies for a middle-aged man that won’t bore me to death but won’t tweak my back… and somehow, someway, he had landed on a reddit thread. men his own age, shouting out their hobbies in the hopes of helping a fellow bored soul like his own find a new calling outside of the gruelling hours he spends covered in guts and gore. some men recommended forming bike groups. others spoke of table-top games. but only one of them really caught his eye. a single comment, no thread beneath it, with a total of eight upvotes: i record erotic audios. it’s fun, easy, and the feedback has done wonders to my self-esteem. the best part is i don’t even have to show my face, all my audience wants is to hear me.

jack abbot who soon finds out it’s lot harder than he expected. and, no, he’s not talking about his dick. recording is his first challenge. the first few attempts are a technical nightmare. this attempt too muffled, that attempt too awkward, more than a few where he loses focus and drops his phone (aka his acting microphone) as he sinks into the sweet relief of his hand working over his aching cock, completely missing out on recording the part where breathy groans divulge into full-blown, pathetic whimpers, and soon one of pittsburgh’s most respected emergency medicine doctors is painting his knuckles and lower abdomen in the sticky residue of his pleasure.

jack abbot who’s second hurdle is making an account and, worse, figuring out how to use it. asking for help is out of the question because, while jack abbot is far from shy, he doesn’t want to invite that level of gossip into his workplace. shen would give him shitty nicknames like doctor jacking-off abbot, dana wouldn’t say anything but the side-eye would be loud enough to speak for her. robby would no doubt find a way to criticise even this hobby. and god forbid the pittlings hear about it… any ounce of respect they have for him would fly right out the window. worst of all, jack thinks, ahmad would start a betting pool… how long until doctor abbot leaks his identity?

jack abbot who nearly doxxes himself immediately, accidentally attaching a picture — one of those low-angled selfies javadi is forever teasing him about — alongside the audio file. a file that captures him in a moment of pure vulnerability, head thrown back against the couch, knees bent, feet on the ground; all the while last night’s scrubs stick to his sweaty thighs, shoved far enough down for him to free his cock. he doesn’t listen to the audio fully, afraid that if he listens too long, he’ll back out and delete it once again. with barely any recollection of the things he said nor the sounds he made, he takes a deep breath and finally hits post.

jack abbot who is officially, by technicality, an audio pornstar. the attention isn’t instant. for the first few days, he tells himself to not bother checking, to not interest himself in how many silly upvotes a collective of strangers might have deemed his moans worthy of. that doesn’t stop him from pulling out his phone during bathroom breaks, swiping through the apps list until he finds a familiar orange, and checking the engagement. five upvotes. no comments. oh well, he thinks (with a little more disappointment than he’s willing to admit). maybe this hobby is just not for him, either. back to the drawing board he’ll go, right?

jack abbot who learns the hard way just how far a little praise can go. it’s another mindless check, shift over and finally standing under the rejuvenating burn of a warm shower. two days off ahead of him, a whole load of sleep to catch up on. a song comes on that he’s sick of hearing, so, despite the soap suds in his hands, he grabs for his phone and changes the track. muscle memory forces his thumb to swipe, fingerprint searching for the familiar glow of that orange app. he barely recognises what he’s done, until the post — his post — is staring at him in the face. seventeen upvotes. one comment. u/dilfhunter pretty sure this violates some sacred feminist rule with how wet it made me. dear god sir, what a voice.

jack abbot who records his second official audio right then and there, the sound of a running shower caught faintly in the background of his grunts and groans. they echo off the bathroom tiles, accompanied by the wet shlick of his hand stroking over his length. he’s still a little unsteady, a little unsure of what to do while one hand is busy touching himself and the other is gripping his phone, making sure the microphone is still recording his every move. to make matters, and his dick, harder this time, he’s caught in a trance, pupils blown wide and jaw hanging loose while he reads the comment over and over. it’s instinct, really, that has him muttering under his breath, brain too far gone to even fully register what he’s saying. d’you like my voice, yeah? is it getting you wet, baby? my dirty girl, touching herself to the sound of me. you gonna cum, hmm? think you should. go on. or d’you need me to show you how?

jack abbot who is starting to gain a following, a community of faceless individuals who are never short on praise and are quick to make him feel desired. every comment is an ego-boost, a reason to record another audio. after a month, he invests in a proper microphone, one that frees up both his hands. another month and he’s ordering toys from some lewd website. it’s for realism, he tells himself, something to make it sound a little more immersive, a little more real for his followers. the fact that the fleshlight grips around his cock in a way that has him curling his toes is just a welcomed bonus, really.

jack abbot who keeps his recordings fairly simple. straightforward, nothing more than the ramblings of a man in dire need of release. groans, moans, whimpers. there’s times where he slips a little deeper than usual into the fantasy, picturing someone sweet and vulnerable, writhing beneath him and echoing out all the wilder comments he receives. dilfhunter becomes a name he searches for, a user who’s feedback he awaits with bated breath. if he uploads and there’s no comment within the first 24 hours, his shoulders sag, his energy is off, and even the other busy-bodies in the pitt notice something off about him. then, ding! dilfhunter has commented on your post! and suddenly everything is back to sunshine and rainbows and boners for mister abbot, who more or less races home on those mornings, ready to capture another intimate moment he’ll share with an audience of thousands.

jack abbot who keeps it simple, until he doesn’t. a comment, not from dilfhunter, is all it takes. u/armpitts god what i wouldn’t pay to have you act out one of my scripts. it captures his attention. and while jack is not the best at replying to his comments — he’s sometimes afraid the things he wants to say may come off too strong… or that he’ll accidentally reveal personal details — he finds himself answering this time. no payment necessary, i’m open to anything :) he feels like an idiot sending a smiley face. fuck. he should have made it a wink. oh well, too late, his notifications are blowing up and there’s an inbox waiting for him. that very same commenter, kind and appreciative, drops the link to one of her scripts and thanks him. he feels silly the first time he reads through it, cheeks warm as he tries out the words on his lips. one would think he hasn’t spent the past few months whoring himself out vocally for a little gratification. but, can you really blame him for being so shy? there he is, a fully qualified doctor, reciting some fantasy where he’s examining a patient. one thing leads to another, an imaginary hand drifts up the expanse of a hypothetical thigh, and he’s acting out something that would get his medical license revoked… that doesn’t stop him from cumming louder than ever before, and swallowing down the name of his favourite patient: you.

jack abbot who swears you’re the sweetest sight for sore eyes. frequent fliers are rarely a celebrated thing in the pitt. unhoused, endangered, unwell; they are usually the kind who find themselves in his care on a regular basis. and then there is you. beautiful, smart, and polite. you never complain about the wait times, you never berate any of the staff for having other patients to attend to, you never show up without a smile. a med student, well into your final year and looking to secure a residency at presby. the catch? you’re a hypochondriac — more recently known as someone who suffers from illness anxiety disorder — diagnosed and all. those who study medicine are already predisposed to convince themselves they have every new illness they learn off. but throw in a disorder that’s merciless in making your brain spiral and, well, you become weekly visitor of the pitt, always showing up with enough self-awareness to recognise you’re probably fine, but still in dire need of a professional who can confirm it for you.

jack abbot who is happy to be said professional. it’s basically an unspoken rule amongst the nightcrawlers: your name is on the board, jack will be attending to you. no matter how big or small your most recent health worry might be, he’s happy to sit by your bedside and go through your vitals, listen to your heartbeat, check your breathing. as many times as you need him to. he knows how hard it can be to sleep, which is why he never berates you for wasting away your hours in the bright lights of the pitt. why would he berate you, when it means he gets to spend a few hours keeping his eye on you?

jack abbot who knows his fascination borders on unprofessional. while you may not be his student, you are still a student somewhere. your career relies on the guidance of those who have graduated before you, those who have already made a career out of caring for patients. he tries his best to make your frequent visits useful to you, talking you through what the signs would truly be for whatever your newest possible diagnosis might be and what the treatment plan would look like. it’s the only thing he can do to distract himself from the thoughts of talking you through something far more selfish.

jack abbot who swears he’s not thinking of you each time he hits record. when a script comes through, casting him the role of an older man who helps his new neighbour fix a leak under her sink, just to bend her over the counter and let his cum leak into her, there’s absolutely no way that jack is picturing you, doe-eyed and looking up at him with eyes that are practically begging him to fix you. and when he plays out the fantasy of a man coming home to find his wife naked in bed, riding out a heat wave, and spreading her thighs as she welcomes his tongue between them even in her sleep, he definitely does not nearly whine your name. and when the comments role in, begging him to add a new audio to his most popular series — the doctor will feel you now — he is doing anything but imagining you in the patient’s place, throwing your head back while you let you doctor cure you with his hands, his mouth, his cock. hey! all those times he’s had to cut the audio, edit out a little stutter of your name? those were nothing but accidents. pure and utter coincidences.

jack abbot who begins to miss you after not seeing you for more than a week. what could have happened? have you started visiting the day shift instead, relying on doctor robby to comfort your worries instead of him? it shouldn’t affect him. he shouldn’t care. he has enough on his plate to worry about, between the ER and the next audio he needs to post. he doesn’t have time to find himself lingering by the boards, willing your name to suddenly appear. what kind of doctor wants to see someone show up in the emergency ward? him, apparently, because there is no denying the way he feels his heart swell as he catches a glimpse of you from across the nurses’ station, being guided into a room by lena and told to sit while you wait for doctor abbot to see you. and see you he does, practically racing through the instructions on how to intubate a patient who’s throat is full of blood, just so he can rip of his gloves, sanitise his hands, and pull back the curtain that reveals you.

jack abbot who finds every way to make you stay a little longer, using every reason to talk to you. he asks about your exams. he asks about your future goals. he asks if you’re 100% sure that presby is the hospital for you. y’know we’re always looking for a new night shift resident in the pitt. just saying. the way you giggle at his wink is enough to sink the pathetic feeling that comes with almost begging you to join the ptmc. don’t think a trauma centre is the best place for me, doctor abbot. it’s actually cruel how effortless that sounds on your tongue. doctor abbot… would you still call him that if he had you arching your back, hips rolling to meet the thrust of his gloved fingers?

jack abbot who can barely hide the shake in his hand when you ask him to examine you. it’s just this mark i’ve got… on my upper thigh. i know it’s probably just a mosquito bite or something but- you’re worried. you don’t have to explain it to jack, he can practically feel the fear rolling off of you in waves. it shouldn’t send a shiver down his spine to know those waves meet an unmovable force when it comes to him, crashing and sinking away with every reassuring word he finds to help ease your worries. you listen to him so well, not needing to be told twice when he instructs you to bend your legs at the knee and plant your feet on the bed. just gonna give you an exam, okay? i’ll start just above the knee, then work my way up the length of your thigh, get a good feel of anything that’s going on there. that sound good to you?

jack abbot who feels himself harden at how eagerly you nod. then his hands are on you and there’s nowhere his thoughts can wander but to those damn audios. your thigh is soft, warm, full beneath his fingertips. what a shame there’s a layer of latex in the way. he tries not to linger on the way your legs fall open a little wider the further he slides his palm up your thigh. he tries not to notice the way the muscle clenches beneath his touch. he tries not to think about how you haven’t breathed properly since he started examining you. if this were one of his filthy audios, now would be the time when the doctor gives into his desires and let’s his fingers brush over the seam of his patient’s clothed cunt. he’d pretend it was an accident, an unintentional bump of his fingertips. he’d hum with a twinge of approval when he realises how wet the fabric is. he’d let his eyes meet hers as he peels her underwear to the side and watches her choke on a gasp, forefinger teasing up the length of the slit, pressing over her throbbing clit. he’d ruin her with nothing but his fingers, his spare hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her delectable moans so no ears but his own can hear them. and if she was good for him, really good, he’d reward her with the stretch of his cock plugging her full, making her stain her cheeks with tears as she bites down on his palm and let’s him whisper in her ear. ‘s this what you really needed, baby? someone to fix you? come on, there we go, breathe nice and deep for me. i know, i know, he’s so big. it’s so much but you’re taking him so well, sweetheart. my perfect little patient, letting me make us both feel better.

jack abbot who is painfully aware of the fact this is not one of his audios and that he needs to pull his hand out from between your thighs. he does so with a cough, swallowing back a mouthful of saliva only to find himself near-drooling again. god, what a relief that the scrubs he’s wearing today sit loose on him, otherwise he’d surely have an hr case on his hands. that doesn’t make the throb of his hardened dick any easier to stomach. especially not when he notices you’re in an almost equally frazzled state, chest heaving as you stare ahead in a trance, legs slowly sinking back down onto the gurney. he starts his medical spiel, but he’s not sure you’re really listening. all feels good, he says, knowing damn well you feel better than good.

jack abbot who doesn’t mean to invade your privacy. when a phone buzzes from somewhere behind him, he swears it’s his own and, with a quick check to see if it’s alright with you, he turns around to grab it. he’s just going to put it on silent, that’s all, to ensure it doesn’t interrupt him during any other patient examination. but then the screensaver is different. a pretty face, pressed right up to a dog. bright, girly, youthful. there’s notifications for apps he barely recognises, names he’s never heard. and then, the most recent one. a notification from 1 minute ago. an email. reddit.

jack abbot who feels himself freeze, right then and there, speechless for the first time in his life.

congratulations u/dilfhunter, you just hit 1,000 upvotes!

+ extra hyde!

· i'm working on a full jack abbot fic. this is a threat. consider yourself warned. · anyway don't forget to smash that like button and tell me if this made you horny. full disclosure i am more than willing to write more of these two. · i was waiting to finish a full, proper fic to post again but i've been frothing at the mouth at this thought all day and i had to get it out.

He had texted you earlier tonight.

I know shit’s been weird. Your brother told me you’ve been back for a few months. Julia’s son has been living with us, and he’s bleeding out. I don’t know if we can handle this fucking shit. I wouldn’t be reaching out to you if it wasn’t serious. I need you. Now.

You always had a soft spot for Deran. You met him when he was so young.

He wasn’t even in high school yet. He was in the 7th or 8th fucking grade.

You knew the stories, the things he’d had to do, the jobs he’d taken on since he was just a kid. Forced into a life he didn’t choose, pushed into this bullshit before he could even understand what was right or wrong.

In a way… all the Cody brothers had been shaped by circumstances beyond their control.

Deran looked down at J’s trembling form, his jaw tight with worry. "You know, this church heist, we didn’t want it to turn into—"

"Shut up," you cut him off sharply. "I don’t want to hear about the job. I don’t care about your reasons or your plans. I’m not involved."

"Whether you like it or not, you’re not just here by coincidence," Baz hissed at you with a hint of challenge in his eyes.

The truth was, you weren’t supposed to be here.

You had met the Codys back in high school—met Craig at some party during your senior year, and then he’d invited you to one of their infamous gatherings.

Smurf didn’t like you.

She didn’t like anyone.

But… when she found out your father owned a scrapyard, she saw potential. She added him to her 'payroll', and suddenly, your dad was making a lot more money. You went to UCSD on a tuition scholarship, but the extra cash your dad was making allowed you to live in the nicest dorm, get the best meal plan, and even a credit card—things you could have never imagined.

You even pledged a sorority.

The reason you pledged your sorority?

Smurf convinced you it was for the "experience," but the truth was, she was in it for the heist. Sororities had lots of money. At first, your father was dead set against you getting involved in anything shady.

But Smurf, with her smooth, convincing tone, had a way of making things seem inevitable. She painted a picture of opportunity to your father.

Slowly, he started to waver.

You and the Cody’s stole from the sorority funds during your second year, and the payout was good.

Really fucking good.

During undergrad, you were unofficially working for her with your father, taking your cut of the pie on different jobs, and making more money than most students could dream of.

The day you got into medical school, you told Smurf that you wanted out, to leave this life behind once you graduated.

She didn’t take it very well.

Neither did your father.

It was as if he didn’t want you to stop, even if it meant risking everything. Smurf convinced him that you were being entitled, and he surrendered any real control.

Medical school and residency took you out east.

But your pediatric fellowship brought you right fucking back to San Diego.

You didn’t speak to your father anymore.

He was in Smurf’s pocket.

You barely spoke to your brother.

He was also in Smurf’s pocket.

You carefully lifted the bloodied fabric from J’s leg and looked up at J, meeting his gaze.

"You don’t need to pretend you’re not nervous. It’s okay to be. But I need you to stay still—this will hurt, but I’ll make sure it heals properly."

J nodded.

You began working on him, pouring antiseptic onto the cloth and dabbing around the wound to clean the blood and debris. J winced at the sting, and you saw the slight tremor in his hand as he drank from the bottle of alcohol Deran handed him to numb the pain.

"So, where’s Craig?" you asked casually to try and distract J from the pain.

"He didn’t want to do the job. Said it was too risky."

Craig, the one who had always been down for any job, backed out?

You hadn’t expected that.

Over your shoulder, you caught Baz talking to Deran. His voice was low, but clear enough: "Got a text from Pope. Says everything’s alright."

You paused.

Your hand stilled slightly. You thought Pope was still in jail—caught in that bank heist a couple of years back. You’d always thought he was the most gentle and kind of the Cody boys, despite their trouble. Smurf had her claws in him, and you’d felt bad for him—always in the middle of her fucking chaos, yet somehow separate from it.

When he was locked up, you’d sent letters—hoping to reach him, to let him know someone cared—but he never responded. Now, hearing he was out, you realized it stung more than you wanted to admit.

You hated that he didn’t tell you he was free.

That he didn’t reach out.

The silence felt like a punch to your gut.

You pulled out the fine needle and threaded it with sterile sutures, preparing to close the wound. Gently, you grabbed J’s chin to keep him still.

"Ready?"

J took another big gulp from the alcohol bottle.

"Ready."

You fixed J’s wound with deep dermal sutures.

Carefully stitching.

You worked meticulously, ensuring each stitch was secure but not overly tight, threading the needle deep into the dermis to bring the tissue together smoothly.

It took time.

You were a fucking perfectionist.

Once the sutures were in place, you cleaned the area again, applied a sterile dressing, and pressed gently to control any residual bleeding.

"You’re all set. Just keep it clean and dry, and watch for signs of infection."

J looked at you with a mixture of relief and exhaustion.

"Thanks," he rasped.

Deran took one shoulder, Baz the other, and you navigated J toward Smurf’s backyard. The patio looked the same as always, and as you reached the door, Smurf herself appeared, leaning against the frame with her sharp eyes narrowing as she took in the scene.

"What happened to him?" she demanded, her gaze flickering over J’s bloodstained jeans.

"He took a bad hit. Deep wound, needed proper sutures. He’ll be—"

Before you could finish, Smurf’s eyes zeroed in on you, her expression twisting with suspicion and fury. Then she turned her glare to Baz, snarling, "And what the hell is she doing here?"

Baz held his hands up defensively. "Don’t look at me. All Deran."

"Hello, Smurf. Nice to see you too after I just saved your grandson from bleeding out," you said sarcastically.

Smurf’s jaw clenched tight, and she snatched J roughly by the arm. Without another word, she pulled him inside the house, her heels clicking sharply on the porch as she disappeared inside.

Baz sighed, shaking his head slightly as he watched her go.

"Well, that’s Smurf for you," Deran chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck.

You simply shook your head, knowing all too well that with Smurf, it was never that simple.

"I’m gonna go check on J," Baz said quietly, moving toward the house. "But, uh. Thanks," he said awkwardly.

You nodded.

Deran watched him go, then turned toward you.

"See you in another what, five years?" he muttered, voice laced with dry humor. Without hesitation, he reached out and pulled you into a quick hug.

"Is Craig still doing stupid shit?" you asked, before pulling back.

Deran’s lips curled into a tired smile. "Always. Honestly, I’m shocked he hasn’t been a patient of yours in the ER yet."

"You guys seriously robbed a church? That’s some serious bad juju right there."

"You know, you sound just like Craig."

You chuckled.

"So, how are your dad and brother doing?"

Your lips pressed into a tight, thin line and Deran could tell he had struck a nerve with his question.

"You see and talk to them more than I do."

He rolled his eyes. "Come on, you moved back here, and you’re seriously not talking to them? They’re your family."

You shot him a pointed look.

"Considering who your mother is, I’m honestly shocked you’re trying to spin that kind of hallmark bullshit on me."

"Your father’s nothing like Smurf. He actually fucking loves you. You’re not just some kid he’s using for his own crap. He cares about you—more than you probably realize."

"Then why the fuck is he still working with Smurf? I’ve asked him for years to get fucking out—and he won’t do it. And now… he’s roped in my brother."

The last words hung heavy in the air.

Enough to reveal the ache behind them.

"What are you doing here?" you heard a familiar voice say.

Your head snapped up.

Standing a few feet away was the man you hadn’t seen in years—Pope. Getting older had looked good on him. His sharp eyes locked onto yours with a quiet intensity that immediately transported you back in time.

For a moment, the world around you seemed to blur, and suddenly you were back in Pope’s apartment. You remembered the day you had been matched for residency at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

You had bumped into Pope since you were visiting your father. When you told him the news, he took you out to dinner to celebrate.

It honestly had felt like a date.

Which was funny considering you two had never really interacted much when you were in undergrad—unless it was related to a job.

He was pretty quiet during dinner, but even without many words, he conveyed a lot through his actions. You were shocked he remembered so many things about you, considering you hadn’t seen him in years.

You noticed how he had chosen a restaurant specifically because it served your favorite cuisine. You caught the subtle way he made sure the table was comfortable, adjusting the chair for you or ordering that particular whiskey drink you liked, knowing it was your favorite without you needing to ask.

His quiet demeanor masked a thoughtful attentiveness.

He remembered the small details about you.

The things that mattered.

Later that night, you two ended up back at his drinking a few beers.

"So, you’re seriously gonna go freeze your ass in Pittsburg?"

You’d shot back with a smirk, "I’ve been freezing my ass off in Chicago, Andrew."

Pope sat there, his expression unreadable.

Instead of bringing his beer to his lips, he simply held the glass loosely in his hand.

His jaw was clenched subtly, and there was a faint tension in his posture—like he was holding himself back from doing something more.

You broke the silence, curious.

"What?"

"You’ve never called me Andrew before."

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"Sorry, I didn’t mean—"

"No, I like it."

A small, almost rare smile touched his lips.

You blinked, caught off guard. "You do?"

He nodded, his eyes locking onto yours.

"Smurf calls you Andrew. So, I just assumed… you didn’t like it," you hesitated, then admitted softly, "But I think Andrew suits you."

His forehead creased, and he looked away.

"You’re right. I don’t like it when she calls me that," he murmured. "But, I like it when you say it."

Goosebumps littered your skin.

You came back to the present.

"I was just leaving," you responded. Pope’s eyes found yours, but he didn’t say anything.

You took a deep breath, glancing at Deran and Pope. Your shift at the hospital technically hadn’t ended—your colleague was covering for you, but the clock was ticking, and duty called. You rubbed your sweaty palms on your scrubs, trying to steady the tremor in your hands as you prepared to leave.

"I’ve gotta head back. Swapped out with a colleague, but I still need to get to the hospital."

Deran waved goodbye. "Go handle your thing. We get it."

You walked towards your car. As you reached your car, you fumbled with your keys, your hands still slightly trembling. Just as you unlocked the door, you felt someone grab your bicep and turn you around.

"Wait." Pope’s voice was rough.

Your eyes burned with the threat of tears, and everything inside you throbbed.

"You’ve got some fucking balls asking me to wait," you shot back. You turned toward the car, heart hurting, and tried the door handle again.

He let you go.

Without another word, you slipped into your car, and pulled out of the driveway.

Pope stood there for a moment, watching you drive away.

It had been…interesting, to say the least, navigating this long-distance 'something' with you.

Pope’s body was practically vibrating in his airplane seat, fighting the urge to bolt as soon as the plane touched down in Pittsburgh.

When you picked him up from the airport, you threw both arms around him, squeezing him so tightly. He bruised a kiss into your hair, whispering against your scalp in disbelief before cupping your face in his hands and capturing your lips with his.

It didn’t take long until you got back to your apartment for his hands to find their way to your thighs, holding you in place as he buried himself deep inside of you. He could feel the pressure building within you, feeling your cunt sucking him in. He groaned, his breaths growing heavier.

"Please… don’t stop. You feel so good, Andrew," you praised, the urgency in your voice encouraged him, his rhythm quickening as he began to lose himself in the feeling of you.

He lifted one of your legs and put it up on his shoulder and spread you open, his cock spearing into you at the new angle. The change in position made you gasp at the deeper sensation it created. Every thrust hit you just right, the pressure building inside you until you felt you might burst.

"Let go for me," he coaxed, his tone soft yet commanding. "I wanna feel you fall apart around me." His words sent you spiraling, pulling you closer to the brink. You could feel the coiling tightness of your release, winding around your core, threatening to snap at any moment.

"Andrew, I—" you gasped, the pressure reaching its peak as you watched his cock disappear into you covered in your slick.

"Just let it happen," he urged, his voice a low rumble. "I’ve got you."

Knowing exactly what you needed, Pope used his free hand to find your clit, rubbing soft yet firm circles. You cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders. His fingers on your clit, combined with his relentless thrusting had you seeing white. Pleasure washed over you in waves, causing your back to arch and your body to tremble beneath him. You cried out his name, the sound echoing off the walls.

He didn’t stop, his movements relentless as he chased his own release, his breathing ragged and deep. The sound of your lewd noises seemed to fuel him, and he groaned lowly as your walls clenched around him.

You were lost in the aftershocks of your own orgasm as he continued to pound into you. You wanted to tell him how good he made you feel, how special this was, but the words fell short as he pressed his forehead against yours, his hazel eyes clouded with passion. But you couldn’t speak.

And then, without warning, he stilled, the moment hanging suspended as he locked eyes with you, his breath ragged. "I’m gonna come, fuck, I—" His voice was raw. You could see the struggle etched across his face, the tightness in his jaw marking how close he was hovering to the edge himself.

And, you finally got your voice back.

"Inside," you urged, the words slipping from your lips with an urgency of their own, your brows stitched together. "Please." You almost whined, and that desperation seemed to tip him over the edge.

With that, his own release crashed over him, and he let out a deep groan, moaning your name. He was oblivious to how loud he was, utterly lost in the pleasure of filling you up with his spend and driving his pulsing cock deep inside your tight heat before crumbling on top of you.

As you both came down from the high, he pulled you against him, chest heaving as he caught his breath. His skin was flushed, and a slight sheen of sweat covered his chest.

"Damn," you breathed, laughing softly at the sheer intensity of it all.

You nestled into him, feeling safe and adored, his arms wrapped protectively around you. "Let’s never wait that long again," you whispered, grinning up at him.

After a summer of seeing one another almost every day. Weeks apart had felt like an eternity.

"Deal," he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, already lost in the comfort and warmth of the moment. Pope laid his head on your chest, his hands finding a home at your waist, pulling you closer.

He always craved this part with you after sex.

Just touching you and feeling your skin against his.

Pope closed his eyes briefly, trying to hold onto that memory.

After that first night when you called him Andrew, he remembered how you’d finally broken the silence with a hesitant, almost shy, kiss.

He froze.

When you pulled back, you had then apologized, softly, almost hurriedly, for making things uncomfortable, gathered your things, and headed out that door,

But then, a couple weeks later, life pulled you back into his orbit. You returned to Oceanside once you’d graduated from medical school, staying with your father until you were ready to make the move to Pittsburgh. When you showed up at Pope’s door, apologizing again, saying you didn’t want to make things weird, that you hadn’t meant to unsettle him—somehow, everything shifted.

Maybe it was the way you were looking at him.

Or the way his own defenses crumbled…

But suddenly clothes were shed with hurried desperation, and he found himself emptying himself inside of you as you whimpered into his neck while you recovered from your own orgasm.  

You spent the night.

And he woke you up in the middle of the night to fuck you… again.

And you woke him up in the morning to fuck him... again.

Then it just kept happening.

But you both knew that you two had to keep it a secret.

Because if Smurf ever found out—she wouldn’t be happy.

He could see the fear in your eyes whenever the subject of her came up.

And his biggest fear?

That she would take you away from him.

Seeing you tonight reminded him that you shouldn’t be part of this world.

You had managed to carve out a life beyond it.

Escaped the grip of Smurf’s chaos.

You’d left it behind, fled into the normalcy of medicine, of healing, of making a difference in a way that was truly yours. That was the part of you he clung to, the part that deserved peace, not to be dragged back into the darkness that always threatened to swallow everyone whole.

"You shouldn’t have called her," he growled at Deran.

"Pope, J was bleeding out—if she hadn’t showed up—"

From behind, Smurf’s voice cut through the tense air as she stepped out onto the patio.

"Don’t give her that much credit," Smurf spat, her tone cold and dismissive. "You boys could’ve figured it out without her. There was no need to involve her. She’s worthless."

Pope’s eyes darkened with disgust as he looked at her.

"You don’t get to decide what she’s worth or what she’s capable of. She’s better than this. She’s better than any of us. And she’s not yours to dismiss."

Smurf’s laughter echoed cold and sharp, a cruel edge cutting through the tense air. She took a step closer, her voice dripping with venom.

"She’s better than us? Please," she snarled. "It’s because of the jobs she did with us back in college that she graduated debt-free from medical school. She wouldn’t even be a doctor if it weren’t for me."

Her gaze sharpened, flashing with fury. "Her share of the money that she got was because of me. I was doing her a favor because of who her father was to us, and she just shoved it into her fancy education. You think that makes her better? No, it makes her just as crooked as the rest of us. You’re sitting there, acting like she’s some kind of saint—" Smurf stepped in closer, her voice lowering into a deadly whisper. "but she left her family—her father and her brother and left them behind like yesterday’s trash. She should’ve stayed. But no. She would rather be a doctor… playing hero. She’s fucking selfish." She paused, her lips curling into a cold, mocking smile. "You still think she’s better than us?"

Pope’s eyes darkened, his jaw twitching.

"Yes."

Pope could feel the anger radiating off of Smurf at his response.

He felt Smurf's hand on his shoulder, but he quickly twisted away and headed for the door.

On the other end of his cellphone, your voice bubbled with enthusiasm as you described the medical conference.

He hadn’t seen you in almost three weeks.

He was fucking miserable.

"…and Dr. Abbot presented this groundbreaking study on neuroplasticity and the implications for stroke rehabilitation." Your excitement was palpable, the passion in your tone making Pope smile, but it felt bittersweet at the same time.

"Yeah, sounds great," he replied, trying to sound engaged, but his mind was elsewhere—lost in thoughts of you.

He missed you. He realized how much he hated sleeping apart from you. It was driving him crazy. His dick was throbbing. But, it wasn’t just the sex he missed… it was the little things he had grown so accustomed to. The way you would nestle your head in the crook of his neck, the soft weight of you against him. He missed the scent of you—your shampoo, a light floral fragrance that always lingered in his nose long after you left a room. Your body lotion, a sweet, comforting smell that wrapped around him like a warm hug. The more you talked about this Dr. Abbot and the conference, the more it gnawed at him. He felt a creeping annoyance at the constraints of his life—the relentless demands of Smurf, and the endless stream of things he had to do with his brothers.

"Andrew. Are you there?" you paused, sensing his distraction. "Yeah, I’m here. Just… thinking." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry. I didn’t mean to zone out on you."

"Oh, it’s okay," you sounded a bit tentative. "I know you’ve been busy."

"You know," he started softly, "this is the last job I want to do. The payout’s gonna be huge—big enough to set me up for good."

"What do you mean, the last job?"

"I did some research— thinking about getting an HVAC technician certification. Found out you don’t need college for that, just a high school diploma to get started on the training. Maybe I do that instead of all this other crap. Maybe…"

His words hung in the air.

"Maybe what?" you whispered.

"Maybe… after this, I move to Pittsburgh."

"Really?"

He nodded slowly, even though he knew you couldn’t see him. "Yeah."

Pope's heart clenched as he heard the faint, muffled sound of you sniffling on the line.

"What’s wrong? Are you okay?"

It struck him then—maybe he’d moved too fast, pushed too hard. Maybe, after just six months of whatever this was between you, he’d assumed more than you were ready for.

Maybe you weren’t ready for things to change.

Maybe you didn’t want to be with him like that.

Not yet.

Or…maybe not ever.

The thought made him pause—a cold wave of doubt washing over him.

Finally, you spoke, voice trembling slightly. "It’s happy tears, Andrew. I would love it if you were here in Pittsburgh… with me."

"Then maybe I should book a one-way ticket," he murmured.

But that never happened because later that day, Pope was arrested for the bank robbery job.

He spent three long years behind bars, a period that felt like an eternity carved into his soul.

The first year was the hardest. 

The second year was a crucible. 

By the third year, a numbness settled over him. 

He had lost count of how many nights he stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about you and wishing he could turn back time.

He imagined you moving on, your life continuing without him.

He convinced himself that you deserved better.

He convinced himself that he was just a mistake.

He convinced himself that he was a shadow that would eventually fade from your memory.

You were standing at the nurse’s station, finishing up some chart notes when a voice called your name softly but insistently. You turned around, expecting the usual—another colleague needing clarification or a patient’s family member asking a question. But when you did, your breath caught. Standing just a few feet away was Pope.

Your pulse quickened as his presence sank in. Without thinking, you stepped away from the station, your heart pounding louder than the beeping monitors around you. The hospital corridor felt suddenly too narrow, too quiet except for the pounding in your chest.

"What are you doing here?" you asked.

"I need to talk to you."

“You know I’m at work. I can’t just—”

"I know. I just… Please. Five minutes."

You glanced around, weighing whether to pull him aside or push him away. Your mind raced—so many questions, so many feelings tangled up inside. Without thinking, your hand reached out instinctively, gently but firmly grabbing his. His eyes flicked to your grip, surprised, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he allowed you to guide him—your fingers wrapping around his.

Slowly, you turned away from the nurse’s station as you made your way toward the exit. You pulled him toward a nearby bench—something that offered just enough privacy. You guided him to sit down.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You just stared at one another.

Nerves shot through your limbs.

His jaw was tense.

You finally broke the quiet. "What’s so important that you had to come here?"

"I read your letters in jail. Every single one of them. And… I thought… you would want to know that."

You took a shaky breath, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on you.

"Look," your eyes began to water, "we don’t have to do this. What happened between us… it was a long time ago. We don’t have to rehash it. I get it… it was just a fling. Things were different back then. We were caught up in something we didn’t really understand. So, maybe it’s better if we just leave it there."

That was a lie.

You had cried yourself to sleep for months and months. You realized after you never heard from him, that maybe you had just been somebody to keep his warm bed.

Nobody special.

And that everything you had felt had just been one-sided.

His face fell.

"It wasn’t just a fling to me," he sighed so deeply you could almost feel it in your own chest.

Your hands trembled in your lap.

"I didn’t answer any of them, not because I didn’t want to. Not because I didn’t care. I just… didn’t see the point," his voice was quiet.

You pinned him with a vicious glare.

"You were in your first year of residency. I was in jail. It was a mess. I didn’t want to be a distraction. If I’d responded to your letters, it would have been selfish. It wouldn’t have made you feel better. It only would’ve made me feel better—like I was doing something, like I wasn’t just letting it all slip away. But that’s not what you needed. Not really. I knew if I’d reached out, I’d just be taking a shortcut around what really mattered—letting you go, even if it hurt like hell."

His brows knit together like he was in pain, and it broke your heart a little.

You squeezed your eyes shut. Everything he was saying made sense, and you could see the logic in his reasoning, but that only seemed to amplify the ache in your chest.

"So… why didn’t you reach out after you got out?" your voice trembled and cracked as you forced the words out. "It's been a year."

"Because you deserve a life where you’re not being contacted by ex-cons, by my brothers, or people bleeding out in some messed up fucking chaos. You deserve peace. Not to be dragged back into this shit."

"Maybe I don’t deserve peace," you felt the hot tears streaming down your cheeks. "It’s not like I’m a good person. I’ve done bad shit. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just as broken as everything I try to run from." Your shoulders sagged.

He pulled you into his arms and planted a kiss on your forehead.

You melted.

You melted into him and didn't even try to fight it.

"You’re a good person. You’re fucking perfect."

You let out a broken laugh, the kind that came from somewhere deep inside.

Pope gently wiped your tears with his thumb.

"So, what now?" you managed to say between ragged breaths, still fighting the tears.

"You finish your fellowship, and I finish my HVAC training."

"You started?" you whispered, your fingers grappling at the fabric of his lavender shirt.

Pope chewed his lower lip nervously and nodded.

"That’s great. That’s great, Andrew."

The sharp beeping of your pager suddenly cut through, startling you out of the intense moment you and Pope had been sharing. Your eyes widened as you instinctively reached for the device clipped to your waistband, realizing it was your cue to return.

"I have to go," you murmured, regret flickering across your face. Without waiting, Pope gently helped you to your feet. He took the opportunity to press his lips firmly against yours for just a moment before pulling away.

You knew what this was.

A goodbye kiss.

You sniffled, then wrapped your arms around him to hug him goodbye. You saw his throat bob and his eyes filled with tears.

"I love you. I don’t expect you to say anything, but I wanted you to know. I love you," he choked out.

It was the first time he was telling you this.

Your lower lip began to tremble, and your heart stuttered in your chest.

"I know. And, I love you too, Andrew."

The words felt fragile but true.

Like a promise you both needed to hold onto.

"Let’s grab dinner when you get your HVAC certification."

He hesitated, a hint of nervousness flashing across his face. "I won’t have my certification for another year... and I don’t even know if I’ll pass."

"You’ll pass. So, I’ll see you in a year, then, Andrew."

With that, you turned and walked away.

Exactly one year later, your phone lit up with his name on the screen.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

I know it’s kind of an open-ended vibe. But I was going for realism, and dating someone in organized crime is always going to be complicated. But I’m a softie so just assume when she finishes her fellowship, she gets the fuck out of Oceanside again, and Andrew joins her.