big brown eyes

"Hey!" Jack calls from a few feet away.

Your head jerks up.

Stalking over to the nurse's station, he plants his hands on his hips. "Get off the phone. No more...Tindering," he spits.

You blink twice, then lock the device before storing it away in your pocket. "Sorry," you mumble, now humiliated.

"Look at me," he commands.

You do as instructed and shrink beneath his authoritative gaze.

Jack leans forward. "I catch you on it again, and I'm taking it away. Understood?"

You nod before dropping your chin in shame.

"Only man you should be giving your attention to is me: your attending," he grumbles.

You shift uncomfortably, praying he'll soon walk away in search of someone else to berate instead.

"C'mon, follow me. Time for you to put your hands to uses other than clicking through your Tinder."

Your shoulders slump, but you nevertheless rise and follow his lead.

Once you've finished wrapping the forehead of a ten-year-old girl in soft white gauze who was nothing short of a trooper while you administered seven stitches, due to a nasty skateboarding accident, you grant her a smile. "You were so brave today. But don't hesitate to tell your parents if your head starts hurting, alright? I'm going to give them some medicine to take home just incase."

A concussion was the first thing Diaz ruled out when she was brought back, thankfully.

The girl nods and sends slick black curls bouncing from the motion. "Okay."

You grin, then turn to look at Abbot.

Bumping the back of your head against his abdomen because he's standing that close to you, you mutter a quiet apology.

"Somethin' you need?" Jack asks while uncrossing his arms.

"Yeah. Can you, uh... Get me the jar of suckers from the shelf behind you? And a roll of stickers, too?"

He nods before turning around to retrieve the requested items. "Sure."

Handing you the jar first, his fingers linger against the warmth of your palm. When you glance up to him with an inquisitive brow, he merely takes a small step back while nodding toward your adorable patient. "I'll give you the stickers next."

You blink, then return your attentions to her. "Alright, sweetie, which flavor?"

"You were good with her," Jack says while cupping his hand around the crown of your shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze.

Ignoring the vibrating phone in your pocket, you smile softly. "Kids are easier, I think. Adults are the ones who think they know everything. Or just know better than us because they have a degree from Google University."

He snorts. "It's why cellphones are such a bad idea," he says matter-of-factly while shrugging casually.

You roll your eyes. "I promise to save my 'Tindering' only for breaks and after-hours," you reply while rounding a corner and heading in the direction of your computer so that you can get back to charting.

Sliding his hand from your shoulder to the small of your back, Jack's lips tug into a frown. "I mean, I don't exactly know a lot about it, but isn't that some kind of a hookup app?" He leans in close to your ear. "Where people go to get laid?" He whispers lowly.

It sends a shiver up your spine.

Breaking from his side, you make a beeline for your desktop. "It's...It's the most popular dating app there is, which is the only reason I'm on it. Not everyone uses it for...that, though." You flush. "Most men seem to," you complain with a frown. "But I have what I want outlined in my bio. Then again, that would require them to bother reading it."

You shake your head, then plop down in your seat and toss your phone face-down beside you.

Jack slides his forearms atop the counter in front of you. "Let me take a peek," he says with beckoning fingers.

You think you may fall out of your chair. "I—What? You wanna see my Tinder profile?" You ask incredulously.

He lays his palms face-up and shrugs before clasping them together. "I mean, I could give you a male opinion. Help you figure out why all you're catching are minnows instead of trout."

Your brows knit together. "Who... Who is the trout in this scenario?"

Leaning over the counter, he snatches away your phone. You make to grab for it in a panic, but promptly seat yourself again with the reassurance that he doesn't know your pin. Thus, no entry will be gained.

Wiggling from satisfaction from atop your chair, you roll forward.

A sobering expression crosses his face at the sight. Clearing his throat, Abbot pulls out his glasses and settles them atop the bridge of his nose.

You watch with amusement as he holds the phone at a distance to see properly before pulling up the lockscreen.

"Pin?" He questions while studying you.

You busy yourself with charting. "Never."

He considers for a moment, then turns the phone around to face you. He whistles to gain your attention. "Look here, sweetheart."

The moment you glance up, the home screen reveals itself. "Hey! That's cheating!" You shout while trying to swipe the device from his hands yet again.

"Never said I had any intention of playing fair," he drawls before thumbing through... You worry as to what he's looking at, actually. Like cutesy Pinterest boards dedicated to a dream wedding you'll probably never have.

"Not gonna find any dirty photos on here, am I?" He asks while pressing the screen with his index finger. Who uses digits other than their thumbs on touchscreens, anyway? Besides geriatrics.

Your face grows warm. "No!" You hiss. "Course not!"

He purses his lips. "Here's to hopin'."

Your jaw falls slightly open, and he chuckles.

"Just kidding." He continues searching for the app in question. "Or am I?" He mumbles. "I meant to ask, you ever considered going into peds?"

You pull up your recent patient's chart. "I have. It's just that... The day will inevitably come when a child in my care..." You swallow thickly. "Dies in my care," you finish. "I don't know if I can survive that."

Jack reaches forward and slides his index finger under your chin and tilts your head back until your eyes to meet his own. "That's going to happen if you stay in emergency care anyway, baby. You have to go where the heart calls."

He returns his hand to holding the side of your phone, leaving your skin tingling from the abandoned contact.

"Ah!" He exclaims. "Here we go. Tinder," he purrs.

You focus strictly on the computer screen ahead of you while sliding a hand over the back of your tensed-up neck.

Jack remains quiet for a moment and you peer at him covertly. You will never have your personal phone out while at work ever again from this day forward. Even for emergencies. The landlines provided will do just fine.

You watch as a corner of Jack's mouth twitches before verging into full-on smirking territory.

He's going to make fun of you, you can feel it.

And then he begins to swipe.

"W-what're you doing?"

"Trying to get rid of all these assholes," he mutters. "God, how long does it go on for?"

"I have my radius set pretty wide, so—"

He lowers his head and stares at you with wide eyes. "Your what?"

"R-Radius? Like, miles around me. If men are within the search radius—"

He rolls his eyes. "Got it."

Swipe, swipe, swipe.

You glower. "One of those could be my future husband, you know?"

He jeers. "What? These douchebags? Unlikely."

You've never seen him so irritable. Who peed in his Cheerios this afternoon?

With a sigh, he tosses it down beside you onto a stack of paperwork. "You're never going to find what you're looking for on there. I know you know this."

You swiftly shove the device in your pocket. "It's my only option. It's not like it was in the olden days when people met at the market, y'know?" You commentate a tad snidely. But if he's going to shame you for trying to find someone to love, then he deserves a bit of attitude in return.

It's none of his concern, anyway.

He chuckles. "How old do you think I am, honey?"

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. "Ancient."

Rounding the counter he occupies, Jack grips the back of your chair with one hand and the desk you sit at with the other. Leaning down, he brings himself level with your ear. "I read your little bio," he rumbles. "Looking for someone to settle down with," he quotes. "To start a life with, yada yada. Those are things a man provides." He slides his hand to the back of your neck. "All I saw were boys."

His fingers tugs gently at the base of your scalp. "You wanna meet someone the old-fashioned way? Take a long, hard look at what's in your immediate vicinity."

Jack steps back then and you loose a ragged breath in an attempt to calm your thready heart.

"Just remember what I said," he states while heading into Trauma 2. "I catch you on it again..." He sucks his teeth. "Probably be better if you just removed the temptation and delete the account altogether, you ask me."

He's practically fuming while slyly spying on you from across the parking lot—watching as you smile down at your phone with an index finger gently bit between your teeth.

It's like you're trying to set him off.

Happy-go-lucky guy that Abbot normally is, after today's whole Tinder fiasco, he found himself snapping at residents in the style of Robinavitch at every turn. He's meant to be the fun dad, and yet...

He tosses his bag in the backseat of his truck and cringes when the metal zipper clips the window. Not seeing a chip in the glass, however, he slams the door shut while shaking his head.

He keeps taking his piss-poor attitude out on his vehicle and he'll really have something to be ticked off about when it starts falling apart on the damn interstate.

He plants his palms atop the passenger seat and hangs his head between his shoulders. "Let it go, old man. You're too old for this shit," he mutters. "She's not interested. She's not interested. She's not—"

With a huff, he shuts the door before heading in your direction. "Hey, you hungry?"

Jack watches with a satiated look on his face as you munch on a basket of hot wings.

"It's really pretty up here," you say between hearty bites. "With all the lights. Quiet, too." Turning to face him, you begin wiping your hands with cheap napkins.

It's nothing fancy—the two of you are seated upon bare asphalt after all. But facing each other while making idle conversation is admittedly a lot nicer alternative to being stuck inside a noisy ED.

He chuckles and takes a sip of his beer.

"What?" You ask, sucking on a saucy finger.

A muscle in his jaw feathers. "You, uh, you've got some—"

Your hand flutters toward your face. When Jack scoots closer, you promptly drop it into your lap when he runs the pad of his thumb along the corner of your mouth.

"T-Thanks," you squeak before taking a pull from your water.

Leaning back against the railing behind him, Jack studies you for a moment. "You can do better than online dating."

Your eyes flit to his.

Holding his hands up, he continues. "I get it. It's just the way it is nowadays. But, sweetheart, the guys I saw on there?"

You interrupt him. Occupying yourself with a packet of wet-wipes, you start scrubbing at your hands. Otherwise you might just nibble them down to the bone the sauce was so yummy.

"I...I'm lonely," you whisper. "And I feel like I've fallen behind somehow." You worry your lower lip between your teeth. "I've never so much as been on a date before. There was just...never time. First, it was graduate from high school, then college, then an internship, now residency. After that, fellowship and—" You shake your head. "I told myself that once I was settled in my career and happy with my living arrangements is when I would put myself out there."

You sniffle while toying with your plastic water bottle, listening idly as the water sloshes around as you turn it one way, then the other. "I don't think I can wait that long. I don't want to. I want someone of my own to love. To call after I've had a bad day. Arms to fall asleep in, a chest to lay against when I feel scared. A body to come home to."

You shrug and wipe at yours eyes. "Then again, how many people do we work with—patients do we meet—who tell us the horror stories that are their relationships and marriages?" You frown. "Hardly makes commitment sound all that tempting."

Jack leans his head to the side, then cups your cheek in his palm. "That's why you don't settle for any less than someone who worships you. Who constantly thinks about you. Who'd kill to keep you safe."

A quiet click sounds at the back of your throat when you swallow.

He brushes his thumb along the apple of your cheek. "You've never been on a date?"

You shake your head.

He smiles softly, leans forward, then murmurs "What're we doing right now, then?" before pressing his lips to yours.

Jack never explicitly asked to enter into a relationship with you. Instead, it seems to be a decision he simply makes without warning.

On the one hand, it's so incredibly flattering to be desired by the Jack Abbot of all people. Of all men. Doctors, even. On the other, he's your attending. As well as someone who seems beyond comfortable in his own skin and abilities as a healer while you otherwise feel like you're stumbling through life.

You truly have no understanding of his decision.

There's nothing particularly special about you. You're not a young prodigy like Javadi, fast as a whip like Santos (not that he exactly seems like her type), as lovely as Mohan, or as intelligent as Mel.

The list goes on.

Maybe he's like all the rest, then? Just having fun while the iron is hot?

You dislike the thought.

It makes you feel cheap; pathetic; used.

It's why when at work...you sort of continue keeping your distance. At least initially.

Intent on hovering and crowding and smothering and touching you, however, Abbot is there nearly every time you turn around.

"I get that you're busy," he tells you one day—his hand sliding from your shoulder blade to your lower back; dangerously close to another body part. "But if you wanna keep playing hard to get even though you're already mine, then I'm happy to keep chasing."

And then he'd leaned close, bringing his lips to the shell of your ear. "Tell you the truth, the whole thing is giving my Viagra a run for its money."

Instead of it turning you on, as was clearly his intention, it'd only made you feel sick. Because you were right after all: he only saw you as a collection of parts to...objectify.

You had scurried away after, leaving him a bit perplexed.

It's only been a few days since the rooftop, so granted not much has happened thus far, but forcing yourself to have an awkward conversation with Jack where you innocently inquire What are we? feels out of the question. Not to mention humiliating. You're here to work, not star in a rom-com.

Whatever he's after, he clearly needs to start looking elsewhere.

But instead of being a damn adult about the entire ordeal and pulling him aside to talk like grown-ups...you sort of latch onto Robby instead. Not in a flirtatious sort of way. Just as a mentor and mentee one. By otherwise being occupied with learning from him, maybe Jack will move on? Grow bored? As much is inevitable, you figure.

When Jack stumbles across you all but pressed against Robby's side in Trauma 4 one day, however, it's like the pin in a grenade is pulled. All that's left is to release the lever.

He never took you for a tease, but he'll be damned if he's not going to mark his territory as a last resort before throwing in the towel.

Entering the Pitt Friday evening, you're greeted by a vision. A lovely floral arrangement sits atop the nurse's station in a crystal vase; its blooms sprouting in every direction.

You smile at Dana while walking past. "Looks like Benji is quite the romantic."

"Not for me, doll. Had to sign for 'em, but they're for you."

Halting in your tracks—causing your tennis shoes to squeak against the polished tile floor beneath you—you turn and pad over to it. Plucking the enclosure card from the plastic cardette, you read it over.

Meet me where I made you mine. — J

You glance up to Dana who throws a hand up while dialing the phone in front of her with the other. "Didn't read it. Hand to God, kid."

"Could you...keep this here for me until the end of my shift?"

Sliding it back toward herself, she nods. "You got it."

"We couldn't have done this downstairs?"

Standing just behind the railing positioned at the edge of the rooftop, Jack turns back to you with folded arms. "Felt like this should be a private conversation," he replies while stepping unsteadily toward you.

Perhaps his leg is giving him fits tonight.

Matching his strides, you meet him halfway.

He remains silent, with a thoughtful look etched upon his face. "Am I just not what you're looking for, then?"

Your brows furrow as you bat your lashes. "What?"

He huffs. "You've barely spoken to me in the last week, sweetheart. I'm getting mixed signals. You put on your Tinder," he says with an upwards wave of his hand, "that you want essentially the same things that I do. But I try to get close—give you my attention—and you glue your ass to Robby's side instead."

You open your mouth to speak, only to shut it a moment later as he continues.

"Look, I get it. I've been out of the game for awhile, so maybe I don't really know what goes nowadays. I tried giving you attention and that backfired. I flirted and I got the same result. So now I'm going old-fashioned with flowers and clandestine meetings on rooftops. I just—" he steps forward. "I need you to tell me whether to stay or go. Because the last thing I want is to make you feel uncomfortable. I'd thought we were together, but if you've changed your mind about commitment and settling down—"

"I haven't," you blurt out.

He quiets.

"You... You never asked me."

He raises a silver brow.

"To be...yours. I wasn't sure what we were. And I felt stupid at the idea of even asking. And then with the Viagra comment," you say with a flush. "It seemed like I was back to online dating, but in real life this time."

He hangs his head and sighs. "That's on me." He raises it. "I can have a peculiar sense of humor sometimes. Guess it gets even worse when I'm making a come-on."

Sliding his hand along the back of your neck, he holds you close. "I didn't think it needed saying after the night we were together up here. I just assumed we were on the same page. So I am truly sorry that I never bothered to ask if you wanted to be—" His mouth quirks to the side as he thinks. "Boyfriend and girlfriend are way too juvenile for me," he mumbles. "Partners, then."

He slides his hand to your shoulder. "Everything you listed is what I have to offer; what I want to give you."

You nervously rub at your arm. "I just didn't want to make assumptions."

He grins. "Too late."

Your eyes flit to his.

"I already did for the both of us, sweetheart. Listen, I'm not some kid on the internet throwing darts at a board until something sticks and I get a consolation prize out of it. I want you, and only you. I have since the day you were first assigned to me."

"Oh," you say, leaving your lips slightly parted.

"So," he begins while running a calloused palm down your arm before gripping your fingertips. Lifting them to his lips, he brushes a kiss along the back of your hand. "We're clear on what we're doing this time, then? That you belong to me and me alone, and I to you?"

You glance away while heat rushes to your cheeks.

You nod. "Yes, I think so."

He chuckles. "Good."

Jack wraps you in his arms and holds you firm against his chest. "Because if I see you with Robby again, I'm throwing my leg at him in the parking lot."

You cackle while burying your face in his chest and inhaling the calming, woodsy scent of his cologne.

It takes some adjusting to: being Jack's girl. From him assigning himself to being your designated driver to and from work, to cooking for you in the comfort of his well-stocked kitchen, to asking rather sheepishly if you'll rub his leg at night—what begins with butterflies and nervous laughter, ends in routine and comfortability.

The only excitement is at the ED. Because outside of it, you each share quiet nights in. Ones where you lie atop his chest on the couch while he watches TV... Or the one where he finally coaxes you out of your shirt and bra so that he can run his palms along the soft skin of your back.

He says it feels nice, since they can ache at times from arthritis.

The scratchy sensation makes your skin sing in the best of ways.

He seems rather pleased, after having moved you in before long, when you finally take liberty in using what's his, but for yourself. Like his t-shirts for sleeping in, his razor for shaving (men's are superior, you tell him), his truck for picking up groceries and his credit card to pay for them, and... Well... His stethoscope on the nights the two of you play doctor in the bedroom.

So, yes, physical intimacy is a facet of your relationship which does develop naturally in due time. And to his credit, Jack is endlessly patient with you as he teaches you all about it.

Insecurity about inexperience in every arena—sexual or otherwise—had certainly been of much concern to you. Perhaps he'd prefer someone who had familiarity with partnership, you'd worried. But he made clear that being able to claim you in every way there is stroked his masculine ego like nothing else.

And being the first to put hands on you...?

It doesn't take long for you to learn that you really enjoy extra attention being paid to your breasts, for example, when he laps at them with his tongue while his fingers explore the sopping folds between your legs. Gruffly, he says things which get you dripping with little effort applied: "That feel good, sweetheart?", "Spread your legs for me, baby.", "C'mere and lie back on the bed so that I can take your clothes off, angel."

You'd once asked shyly from atop your shared bed if he could please wear his dog tags during. With a grin, he muttered quietly "Yeah, honey, I can do that," before obliging your request.

As if he's Pavloved you, he sometimes teases even while at work just to get a rise out of you. Like when he seats himself next to you as you chart—sliding a palm along your inner thigh until it's right against your heat. Jack merely leaves it there, and smirks every time you make a typo.

Or when you do a job well done with a patient and he'll mutter "Good girl." before stepping away.

By the time the two of you get home, you're feral with want, and care little to none about waiting for his Viagra to kick in.

So, he typically makes use of his tongue instead until he's able to achieve manhood. He usually challenges himself in getting you to come twice on it before finally sinking his cock between your fluttering walls and kissing away your tears, you're that overstimulated from him rutting away between your thighs.

You'd been so afraid before—paranoid, even—of winding up in an unhealthy, and deeply unhappy relationship, but with all the love and tenderness he gives you, you can scarcely imagine ever wanting another.

Besides, Jack tells you that just the thought of you with someone else is likely to make his head explode. So, for better or worse, you're stuck with him.

Pope Cody was in prison for 1.114 days. In that time, he read 158.5 books; he finished the last one — The Book Thief, which he started reading on day 1.112 of his sentence — as a free man. He’s already finished with The Book Thief when he learns about audiobooks, after a well placed ad for Audible on a self-help Youtube video he listened to while on a stake out. 

It takes him another eight books after that to discover audioporn. He comes across the app by accident, and it takes him about seven minutes into the first audio he chose — puppyplay, though he didn’t know what that meant just yet — to realize he’s listening to a porn story. 

Pope sticks with it. The stories he listens to don’t do much for his dormant dick, but it’s nice. He likes listening to women whispering about how good of a boy he is, the dirty little things they want to do to him and the things they want him to do to them— A fantasy, something for him to get lost into during the nights he couldn’t fall asleep; a habit acquired in prison, the sort of ongoing vigilance that he couldn’t grow out of even though he now lives a somewhat safe life. 

And then he finds you. Your account is called Mommy Dearest, which is why he clicked on it at first, but the one audio that sticks with him has nothing to do with mommy kink: It’s a phone call, about fifteen minutes long, that starts with you rambling about your day and ends with you wailing through an orgasm with a loud vibrator between your legs. You edge yourself for a long portion of it, talking about how much you miss his cock and his fingers and his tongue; and then, close to the end of the call, you say you miss him. You talk about how you miss him and how prison isn’t going to keep him from you, and you giggle and say that, on another phone call, you’ll tell him every single perverted thing you’ll do to him when he’s out. 

Logically, Pope knows it’s not real. You’re not talking to him, it’s just a character that you recorded, edited and then posted on a porn app for pathetic men like him but it lands so heavy on his chest he doesn’t even notice he’s hard for the first time in over three years. 

You have a whole series on your ‘convict boyfriend’ — which you name Folsom Prison Blues after the Johnny Cash song and Lord help him if that doesn’t do something for him. — and the phone calls and letters and conjugal visits. You sigh and you moan and you describe in full detail what toy you’re using to get yourself off and, when Pope scrolls through the comment section, he gets so angry at all the men that get to listen to you too that he loses his erection. 

But he doesn’t stop listening. Pope feels some sort of odd loyalty to you and your breathy little sighs, his heart clenching whenever you whine about missing him, and he whispers into the air vows of finding you, of walking through the doors of your home and taking you in his arms and making sure you’re always full of his cock. He comes over and over again at the thought of you, bent over his couch and his kitchen counters and in his shower— He doesn’t really know what your body looks like, your profile photo is a headshot of you with a sultry smile and bright pink hair he’s fairly certain is a wig, but he thinks he can figure it out; it doesn’t really matter how big or small your tits are, because Pope dreams of falling asleep suckling on them anyway, your fingers tugging on his hair and your legs wrapped around his waist as you say you’ve waited for him, that you love him and that he’s the only man that gets to see you like that. 

Pope’s not certain at which point he stops thinking of Cath. It happens naturally, either gradually or all at once, and he only notices when he walks into Smurf’s home one evening and Cath is on the couch, her head on Baz’s shoulder, dozing off after what he presumes is a whole day out by the pool. It used to hurt him deeply to see her like that, cuddled up to a man that Pope knows isn’t good enough for her, but this time he… Feels nothing. Not pain, or annoyance, or jealousy. The only thing he can think about is how he wishes he could have that with you; an afternoon together, laying on the couch, watching a nature documentary— You’d interrupt it every five minutes or so to talk about something else, maybe your shift at your day job or the little shiny trinkets you buy with his money. He knows you’d ask about him, too. About his day and his feelings and whether or not he ate; you’d ask and you’d mean it, you’d want to hear everything he has to say unlike Smurf, who asks but never pays attention, never really listens when Pope speaks. 

He’s so lost in his daydreaming that, when he finally hears your laughter, he doesn’t think it’s real. Pope’s eyes fly beyond Baz and Cath cuddling on the couch to find you sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor by the pool, a collection of Barbie dolls spread between you and Lena. You’re in short overalls and a brown and orange striped shirt, your natural hair — not pink, so Pope had been right about the wig — pinned away from your face. A gorgeous, heaven-sent angel that laughs exactly like the girl from the app. 

“Who’s that?” He asks, unable to stop himself. His fingers itch to trace the curve of your neck, to spread his fingers over your collarbone. 

“Lena’s new sitter.” Baz answers. Pope makes a noise in the back of his throat, trying very hard to pretend that it doesn’t matter but his brother sees right through it. He squints at Pope. “Don’t even fucking think about it.”

“I’m not Craig.” He says, but they both know you’re not Craig’s type— Too innocent-looking, verging on the side of boring and not the sort of girl that Craig would look twice at. But Pope would, and he does; he finds a seat in a position where he can watch you from afar while still pretending to pay attention to the TV. You play with Lena until the girl is ready to pass out from exhaustion, and then you bring her inside and settle her on the couch before you finally introduce yourself to him, a sweet smile on your lips as you extend your hand to him. 

If your laughter had been enough to remind him of the girl from the app, the way you say your name cements it to be true. It’s you, the pink-haired girl with the convict boyfriend and an extensive collection of sex toys. 

Pope doesn’t like shaking hands — too many germs, the contact always making his skin prickly — but he takes your hand in his anyway, squeezing it once before he lets go. He wants to keep holding it, feeling your soft skin his against his roughened one, to put your fingers in his mouth and suck on them until you’re begging for him; you don’t seem to notice the way he lingers, you just accept the cash from Baz with a small nod and wave your fingers at them as you leave. 

“I mean it, Pope. Don’t be a creep with the girl.” Baz growls at him later that night, after Cath has already tucked Lena in the backseat of the car and they’re about to go home. “She keeps Lena so busy I get to actually fuck my wife on the regular again. If you fuck this up for me I’ll kill you.”

Pope doesn’t like the way Baz talks about Cath, never has— Like she’s just something for him to get off to, like he needs to rub it in Pope’s face that he’s the one that gets to sleep by her side every night. This time he doesn’t really care, because all he can think about is you.

He doesn’t mean to follow you. He just wants to make sure you get home safe at first, because Baz and Cath make you leave the house later and later each time. And then, when he finds out you’ve been taking pottery lessons twice at week at eight pm, he follows you there because he also wants to make sure nothing will happen— He thinks it’s quite late for a lesson, but you’re always happy when you leave, your face a little flushed from the red wine he sees you drinking from the window. 

Pope learns your schedule quite quickly, and he knows he’ll need to have a conversation with you about that. Keeping such a tight routine is easy for someone to hurt you, even if Pope himself understands the appeal of consistency— It’s all he’s had in prison, after all, and it was quite a comforting change from the violent chaos that is living underneath Smurf’s iron fist. It’s easy for him to come up with excuses to hang around Baz’s house whenever you’re there, and even easier whenever you’re at Smurf’s. 

Although he follows you home almost every night, Pope has never gotten too close. He’s afraid you’ll see him so he stands back, sits in his car for a couple of hours until your lights go out but tonight is different. You have a date. He follows the two of you to the twenty-four hours diner the guy takes you to, and he watches through the window as you almost fall asleep at the table; he can’t hear the conversation but it’s clear that you’re bored, barely responding to the man even though Pope knows you talk a lot when you’re happy. You’re also not a girl to take to a diner of all places and Pope wants to beat the guy black and blue for putting so little effort into dating you, even if he’s glad his competitor is tanking the date— It means he can whisk you away, dazzle you by showing what being truly courted is like. 

You swerve the guy when he tries to kiss you at your front door. Pope is out of his car by then, hiding in the shadows across the street just to make sure the man will leave you alone; he does, even though he speeds off with screeching tires when you deny his kiss for the third time. Pope tells himself that he is only checking in on you, that you’re taking way too long to shut out the lights and maybe something is wrong, as he climbs through the fire escape to your floor— He knows exactly where your apartment is, has watched you open and close your blinds plenty of times before. 

He stares through your window carefully, making sure to stay out of sight, and his mouth goes dry when he sees you sprawled on your bed, fully naked. You have one hand between your thighs, your legs spread apart as far as they can go, but Pope can barely pay attention to it— He’s looking at the dildo you’re holding with the other hand; it’s thick, long, and bright pink. Bigger than Pope’s own cock, the sort of big that he doesn’t think it’ll fit inside of you. And you’re licking it. Long, deliberate strokes of your tongue before you spit on the head, watching as it drips down the silicone shaft; you don’t take it into your mouth, not really, but you lick and spit until the thing is dripping before you collect your own slick to rub on it— You’re using your own juices and spit to lubricate it, and Pope feels like he might come in his pants at the thought of you doing the same to him. 

You don’t take the toy all the way. You push it inside of you slowly, carefully, one hand rubbing furiously at your clit while the other pushes the pink silicone inside; you stop for a moment, chest heaving but the large smile on your face tells him everything he needs to know— You’re edging yourself, stopping to come down from your high before you go back to fucking yourself on the monster cock between your legs. 

Pope’s not even aware of the moment he pulls his cock from the confines of his jeans, spitting on his hand and tugging furiously, his eyes glued to the way you fuck yourself hard and fast— It’s a little clumsy, the angle not quite right, but you’re wailing, shivering and shaking as you shove the toy inside of you as far you can; Pope pictures himself climbing through your window, taking the toy from your hands and fucking you properly with it. He thinks you might let him fuck your ass while the dildo is still inside of you, filling you with flesh and silicone until you’re crying from how full you are, how ruined your pussy and your asshole are. 

He comes first, fisting his cock with one hand and stifling his moans with the other, his eyes still glued to you. You shift positions, desperation all over your face as you bring yourself to your knees, sitting on the dildo instead; you ride it hard, bouncing on the toy and in this position Pope can see the way the entire thing disappears inside of you, the fake balls grinding against your clit when you lean forward, your hips rutting with abandon. You come while meaning loud enough that Pope thinks the neighbors might complain, your tits jiggling hard as you push yourself up and down, riding the toy all the way through your orgasm until you topple sideways, exhausted. 

Pope stays until you fall asleep, the toy forgotten by your side, your naked body sprawled over the bed. And then he stays a little longer, watching you sleep, his denim and hands still stained with his cum.

Pope thinks you’re getting used to his hovering presence the evening he corners you in the kitchen. You’re always incredibly kind to him, talking a lot when it’s just the two of you even though he hardly ever engages in the conversation apart from giving you his undivided attention; he thinks you might like him, even, your smile always brightening up when it’s geared towards him. 

Lena is in bed by then, Cath and Baz gone on a date— Which means Pope has no excuse to stick around after they leave but you don’t seem to mind, swiping up the counter where Lena spilled half of her spaghetti, humming underneath your breath. He’s not sure how to bring it up, how to tell you that he’s been listening and dreaming about you long before you showed up so instead he simply pulls out his phone, opens your profile and slides his phone across the counter. 

You stare at it like it’s something rotten, your hands frozen on the marble counter. “Pope—”

“It’s you, isn’t it?” The question is just a formality, a need for you to admit that he isn’t crazy. 

“Please don’t tell Barry.” You beg so prettily, your eyes going wide when Pope rounds the counter. “I really need this job.” 

“I listened to the entire series.” He mumbles, his hand coming up to brush your cheekbone. Your skin is soft, glittering with sparkling make up and it looks so, so pretty beneath his blood-stained hands. You shiver at the contact, eyes fluttering close before you take a deep breath. “The Folsom Prison one.”

“D’you…” You lick your lips, and Pope needs to use every ounce of whatever little control he possesses to keep himself from kissing you. “Did you like it?”

“I spent three years at Folsom.” He tells you, ignoring your question— He thinks it’s obvious, with the way his fingers drip down to run over the column of your throat. “Would’ve been a lot easier if I knew I had such a pretty young thing waiting for me at home.”

He can see the moment the idea pops into your head; Pope likes to think he can read people pretty well, and he sees the way your eyes fly from his face down to his crotch, his half-hard cock straining through his jeans. He hasn’t gotten hard this easily since he was a teenager, but your smell alone is enough to drive him crazy, let alone the way you blink owlishly at him, your nimble fingers coming up to brush at his belt buckle. 

“Promise me you won’t tell Barry.” You lick your upper lip and Pope doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it, his mouth going dry at the pink that pokes through your teeth. “I’ll give you what you want, but promise me he won’t find out.” 

Pope nods, not trusting himself to speak, and you sink to your knees. He’s terrified that he might lose his erection but his nerves turn into blazing desire when you wrap your hands around his cock, pumping him slowly and brushing your thumb against his slit— It feels so much better than his own hands that his knees nearly buckle, Pope gripping the counter as you look up at him, a soft smile on your lips. You take him slowly into your mouth, tongue circling around the head of his cock before tracing the vein on the underside, your eyes never leaving his face. Your mouth is warm and flooding when you finally take him into it, the flat of your tongue pressing against his shaft, one hand on his thigh for balance while the other grips the base of his cock; your rhythm is slow, teasing, and Pope digs his fingernails into the marble to stop himself from grabbing you by the hair— He likes you, perhaps too much, and he doesn’t want to scare you. Maybe you’d let him fuck your face one day, but this time he wants to do this your way. 

You take him as far as you can, your nose pressing against his pubic bone and Pope’s eyes roll to the back of his head when your throat tightens around the sensitive head of his cock, a whimper escaping his lips that he tries to stifle with gritted teeth. He’s going to come just from that, tears pooling at the corner of your eyes as you pick up the pace, the wet sounds of your slurping and gagging whenever you swallow too much of him bringing him that familiar tightening at his navel. 

Pope grips your hair at last, pulling you away with perhaps a little too much force. 

“Get up.” He says, half an order and half a plea. You stare at him through wet eyelashes, still gripping the base of his cock for a long moment before you comply— Pope is about ready to yank you up himself, but you stand on wobbly knees before he turns you around, pressing your front against the counter. 

The positions change, with now Pope kneeling behind you while you bend over the counter; you’re in a yellow dress, modest enough that you could run around after Lena all day without showing too much— Modest enough that it would never have anyone thinking you’re the kind of girl to fuck yourself with a silicone cock while saying the dirtiest, nastiest things on a microphone but Pope knows better. He feels like he’s the only person in the entire world that truly knows you, and his hands shake in anticipation when he shoves your dress up to your hips. You hold it in place, taking a deep breath and pushing your ass out even more. 

You’re drenched, the gusset of your cotton underwear a shade darker than the rest, your juices starting to run down your thighs. He cusses under his breath, pushing his nose against your core and taking a deep breath. You gasp, surprised, but you still push your ass against his face. Pope leans back just enough to watch as he pulls your underwear down, mouth salivating as the gusset sticks to your cunt, stringy slick connecting the cloth to your skin before he’s letting it slide down your legs. 

“All this just from sucking me off?” Pope doesn’t mean to tease, the words more wondrous than anything else. Your entire body shivers when his breath hits your pussy, making you whine. Pope takes pity on you, using his hands to spread you open before his tongue runs across your cunt. 

You taste even better than he thought you would. The two of you moan in unison, your hand flying backwards to grip his hair, pushing him against you until he’s struggling to breathe but he doesn’t care— Pope would let you use his tongue and his fingers and his cock however it pleases you, his cock throbbing at the fact that he’s the one bringing you pleasure. He suckles on your clit, nose bumping against your entrance and you keen before you bring a hand to your mouth, trying to keep quiet. He pulls back just a little, watching entranced as you clench around nothing. 

“Talk to me.” He asks. “Like you do in your stories.”

“I need your fingers.” You say, voice a little breathy, the pitch just a little higher. It’s the voice you use in the app, still yours, still recognizable, but still different. “Please, Popey, I need it. Been thinking about them for so long, how thick and capable they are—”

The nickname does something to him and Pope whimpers against your cunt, pushing two of his fingers inside of you at once. It’s a snug fit and he can only think about how your pussy is going to strangle his cock, how he’ll stretch you open and leave you leaking with his cum. He moves his fingers slowly but purposefully, crooking them until you’re almost yelling, a string of yesses and his name falling from your mouth like a prayer.

The noises you make as you come might be the prettiest Pope has ever heard, your already tight cunt clenching hard around his fingers, your slick dripping down his wrists as he suckles on your clit until it’s twitching, your hips spasming against him; you slump against the cold granite, whimpering softly when he pulls his fingers out of you but Pope’s not nearly close to being done— He hasn’t been this hard in years, the tip of his cock painfully red and leaking, and there’s nothing that can make him feel better than the moment he sheaths himself inside of you with one deep thrust. It’s a tight fit, perhaps a little too tight, your pulsing cunt tightening so hard around him that Pope thinks you might push him out.

“Fuck, you’re big.” You whine, more pain than pleasure— Maybe he should’ve prepped you a little better, and Pope makes a note to do so next time.

He starts rutting slowly against you, only pulling out a little bit before he pushes back in, his hands gripping your hips. Pope watches where he disappears inside of you, entranced by the stretch of your pussy around him, his cock coming out shiny with your wetness. 

“ ‘M so full” You moan, your voice back to the breathy one you use when putting on a show. “You’re everywhere. Biggest cock I’ve ever had.”

His hand tangles on your hair, pulling you back harshly so your back smacks against his chest and you moan. “Don’t fucking lie to me.” Pope growls against your ear, the hand not on your hair digging into the plush of your ass hard enough to bruise. “I saw that toy of yours. Such a naughty little slut, stretching yourself open with a big plastic cock, creaming all over it.” 

Your head whips back at him, eyes wide. “What do you mean you saw it?”

As much as he wants to hear your pretty voice singing for him, Pope doesn’t want to talk about it; he doesn’t think you can understand it just yet, how good he would be for you, how well he can treat you.

“Shut up.” He says, picking up the pace of his thrusts; you squirm a little, mouth open in a way that he knows means another question is coming so he slams his hand over your mouth, holding your jaw tightly closed as he pulls your head back against his shoulder. “Just— Shut up.”

He sets an almost brutal pace, his cock pushing in and out of your cunt with indecent squelching sounds and he can see the exact moment that the hand you wrap around his forearm stops trying to pull it away and holds tightly to him, your moans muffled behind his hand. 

“Are you going to be good to me?” Pope mumbles against your ear, lips twisting into a small smile when you immediately nod. He lets go of your mouth, then, pushing you back against the counter— He would love to see your face when you come for him, but the sight of the creamy ring you leave around his cock is too enticing to look away, your pretty little asshole clenching whenever he hits the right spot inside of you. 

You’re moaning now, hips pushing back against his, your mouth hanging open as you rest your head against the counter. Pope spits, the glob of saliva hitting just half an inch away from your hole and he rubs his thumb against it, pushing just the first knuckle inside of your ass; you’re even tighter there than your cunt and Pope moans, his cock pushing so hard and fast against you that you jostle, your head hitting the marble counter with a loud thud; there’s a small pool of drool next to your mouth, your lips still parted, your moans being punched out of you with every snap of his hips. 

“Cum for me.” He all but begs, his voice shaky. “Please, please, cum for me.”

Your body shakes as you come, your wetness splashing against his cock, dripping down his balls and onto his jeans and Pope can’t stop himself. He comes with a loud whimper, both his finger and his cock pushing deeper inside of you. Pope drapes himself over you, his forehead dripping sweat into the tiny pool of drool you left behind and you raise a hand, fingers raking through his hair as the two of you catch your breath. 

“Clean me up.” You say. “I can’t go home dripping your cum.” 

Pope nods, even though you can’t see his face, and he needs to wait until he stops shivering before he pulls out; he tucks himself and then looks around, trying to find the paper towels. 

“No.” You say, looking at him over your shoulder, still bent. “With your mouth, Pope.”

He’s on his needs before you can ask for it twice, lapping at your cunt, licking his own come from inside of you. Your clit twitches when he tongues at it, making sure every single part of you is clean— It takes longer than he thought it might, his cum leaking and leaking and leaking but he does as you tell him to until you’re shaking, his face smeared with a mixture of your wetness and his, fingers digging into your thighs to keep them spread when you try to close them, overstimulated— You come again like that, so lost in pleasure that you’re completely silent, squirting all over his lower face. 

And Pope, because he’s nothing if not great at following orders, swallow every single drop. He keeps licking and sucking until your entire body spasms and you pull him away by his hair. You yank hard enough to hurt, your fingernails digging into his scalp but all Pope feels is pleasure. 

“Now,” You say, smoothing down your dress and leaning back onto the counter. He can see you’re trying to hold some composure but you’re sweating, your lips bitten raw and hair plastered all over your forehead. He notices how badly you’re shaking when you try to push the hair away from your face and Pope interjects, pushing the hair out of your eyes for you. “Now you’re going to tell me exactly what and how you saw anything.”

And he does. The two of you sit down on the kitchen floor, facing each other, and Pope tells you word for word of the night he saw you masturbating on your bed, the way he perched himself outside of your window and touched himself to the image of you. You don’t say anything, silent even when he begs you to say something, sitting on the ground until Baz and Cath come home; you bid them goodnight with an innocent smile as if you hadn’t just squirted all over their kitchen and leave without sparing Pope another glance.

Three days later, Pope gets a notification that you’ve posted a new audio; it’s not an update on the Folsom Prison Blues series but an entirely new one:

Late Night Cravings. It’s the tale of a young nanny that fucks her stalker in the kitchen of her workplace and, in the comments, you promise to soon share another episode.