warnings: SMUT (18+), minors DNI, inappropriate age gap (reader is said to be under 30), work boundaries crossed (HR would hate to see them coming), innocent massage turned erotic, perv!abbot???, dry humping, jack is a munch! (and creams his pants😛)
~~~
Nursing is by no means an easy career—especially in the ER.
You’re on your feet the whole shift, most weeks strung together in back-to-backs or three 12s that blur into one long fluorescent day. It’s a miracle if you get a real lunch break. You never know what’s coming through the doors in the next hour—sometimes not even the next ten minutes.
And still, you love it.
Even when your back aches and your calves cramp and you’re pretty sure your future includes at least one ortho consult with your name on it.
You’re heading out, grateful to be done for the week, already building a mental checklist—hot bath, epsom salt, your vibrator—when you pass by the man everyone seems to orbit on nights.
Dr. Abbott.
Jack Abbott is one of the reasons you stayed on nights. Sure: no management breathing down your neck, differential pay, your people. But if you’re being honest, it’s him. You like the way he runs a room. You like the way he trusts a good nurse and expects competence without making you prove it twice.
“Heading home?” he asks, nudging your shoulder as he falls into step beside you.
You discovered one night that you live only a couple of buildings down from each other, and ever since then, he’s insisted on walking you home. Something about the streets not being safe for a girl alone. Honestly, it sounded like your dad.
But you welcomed it. Because the walk is quiet and private in a way the ED never is. Because you like hearing him talk when he isn’t running trauma. Because you like that he never asks questions just to fill the silence—he waits until it matters.
“You’re an old man,” you say, choosing a blunt statement to break the comfortable silence between the two of you.
He makes a sound, half scoff, half laugh. “Gee. Thanks.”
“No—wait. I mean—” You scramble, because it comes out wrong. “I mean, you probably have, like… back pain and aching joints-”
“Wow, just shoot me while I’m down, kid.”
“Jack!” You’re exasperated now, “I mean my back’s been killin’ me and I’m not even thirty. I figured you might have tips. Tricks. Anything that actually works.”
He glances at you—one measured look, the kind he gives a room right before he takes control of it. Like he’s deciding if this is a safe question or a dangerous one.
Then, quietly, “You like massages?”
Your stomach drops, warm and immediate.
“Ugh, are you kidding?” you say, trying for normal. Trying for light. “I love them. I swear I need someone to crack my back real good.”
“I could do it for you,” he says.
The words shock you like an AED.
You swallow. “Yeah?”
He doesn’t smile. Not really. But his voice goes lower.
“Only if you want.”
You nod and keep walking because stopping would be admitting how fast your pulse just jumped.
The rest of the walk feels charged. The city air is cold enough to sharpen everything. You can hear your own footsteps, the quiet crunch of the gravel path, the soft clink of his badge against his scrub top.
When you reach your building, your hands shake a little at the scanner.
You tell yourself it’s exhaustion.
You open the door, step inside, and the hallway light makes the moment feel too real. Setting your work bag down at the doorway beside his camo one.
This isn’t the first time he’s been to your place. Sometimes you invite him in for a drink and conversation after a hard shift—nothing more than two tired people debriefing over a couch that’s seen too many late nights.
But boundaries were never crossed.
And this—this offer from the attending you’ve been pining over for a year and a half—feels like a line you can’t uncross.
“You want a drink?” you offer, because you need to do something with your hands, your voice, your whole nervous system.
“’M good, kid,” he answers gruffly.
Kid. He says it like a habit. Like a shield.
But the way his eyes flick to your mouth isn’t habit at all.
He sits on your couch and, without ceremony, takes off his prosthetic and rests his leg. It’s a familiar sight—something practical, unglamorous, intimate in a way that makes your chest tighten. There’s a faint, irrational guilt that you’re about to be pampered when he’s the one who carries himself through the world with that extra weight.
As if he senses the thought, he murmurs, “Don’t.”
You blink. “Don’t what?”
“Start feeling sorry for me.” His eyes lift. Steady. Flat. “I offered.”
Heat runs up your neck.
“Sorry,” you murmur as he shoots you a sidelong glance, “I mean not sorry for you, just sorry that I- y’know,” you ramble as you begin to pull out the sofa bed to cushion some of the embarrassment you’re feeling. It also felt safer than leading him to your bedroom. Too private. Too intimate. Exactly where you want him most.
“Didn't mean no disrespect…just-”
“You got any oils or lotion you like?” He asks, effectively cutting off your word vomit.
Your brain stutters.
You manage, “Yeah—uh. One sec.”
In the bathroom, you stare at yourself in the mirror and look like someone who’s about to do something brave and stupid.
When you come back, you’re holding a bottle of lavender lotion with a hand that’s only slightly unsteady.
You pass it to him. Your fingers brush his. The contact is brief, but it feels like a promise.
“Top off?” he asks, voice even.
You hesitate. One beat too long.
His gaze doesn’t move from yours. “If it's a no, just say so.”
You exhale. “It’s not no.”
“Good,” he says, and the word is quiet—softened around the edges.
You turn, tug your scrub top over your head, and lie flat on your stomach across the expanse of your couch, suddenly aware of every inch of skin the room air touches.
He puts his hands on you tentatively at first—palms warm, pressure careful—starting at your shoulders like he’s giving you time to change your mind.
You don’t.
His hands continue their diligent work—patient, methodical, like he’s mapping you by touch. He uses his thumbs first, slow circles that sink in and hold, then his knuckles, then the broad heat of his palms.
Pressure, release. Pressure, release.
Like he’s coaxing your body to remember it’s allowed to let go.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says again, quieter this time.
“It’s not,” you manage. “It’s… perfect.”
You feel him pause for half a second, like the word lands somewhere it shouldn’t. Then he exhales, long and controlled, and resumes—only a fraction deeper.
Your muscles give in one by one. Shoulders first. Then the place between your shoulder blades that always feels like it’s holding your whole week. When his hands move lower, he doesn’t rush. He stays respectful, measured, working along the long lines of tension with the kind of focus you’ve watched him use on patients.
Heat rises across your skin, equal parts relief and vulnerability. You shift your head to the side, cheek pressed against the cushion, trying not to think too hard about the fact that his hands are the steadiest thing you’ve felt all week.
“God, right there.” You don't mean to make it sound so dirty, but when his strong hands finally reach the site of your back where you’ve been aching, it feels like heaven at his fingertips.
“Feel good, sweetheart?” You tense then under his touch; you’ve never heard him sound like that before.
Or call you sweetheart.
It shouldn’t undo you the way it does. It’s one word. One quiet, careless word—and it changes the air in the room like someone dimmed the lights.
Mhm. You hum, not trusting your voice at the moment, not when you can feel an ache building just south of where his hands are.
So close yet so far away.
His hands keep moving, but you feel the difference now—the way his control is deliberate. Like he’s holding a line. Like he’s deciding what he’s allowed to do and what he’s not.
“Good,” he murmurs again, and the praise hits warmer than it has any right to.
He works the knots out of you with slow insistence. His thumbs press and hold until the ache turns into something else—something that makes you bite your lip and squeeze your eyes shut.
You don’t know when it starts to shift—when “massage” becomes something heavier, the way a storm builds without thunder at first. It’s the scent of lavender in the warm air. It’s the ache dissolving in your back while something entirely different gathers between your thighs. It’s the way you can feel him behind you—his presence, his heat—so close it’s hard to pretend there’s still a safe distance.
But the change is so much more obvious after a subtle shift backward, pressing into that hardness just enough to feel it twitch through the layers of cloth.
There.
A groan from the man behind you, his breath coming in a little heavier.
He’s been rather quiet. And now you know the reason why.
It’s gently prodding at the curve of your ass.
You gasp at the feeling. His hands stopping in their tracks at the sound that escapes you.
You freeze. The quiet is loud—just your breathing, his breathing, the soft hum of the city outside.
For a moment, neither of you moves, like you’ve both reached the edge of something and you’re deciding whether to look down.
Not until you arch, pressing back into him as his groan fills the air and his grip tightens on your hips.
“What’re you doin’?” His voice is strained, like he’s trying so hard to maintain control and composure before you can’t turn back from this moment
“Feels good,” you sigh, “think it helps with the ache,” you add with another roll of your hips back onto him.
“Sweetheart-”
“Don’t you think?” You can’t bear to look at him, not now, not when you’ve put yourself in such a vulnerable position.
Not when you feel him shift behind you and worry that he might be leaving.
Not until you feel your legs trapped between his thighs and the weight of his body press along the length of yours, arms caging you under him, breath tickling the shell of your ear.
“Yeah, warm pressure’s good,” lips brushing against your temple, “lemme make you feel good.”
“Jus’ relax.” His grip tightens on your hip, steadying you as his hips roll forward in a tentative grind. The friction is muffled by your pants and his, but it's there: the thick ridge of his cock dragging along the cleft of your ass, slow and deliberate. He keeps it controlled at first, like he's still pretending this is part of the relief, his other hand resuming its circles on your lower back to anchor the motion.
You bite your lip, stifling a moan as he finds a rhythm—forward, back, the heat of him building through the fabric, his hand on your hip guiding your subtle rocks to meet him.
It feels so wrong in the best way, the couch creaking faintly under you both. His breath comes heavier now, matching yours, the lavender lotion slicking his palms as they roam your sides, but he doesn't push further.
Not yet.
The line you're blurring makes every grind pulse with forbidden heat, your core clenching with an ache that's no longer just in your back.
Minutes stretch like that, the grinding intensifying, his cock throbbing insistently against you, the fabric between you growing damp from your arousal seeping through. You're whining now, soft and needy, unable to hold it in as the pressure coils tighter in your pussy.
He knows.
Of course, he does—his movements falter for a beat, then his lips brush your ear, voice a gentle rumble.
“The real ache's lower, isn't it?” He whispers, calm as ever, like he's diagnosing a subtle symptom. “I can feel you trembling. Let me help there, too. Turn over for me…lie on your back.”
Your pulse races, but his tone soothes the edge of nerves, making the surrender feel almost natural.
You nod, twisting carefully on the couch, and he eases back just enough to let you settle. Before you can fully relax, he reaches for one of the couch pillows, sliding it under the small of your back with careful hands. The arch it creates lifts your hips perfectly.
He kneels between your legs, eyes dark but steady, searching your face. “Can I?” he asks softly, fingers hovering at your waistband, waiting for your answer.
“Yes,” you breathe, the permission making it all feel so much more real.
With a nod, he hooks his fingers in and tugs your scrub pants and panties down your thighs in one fluid motion, bunching them at your knees. The cool air hits your bare pussy, slick and aching, and you feel exposed—vulnerable—but his gaze is reverent. He doesn't touch himself, doesn't free his straining cock; the bulge obvious and tented.
Starting slow, he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, just above the knee, then another higher, his stubble grazing your skin in a teasing path. It's build-up, deliberate and gentle, his lips lingering on the soft flesh, nipping lightly before soothing with his tongue. You squirm, the ache sharpening, but he doesn't make you wait long—your whines pull a soft chuckle from him, vibrating against your leg.
“Patience,” he murmurs, but his voice sounds as hungry as you feel.
He spreads your thighs wider, settling his shoulders between them, and finally, his mouth finds your core. A tentative lick along your folds first, tasting you, then his lips part yours gently, tongue circling your clit with firm, flat strokes.
You gasp, fingers flying to his hair, tangling in the soft curls to guide him exactly where the pleasure sparks hottest.
He groans in approval, the sound humming straight into you, and dives deeper—tongue thrusting into your pussy, lapping at your walls like he's savoring every drop.
He's a man possessed between your thighs, happy and focused, nose nudging your clit as he eats you with starving fervor. One hand slides up to join, two fingers pressing in alongside his tongue, curling to stroke that inner spot while he sucks your clit between his lips.
The dual sensation has you arching off the pillow, moans spilling freely now, the taboo thrill amplifying everything— Dr.Abbot, always so composed, reduced to rutting his hips against your couch cushions for friction. You catch glimpses of it: his body shifting, grinding down into the fabric as he loses himself in your taste, pants straining with his need.
“You taste like heaven,” he mutters against you, voice muffled and rough, pulling back just enough to swirl his tongue around your entrance before plunging back in. “So wet, so open for me—fuck.”
His fingers pump steadily, tongue flicking relentlessly, and the build is relentless. Your grip tightens in his curls, hips bucking into his face, chasing the edge. He matches you, grinding harder into the couch, breaths ragged as your pussy flutters around his fingers.
It hits you first—waves crashing, your walls clenching on his tongue and digits as you cum, crying out his name, juices flooding his mouth. He drinks you down, lapping through every spasm, and that's what tips him over.
A muffled growl against your core, his hips stuttering against the cushions, and you feel the tension snap in him too—his cock pulsing untouched in his pants, soaking the front with hot spurts of cum as he rides out his release with yours.
He works you gently through the aftershocks, fingers slowing, tongue soothing, until you're boneless on the couch. Pulling back, lips glistening, he meets your eyes with a soft, sated smile, his own pants a dark, sticky mess.
“Better?” he asks, voice tender, thumb brushing your thigh.
“Best massage ever.”
~~~
A/N: I have terrible back pain that’s aggravated by being an ER nurse, so I dreamed this up while going to sleep, need him badddd // as always, feedback is greatly appreciated, reblog and lmk what you think! <333
tagging moots and some of my fav Pitt/shawn writers💋
Dennis Whitaker who finally felt freedom, finally able to leave Nebraska and study medicine because it is his calling. He felt bad for not being able to feel the same amount of faith as his family back home, but at least his heart is pulled towards helping people by being a doctor.
Dennis Whitaker after losing a patient from a hidden heart attack felt like his calling is perhaps a delusion, a dream that he thought is a destiny.
But, Trinity Santos came into his life. The saint that took him in as her room mate and quietly took care of him, and through Trinity he gained his faith back, he thinks Trinity was sent by god to save him, he thinks Trinity is his guardian angel.
In Dennis' prayers, he thanks god for Trinity. He never would've thought that she could be the prophet who got him back to god.
heated breaths sent sparks down your spine as your pulse quickened. the skin adorning your nape pimpled up under andrew’s touch.
andrew had you caged beneath him, right hand firmly resting on the swell of your hips, fearing you might leave his hold. this wasn’t like other intimate moments the two of you shared. no frantic kisses with teeth clashing, with the force hard enough to chip enamel, fighting for dominance. no hands roaming urgently as lips follow in sync, each labium devouring the other, like beasts in heat. no, this was different, passionate and slow— borderline torturous.
your bodies pulled together like kitchen magnets, forcing his flexed abdomen to press against yours. there was barely any space left between you, each of you exchanging breaths of warm oxygen, drinking in the smell of mixed arousal.
none of you could remember what led to this. by now, clothes were discarded on the floor. two pairs of socks, his belt, your underwear, his shirt- all tossed behind him, forgotten like dreaded house chores as he worked to please you. every thrust of his hips was calculated and patient, focusing on the simmering tension that had been threatening to burst all night. now, in the wrinkled sheets, that knot began to snap.
andrew’s nose brushed against the column of your neck, eliciting whimpers of heated pleasure from you. your parted lips trembled as he continued his rhythmic pace. your hips reflexively ascended to his groin, naturally straining to meet his rams. one long, powerful thrust after another, the sounds of perspired skin echoing with each shove of his curved head. piercing shocks zap your lower half like static; your stomach swelled with anticipation as you neared your peak. andrew trailed close behind you, sputtering, his hips giving away his desire to come.
a mix of ragged breaths and groans were no longer kept captive in his body. each vibration had ample air time, the frequencies slow and clear. tepid tears cooled your neck as andrew felt more and more cathartic; his release teetered on the edge, every neuron activated by you spread below him, lust so strong that andrew could no longer forcibly deny himself.
his soft lips peppered kisses from your collarbone to your ear; he was lost in his own pleasure, needing to feel you all over. the final kiss andrew had placed left you buzzing, his plush lips tickling your sensitive spot. every action of his was a stimulus, rousing your nails to leave crescents on his broad shoulders. his flushed, freckled skin was now more ruddy than before. loud, uncontrollable whines escaped your lips, your hands pawing at his back for a semblance of relief. your eyes mirrored his gaze.
“yea? yea?” he pants more to himself than to you. you nod regardless; his gravelly mewls making you flutter open even more, seducing his length to hit the special spot inside you.
thick digits find their way to your blossoming bud. andrew knew your body by heart; he applied more pressure as he traced deep, slow circles. thwacks of hips no longer hide the sound of your wetness. slick poured from you like rich, viscous honey, coating andrew’s fingers as nectar would a spoon.
andrew, the ever-obedient and determined man, works harder to grant you pleasure. fingers sped up as he nudged your velvet wall with his rounded tip. you cry out instantly, eyes and nose scrunching up as your pleasure deepened.
“andy,” you whined hoarsely, voice higher in pitch now, sounding foreign even to you. andrew continued his speed as he gazed into your eyes. his pupils blown from arousal, a mixture of love and lust glossing his hazel irises. “fuck–i know, baby, i know.” he stammers out as he brushes the sticky hair from your temple. his forehead rests against yours, somehow linking your bodies closer.
the high now in sight, you quickly laced your fingers with his, planting your intertwined palms just a little north of your head. the pit in your pubic region only deepened as your bodies fused. you looked down at where you were joined, his pelvis only slightly visible from your vantage, but that was enough for you to wither.
another whimper escaped andrew, this time more desperate and pressed. his movements pick up a little as he works to carry you to the edge. sharp incisors and canines pierce your flesh, breaking the barrier of your skin on your left shoulder. that was all you needed: the catalyst, the precipice, the beginning of the end. cries tore through your vocal cords; a stinging sensation accompanied tears as you came to. he had wrecked you.
after he had given you your first orgasm, he continued to chase his own release, pounding into you with more force. his breathy moans layered on top of yours, mixing like arranged harmonies; the melody building your second orgasm. delight stacked like waves crashing down on the shore. you were far gone.
“i’m sorry…please, please, please” he whines, eyes wet and red, waiting for your approval, only wanting to experience ecstasy with your permission, still too ashamed of experiencing pleasure. big pleading eyes stare down at you, new tears brimmed, gluing his bottom lashes together. “let go, andy, it’s okay, baby. take what you need.” andrew doesn’t act immediately, he waits for you to change your mind, to take it back. your hand reaches for his face and you nod; he takes your tacit approval as his official order, finally deserving you, chasing after his own orgasm with wild abandon. your stomachs equally burned hot; his rough movements overstimulated you. spurts of smooth, warm liquid pushed deep inside your core, each pulse overwhelming you.
andrew gave you three more weak thrusts before collapsing onto you, his body limp and his weight grounding. labored breaths filled the space of silence. once he regained enough stamina, he gently pulled out of you, careful not to hurt you. your release mixed, spilling out of your entrance and onto the sheets below you. andrew’s skin glistened with your slick, the sight enough to gift you a toothy smile. beads of sweat styled both of your hair, evidence of the passion you had just experienced together.
you close your eyes in an attempt to slow your booming heart; you feel a cool, damp cloth against your navel and then your pubis. warm, quivering lips gingerly kiss your shoulder. the pain had long been forgotten in the heat of your intimacy. andrew runs his fingers over the diamond indents he made, then, too carried away in bliss, fails to realize he has marked you. his brows pinched together before finally breaking the silence. “sorry,” he whispered as if his impression on your skin had meant what he was afraid of. andrew’s eyes were elsewhere now, staring any place but you, scared he had wounded you like a dog.
your lashes fluttered as you were pulled back into the moment, no longer in an unconscious state of euphoria. looking at him was enough to see the guilt and doubt that had started to bubble over, the face of disgust and shame, despite being gentle, treating you first and okay with being starved.
your palm met the side of his cheek, thumb softly making circles on his warmed face before gently turning his chin back to face you. at the invitation, andrew peered into your eyes, looking for any hint of fear or regret. you smiled, as if to say what he needed to hear, and at that his nose nuzzled against your hand before languidly kissing your digits. “you did so good for me, andy. so, so good.”
the two of you remained there, both too tired to move, andrew’s tears now ceasing, his muscles more relaxed now that you held him. you craned your neck up, lips moving quickly to capture the last salty droplet on his chin. you kissed between his furrowed brows, smiling to yourself, partly because you felt otherworldly and partly because every time you looked at andrew, your heart ached. too scarred to realize he deserved moments like this, moments where love wasn’t transactional.
damp auburn curls sprawled against your breastbone; any moment now, the man atop of you would fall asleep. sleep, a rare occurrence for him, but with you it seemed to happen more often. moments like these were indescribable, one of the few instances where andrew was able to escape. a trust in you that allowed him to get free from his thoughts and fully bask in your love for him.
“i love you,” he mumbled through sleep. you placed a kiss on his crown, twirling the same curl mindlessly.
your confession of love went unheard by andrew, but he didn’t need to hear you to know that you loved him. you had set him free. no longer tethered to ideas of love inflicted upon him by his mother. no longer a disposable chess piece in her game. you were leading him to see that love was supposed to feel good; be as natural as the ocean, a feeling that keeps his body afloat in rising tides.
i hope it was a sweet read, let me know what you think!! 💌
಄ ﹕𓏼 an au brought to you by laluhlove || not beta-read, we die like real men.
Summary: after a tiring shift at the diner, pope decides to shoot his shot with the cute girl he sees at church and somehow got the number of!
Pairing: altar boy!pope x church goer!fem!reader
Word Count: ~800 words
Author's Note: this is a continuation / slice of life based off of my past altar boy!pope piece here.. youre both teens in this btw... pope is 19 and youre 18! the fam is actually normal here, but pope still has his stalkerish tendencies so warning for stalking, our boy here is still a little freak!! this genuinely TOOTHROTTING FLUFF!! popey being a shy boy, might do smut in future installments so look out for that! lots of rambling from pope having a boycrush on reader... apologies for the long a/n.. get to reading.
the smell of the lemony dishwashing liquid still clung to his hands like dirt even though it was squeaky clean, just like the plates he washed. the ride home was smooth, the same route and the same sights he always saw when he rode from the diner to his house.
his brothers—Deran, Baz, and Craig—were in their rooms at the moment, leaving him alone in his solitude as he laid on his back while he was left staring up at the spinning fan. for a boy who always had something to think about, his mind was empty.
bible study? did his usual chapters. tv? nothing good on tonight. homework? okay maybe that wasnt done, but who even in their right mind did homework out of boredom?
there was nothing fun that happened today to think about to keep his mind occupied, nothing interesti—actually. there was one.
her.
he almost forgot! he got her number today. who gave it, you may ask.. well.. the church phonebook... okay so he got it through unconventional means, sue him!
looking at his bedside telephone, he thought for a moment more, thinking of what to ask or even talk about to her. i mean this was cold calling someone. you atleast had to be charming so they dont hang up immediately, right?
weather? nope. too boring. school? she didnt even know you went to school with her, idiot... no.
hm.. church? maybe ask if she was volunteering. yeah. that could work.
picking up the phone, he dialed in her number... memorized it in his head from when he saw it.
Ringg... Ringg...
"hello?- who's this?" your voice crackled from the shitty signal on his room phone. a blush creeped up his neck, up to the tips of his ears as he flustered out a reply.
"hi! this is.. uh. andrew from church?" he spoke, a smile on his face as he tried his best to sound composed despite his heart racing faster than a racehorse's.
you smile in turn even if he couldnt see, a soft chuckle escaping your lips. god... he was gonna have a freaking nosebleed with how flustered he was getting from your voice alone.
"oh! andrew! nice hearing from you." you speak. "what brings you on my line tonight?" you say with a teasing lilt, causing pope to chuckle in turn.
"just uh.. wanted to check if you were still volunteering for the potluck later this week? mrs porter'll be there and i already told the old woman to expect ya." pope answered, trying his best to sound like an earnest sweet guy just checking in on plans.
you seemed amused by him. a good sign, yeah?
"oh of course ill be there- shes bringing those lemon merengues right?" you continued the conversation, earning a hum from pope.
"maybe. sorta. not sure." he shook his head. "i heard she was on mains this year."
"mains?!- but- she always did great on desserts!" you exclaimed, a pout almost audible through the phone at the mere thought of not having mrs porter's delicious desserts.
pope never cared about the old woman much. but you obviously did. it was obvious with the way he caught you and her chatting away as you volunteered at the library. the old woman never saw him around the damn place before you became the object of his affection. he was starting to think the librarian was catching onto his crush.
"yeah, i know right? bummer.." he spoke, playing the role of an equally disappointed guy who just.. well.. wanted some sweets.
"but.. say, if you really want sweets so bad.." he drawled out, "ill make ya a deal, okay?" he smiled.
you humor him, a chuckle escaping your lips as you hummed. "hmm? what could that be?"
"the diner closes early for the potluck. im supposed to be closing it for mr jones but... if you want, we can stay behind and get some of the pie there? they make em fresh every day. it'll just be thrown out anyways." he offered, the proposition nervewracking yet so.. well.. exhilirating at the same time.
a beaming smile painted your lips on the other side, a giggle escaping soon after he was done speaking. "deal." you nodded.. before you paused. "craps- mom's calling me down for dinner. see you at church?"
pope paused, eyes wide as he held a hand to his heart as a futile attempt to soothe it into a normal rhythm.
a date. with his dream girl.
holy shit.
"o-oh! uh- yeah! see you around!" he smiled, hearing your hurried shuffles on your bed.. the muffled sound of you calling out to your mother... "coming mom!"
then, back to him. "see you. thanks for the chat!"
"yeah... thanks for the chat." he said, a boyish smile on his lips before...
content <𝟑 .ᐟ 18+, f!reader, dumbification, brief oral mention (f. receiving), daddy kink, pet names, finger sucking.
you’re not thinking at all—
you haven’t been since andrew buried his face between your thighs and made you cum twice just because he missed you while he was “working.” that was the beginning of the end. you’re barely coherent as he maneuvers you onto your tummy before pulling your hips back to meet his, propping you up on your knees so he can slip his thick cock inside easy. you’re too messy for there to be any true struggle, but the reminder of how well he completes you always snatches the air from your lungs before you can get yourself to breathe through it.
clawing at the bed, you prepare yourself for him to move. the first thrust has you burying your face in his crisp sheets and whimpering, especially when he leans over you with a hand on either side of your dizzy head. the sound of his heated skin meeting yours is lewd, it makes your ears burn. your toes are already curling as he groans over you, feeling your soft cunt trying to milk him dry without even meaning to. one hand comes to grab your jaw, holding your head up to keep you from suffocating yourself in your state. he’s always amazed by how much he can break you down. you’ve always been a sensitive girl but when he has you like this, it’s a whole different level …
you babble, each movement knocking a few dumb hiccupy sounds and syllables out of you, “andrew, andrew— s’good— feels s’good, daddy.”
his heart stops. he’s too greedy to fully halt the rythym of his hips, but it comes to a slow grind that keeps you right where you need to be. blissed out and desperate. that word falling from your glossy lips was the last thing he expected. he didn’t know you had it in you to be so perverted. it forces him wonder how long you’ve wanted to claim him as your daddy. he nuzzles his face against the side of your own, feeling your supple skin and the shared heat between you two, “what did you just call me, baby? where did that come from, hm?”
you only whine in response, too gone to register what you’ve started. you lift your hips up in an effort to get more from him, pressing your ass against his hips and attempting to fuck yourself back on him. a groan claws up his throat, raw and raspy. and suddenly he’s pounding you into the sheets, still keeping your pretty face in his grip. you huff out little breaths against his thumb only to have the digit stuffed in your mouth, effectively muffling your squeals and sweet moans.
“i know, i know. don’t worry about it, should’ve known you were too fucked up to speak— let daddy do all the work, baby girl.”
Alright people. I have a specific itch and I need it nooowwww
Recommend me a Whitaker x Robby x John Carter fic PLEASE. I will take anything. But if you managed to find that Carter is Robby's kid that would be gold. Thank you. Please. Thanks. Please.
...on his sexy single neighbor that just moved in next-door to him and Tammi again and how just your presence has tormented this poor man day and night ever since.
it's not like he sees you that often. he started work pretty early and you did a pretty good job at mostly keeping to yourself, but the glimpses he did catch were enough to make him feel all flustered and ashamed of himself and his helplessly wandering eye.
because he can just tell you're trouble. you, in your sparkly flip flops and stupid cropped tube tops that let your tummy pudge peek over the hem of your too short denim miniskirt, plump ass bouncing and thigh fat jiggling as you walked your mean little dog (who hated Sammy with a passion); without a care in the world that he could see your chubby lovehandles begging to be squeezed or your perky nipples poking through your shirt. because of course you'd go braless, and of course Sammy looked despite him trying his best to ignore you and be a good husband.
Sammy Bryant was a weak little man who's eyes betrayed him any time you were around, really. zeroing in on any bit of exposed flesh you have busting out your tiny little outfits.
you're just a slut looking for attention, Tammi's words not his, and god does he give it to you.
when you show up at his door all pouty and looking worried sick, still in your nightie, claiming that your sink was leaking like crazy and you needed his help cause "it's wet alll over, Sammy please".
when your car shit the bed (a miracle your little fiat even held on that long) and you'd asked all syrupy sweet if Sammy could "take care of me, please Officer?".
even when your IKEA furniture came in and you needed "someone big and strong" like him to assemble it for you because you'd just gotten your nails done and couldn't afford breaking one.
and he'd willingly play along, frowning all unsure and going "eh…I dunno, sweetheart…" only to show up as soon as his wife was out of the house.
it was perfectly neighborly of him to help you, an upstanding member of his community. or at least that's what he reasoned with while he mowed your lawn on a hot-ass Sunday afternoon while Tammi was out of town.
all while trying his best to ignore how good you looked all splayed in your lawn-chair and little bikini, lips pursed around the straw of your fruity drink as your heated gaze raked over Sammy's buff, chubby body. the unforgiving July sun had made his white tee stick to his sweaty torso like saran, and you'd lapped up every detail like you'd owned him. his meaty, defined pecs, the outline of his belly pressing against the drenched fabric, the strain of his sleeves fighting against his flexing biceps…
Sammy couldn't possibly know you wanted him, but your looks were hungry, eyes voraciously gorging on every detail as he stopped mowing to stretch his back. his hand came up to wipe the beads of sweat dotting his brow and rolling down the side of his pink, plump cheeks. a small resigned sigh escaping him as he hesitantly tugged at the hem of his shirt.
"It's soooo hot…" you whine in your comfy seat in the shade, lower lip caught between your teeth in view of his thick triceps and back muscles flexing. good god was Sammy Bryant wide. built like an ox, broad shouldered and burly under a healthy layer of chub, and you wanted nothing more than to take a bite out of him. or three. "why don't you take your shirt off, honey?"
the suggestion seems to have hit a nerve, Sammy straightening up like a meerkat, his head whipping to your direction nervously. "wh-what?" he squeaks before clearing his throat. "i mean- i-…no, no i'm fine. no one wants to see the fat guy shirtless."
he doesn't understand why you look so confused at his self depreciating comment, brows pinched and nose ever so slightly scrunched as you slide off your seat and walk over to him. "That's mean, Sammy," you say, grasping the hem of his white tee to slowly peel the sticky, offending garment off his soft pudgy belly and broad chest. "I wanna see you shirtless." you admit to your married neighbor without a lick of shame. "'sides, it's hot out."
and what the fuck is he supposed to say to that except babble out a confused "thank you?" and ignore the pink flush moving from his cheeks down to his neck at record speed?
you giggle in response, clearly unfazed, or perhaps delighted, and reach up to squeeze his biceps. They're firm under your manicured fingers, a bulging vein jumping when you stroke it with your thumb. "You've got sooo many freckles!" you coo, the tips of your nails trailing down his chest like the world's horniest game of connect the dots. "Lemme get my sunscreen and I can do your back, yeah?"
any other man would probably have enough sense to push you off and hightail it to his home that he shares with his wife, but Sammy finds himself sat at the edge of your sun lounger with you kneeling behind him, almost trembling as you slather sunscreen on his freckled shoulders and back.
"Ooh..see, you're already turnin' pink, honey" you chirp, voice all sweet and bubbly. god, you sounded like you didn't have a care in the world, let alone worried that Tammi might catch you two. your hands take the opportunity to grope Sammy for all he's worth, naughty fingers grasping at his back muscles and sides with the excuse of "getting every inch!", even going as far as to pinch his love handles and laugh in his face when poor Sammy squeaks. "Goodness, you're jumpy officer!"
"Tammi…my wife…" Sammy starts, his protests melting into a soft whimper as you cup and knead his pecs, sunscreen forgotten.
"What about her?" you hum in return, peeking over his shoulder to look at his flushed face and puppydog eyes.
"Well.." Sammy starts, voice unsure "She won't be happy if you keep touchin' me like this, sweeth-heart," he stammers when you move down to rub down his pudgy belly, digits digging into the fat possessively. "Um…just worried, I guess. Don't want her to come fight you or-or something-"
you stop him in his tracks with a bold kiss to his shoulder, lipgloss staining the skin a glistening strawberry pink. it's completely out of order, a step far removed from your thus far mostly innocent flirting, and it makes Sammy's pulse thrum when he should be pushing you off.
"Oh I can handle Ms. Tammi, honey," you throw back, unperturbed by the possibility of Tammi rightfully getting in your face or even getting physical. "So you can tell her she's welcome to come over and try somethin'"
"Or," your purring voice is music to Sammy's ears as you lean in closer, breasts pressed to his bare back. "You can tell her to forget the dog and keep a tighter leash on her husband. Naughty thing keeps getting in my yard, officer." you look at his trembling lips, parted in anticipation of your own blanketing them, then back to those wide hazel eyes staring into yours before pulling back completely with another innocent giggle. "Now, how about some lemonade? i'm melting!"
summary: you finally meet your dad's new best friend and he happens to be the doctor that treated you the night before. he looks a lot hotter when you meet him out of scrubs and in the dining room of your dad’s house.
pairings: dbf!jack abbot x younger!fem!reader
contains: smut 18+ minors dni!! age gap (reader is 24 and jack is 50), medical inaccuracies, drunk reader, dubcon (bcuz reader is drunk), unprotected sex, penetration (p in v), dirty talk, praise, dry humping, pet names (sweetheart, pretty girl, angel, baby), hints of dacryphilia, creampie, no aftercare, lowkey corny ending cuz i didnt know how to end it, also i fully believe jack talks you through it
word count: 3.2k
note: first part of the new series im writing inspired by mans best friend!! :D this is genuinely my first time writing explicit smut lol!! i’ve kinda avoided it because im not super confident in writing it but fuck it!!!! i’m doing it for this series!!!!
The bright lights of PTMC are a stark contrast to the dark sky outside. The paramedics roll you in feeling more embarrassment than pain,
“… Twenty four years old, bystanders saw her trip and fall. She’s got a deep laceration on her left forearm. Possible concussion as well.” the paramedic recites as a few doctors and nurses approach,
“I told them I was fine but they wouldn’t let me go unless I went to the hospital.” There's a tinge of irritation in your voice as the paramedics hand you off,
“Yeah, that’s what they all say until someone ends up seizing.” The paramedic settles you in a room. You hear your name recited by one of the doctors entering,
“I’m Doctor Abbot, mind if I take a look at that cut on your arm?” you hold your arm out as he starts unwrapping the bandages. The sight of your skin cut open makes you feel uneasy— maybe the paramedics were right and you did need to be taken to the ER. You quickly turn your head away the sight of your open forearm,
“You okay?” Jack asks as he tries to look at the wound,
“Yeah, just bad with blood and stuff.” you mumble. Jack understands when patients feel uneasy with the blood and gore of the ER, but in this case he was having trouble examining your shaking arm with the way you’ve turned.
Jack calls Mateo over as he walks to the opposite side of the bed that you’re now facing. He pulls a chair up so the two of you are face to face,
“We’re going to administer some pain meds so we can clean the wound and stitch you back up, okay?” You nod at his statement,
“You’re not gonna pass out on me, are you?” he says with a small smirk forming on his face,
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Good, now keep your eyes on me.” you look up at him, maintaining eye contact while he nods at Mateo to proceed. You watch as his eyes flit between Mateo’s work and your eyes. There’s a sharp pain that shoots through your arm as the pain meds are administered. You wince and shut your eyes in pain,
“You’re doing so good. Hard part is done, just need to clean it up and put some stitches in. Just keep your eyes on me.” he says with a low voice.
You keep your eyes on him, studying his face to distract yourself. His silver hair pairs so well with the deep wrinkles around his eyes and forehead that you can’t help but focus on. There’s something about him that looks incredibly familiar to you. He’s a complete stranger, yet it’s like you’ve met or seen him before somewhere. Jack catches you staring a bit too intently and smiles,
“How’d you fall anyways?” You sigh in embarrassment as you get taken out of your daydream,
“I wore these stupid new shoes. They’re a size too big and I think I cut my arm when I fell. Can't even return them anymore.” you frown as you ramble on. Jack chuckles lightly,
“Did you hit your head? Any nausea, dizziness or pain?” He asks as he pulls out a small flashlight, shining them at your pupils,
“I hit my head on the pavement but I only feel a little bit of pain. Nothing else.” You lightly tap where the pain is and Jack hums in acknowledgment. In the corner of his eye, Mateo nods and indicates that he’s finished up,
“I’m gonna order you a CT scan so we can double check nothing else is going on. Come back in two weeks to get the stitches removed.” Jack says as he stands up. Mateo has already left the room while Jack sticks around and adds the order to your chart,
“Thank you, Doctor Abbot.”
“Jack.” He corrects you quickly.
“Jack.” You repeat. He likes the way you say his name, except he’s not sure when he’ll hear it again.
⋆˚౨ৎ ⋆.˚
You were supposed to spend the next day resting. The stitches were still fresh and the last thing you wanted to do was end up in the ER again— except your best friend heard you came home for the Summer and all she wanted was to drag you out, catch up and get borderline blackout drunk. Part of you wanted to stay in and spend all night thinking of fake scenarios starring the night shift doctor you met the night before.
You’ve never really had a thing for older men before. Friends of yours have had boyfriends twice their age and you never really understood why up until you saw Jack. By the time you were discharged, he was already busy in another room so you never had a chance to say thank you or maybe ask for his number. Would he have given it to you? Was that something he did with other patients? Every ‘what if’ ran through your mind at the thought of him. The possibility of a nearly fifty year old night shift doctor showing up at a bar with mostly twenty year olds was slim to none but you can’t help but imagine what it would’ve been like running into him.
A knock on the door takes you out of your fantasy. Your dad’s head pops into your room as you get ready,
“Hey honey, I’ve got a friend over for dinner tonight. You don’t mind, do you?” you give your dad a smile,
“Not at all. I’m probably gonna head out soon.” your dad nods and the door shuts again.
It’s nice to hear your dad has a friend. When you left for college, part of you felt guilty for leaving your dad on his own. It had been just the two of you for so long until he called one day to tell you all about his new friend. They played golf together on their off days, ate at sports bars and you’re convinced your dad’s new interest in joining a SWAT team was inspired by his new friend. You had seen a few pictures here and there but he never specified any name or told you much details about the actual person. He usually just referred to him as “my buddy with the prosthetic leg”
Pittsburgh’s summers are hot and humid but you throw on a jacket anyways to cover the evidence of last night from your dad. As you head down the stairs, two voices are heard laughing in the dining room. As you round the corner, you’re face to face with the night shift attending who stitched you back together the night before. It finally clicked and you realized the reason he was so familiar yesterday night was because of all the pictures your dad has shown you. He’s got a clad black shirt on and camo pants.
Fuck me, was he this hot last night?
Jack stares back at you in just as much shock. You were wearing a tiny lavender coloured satin top that barely covered your chest and a skirt so short he swears he can see your ass poking out. In Jack's younger days it could be considered lingerie– he's not complaining though.
“I don’t think you’ve had a chance to meet my daughter yet.” your dad says excitedly. Jack thinks about mentioning the run in at PTMC yesterday before you jump in,
“No, I don’t think so! But I’ve heard lots of good things.” you say with your hand reaching out. Jack shakes it gently but firmly, keeping his eyes on you the whole time,
“Jack.”
“Jack.” you repeat, similar to how he introduced himself yesterday,
“Isn’t it a bit warm outside for a jacket?” he asks with that same smirk he gave you the night before. Jack takes a quick sip of his beer before you jump back in,
“Saw it might rain.” You knew Jack was trying to discuss the obvious stitches on your arms but you were already prepared with an excuse. Between the two of you, there was obvious undeniable tension in the room— your dad has never been so oblivious,
“You sure? Didn’t look like it to me.” Jack retorts,
“Maybe you should check again,” You want to wipe the stupid, hot smirk off his face the longer this conversation goes on,
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve gotta meet a friend.” you say waving to the two men and heading towards the door. Your dad smiles lovingly while Jack watches your hips sway as you walk back towards the front door. He was gonna be in a lot of trouble.
⋆˚౨ৎ ⋆.˚
Another drink goes down as you swing the glass back quickly. There’s a familiar burn in the back of your throat that has only gotten easier as the night has gone by. You sway your hips back and forth as the loud music fills the bar but your mind is constantly leading back to Jack. He was supposed to be someone you fantasized about for fun, knowing you’d never see him again.
Jack was seated at your dad’s house with similar thoughts. He remembers staring at you and studying every part of your face, knowing that you were going to be discharged and never seen again. You were pretty and a distraction from the chaos of the night shift, someone that would live only in his head.
You stumble out of the bar with the Uber app open. The tall buildings surrounding Pittsburgh are spinning as you try to steady yourself against a wall. You squint your eyes to focus on the app. Immediately, your eyes widen at the prices,
“A hundred dollars?!”
Some passersby look at you as you continue to stare at your phone in shock. Your dad has always been kind enough to pick you up if you needed and you were heavily debating on that now. It doesn’t hurt to ask though?
You call your dad to see if he’s still awake. The phone rings a few times before he finally answers,
“Hello?”
“Hey, sweetheart.” Jack says. You double check you’ve called the right person before responding,
“Jack? Where’s my dad?”
“Uh, he’s asleep on the couch. I was about to head out but saw you called. Figured it was an emergency and maybe you fell again.” you feel your eyes roll intuitively,
“Very funny. I was just calling to see if my dad could pick me up. Uber prices are insane right now.”
“You can afford to go out but you can’t afford to get home?” Again, your eyes roll back intuitively as he continues teasing,
“I didn’t expect it to be a hundred dollars for a twenty minute drive! You know what, I’ll figure it out—”
“No, I’ll come pick you up. Stay where you are.” Jack cuts you off,
“I don’t need your help, Jack!” He hangs up the phone without giving you a chance to say another word.
You debated on walking home or actually paying the Uber upcharge while waiting. If you were to walk home, it’s likely you’d end up back in the ER for falling over again. Paying for the uber on the other hand, didn’t seem like the worst option the more you thought about it. The regret of calling your dad was starting to settle in. Jack wasn’t supposed to answer but you couldn’t call him to stop what he was doing. By the time you decide to call an Uber, Jack pulls up to the bar in a silver truck. He waves you over and you jump in,
“Thanks for picking me up.” You say as you click your seatbelt on,
“Yeah, glad I saw your call. Not sure if your dad would’ve been able to help with how many drinks he had tonight.”
The car ride is short and quiet on the way back to your house. Jack makes small talk and asks about how your night went,
“I got to catch up with my best friend, dance a little bit, it was great.” You don’t mention how you also spent all night thinking about him.
The car pulls into the driveway and Jack pulls the keys out of the ignition. Neither of you move and it doesn’t look like anyone is planning to soon,
“Why didn’t you tell your dad about yesterday night?” Jack says as he breaks the silence,
“Didn’t need the lecture from him. Plus he probably would’ve made it a big deal for no reason,” You pout as you slouch back in your seat. Jack chuckles at the sight,
“Does my dad talk about me?” you ask.
“He does— A lot more than you realize,” You look at Jack in disbelief,
“I know you're going to NYU and you major in film. He talks about how you’re paying way too much to stay in a shoebox apartment there.” you huff at your dad’s choice of topics,
“Your dad sometimes talks about some of the guys you’re seeing there. Something about how they’re not good enough— y’know the usual dad talk.” Jack says,
“Good to know my secrets aren't safe with my own dad.” you mumble as you shake your head. There's a pause in conversation.
“You said earlier that you had heard a lot of good things about me.”Jack asks. You nod your head,
“Yeah my dad sent some pictures of you two watching the game and stuff while I was away at college. Seems like you two get along well. He didn’t mention how hot you were though.” Jack’s eyebrows raise at the last part— liquor has made you bold and stubborn. The car goes quiet again and neither of you have moved still,
“Lemme take a look at how your wound is healing,” You watch his eyes rake over your chest and down to your legs as you take your jacket off. Jack carefully grabs your wrist and pulls you close to examine. Your hands shake lightly as he analyzes your forearm,
“Looks good, It's healing perfectly.” He says lowly. You swallow nervously as Jack moves to flip your wrist back over, still holding your hand. His thumb draws small circles over the top of your hand, as if he’s thinking of his next move. He hesitantly brings your hand up to his lips, kissing it softly.
Jack has no idea what’s gotten a hold of him. It was impulsive of him to kiss your hand but he wanted more so badly. You were his best friend’s daughter, someone half his age, someone who should be seeing other twenty something year olds. All the alarm bells in his head were going off and yet he wanted nothing more than to just kiss you there.
He looks up at your eyes anticipating some sort of hesitant look or fear. Instead, he was met with a similar lustful look that was telling him not to stop.
Jack brings your hand back up to his lips again and kisses your knuckles softly. He kisses the top of your hand before slowly moving his kisses up your arm. He can hear your shallow breath as he goes higher up your arm before stopping when he gets close to your shoulder. His face is inches apart from yours, he could kiss you right then and there,
“Tell me to stop. Tell me you don’t want this.” His voice is extra gravelly as he holds back,
“If you stop, I’m gonna be so fucking mad at you.” you say shaking your head,
“You’re stubborn, you know that?” Jack says with a smirk,
“I think you like that.” you smile as you lean in first.
Your lips meet and Jack still hesitates. You grab the collar of his shirt and pull him closer, feeling him melt into your kiss finally. His hand reaches up to cup your cheek and pull you close towards him. The kiss becomes deeper and deeper before Jack pulls away and begins kissing down your neck with a similar ferocity. Jack notices your breathing getting heavier as he trails down your neck, stopping to bite lightly once he hears you whimper. He can’t help but let out a groan, feeling his pants tighten at the sounds you make,
“Backseat, now.” Jack orders. You quickly shuffle towards the backseat and he follows you behind.
As he settles in the seat, you throw your leg over and straddle his lap. Jack pulls you back in for a kiss while you work to undo your top. His hands roam across your back, looking to help you pull it off. You grab at his shirt in an attempt to help him take it off in return.
Jack feels dizzy as he feels your hips grind against him. You moan into his mouth as you grind harder, wanting more and more. Jack moves his hand towards your core, pulling your panties to the side to find you drenched,
“Fuck, baby— you’re soaked,” He runs his finger up and down your slit, spreading your arousal around,
“You get like this for all your dad’s friends? Hm?” you shake your head as your hips grind on his fingers,
“No? Just me? Say it.” Jack says with a mocking tone. He watches you get more flustered before you bury your head into his neck whimpering,
“Just you— only you,” Your breathing gets heavier as he draws small, slow circles on your clit,
“Needed someone older to take care of you, huh? Is that right?” You nod your head against his letting out a needy moan,
“More, Jack, wanna feel you…”
“I know, pretty girl, I’ll give it to you. Be patient for me.” Jack fidgets with the zipper on his pants before pulling them down his thighs. His grip on your waist tightens as you sink down on his cock,
“Ah, fuck,” Jack groans, intoxicated with your warmth. Your breath gets heavier as your eyes roll back,
“Keep your eyes on me, angel.” he growls as he feels you tighten around him. You struggle to keep your eyes on him as you move up and down. Jack can’t get enough of how drunk you look on him,
“Jack— fuck— feels so good,” you moan,
“Lift your hips up a bit more for me,” Jack places his hands on the bottom of your ass to help support you. You drop back down, feeling him hit that spot perfectly,
“Fuck me.” you whine,
“Just like that baby, don’t stop,” Jack helps lift your ass up and down creating the perfect momentum,
“Tell me how good it feels.” he growls,
“So good, fuck, it feels s’good,” you babble,
“Please don’t stop, Jack, I’m gonna cum like this— fuck!” you feel your stomach tighten as you ride out your release,
“That’s my good girl, keep riding me just like that.” Jack says as you ride out your high. The way you look at him with glossy, tear filled eyes pushes him past the edge. He grips your ass tightly helping you bounce up and down, groaning loudly at how tight you feel around him,
“Baby, I’m gonna–” Jack lets out a rough grunt as he releases into you and fills you up. He moans deeply as he lays his forehead on your shoulder, pressing a small kiss on it. He looks up to find you smiling already as you pull out,
“I would’ve rather been in a bed for this.” Jack jokes as he tries to catch his breath,
“We can do that next time.”
“So there's a next time?” his eyebrows raise. You giggle as you jokingly hit his chest,
Perhaps if Robby really took his own life, Jack would not be able to feel anything at all. At first, he would be shocked, trying his best to resuscitate him, and everyone in the pitt would do their best. But eventually Jack would be the one to call the time of death. Jack would be the one to pry off everyone from Robby's lifeless body and to let him finally rest. Jack would be the one to calm everyone down, mixed emotions of anger and sadness. Jack would be the one person who stood tall when others are scrambling.
And that day, the rooftop feels too inviting for Jack. The ledge looks comfortable, and there's no voice greeting him anymore. The grief and guilt caught up to him, losing yet another person he cares about in the world.
…thinking about licking the blood off of pope’s pretty face…
cw: 18+, sexual themes, making out, and well…i feel like blood and licking said blood is obvious…i’m a freak for pope i’m sorry.
holding his face still with a hand on his jaw you peck at his nose and lips softly to “kiss away the pain” like he asked. even if it was only a bloody nose from baz giving him an elbow to the face. pope is never one to ever deny a kiss from you.
his breathe hitched when you pull away and his eyes catch on his blood staining your pout. he should grab a tissue or a towel to just wipe his face and your mouth. but before he can move away to act and find one, you lick at your lips to clean them off. “baby…” he pants out.
the rest of his sentence is lost however when another drop of blood falls from his nose and your tongue pokes out to lap at it. you continue to lap at his face, cleaning the carnage of crimson from under his nose and his mouth.
a small strangled moan is pulled from him when your warm tongue flicks over his lips. his hands slide up under your shirt bunching it up as they find your waist. he squeezes your sides as he feels his cock swelling in his swim trunks. strings of his little gasps filling your ears, he’s not surprised much by your action so much as how much he likes it.
cats lick each others wounds especially when they are mates, so why is this any different.
he whines a bit when you let go of his face and pull away, blood still staining your parted lips. staring at you, his pupils blown darkening his eyes while you ask “all better andy?”
he nods a bit too eagerly, pulling you in closer. you smile a bit when his bulge presses to your front. “mhm…thank you baby, all clean now” he mumbles out, you beam up at him.
“you’re welcome handsome” you coo as his tongue pokes through the side of his cheek for a second as if he’s thinking.
it pops back out however to lick at your mouth before his lips crash against yours with fever. he slips it between your parted lips when you gasp softly. coating his tounge in the taste of nickel from his own blood.
you hum in content as you wrap your arms around his neck, fingers running through his wet short hair. he groans lowly at your nails scratching his scalp and kisses you harder.
“s’ good to me baby, licking my wounds” he grumbles out as his hands trail up your body under the t-shirt. palms caressing your upper torso as his thumbs brush the underside of your breasts.
first version of this i wrote didn’t save so i had to rewrite it and im mad i lowkey liked the other better idk. anyway im sorry… AND TUMBLR WOULDN’T LET ME POST THIS WITH THE GIF OF HIM WET W/ BLOOD ON HIS FACE.
“Know I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad
Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph
I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back
I'm always on my own.”
-All Them Horses, Noah Kahan
summary: your family is in town for the annual ‘parents berating their kids for their decisions’ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.
wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)
tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat
a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. i’m normal and can be trusted with noah kahan’s discography. fic has been crossposted on ao3 and is linked below :)
acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me
masterlist | ao3
“Your family’s in town?”
You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries.
You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone.
“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”
“Dinner circuit?”
You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”
“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”
You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”
The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.”
“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”
“So your fucked, basically.”
Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”
Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.”
“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”
“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”
You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”
He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”
“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”
“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”
“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”
The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”
“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”
“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”
“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand.
Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”
Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”
“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”
Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”
Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?
You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby.
“Mom?”
“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”
“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“
She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.”
“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“
“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”
You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”
“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“
“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”
“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”
Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
Jack.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.
Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him.
“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”
You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures.
Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks.
“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”
And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway.
“You work with my daughter?”
“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”
Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke.
She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles.
“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”
Proud of the money I send home, maybe.
“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“
You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better.
Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders.
“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”
Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely.
“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”
Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside.
The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale.
“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“
“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”
“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”
He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”
You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”
“Are those desired outcomes?”
“Mostly.”
He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”
It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack.
So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.
“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”
“You could.”
“Wipe out my entire family?”
“Take me to dinner with you.”
Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious.
“Are you joking?”
He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—
“No.”
You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“
“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”
What. The. Fuck.
“No.” You gape, incredulous.
“No?” He raises an eyebrow.
“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“
“Jack.”
You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“
“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”
“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”
“In the ED, obviously.”
“How long have we been together?”
“Month and a half.”
“Why are we even dating?”
“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”
Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine.
“Have you… thought about this?”
He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”
“Are you rich?”
There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile.
“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”
You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”
“But you do?”
“They’re my family.”
Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere.
You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?”
“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”
“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”
“Beats drinking beer in the park.”
You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life.
On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win.
“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”
Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”
“Flowers?”
“Naturally.”
“You pay?”
“For every meal.”
“What’s my favorite color?”
“Navy blue. Mine?”
You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”
Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients.
“Will she really be that upset about it?”
“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”
Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”
“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”
“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”
Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind.
“Deal.”
—
Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend.
Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.
In a way.
You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.
Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go.
Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door.
You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.
Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—
“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”
You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape.
“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”
Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked.
Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“
Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?
“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”
Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing?
He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain.
“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”
You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”
“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.”
You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”
“You could swap me with someone else?”
“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”
“Touché.”
The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically.
“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”
“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”
Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom.
“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”
“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”
Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go.
He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly.
Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.
Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”
“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”
Right. That's probably an unhinged question.
“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”
He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“
“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.
“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”
He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly.
“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”
“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”
Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”
He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply.
“You smell good.”
Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold.
“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”
You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain.
The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask.
(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”
“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”
“Fair point.”)
By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them.
At least, that’s what he says.
“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”
You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”
“Singing your praises, of course.”
Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable.
The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying.
As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body.
The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you.
You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers:
“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”
Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you.
When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves.
Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“
You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness.
Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well.
If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place.
He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby.
“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”
Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place.
“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”
Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”
Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack.
“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“
“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”
Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”
Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”
You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending.
“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.”
Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”
Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you.
“How’d I do?”
You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”
“Looking forward to it.”
The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can.
To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking:
“Do you really wanna do this right now?”
Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs.
Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for.
“So. Dr. Abbot—”
“Just Jack is fine.”
“—How long have the two of you been dating?”
“A month and a half.”
“Why’d you start dating?”
You take a generous gulp of your wine.
“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”
“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in.
Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”
You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes.
That’s going in the mental folder.
“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”
“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”
You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine.
The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.
Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear.
“Mr. Abbot—“
“Either Doctor or Jack works.”
Ooo. There was some bite in that one.
Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better.
But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions.
This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward.
“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?”
Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot.
Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe.
“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.”
For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on.
But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way.
He’s perfect.
Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look.
Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide.
Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car.
“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”
Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead.
“Jack?”
“They didn’t even talk to you.”
You blink.
“What?”
“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”
You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”
He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?
“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips.
“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“
“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”
Oh.
“How do you know that?”
“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”
Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”
“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”
“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”
Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed.
Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.
“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?”
He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.
(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)
“Of course I remember.”
There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present.
The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)
But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone.
Jack just keeps looking at you.
He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact.
He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking.
“You’re so much more than them.”
Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold.
“What?”
“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.”
You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat.
“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“
“No.”
Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly.
An old habit.
Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.
“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.”
Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“
“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.”
“Jack—“
“Please.”
You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain.
He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging.
“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”
You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?”
Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability.
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress.
At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.
Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him.
(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.
You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)
You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better?
“You have that look on your face.”
You frown. “What look?”
“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
“It’s freaky when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“You always know what I’m thinking.”
Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets.
Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?”
“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.”
“Oh.”
It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad.
He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you.
Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”
Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense.
Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger.
“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?”
The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it.
He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.”
“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”
“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”
“Maybe I‘ll—“
“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.”
You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out.
Sometimes it feels like he balances you out.
“Goodnight.”
He gives you a little smile of his own.
“Goodnight.”
—
Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you.
So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list.
“This really isn’t a good time—“
“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.”
“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”
“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“
The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room.
“She fight back at all?”
“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.”
“Christ.”
“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”
“Fuck. Do you think—“
“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.”
“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?”
“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”
Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”
“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah.”
The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand.
“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”
“It’s different.”
“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”
“You lost me on that last one.”
“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.”
“Is there a difference?”
“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”
“Are you sure you want to get involved?”
“Bit late for that.”
“You could pull back.”
“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”
“She is a grown woman.”
“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”
He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone.
“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”
Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”
The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.”
He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up.
“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”
“Worse than you expected?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”
“Fuck no.”
“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.”
“I save lives too.”
“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”
“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”
“That’s what they all say.”
Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed.
But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.
—
The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help.
It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest.
But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions:
“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?”
And:
“What’s Jack like on a date?”
The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.
You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him.
Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume.
(“…I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”)
It’s all too much.
Hence the avoiding.
You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner.
But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack.
All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack.
You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else.
It’s how they treat you.
You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too.
But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different.
It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal.
“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?”
You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.
“I’m not hiding from you.”
Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”
“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.”
“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”
You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”
Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it.
You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing.
It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen.
“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?”
“Nothing.”
He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”
He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give.
“I’m just worried.”
“You? Worried? No.”
You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”
“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”
You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face.
“Why do you care?”
The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place.
You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do.
You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense.
Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense.
“Why do I care about what?”
“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.”
It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for.
He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight.
“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”
“But why?”
“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?”
You snort. “Guilty as charged.”
Now it’s his turn to sigh.
“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”
You frown. “It is.”
“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.”
You scoff. “So this is about my family.”
He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”
“They’re not that bad.”
“They are.”
“Other people have it worse.”
“It’s not a competition.”
You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?”
“Because it’s a big deal to you.”
The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you.
It’s Jack who speaks first though.
“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.”
A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.
“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.
Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.”
“We will?”
“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”
You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out.
The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him.
Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.
You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head.
“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself.
That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.”
He would. He totally would.
The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring.
(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)
–
The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years.
The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before.
The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own.
It’s as frustrating as it is hot.
But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment.
It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out.
You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below.
At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like.
“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.”
You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever.
Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed.
You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood.
“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”
Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule."
“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.”
Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three.
Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over.
“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.”
He smiles thinly. “None taken.”
Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure.
So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary.
“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?”
That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man.
“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.”
Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.”
Your blood runs cold.
Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”
It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough.
“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”
“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning.
Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”
Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t.
“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”
Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.”
Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”
Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch.
“He cheated on me with my best friend.”
At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.”
“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.”
Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”
Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.”
“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.”
Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober.
Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service.
By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment.
“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?”
“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.”
“Oh. That was nice of you.”
He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”
You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.”
“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.”
“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.”
You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.”
“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.”
You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”
Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.”
Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.
Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same.
“And what about me?”
Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.
The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.”
“Oh really?”
“Mmm. Nope.”
“How come?”
"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.”
“You think you’re wrong?”
“Still can’t figure you out.”
“And how can I show you that I mean it?”
That’s. Hmm.
“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.”
His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?”
“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”
“Competent?”
“That’s the word.”
If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it.
“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.”
“Are you like Bob the Builder?”
“I’m a doctor, so no.”
“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.”
“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”
“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?”
“No.”
‘Then yes.”
“You sure? I wasn’t lying.”
“I know. But I like your cooking.”
You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.”
It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation.
When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment.
His gigantic apartment.
“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.”
“Its not that big.”
“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.”
You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.
You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober.
“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”
“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.”
He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”
You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?
“Only if you don’t mind.”
“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.”
Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.
He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.”
Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.)
Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so.
“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that.
“Looking at the sparkles.”
“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”
“You made vodka pasta?”
He shrugs. “You said you liked it.”
You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.”
Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not.
“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.”
“M’ not fallin’ asleep.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?
“What’re’you’ making?”
“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.”
“Oh. How come?”
“Because I don’t want you to throw up.”
“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.”
“You drink often?”
“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.”
“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?”
“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.”
“I see.”
“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being.
“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.”
“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.”
“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit.
Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm.
“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”
“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”
“It won’t be when you wake up.”
You whine, curling away from him.
He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”
“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”
“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”
“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”
“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”
“I like sleeping on couches.”
He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.”
You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”
Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”
“It’d be weird to wake up here.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my boss.”
“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.”
“What would we even do in the morning?”
“Sleep.”
“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“You’re my guest–”
“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?”
Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs.
“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.”
Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.”
The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–
“You okay there?”
“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.”
He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest.
“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.”
Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him.
Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline.
You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.
“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”
His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him.
“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Good. Like man.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.”
“Why do you call me sweetheart?”
“Because you’re a sweetheart.”
“I am?”
“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.”
You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.”
“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.
You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place.
It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating
And you love it.
Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn.
“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.”
Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it.
The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together.
He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say.
You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other.
Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can.
–
Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit.
You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again.
You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place.
“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.”
“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”
“Okay. No need to rub it in.”
He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.”
“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.”
Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?”
“...Yes?”
“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?”
You’d nodded.
He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.”
Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish.
The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with.
He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?
The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety.
“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.”
You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle.
“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”
Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.”
“True. But what if?”
“I’m not going to help you spiral.”
“Why not?” You whine.
He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.”
You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt.
When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention.
But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables.
The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times.
Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that.
There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.
You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.
You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.
You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.
“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”
Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.”
“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”
“But–”
“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.”
Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face.
He looks up when the door opens. “Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation.
Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food.
It can’t just be over like this. It can't.
When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.
“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.”
“So it is.”
“Guess I owe you big time, huh?”
“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.”
“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.”
You lapse into silence.
Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”
“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”
It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending.
It felt real.
It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.
Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.
When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.”
Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight.
“What if I’m wrong?”
“You won’t be.”
A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.”
He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm.
“You do.”
Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you.
“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.”
“You think,” He drawls, “I might.”
“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry.
Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh.
“Come here.”
You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you.
Jack does love to prove you wrong.
“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.”
Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”
“More than a little?”
“Yes.”
“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.”
“Use your words.”
“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning.
“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.”
You frown. “And how would you have put it?”
“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.”
You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work.
You frown.
Wait.
“Have you known I liked you this whole time?”
Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”
He’s known since the second week?
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”
“Oh my god.”
“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.”
You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place.
“Can you take a compliment?”
“No.”
He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.”
“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?”
“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”
“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.”
“How kind of you to share my bed with me.”
“I have been told I’m kind.”
You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips.
It’s just like your dream.
Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back.
Pope Cody reassures himself that you love him in a way that works for him. wc 800+
You have been dating Pope for a few months, almost half a year now actually. Yet, Pope still struggles to believe the absolute fact that such a gorgeous and amazing girl loves him with all her heart and soul.
He can't really figure out what you see in him, no matter how many times you've told and shown how much you love him—he is still unconvinced that he's worthy of your heart.
But somehow, Pope has found a way to reassure himself that you do.
It just came up out of the blue when he's sitting up on your shared bed, his hands wrapped on the sides of your waist, guiding your body to swallow every inch of his cock in your pussy.
You're in absolute bliss, bouncing on his hard length, the stress from your workplace and the fact that you're pent-up both fueling your thighs and legs to keep going.
"Fuuuuck, Andrew," you whine, your nails digging on his shoulders, holding onto him for your dear life as you lose yourself on his girthy length that never fails to give you the best orgasms.
No matter how many times Andrew has seen you like this, he can never get enough of it. He fucking loves watching you all dazed and fucked out of your mind as you practically take out your work frustrations on his cock.
You slow down your pace once you start getting tired of bouncing. You start to grind on his lap, rubbing your clit on his pelvis with juuust the right pressure and speed.
"Feel good, baby? You needed this after a hard day at work, didn't you?" Andrew coos, detaching his hand from your waist to cup your cheek, rubbing the pad of his thumb on your soft skin.
You whine and nod, unable to talk coherently from how full you are. You press your tits on his hard chest, desperate to feel his warm skin on yours.
Andrew curses under his breath when your cunt suddenly constricts his dick. He knows your body so well, that only meant that you're getting pretty close.
"You love me right?" he asks gruffly, his eyes now fixed on your fucked out face.
"Mhmm… of course I do," you manage to reply out of your hazy state.
This is probably the first time you hear him ask that, so of course you're more than happy to tell him you do so.
"If you love me, then you'll cum for me right baby?"
You focus your eyes on him, catching the glint in his eye. Before you can even reply, he tightens his grip on your waist, and his other hand now on your hips as he starts to pound you from below.
A startled gasp escapes your lips, surprised by the sudden aggression of your boyfriend's hips. But you're not complaining.
"Come on, I need to know if you really love me," he says softly, almost pleading, but his thrusts are menacingly relentless.
"But I do love you," you pout. Your mind is all fuzzy as you cradle his face between your soft hands. He's so adorable with his flushed cheeks and and parted lips, his heavy breathing matching yours.
"I'll only believe you do when you cum," he murmurs.
"Andy—"
Pope cuts you off with a sharp thrust.
"Cum for me if you love me, sweetheart," he repeats, kissing your cheek as he continues to ram inside you.
Pope really needs to see it, to feel it. He's just as desperate to see if you really love him as much as he wants you to cum on his cock. He needs to feel from your pussy how much of you is his, and how much of you loves the entirety of him.
"Fuck baby, I'm really close—" you whimper, your legs now feel like jelly as you feel yourself getting closer and closer.
"I need to know if my girl loves me," he breathes against your cheek.
It didn't take you to long to cum, your gummy walls clenching around his cock as you whimper his name into his neck, biting it to ground yourself.
Pope hisses, but lets you bite into him as it grounds him too, relishing the feeling of your teeth sinking in his skin while also helping him not lose his mind as your pussy pulses around him.
Once you ride out your high, Pope holds the side of your neck to make you look at him, placing his lips on yours and kissing you gently, something he never forgets to do after making you cum.
"You okay?" he asks against your lips.
You nod, "Yeah."
"I love you."
"I love you too, Andrew," you reply so sweetly and naturally.
He grins at your response, as if your words ignited something in him. He holds your waist tightly as he lays you down on the bed, flipping your position with his cock still inside of you.
He is now hovering you, his big arms on the sides of your head, looking down at you with eyes that already tells you he's not done with you yet.
"Oh baby, you have to show me again and again if you really do."
———————
a/n: mhmm yes i miss pope! also i wanna get better at writing smut so expect me publishing blurbs from time to time xd
andrew cody who genuinely can’t leave you alone once he realizes you’re ovulating (this is self-indulgent im so sorry.) nsfw
it felt like the world was collapsing, all you could feel was andrew’s tongue lapping at you like he was deprived of water for days. You’re not thinking at all— he’s pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you and god, every time you feel like you’re ascending.
his nose prodding against your clit, tongue sliding in ‘n out and then licking a fat stripe up your cunt. It’s a never ending cycle. you’re holding onto the bed frame for dear life while he holds you against his face. He’s rutting up into the air, chasing relief so desperately. His tip is an angry red, cock throbbing but he’s not nearly as focused on that as he is on the scent of you.
your thighs wrapped tightly around his head, suffocating him almost but he doesn’t mind it, infact he seems to fuckin’ love it.
he’s so obsessed with your scent… especially how your panties smell after a particularly hot day outside. but nothing compares to when you’re ovulating, when you’re at his favorite time of the month. Fuck, he could die a happy man between your legs.
the first time you asked, jack laughed and shook his head. kissing your temple and uttering something along the lines of good one baby, as if you were joking.
the second time he didn't even look up from his book. laid against the headboard with his readers perched low, a soft nope on turning the page. you huffed.
the third time you changed tactic. jack always struggled to think straight when your hands were on him, stroking, rubbing, squeezing the outline of his cock over trousers. he was making dinner when you interrupted and started working him up until he was giving in to your attention. it wasn't til you dropped to your knees, freed him from his sweats and ran your tongue along his reddened tip that he asked what you wanted.
"just makin my boyfriend feel good" you mumbled against his length, "feel goods, doesn't it jackie?"
his breath hitched when you took him in your mouth fully, "fuck baby", hand coming to fist your hair as the counter top took the rest of his weight. "what's gotten into you today hm" you hollowed out your cheeks, head bobbing as his cockhead neared the back of your throat on every take. you could tell he was close when his dick twitched against your tongue and the soft grunts grew louder above you. that's when you pulled off him, batting your eyelashes at his confusion.
"what-"
"it'll be fun" you lazily fisted his cock, keeping him alert. "please jackie, get to watch us fuck whenever you want" you licked a bead of precum away, his hips jolting at the feel of your tongue again. "don't you want that?"
"fuck" how could he say no to you? "fine"
you let him cum in your mouth to seal the deal. a sex tape.
-
he struggled a little at first. settling in as if there wasn't a camera capturing his every move on you. you'd set it up at the foot of the bed, feeling your pussy grow damp as you imagined the angles. being able to see how jack looked as he fucked into you, muscles straining, his face when he was cock deep in your cunt.
"relax baby" you purred against his stubble, nuzzling at him. "this is so fucking hot, gonna watch you fuck me over and over and oh-"
you needn't say any more. jack interupted you with his mouth on yours, sucking on your bottom lip with such fervour your chin was coated in his spit.
"gonna make you feel so good baby, make you cum for the camera yeah?" any performance anxiety he had disappeared when your back arched, bare tits pressing into his face as he circled his tongue around your nipple and rolled the other between fingertips.
"fuck jack 'm so wet, touch me, please" you weren't playing up to the camera. sex was always like this between the two of you, so much dirty talk and instruction, pleads and encouragement. you were just excited you'd finally be able to play some of it back.
your pussy jumped when you felt jacks breath between your legs. a kitten lick to your clit and a pull on your thighs then he was face deep, eating you to the high heavens. he moaned into you, hips gyrating against the sheets absentmindendly until he was chasing his own release in tandem with yours.
you fisted his hair with one hand and fucked his face til you were coming all over it. he came to his knees in time to avoid blowing his load all over the bed before he'd even had the chance of being inside you.
"on your knees baby"
you planted yourself at an angle that showcased your glistening cunt, all puffy and wide open for the camera to see. jack had already discarded his prosthetic at the same time as his clothes, positioning you just right in front of him. his hands smoothed over your ass, rolling the flesh before a palm came to thwack one of your cheeks.
"mmmpf, please jack-" he rubbed away the sting. "need your cock baby. please"
the whine in your plea was just too perfect for him not to give in. you looked back over your shoulder to see him stroking himself, eyes dark and concentrating on your sopping hole as he pushed into you. slow at first but you were too impatient, sinking back on your knees to take all of him hard and fast.
"jesus fuck- slow down angel" he huffed a laugh. "you tryna kill this old man?"
that didn't help his cause, pussy clamping down around his cock because he knew how tight it made you. to refer to the age gap between you, calling himself your daddy and you his baby girl. it always elicited pure pornagraphic moans from you and this was no exception.
his hand stroked up your spine, landing at the nape of your neck. he held you there when he started to fuck you hard, face shoved into the mattress and hair tangled between fingers. jack loomed over you, deep hard thrusts until just the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room.
"my good girl, takin me so well, so perfect"
"j-jack, my g-god" your words stuttered in line with each thrust.
"that's it, make some noise, show the camera how good 'm makin you feel yeah" his voice was low and gravelly, concentrating hard, snapping his hips harder and faster.
"so good jackie, fuck, so close-" your knuckles paled as you fisted the sheets above your head "gonna c-cum-"
that magic word had jack panting and pulling out of you at the same time. you whined at the sudden emptiness but it was mere seconds before he was pulling you up and round.
"want the camera to see how pretty you look when you cum" he leant back, tugging you on top of him til you were sinking back onto his cock, head thrown back at the returning fullness.
"come on that's it, fuck yourself on me" he moved the strands of hair from your face, a gentle gesture that opposed the roughness of his other hand digging into your hip. "fuck yourself baby"
you wasted no time in rolling your hips, a figure of eight then up and down, wanting to feel him hit every part inside you.
"god you look so good, not gonna last much longer..."
"oh, fuckfuckfuck-" the sudden shrillness of your pants accompanied his deep grunts, pushing eachother to the edge as your hips worked manically against him. you came when his thumb found your clit (with ease), the tight circles snapping the band in your stomach, gushing all over him with a silent cry.
jack came inside you a second later. fingers deep in the flesh of your thighs, hips jerking up, your name dripping from his tongue. he slowly rocked into you until his thick white mess was oozing out of you and collecting at the base of his cock.
you rode it out together, bodies relaxing against one another after a few minutes of silence.
"can't wait to watch that back" jack pressed a kiss to your cheek, still catching his breath. "you're a fuckin star"
snowghoul
ellievsbear
amandla
gracieabrams
prguitarman
germansingergirl
romaincrisis
